LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen
of the stripling,
Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the
Captain,
Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius
Caesar.
After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand,
palm downwards,
Heavily on the page: “A wonderful man was
this Caesar!
You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is
a fellow
Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally
skilful!”
Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely,
the youthful:
“Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with
his pen and his weapons.
Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could
dictate
Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his
memoirs.”
“Truly,” continued the Captain, not heeding
or hearing the other,
“Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar!
Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village,
Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when
he said it.
Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many
times after;
Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities
he conquered;
He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;
Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!
Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion
in Flanders,
When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front
giving way too,
And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely
together
There was no room for their swords? Why, he
seized a shield from a soldier,
Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and
commanded the captains,
Calling on each by his name, to order forward the
ensigns;
Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their
weapons;
So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other.
That’s what I always say; if you wish a thing
to be well done,
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to
others!”
All was silent again; the Captain continued his
reading.
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen
of the stripling
Writing epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower,
Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden
Priscilla;
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the
secret,
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name
of Priscilla!
Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous
cover,
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding
his musket,
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain
of Plymouth:
“When you have finished your work, I have something
important to tell you.
Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be
impatient!”
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of
his letters,
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:
“Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always
ready to listen,
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.”
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling
his phrases:
“’T is not good for a man to be alone,
say the Scriptures.
This I have said before, and again and again I repeat
it;
Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and
say it.
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and
dreary;
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden
Priscilla.
She is alone in the world; her father and mother and
brother
Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of
the dying,
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself,
that if ever
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in
heaven,
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name
is Priscilla
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other
abandoned.
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have
dared to reveal it,
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for
the most part.
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of
Plymouth,
Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but
of actions,
Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart
of a soldier.
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is
my meaning;
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.
You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant
language,
Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and
wooings of lovers,
Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of
a maiden.”
When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired,
taciturn stripling,
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject
with lightness,
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still
in his bosom,
Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken
by lightning,
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than
answered:
“Such a message as that, I am sure I should
mangle and mar it;
If you would have it well done,—I am only
repeating your maxim,—
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to
others!”
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from
his purpose,
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain
of Plymouth:
“Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean
to gainsay it;
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder
for nothing.
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place
to surrender,
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare
not.
I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the
mouth of a cannon,
But of a thundering “No!” point-blank
from the mouth of a woman,
That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed
to confess it!
So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant
scholar,
Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning
of phrases.”
Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant
and doubtful,
Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly,
he added:
“Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep
is the feeling that prompts me;
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of
our friendship!”
Then made answer John Alden: “The name
of friendship is sacred;
What you demand in that name, I have not the power
to deny you!”
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding
the gentler,
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on
his errand.
