JOHN ALDEN
Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered,
Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the
sea-side;
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to
the east-wind,
Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within
him.
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors,
Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle,
So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and
sapphire,
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured
the city.
“Welcome, O wind of the East!” he exclaimed
in his wild exultation,
“Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves
of the misty Atlantic!
Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless
meadows of sea-grass,
Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottos and
gardens of ocean!
Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and
wrap me
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever
within me!”
Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning
and tossing,
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the
sea-shore.
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of
passions contending;
Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded
and bleeding,
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings
of duty!
“Is it my fault,” he said, “that
the maiden has chosen between us?
Is it my fault that he failed,—my fault
that I am the victor?”
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the
voice of the Prophet:
“It hath displeased the Lord!”—and
he thought of David’s transgression,
Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in
the front of the battle!
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation,
Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest
contrition:
“It hath displeased the Lord! It is the
temptation of Satan!”
Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea,
and beheld there
Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at
anchor,
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the
morrow;
Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle
of cordage
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the
sailors’ “Ay, ay, Sir!”
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping
air of the twilight.
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared
at the vessel,
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning
shadow.
“Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured;
“the hand of the Lord is
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage
of error,
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its
waters around me,
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts
that pursue me.
Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land
will abandon,
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has
offended.
Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard
in England,
Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust
of my kindred;
Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame
and dishonor!
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow
chamber
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that
glimmers
Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of
silence and darkness,—
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!”
Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of
his strong resolution,
Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in
the twilight,
Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and
sombre,
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth,
Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the
evening.
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable
Captain
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of
Caesar,
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant
or Flanders.
“Long have you been on your errand,” he
said with a cheery demeanor,
Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not
the issue.
“Not far off is the house, although the woods
are between us;
But you have lingered so long, that while you were
going and coming
I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished
a city.
Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that
has happened.”
Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous
adventure,
From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in
his courtship,
Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal.
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla
had spoken,
Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t
you speak for yourself, John?”
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on
the floor, till his armor
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of
sinister omen.
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,
Even as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction
around it.
Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden!
you have betrayed me!
Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted,
defrauded, betrayed me!
One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart
of Wat Tyler;
Who shall prevent me from running my own through the
heart of a traitor?
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason
to friendship!
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and
loved as a brother;
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup,
to whose keeping
I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred
and secret,—
You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friendship
hereafter!
Brutus was Caesar’s friend, and you were mine,
but henceforward
Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable
hatred!”
So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about
in the chamber,
Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the
veins on his temples.
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the
doorway,
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of
Indians!
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further
question or parley,
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its
scabbard of iron,
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely,
departed.
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of
the scabbard
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the
distance.
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into
the darkness,
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot
with the insult,
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands
as in childhood,
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth
in secret.
Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away
to the council,
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his
coming;
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to
heaven,
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder
of Plymouth.
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for
this planting,
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a
nation;
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of
the people!
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern
and defiant,
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in
aspect;
While on the table before them was lying unopened
a Bible,
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed
in Holland,
And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattle-snake
glittered,
Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge
of warfare,
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues
of defiance.
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard
them debating
What were an answer befitting the hostile message
and menace,
Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting,
objecting;
One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the
Elder,
Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,
Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian
behavior!
Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain
of Plymouth,
Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky
with anger,
“What! do you mean to make war with milk and
the water of roses?
Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer
planted
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot
red devils?
Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage
Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth
of the cannon!”
Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of
Plymouth,
Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:
“Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other
Apostles;
Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues
of fire they spake with!”
But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,
Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued
discoursing:
“Leave this matter to me, for to me by right
it pertaineth.
War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is
righteous,
Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the
challenge!”
Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden,
contemptuous gesture,
Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder
and bullets
Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,
Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take
it! this is your answer!”
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening
savage,
Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself
like a serpent,
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths
of the forest.
