BENEATH THE PINES OF PLYMOUTH.
The Anne, laden with lumber, furs and mail, sailed in September, carrying also an important passenger; Susanna Winslow had to spare her husband for a time, while he went to England on the colony’s business and his own affairs. However, her cares now were somewhat lessened by the coming in the Anne of a young women, named Mary Becket, to assist in her household labors. Since his other aunt had come, by the Anne, to live in Plymouth, little Samuel Fuller went back to the doctor’s house to grow up. Bridget Fuller came with the baby, who was too delicate to make the voyage in the Mayflower, now three years old, and the doctor’s sunny gentle spirit rejoiced.
Following the Anne came a small ship called Little James, which was to remain for the colony’s use. It proved of little use and great expense, after all, but it brought other Leyden friends, as well as strangers from England. Thus Plymouth grew, and this autumn saw about a hundred and eighty persons instead of the handful who had struggled for life and a home in the wilderness for the past three years.
The new plan of individual division of the land with its planting and care proved its wisdom; the crops ripening rapidly, foretold an abundant harvest; the lightening of hearts and the promising outlook caused the governor to proclaim a day of public thanksgiving. It was not after the manner of that of two years previously, as conditions were different, but more in remembrance of the day of supplication held in July. The dreaded visitor famine, was gone, never to return to the firesides of Plymouth—although for some awful hours it seemed possible. On a wintry night, too great a fire on the hearth of one of the new houses, caused that house, and those nearest, to be consumed by flames and to threaten the Common House where their trading supplies and harvest were stored. Well that the Captain had prepared his original company to fight possible fire as well as possible hostile attack, for by those men was that tragedy averted, as, in the excitement and confusion, the majority of the new-comers were more of a hindrance than help. The women must have felt that if cares and labors were somewhat decreased, responsibility and uncertainty were increased through the added numbers to the town.
That winter was the gayest Plymouth had ever known. Families had been so lately reunited that the satisfaction and joy of the occasion still caused effervescence of spirits, and, too, there were many more young people who never had to live through the hard and perilous times which the first group experienced. These all had either homes to go to or loving friends to shelter them until homes were built; no sickness to contend with and plenty to eat. Where the comforts of all the men had depended more or less on a few women, now the hands of many women made all tasks lighter, and there was time for more social intercourse, which though in simplest form was sufficient then for relaxation and pleasure. No wonder happy voices were carried on the winter winds and light footsteps echoed on the street. Neighborliness being ever a characteristic of the Pilgrims, there was a constant exchange of goodwill and kindly attentions between the households. They had not needed Robert Cushman’s admonition in his discourse to them, before returning in the Fortune, “There is no grief so tedious as a churlish companion and nothing makes sorrows easy more than cheerful associates. Bear ye therefore one another’s burdens and be not a burden one to another,” but they did not ignore it.
We may glance in the houses, on a frosty evening, and see who are sheltered within their cosy brightness and warmth. The governor’s house has a large and merry party to hold, for he and his wife are entertaining for the winter, her sister, Juliana, with husband, George Morton and all the little Mortons: Patience, Nathaniel, John, Sarah, Ephraim and baby George; also a regular member of the family, Thomas Cushman. No wonder Christian Penn was in demand.
In the Brewster home, across the way, the Elder and his wife have also lively company, with three sons, the dear daughters, and Mary Chilton and Humility Cooper and Richard More. Thomas Prence, John Winslow, Philip de la Noye and half a dozen more of the young men drop in of an evening, with four attractive girls and charming hostess to welcome them, and even an older man occasionally, as when Isaac Allerton brings his daughter over to join in the fun; though he appears only to talk to the Elder he glances at one of the girls, sometimes. Patience has her little flax wheel at one side of the room under a candle bracket and the whir of the wheel makes a background for the voices. Thomas Prence is beside her mightily interested in the spinning, as the product is for his sweetheart’s hope chest. The Brewster girls have brought a supply of new linens to their mother, from Holland, and indeed all the housekeepers are well supplied with this necessity, but constant usage wears out the best made and so more must be in readiness, therefore spinning is a regular occupation, especially for those with a wedding in mind.
Susanna Winslow has company, also, this evening, for her brother, the cheerful doctor, and his young wife have been having supper with her and her young brothers-in-law. John has gone over to the Brewster’s, but Gilbert, his handsome, rather discontented face lit by the fire, sits near the hearth, smoking, with the doctor and another man, for Sarah Cuthbertson has come in for an evening’s gossip with her old friend, Anna, bringing her new husband. The three women have much to talk of—matters both grave and gay—and the new-comers from Leyden are doing most of the chatter, Susanna well pleased to listen, commenting occasionally on the narration of who had married or moved away and such items of interest as would accumulate in three years, with infrequent opportunities of communication.
John Howland and his Elizabeth go in the doorway of the Alden’s house for a social call—and find Francis Cooke and his wife, Hester, there, also, and soon after, the Captain and his wife, Barbara, enter, and there is laughter and chat, while the women’s fingers ply the knitting needles, for even in recreation moments the women can seldom afford to be wholly idle. Hester is an old Leyden friend to Priscilla and Elizabeth, though not of English birth, while Barbara is a new friend to them all, Hester having made her acquaintance on the sea voyage which brought them both to Plymouth. Francis Cooke had a comfortable house awaiting his wife and children, and Hester, naturally, quite fitted in with the first comers.
In the large house of the Hopkins, we see a number of the youngest inhabitants of Plymouth having a very jolly time—Giles and Constance being responsible. Here are Mary and Bartholomew Allerton, John and Jane Cooke, Patience Morton and Thomas Cushman, Ann and Sarah Warren, William Palmer and Samuel Jenny, even Jacob Cooke and Damaris Hopkins are admitted, also Mercy Sprague, Samuel Fuller, Resolved White and Sarah Annable, for at these children’s parties the early hours kept could not rob even the youngest of much sleep. We know how many of the future marriages in Plymouth came from this gay group. Stephen Hopkins and his wife have gone out themselves and we see them in the home of Richard Warren, whose wife and daughter Mary, having gotten the youngest girls, Elizabeth and Abigail, in bed are glad to welcome company. Two of their fellow passengers in the Anne are also present, one being Robert Bartlett, whose interest in Mary began on their ocean voyage, which has a very modern sound. The other visitor is Ellen Newton, who came out with these friends, and is soon to marry John Adams, who preceded her in the Fortune.
Here is another gathering at the home of John and Sarah Jenny, who, with their three children, arrived on the Little James, they are of the old Leyden company; also we see here Stephen Tracy and Triphosa, his French wife and their little girl, Sarah, who has come to have a frolic with her playmates, Abigail and Sarah, while the parents are absorbed in their own affairs; they are soon joined by William Palmer (who came with his son in the Fortune) and his wife, Frances, a passenger in the Anne. The happy-go-lucky, or unlucky, household of the Billingtons is evidently satisfied with its own family this evening.
And to look further we see other homes whose inmates are strangers to us, though not to all of our earliest acquaintances, such as Francis and Anna Sprague, whose little girl, Mercy, is at the Hopkins, this evening; Anthony and Jane Annable, their oldest child we have also seen at the party but Sarah and Hannah are at home; Ralph Wallen and Joyce, his wife, Edward and Rebecca Bangs, with two children romping at home; Robert Hicks with Margaret and three children; also Mr. and Mrs. Edward Burcher, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Flavell and Mr. and Mrs. William Hilton and little boys (all of the latter arrived by the Anne) besides numerous single men of the Fortune, Anne and Little James, who are quite welcome at the different houses. With so many young men, the girls had numbers to choose from, as each would have been glad for a wife and home of his own. Light refreshments add to the social hour we see, possets and manchets with home-brewed ale, and nuts, or the beverage made of roots, flavored with sassafras, similar to modern root beer, and popcorn—both the latter Indian additions to their knowledge. The possets and manchets are little cakes, the former sometimes called “sweet shrub” made of flour, sugar and spice, while manchets are flour, made without the spice and baked brown like our cookies.
Having thus seen who is who in Plymouth by the lights of the houses, “shining like stars in the dark and mist of the evening,” we will observe some passing events, from this time, which were of interest to the women, either for themselves or members of their families or friends.
This happy winter passed into their history, and spring coming found the Plymouth people with hearts more in tune to the joy and hope of its opening buds and bird songs than ever before.
On a March day, the first ship of the season from England came into view. If one has ever lived, in modern times, far from native land and many dear friends, as on island possessions, for instance, in civil or military life, with ships coming safely to harbor, the only chance of communication with the outside world, bringing letters, packages of gifts or a friend or two, perchance, with weeks or months of interval between sight of a ship from over-seas, one may easily comprehend just how the women of Plymouth felt when a ship was coming in. And though the women did not write or receive letters very often, in those days, yet they heard the contents of those which frequently came to their husbands and could think and talk of the tidings for many a day.
The Charity brought Susanna Winslow’s husband home to her and to his welcoming friends. His mission had been eminently successful and proved the adage of “If you want a thing done well, do it yourself,” for Winslow knowing each need of the colony, brought back the proper supplies for trade with the Indians or the fishing ships, and adequate selection of clothing for all. Having a wife, he knew what to buy for the women, and what the children needed, besides special commissions in way of books or household comforts as they existed, at that time, elsewhere. The colony was not rich—either as a whole or by individual wealth—but though bearing a heavy debt to the Merchants, they had to live while every effort was being made to reduce the original, and the Merchants were usually willing to add to their obligation, especially since their exports were so marketable. Also some of the families had personal credit in England, even though for several years the results of their trade went to reduce the common debt, and the only personal gain allowed in Plymouth was from selling the products of their own lands to one another. Corn was legal tender, nothing else was needed or of greater value to them or the natives, until a later date. Therefore the Elder, the Governor, the Captain, could rejoice in more books, the women in the last word of costume detail from London or Leyden suitable to their present situation. We are quite sure that Mary Chilton, Patience Brewster and the other girls, as well as the young brides, were just as particular about the set of a broad brimmed hat, or the ribbons on a velvet hood, as interested in whether white neckwear had bows or tassels to fasten it, and if silver shoe buckles were engraved or plain, as any woman of today in her up-to-date appearance.
In addition to the many personal interests connected with Edward Winslow’s return, he had purchased several head of cattle, and the children watched with greatest curiosity—and some alarm to those who had never seen such creatures—the approach of the small boats from the ship with ropes trailing behind attached to the horns and necks of the cows, swimming valiantly to their new home. Their familiar appearance brought an increased home feeling to the women. From that day milk was never lacking for beverage, butter, and cheese; goat’s milk was no longer their only supply.
And of great interest to many was a certain book which Winslow had written and had printed that winter, in London, called “Good News From New England.” This publication which threw the picture of themselves and their surroundings sharply before the eyes of many on the screen of public intelligence, in England, was a factor in their life thereafter by its results. Business for the colony was not concluded at the time Winslow wished to return to Plymouth, and, as he brought letters requesting his further presence, to continue these matters, the governor agreed to his leaving them again, and Susanna could do nothing but consent also.
The Charity remained for fishing, throughout the summer, which was crowded with events of moment. In response to appeals from the Pilgrims in Plymouth to the Merchants in London that their pastor, John Robinson, be sent to them with others of their number from Leyden, the Merchants had made excuses. The Anne brought affectionate letters from Robinson but not his longed-for presence. To their great surprise, therefore, in company with Winslow, on the Charity, there came a stranger whom the Merchants had decided should be the colony’s religious head. In vain had Winslow argued and pleaded for Robinson, knowing what a disappointment this would be. This minister brought his wife and children and at first seemed well disposed toward the Pilgrims, so they accepted what they could not help and allowed him a seat on the Council board—for now there were several assistants to the governor—and requested him to act as associate with their elder, but although he declared himself a convert to the Separatist church, they did not admit him to the position of their pastor. A more acceptable companion on this home-coming of Winslow’s was a clever and likable young carpenter, who did them good service.
In the early summer, Ellen Newton married John Adams, which was of interest to those who had crossed with her in the Anne, and kindly observed by others. In midsummer, two new comers brought rejoicing and pleasure to many. In the governor’s family arrived the baby who received the name of William, which had also been given to his father, grand-father and great-grandfather. Into John and Priscilla Alden’s home came Elizabeth, called the first born daughter of the Pilgrims. As one writer has expressed it, “She was destined to outlive every individual then in the colony and to survive the colony itself by twenty-five years.”
In August, just about a year from the time of the arrival of the Anne, another of her passengers became a bride, making the eighth in the colony during the twelve-month. This wedding was of special interest, not only because it was the first in a prominent family, but because of the popularity of the bride and the groom and the affection and esteem in which the parents were held. Plymouth rejoiced when Patience Brewster married Thomas Prence, and her mother felt that she then had all that heart could wish for. With tall, affectionate sons and loving daughters, one going to a home of her own, but not away, and, beside her, the handsome lover of her youth as her devoted husband, sharing her feelings on this important day; a home with all comforts then obtainable; among admiring friends as of old, Mary Brewster sighed in happy content. Plymouth had returned to her the pleasures of Scrooby without its later uncertainties and trials. And Patience, a reflection of her mother’s early fairness and charm, was as radiant a bride as New England’s sun ever lighted on a wedding day. Her young husband was to steadily advance in the esteem of the colony and in material position, reaching the important place of governor in a few years. Thus destiny had woven for her life a beautiful pattern, with childhood in Scrooby, girlhood in Leyden, womanhood in Plymouth, with love and tender care to lighten all her days. A bright particular star in the galaxy of women of Plymouth colony who were not of the Mayflower company, but who found their life’s fulfillment there.
Plymouth society had grown enough to be no longer the one and indivisible association welded together by common experiences and mutual interests, as it was at first. With the advent of those unconnected with the original pioneers and their objects, who came as friends of the Merchants or as adventurers to a new but firmly established country, caring nothing for its interests, rather hoping to throw over what the first comers had won by their courage and faith (of firm government and laws, freedom of conscience and liberality for those of differing views, and united labor for prosperity and peace) came a change; a division was felt between the group with the anarchist spirit and that comprising the original element. Regretting this, but forced to acknowledge it by definite unpleasantness between them, the first families began to live within their own circle as much as possible. Stirring scenes took place, as autumn began, and the women had much to discuss. The governor was forced to make the issue and in upholding law and order to dismiss certain members of the community, though their families were allowed to stay and were cared for until new homes could be procured elsewhere. Chief among these disturbers of Plymouth’s peace were a group who had come in the Anne, under leadership of one, John Oldham, and the hypocritical minister, Lyford, who was a sad disappointment to these charitably inclined people. The recital of this experience has been given in many of the writings which concern the men of Plymouth—the “Pilgrim Fathers,” so often mentioned. The element of unrest being removed, other persons, not harmful but formerly indifferent only, became loyal supporters of the commonwealth; so calmness again settled over Plymouth when the first snow flakes draped the rugged pines, standing as sentinels or guardians for this little world, between the wilderness and the sea.
The winter was much like the one preceding it, with two new young housekeepers and the prospect of other brides. Susanna Winslow was again without her husband, and Gilbert had decided to revisit his old home—accompanying his brother to England, never to return. Matchmakers would gladly have mated him with one of the colony’s belles. One wonders, even at this distant day, why this eligible young bachelor did not marry, what woman touched his heart? Pity he had not asked Desire to stay; perhaps it was she that was the something Plymouth lacked for him; or did he admire Mary Chilton’s graces of mind and person, yet leave her for his brother John’s happiness? Fancies play around a possible answer to this passing question among the many love stories that we know in Plymouth, which culminated for the principals, as fairy tales, in subsequent happiness.
Grey days and golden passed over Plymouth, each one finding the women busy with the successive round of household duties and industries, not ended with the sunset gun as the men’s labors might be. Let us look at a list of occupations which kept them from idleness in each season of the year: candle-making, pickling eggs, preserve and cordial making, distilling of herbs, ale or beer making, manufacture of soap, laundrying, dying cloths and yarns, braiding mats of rushes, sweeping and sanding floors, cleaning wooden and iron utensils, scouring and polishing pewter, brass and silver articles, pounding corn, butter and cheese making, cooking, weaving, spinning, sewing, drying wet shoes by placing hot oats in them, or clothes—storm soaked—by blazing logs on the hearth (for umbrellas and overshoes were then unknown) and teaching the boys and girls. It was not until a later day that there were schools for the children, and as it had been in England, so in their new home, their learning was obtained from their elders. Some had brought what books they could; nearly all brought Bibles in several languages, Psalm-books and Catechisms, and before long, the almanacs proved a most useful factor in home education.
Moments of recreation and rest were evidently somewhat rare, but no less enjoyable, lighter occupations serving the purpose at home or when visiting. Can we not see them on many a winter evening by the firelight of blazing cedar logs and candle glow from the dips made in the autumn, with the fine embroidery and knitting in which the women of their day and training took such pride; or placing the stitches in the samplers which were to take the place of pictures on the bare walls, also making designs in colored threads upon the sets of curtains for beds or windows; meanwhile talking together of past days in their old homes—of the friends left there whom they were hopefully expecting to join them, showing keepsakes and telling their personal value to amuse one another.
Doubtless their greatest peace and pleasure came from singing songs as they had done in Pastor Robinson’s house, looking out on the beautiful old garden in Leyden. The book from which they sang has been described in the poem we all know:
“The well-worn psalm book of Ainsworth
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and music together,
Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a church-yard
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses.”
Such was the book, the delight of the Pilgrim women, for in that country of few books, not only did its pages afford their only music, but the annotations formed both a dictionary and encyclopedia of useful knowledge; things temporal and things spiritual were explained, scientific, historical and religious information was dispensed therein. Truly a library in a single volume.
Spring again, and the day of Edward Winslow’s return found the town in excitement and the women decidedly disturbed. John Oldham had come suddenly amongst them, for no other purpose than to revile and insult the authorities. They had imprisoned him and were later getting rid of him in a chastened mood, when Winslow and the captain of the ship, which had brought him unnoticed into the harbor, walked up the street. John Oldham surprised them yet again, at a later day, but then returned to make amends and apologies, and to offer services, which the authorities were able to accept. And this man, with the upsetting propensities, met a violent death at the hands of Indians in Massachusetts bay—his boat was rescued and his death avenged by Captain John Gallup, Senior, of Boston. This event has been called the first naval engagement of American history, and in it were the seeds of the Pequot war.
As John Oldham’s boat put out from the harbor, and the boats from the Jacob landed the colony’s supplies and Winslow’s belongings, the unpleasantness was soon forgotten in welcoming him and the popular captain, William Pierce, now an old friend, by his frequent visits to Plymouth with various ships. One special parcel Edward Winslow delivered with care to the governor’s wife. It was a gift to her of a package of spices from her old friend, Robert Cushman, in London.
The bountiful summer was enjoyed in “peace and health and contented minds.” We may think of the women in their gardens tending lovingly the plants grown from seeds carefully brought from other gardens, far away, where memories must have been tended as well as flowers. Those who would, might join the children and dogs in walks on the sea shore and in the woods, bringing to their homes decorations in the form of flowers and shells. One writer has said, “The first ornaments of the houses were probably the periwinkle shells, their memory deserves to be cherished like the arbutus flower among the things that awaken Pilgrim memories.”
The first quickly built dwellings were now solidified into comfortable houses, various rooms being added from time to time, with furniture colony-made or imported; the ground plots around them were kept attractively, some of them being washed by the bubbling waters of Town Brook, as it flowed past, and most of them enclosed with palings or wooden walls, against which fruit trees and vines were trained, as in kitchen gardens of the old country. Sometimes at day’s close, it was possible to watch or partake in the old English game of stool-ball, a distant cousin of croquet.
An evening in late summer beautifies the landscape with its serene light. Through the garden behind the house, Mary Brewster walks with her daughters. They come toward the brook and pause to enjoy their surroundings. From the woodland across the stream the purple and golden flowers of the season bend toward them in the lightest of airs; the robins fly from bush to tree, preparing to rest. We seem to feel with them the remembrance of another scene of a summer evening long passed, when these three walked down through the grounds of Scrooby Manor to Ryton Stream to say farewell. But Town Brook does not see the same expression of sadness and uncertainty among them as Ryton saw; the long shafts of illuminating light reveal countenances where only satisfaction and tranquility dwell.
The kitchen at the Winslow’s presents a lively scene this autumn morning. The Mistress and Mary Becket are in the depths of preparations for a feast and not an ordinary one. Susanna is registering great cheerfulness and Mary decided efficiency. Two important causes may be found both for the feast and good spirits. First, the master of the house returned yesterday from a somewhat hazardous but extremely successful trading trip far up the coast. The principal men of the old set were with him, so several other wives were also rejoicing at the return. The great quantity of beaver would make who would, a fur coat for the coming winter, like those the Indian women wore so comfortably. And as for Mary—why George Soule had told her last evening that she was the only woman for him, and indeed she would not be as long making up her mind on that subject as Mary Chilton had been in making up hers on a like matter. All of which shows that an elaborate cooking program was a small matter this morning. And the feast? Why, it is to be a supper party in compliment to Mary Chilton and John Winslow who have recently become engaged. The date hinged on Edward Winslow’s return, but it had been thoroughly planned when he left. George Soule had been shooting one day and brought home a number of plump birds and a pair of wild turkeys.
These two are not the sole occupants of the kitchen, for others come and go. George Soule keeps up the noble fire by adding great oak sticks to the andirons in the mammoth fire-place and adjusting the multitude of hooks and chains and cooking utensils as they are needed. From the crane, big iron kettles exhale delicious odors, while numerous skillets hold different important positions, the contents of each cooking at its appointed degree of heat, while on the high mantle shelf above, the hour glass is watched and turned. As the great oven door is opened, what fragrance! Simmels, buns, biscuits and pastry and what besides! Enter an Indian with a bag of oysters specially ordered, since none are in Plymouth waters; they are to be baked in individual scallop shells, in the old, yet familiar way, with breadcrumbs and butter. Mrs. Hopkins comes with the kindly object of showing just how she manufactures on rare occasions her wonderful dish called “Hennes in Brette.” The hens must be scalded and cut in pieces, fried lightly with pork, spice and crumbs, basted with ale, and colored gold with saffron. The turkeys are stuffed with beechnuts and will be roasted on the spit. A plum pudding is bubbling in one of the kettles, and dumplings of flour in another, to garnish the chicken dish; pumpkin pies are made and standing aside, so too, loaves of brown and white bread. Vegetables await their turn—samp, onions, parsnips, turnips, peas; the succotash is mixed, composed of corn, beans and meat. A ham is boiling, likewise clam chowder. Mary pulls a pan out of the oven—the nokake is done to a turn!
Edward and John Winslow have thoughtfully been asked for dinner by Mrs. Bradford—there could hardly be much chance for them at home, this day. Afternoon comes on apace and there is much for the last part for Susanna and the last moments for Mary and Hobomok’s wife, who will help in the evening. The leg of mutton, rarest treat, with cucumber sauce, or couch, for the mutton to rest on is certainly perfection; the cucumbers, sliced and parboiled have drained, then butter fried, now, with condiments, onion, mutton gravy and lemon juice they are simmering gently, occasionally tossed about. A poloc, or stew of small birds, smothered with rice, onion and herbs, adds another to the wonderful combination of fragrance. And now come the partridges—a broth of boiled marrow bones, strained and put in an earthen dish with wine and spices is the delectable fluid in which they are cooked, the birds having been stuffed with whole peppers and marrow. Salad, cranberry tarts, grape jelly, pudding with strawberry sauce, and a marvelous sufflet, rich, frothing and crisp, (a pound roll of butter enlarged to half a dozen times its original size, from being turned on a long rod resting on the fire hooks, continuously dredged with flour and eaten as soon as possible.) Late in the day, Mrs. Warren comes in to direct the making of her special dish, another of the rarities, called cheese cake; boiled milk with beaten eggs has been cooling and curdling since last evening, it is now strained and to it added butter, mace, rose-water and wine, currants and syrup. Pastry forms are waiting to hold this combination for a few seconds in the oven. Elderblow wine (made by the old French receipt the women had learned on the Continent, of sugar, fruit, blossoms and yeast), cider, spiced ale and some of the excellent wine which Edward Winslow brought on his return from England, are to help digest this marvelous menu—and of great interest are the first apples from the Winslow’s new orchard, likewise honey from Plymouth bees, a recent industry.
Truly a feast—yet when it was ready, Susanna met her guests with smiles, and renewed the admiration in the heart of her prospective young sister-in-law. Those who partook of this supper and lived to tell the tale were the old friends, of course, for Mary Chilton was ever a favorite and one of the Mayflower girls, so none of that list could be omitted, (Captain Standish on a mission in England, was missed), and now that there was so large a younger set coming on to take the place of those who had married, many of them must be invited, besides the recent brides and bridegrooms, themselves, and one or two of John Winslow’s joyous and special friends of the Fortune who might still be fancy free, but could not be omitted on that account. That this invigorating occasion was a success there is no doubt, and marked a crest of the life of those first five years of the Pilgrims in Plymouth.
Days go on, no matter how bright, they may not be held. In a few years, changes—as ever.
We may look at a scene on another crisp autumn morning. It is Sunday and there is stillness in the town. Suddenly the drum rolls and people come from their houses to assemble for the morning worship in the fort. The guard has formed in front of the house of Captain Standish. Led by a sergeant, in rows of three abreast, followed by the Governor, the Elder, and the Captain, all wearing cloaks and carrying arms, they march silently up the hill. The rest of the population who may be going to the service this morning are ready to proceed also, for, unlike the severity of the rule from which these people fled, church attendance was expected but not compulsory. There are extra colors and numbers this morning. The town is entertaining a distinguished guest whose visit is to mark that tide in their affairs which, owing to their readiness to take at the flood, is to lead them on to fortune. Plymouth frequently entertains strangers, but this rotund, handsomely dressed gentleman, with the sharp eyes seeing all about him, with his several retainers and trumpeters, who walk on each side of him, though no notes are sounded this morning, is of more importance than any whom Plymouth has received. He represents the first foreign mission for commercial and personal benefits, and is the Secretary of the Dutch colony, five hundred miles to the southward, Isaac de Rasieres.
The intercourse already satisfactorily begun by negotiations culminating in this visit, was to be of mutual benefit for many years. The boat from Manhattan became a regularly welcomed bearer to Plymouth women of bright materials for clothes, sugar and other necessaries—in time quite the rival of a boat from England—the payment for these was by home grown tobacco, therefore nearly as interesting a crop as corn. Even the latter was to be replaced by something else as a medium of exchange through the visit of Monsieur de Rasieres. Wampum, familiar word to us, but strange to Plymouth people, was to make an important and permanent appearance, and to prove that shells on the shore were as a gold mine at the feet of the Pilgrims.
The ceremonious ascent to the fort is accomplished, the congregation taking their places—the women on one side of the room, the men on the other, according to custom. To the visitor all is strange, new and interesting. We rejoice in the days he spent in Plymouth, for the advantage which came to the Pilgrims and for the legacy which came to us in the form of his written accounts of his visit.
As William Davidson, experienced statesman and courtier, in a long ago visit to Scrooby, opened a door of destiny through which it was appointed that William Brewster was to lead this people into a new world of liberty, so by this visit of Isaac de Rasieres, travelled man of the world, to Plymouth, another way was opened by which they were to reach, also prosperity and prominence. The portraits of these two men should hang as companion medallions in the hall of Pilgrim memory, as doubtless they did in the mind of William Brewster, himself having as much worldly experience as either, with the personal attractions of each; loved friend of one, respected acquaintance of the other.
At this time, the rather difficult role of step-mother was being played in three of the households. We know the families quite well, and are particularly interested in the women. The eldest in the position is Elizabeth Hopkins. If the part did not come easily to Stephen Hopkins’ second wife, the responsibilities of it are now lessened, since Constance has recently added to the list of Mayflower brides by marrying Nicholas Snow and going to a home of her own. An impression seemed to prevail that Mistress Hopkins was rather jealous of her predecessor’s son, Giles, on account of her own son, Caleb, yet it is through Giles only, that the name has been carried down to the present. Her four girls, Damaris, Deborah, Ruth and Elizabeth, made a lively home for any brother. Oceanus, born on the Mayflower, did not live beyond babyhood. The women of that day were just as human as of this, and amid all her fine qualities, if there was a little flaw, it no doubt came of her very fondness for her husband.
Across the street, in the governor’s house, Alice Bradford has three boys to share the love and interest with her own, and the devotion of four. We have already seen one of them, Thomas Cushman, left by his father with Governor Bradford, until he should return to live in Plymouth—but Myles Standish, returning from his mission to England, had brought with other regretful tidings, the knowledge that Robert Cushman would not come again. Another fatherless boy, whom we have had but a glimpse of, is Nathaniel Morton, nephew to Alice Bradford. George Morton lived but a short time as resident of Plymouth, leaving his wife and family alone in the new house, but the governor took Nathaniel to bring up as a son, and Juliana Carpenter Morton married again. The third boy is also fatherless in actual sense; he has recently come to Plymouth, but to the most loving mother and affectionate step-father boy could desire, for this is Constant Southworth come from London to his new home in the governor’s house in Plymouth, as his mother had done, whom he strongly resembles in looks. And the fourth boy? He is not fatherless, but has only lately come to renew both the acquaintance and affection of his parent, being John Bradford, from Amsterdam, youngest of the quartette, and seeing him we are reminded of his girl mother, the governor’s first wife. This group is soon to be added to by Thomas Southworth, whom his mother is expecting from England. We can imagine these boys having a pretty good time in the loving home of the Bradfords, and among them grew up the three babies, half brothers and half sister to John Bradford and the Southworth boys—only one girl to amuse and tease them through the years of childhood, the governor’s daughter, Mercy. Although step-mother to but one, the part had no chance for prominence with Alice Bradford, in being at the same time aunt to one, friend to another and mother to five. Perhaps it was because of this masculine element at home, that Mistress Bradford was known for her special interest in the young girls of the colony—daughters of her neighbors and playmates of her Mercy, such advantages and accomplishments as she had, she taught them. No wonder she welcomed her husband’s suggestion of having her youngest sister, Priscilla Carpenter, come from England to make her home with them.
Another woman, of the style and character of Alice Bradford, the third and youngest step-mother, making such a success in her position as to prove her the good angel of the family into which she came, is Fear Brewster—now Mrs. Isaac Allerton. She already had the love of Bartholomew, Remember and Mary—quite grown out of childhood, but they must have been as surprised as the rest of the society of Plymouth that their father could win her for his wife, as he was so much older than she and always seeming rather preoccupied and self-satisfied. It speaks well for him that such was the case and that her attachment and loyalty never wavered through the brief years of her married life—and that it was a shield to him from public criticism or censure is well known. This not only places her before us against a background of esteem for herself, but in a reflection of the high regard and affection in which her father was held. Before matrimonial trials confronted her daughter, Mary Brewster, loved and loving, finished her pilgrimage; the lack of her presence affected many lives, her absence was an abiding sorrow. Love of wealth seems suddenly to have overtaken Isaac Allerton which made everything else of small importance. The pursuit of it took him constantly and for long periods away from home, so his wife had little of his company. His talents were of use to the colony, at times, in England, but he seemed to really care very little for his old friends. Nevertheless, it was he who completed the arrangements which closed the connection between the original settlers of Plymouth and the Merchant Adventurers in London. Plymouth, thereby, paid all its indebtedness for assistance given and went its way alone. He also procured patents for increased land holdings for the colony, especially in Maine. His complete indifference to anything but his own ends was, perhaps, never better shown than when he returned from one of his trips to England, bringing, as secretary, a man who was already too well and unfavorably known by Plymouth and the surrounding settlements, called Morton of Merry Mount, who had been sent to England the year before, as an undesirable. That Allerton could bring this man to his home, into the society of his wife and daughters, made Plymouth gasp—and Plymouth refused to stand it. The secretary was dismissed, and business affairs again called Isaac Allerton away. On one of his trips he took his son to visit in England, and Bartholomew did not return to Plymouth.
About this time, two girls of the Anne added to the procession of brides: Mary Warren marrying Robert Bartlett and Jane Cooke marrying Experience Mitchell.
Passengers and letters came on the ships continually, both to Plymouth and the other settlements that were growing likewise. Persons desiring to come to the New World, took what ship they could and landed where the ship took them. Plymouth having boats could always send for their own voyagers and mail whenever word was received that a ship had come from the other side, though not to their harbor. Thus, one day, a letter came to Humility Cooper, which changed the quiet current of her life as it seemed to be running in Plymouth. Relatives in England wanted her to return. This was a surprise to her and to her good friends, but, half wanting to stay and half wanting to go, Humility prepared for leave taking. Henry Sampson, her cousin, was now grown up—she need feel no special reluctance—but she was Elizabeth Howland’s last link with her childhood’s days. As Edward Winslow was sailing shortly for England, on business for the colony, Humility said farewell to the ten years of Mayflower and Plymouth association and went back under his care.
During her husband’s absence, Susanna Winslow’s brother, Doctor Fuller, was also from Plymouth. The new colonies of Salem and Massachusetts Bay, just starting, met with the same devastating illness that had befallen the Mayflower passengers, and, as they were so unfortunate as to lose their doctor among the first victims, they appealed to Plymouth—and no appeal to Plymouth was ever in vain. Doctor Fuller went to Salem and the Bay and had great success in curing many, though nearly exhausting his supply of medicines.
During this year, and the next, all the old friends still in Leyden, who had waited so long to come, were brought over at Plymouth’s expense and there was great satisfaction that distance no longer divided them. But the saintly Robinson was not among them. Five years earlier, the Pilgrim men and women grieved to learn that he would never come to them—his earthly labors having ceased. His wife and oldest son became his representatives in Plymouth.
Intercourse between Plymouth and the newly established colonial neighbors became frequent, leading to interchange of visits and even of residence. The newcomers were duly sensible of what they owed to the Plymouth settlers, who had blazed the way.
The opening of their second decade in the New World showed great contrasts to those Plymouth women who remembered what the first year and those immediately following had been. Now, they were able to see and hear of the experiences of others, close at hand, with much in common. The ships from England were no longer their only connection with the outside world nor their only source of supplies, other than food. Massachusetts Bay and Salem were glad to exchange commodities, as well as Manhattan, but, being so much nearer, grew more interlocked with the life and interests of Plymouth.
The ceremonial visit by the Governor and Assistants of Plymouth to the Governor of the Bay and his wife, with the return of like courtesies by Governor Winthrop to Governor and Mrs. Bradford were brilliant incidents. Soon fashions, not clothes, and luxuries, not necessities, for the home were frequent thoughts to the women, instead of almost forgotten or sternly repressed instincts. Though they had not fashion books, some sent for garments and hats from the old country and the fortunate possessors lent these new fashioned articles as models for their neighbors. A very taking way of introducing styles to the colonists was by dressed dolls, or “babies” as they were called, that displayed them in careful miniature. During recent seasons this idea has been re-introduced, as may be seen in some of the shop windows in our cities. We learn that, withal, there was sometimes a shortage of sugar, which strikes a responsive chord in the memory of housewives three hundred years later.
If the arrival of the first cows was a never-to-be forgotten joy to the women of the Mayflower and of the Anne, the entrance of horses into Plymouth life was elation. The pleasure of owning a horse while it was a novelty for their circumstances, must have aroused the same feeling as the acquirement of an automobile has in families of our day; when not an owner, to have a special object of ambition, if a possessor, then a willing recipient of neighborly admiration. The advantage of a horse to a woman, then, was to ride on a pillion behind a male member of the family to meeting or to visit (until carriages came, much later), or else, if quite accomplished, to ride alone, often with children, baskets, or even a spinning wheel, as well, on the back of the amiable friend of the family.
Ere long, life took on the virility and color we associate with that spectacular period known as Colonial. Naturally, Plymouth now began to overflow its first boundaries. As the children of the families and worldly possessions increased, many made summer homes where the cattle could have greater range and families more room. These new houses were built quite in the manner of bungalows, for occupancy between frosts. Winters saw the Plymouth residences occupied again. Gradually, however, the summer homes became permanent, being made habitable for winter also, and edifices for the religious services were erected. By another decade Plymouth Colony comprised several towns, outgrowths of the original. The new brides could make a wedding journey if they pleased, and some went away altogether to make their new homes. The governor’s wife was especially interested in two of the weddings at this time—that of her sister, Priscilla Carpenter and her niece, Patience Morton. The former was soon a widow, and, like her sisters, married again. Patience became the mother of Thomas Faunce—a link between two centuries—the identifier, in his old age, of Plymouth Rock, telling to his and other generations what his parents had told to him, having learned from the first comers.
Governor Bradford insisted that if the office he had held so long was an honor and satisfaction, others should share it, if it was a care and duty, others should experience its responsibilities also; his health had been somewhat undermined by the efforts he had given to guide the temporal affairs of the colony throughout the years since he succeeded Governor Carver, and he absolutely declined a reelection. Edward Winslow, having returned from England, was chosen.
Thus Susanna became the first lady of Plymouth; easily pictured wearing the dainty white satin, lace trimmed slippers, or the white satin cape, actually to be seen now, in Plymouth, visible magic means of carrying us back to her days from the present. Alice Bradford smilingly relinquished her position to her friend and devoted her efforts to restoring her husband’s health. Yet this twelve-month contained more of trial, anxiety and annoyance than the colony had experienced in many a year; it could not have been other than a sorrowful memory to Susanna.
Early in the spring a strange swarm of large noisy flies came out of the ground—ate the young green things, and disappeared. Such had never been seen by the colonists and the Indians foretold sickness. This prophecy proved all too true and during the summer and autumn a devastating fever swept away a score or more of men, women and children; some were of the new comers from Leyden, but the weight of the sadness was among the old families. Gentle Fear Brewster Allerton was laid to rest beside her mother, on Burial Hill, leaving her baby boy, Isaac, to her sorrowing father’s care, who was spending the summer with his two unmarried sons on their farm in the country. Isaac Allerton’s sister, Sarah Cuthbertson, was also a victim to the infection, likewise her husband. While Susanna Winslow was mourning these two friends, her brother, the doctor, after fighting the disease for the help of others, succumbed. This shock and loss to the colonists was felt not only in Plymouth—while in Plymouth grief was deep. This educated, Christian gentleman was sadly missed for many a year. What he was to the people can be easily imagined. His widow and children were devoted to his memory; in after years, the son, Samuel, studied for the ministry and married a granddaughter of Elder Brewster; the daughter, Mercy, married Ralph James; but his profession was carried on in the Old Colony, after a time, by his nephews—his namesake Samuel—whom we have known of since the Pilgrims’ emigration from Holland—and Matthew, who came later to Plymouth.
The business affairs of the Colony became complicated in their trade on the Connecticut River, both because of the Dutch and Indians. At home, Roger Williams, whom they had befriended, acted in a very unpleasant manner, so they were glad when he left them. Notwithstanding the clouds over-shadowing them, this year’s return of the trade in furs was noteworthy, and as election time drew near, it was decided that it would be best for Edward Winslow to go again to England on their foreign business; therefore Thomas Prence was elected Governor and Susanna was again left alone with her children. The White boys were now sturdy, manly lads, a comfort and joy to Susanna and the admiration of their small brothers and sister, the Winslows. Another brother-in-law, Kenelm, was a visitor in her home, and appearances indicated that he would remain as a permanent resident of Plymouth.
Several marriages occurred before a year closed. Ann Warren became Mrs. Thomas Little and her sister, Sarah, became Mrs. John Cooke, Jr.
Recently a family of four girls had come to the colony with their father, William Collier, a wealthy merchant from London; from among them one of the Brewster boys selected his wife and Sarah Collier went as Love’s bride to the Duxbury home to try to bring cheerfulness to the three lonely men there and to help care for little Isaac Allerton, his mother’s legacy to her family, until he should grow up. Remember Allerton married also, and was one of the girls who went away from Plymouth to a new home in Salem, leaving her sister Mary, to give their father such attention as he needed in his rare visits home.
At this time, in Boston, eggs were three cents a dozen, milk one cent a quart, butter six and cheese five cents a pound, so housekeepers not caring for the somewhat higher prices in Plymouth, could send for butter or cheese at least, if they did not make it themselves, and felt economically inclined.
In the early part of the new administration, when Patience Brewster Prence was mistress of the executive mansion (which was the Governor’s own house, whichever one it was), certain affairs concerned two of the Plymouth women mightily, Priscilla Alden and Barbara Standish, but particularly the former, which was caused by the interference in Plymouth’s affairs by Massachusetts Bay, through misrepresentation. John Alden putting into Boston from a trip to the Kennebec trading station, was held there and imprisoned until Plymouth should explain its connection with a shooting incident in which two men were killed at the station. The ship was allowed to return to Plymouth bringing the news of this cool proceeding, which, we can imagine made John Alden’s wife anything but cool, and we can also think that the Governor was not allowed to delay in getting John Alden home to his family. To do so, Captain Myles Standish was dispatched to Boston, with the facts of the unpleasant incident at the trading station, which were so different from the representation which the Bay authorities had received that John Alden was immediately set at liberty. We can appreciate the feelings of both Barbara and Priscilla as they looked for the return of the ship again. Barbara anxious for the success of her husband’s efforts to release the husband of her friend, and Priscilla both indignant and worried. However, the incident was happily concluded, though more than Priscilla were indignant in Plymouth.
Later in the year, news came from London which caused the heart of Susanna to burn with indignation in her turn, and for the same cause concerning her husband as had agitated Priscilla. Through the old jealousy of the Church authorities, on trumped up charges concerning the business on which Winslow went to England, which was in behalf also of the Bay, he was held for many weeks in the Fleet Street prison. Fortunately friends were able to release him—but it was some time before he was able to return to his family in Plymouth.
Meanwhile Eleanor Newton Adams and Priscilla Carpenter Wright, both made widows by the epidemic of the previous year, became wives again. The marriage of the former, who had been left quite well off, was of special interest to Susanna since she became her sister-in-law, Mrs. Kenelm Winslow, the third Mrs. Winslow of Plymouth and Marshfield, as all had summer places in the latter suburb of Plymouth—Careswell, The Edward Winslow place, soon became a permanent abode, handsome of style and proportions.
This year saw sorrow once more fall on the members of the old families—bound together by the powerful ties formed in the old days—and many more, for at its close, the Governor’s wife was taken by death—and Patience Brewster Prence’s short, happy life was over. The religious convictions of the Pilgrims did not admit of undue mourning for their loved ones, since they regarded the departed not as victims to death, but as victors through death, and the lives of those remaining must go on. Hearts were true, nevertheless, and even in their wills the men sometimes especially requested to be laid beside the graves of their wives and daughters.
The following year, April, brought a marriage ceremony performed by Captain Standish, as assistant, which was of interest to many—that of Samuel Fuller, loved for his own admirable qualities as well as for being the nephew of their Doctor of happy memory. His bride was one of the girls who had helped in the new settlement of Scituate, founded by her father and other men from Kent, in England. In spite of all his pretty playmates in Plymouth, Samuel found this girl of old England was the one to receive his heart. But Jane Lothrop took him from Plymouth to the newer township.
In August a furious storm broke over Plymouth and the surrounding land and sea, inflicting great damage and terrifying the women and children. It wrecked many ships, killed cattle and blew roofs from many of the houses and knocked others to pieces in Plymouth, and uprooted quantities of great trees; the evidences of it were prominent for many years in the blemished beauty of the great pines which withstood the hurricane, still remaining the sentinels of Plymouth.
When Edward Winslow returned, he again served as Governor, and one of the weddings of that year was Mary Allerton’s. She was last but one of the Mayflower girls to marry—Damaris Hopkins’ marriage to Jacob Cooke completed the list. Mary’s courtship had begun in childhood’s days, when Thomas Cushman, in the house across the street, had waited for her to grow up—while growing up himself and pursuing his studies with the other boys in the Governor’s family. At the time of her marriage the rumblings of the Pequot war were beginning to be heard, which soon broke, owing to the mistakes of the Bay Colony, causing the old time fears to return to Plymouth women for the safety of their men and themselves. Under Captain Standish, the Plymouth men played their valiant part, and Thomas Stanton, the interpreter for Massachusetts, and Captain John Gallup did their full share to redeem the situation.
Richard Church had not long before come from the Bay Colony to visit Plymouth, but meeting Elizabeth Warren decided him to remain permanently, in spite of displeasure from the Bay authorities, who missed him. He was one of the Plymouth fighters in this Indian disturbance, as his and Elizabeth’s son, Benjamin, was in the greater, bloodier war of a later time—King Philip’s—when the Pilgrim’s good friend, Massasoit, was dead. Plymouth tried to settle down to its own affairs after this, and had plenty to attend to.
A lovely June day seemed ushering in another summer when an unknown experience marked that year as one to date by even as the one of the great storm. That morning some of the principal men were meeting to discuss important questions, and in the street and about the doorsteps many of the women were talking of their own or public affairs, when a violent though brief earthquake shook them from their balance, and catching hold of whatever was nearest, they heard the crashing and falling of things in their houses. The children were frightened and began to cry, and all the women who were indoors came running out, fearing the houses would fall. The men were no less concerned and the streets presented a lively scene. Another shock was soon felt but less severe, and that was the end. Indians came hurrying into the town with their experience to relate; the quake was felt far inland and at sea. What with the frightful storm, the alarming Pequot trouble and this terrifying experience, all within a comparatively short time, the nerves of the women must have been more on edge than for many a day.
The young people of Marshfield and Duxbury, married and single, clung closely to their friends and associations of Plymouth and their amusements were shared in common. Weekly lecture day, a diversion of sober character, was nevertheless gladly welcomed as a means of enjoyable intercourse, going or returning. Maple sugar making, Training day, corn husking, apple bees were occasions for merry gatherings, the sequence found in the frequent weddings. Dancing became popular, though frowned on in some quarters, but it could not be repressed in an age when the desire for physical activity and excitement was as natural as now. Some of those early dance names such as High Betty Martin, Constancy, Orange Tree, Rolling Hornpipe, The Ladies Choice, compare with our recent names of Hesitation, Fox Trot, One Step.
The Coast Road from Boston, though never more than a few feet wider than the old Indian trail, came to mean to the dwellers in the various townships of Plymouth such an artery of connection to the life of all as the Great North Road had been to the inhabitants of the little villages, Scrooby and its neighbors, long ago homes to the elder members of the Colony.
The coldest winter Plymouth has ever known has frozen the harbor to a solid mass over which ox teams and sledges have been driven for several weeks, an astonishing and interesting sight and one may walk over the ice to Duxbury as well as by the land. One afternoon bright with the lengthening daylight of the season, sees a pleasant picture in the old parlor of Governor Bradford’s house, for he is again Governor, by urgent request of the community. A cheery fire blazes up the wide chimney and there is gay chatter to the tune of the crackling logs. Mistress Alice Bradford, now a grandmother (her son, Constant Southworth having married Elizabeth Collier and having a little Alice) has invited several of her daughter’s special friends to spend the day. So we see Mercy, a delightful reproduction of her mother and father both, as hostess to nine merry girls: Mary Brewster, Betty and Sally Alden, from Duxbury, Mary Cooke, Mercy Fuller and Deborah Hopkins of Plymouth, Lora Standish of Duxbury and Desire and Hope Howland. Elizabeth Tilly had given charming companion names to her older daughters, her first born having been named in remembrance of Desire Minter, her dear friend. Desire was now at the age of her mother when she had married—that mother seeming always as an older sister, being still young herself in spite of the cares of a large family—but it was more than a year later before Desire decided to marry, and be the first bride, though not the eldest, of this pretty group. The girls of this generation never having experienced the world’s hardships and vicissitudes that had been their mother’s portions, having been carefully and lovingly brought up in comfortable, cheerful homes, were not anxious to leave them for the first time, even with love to point the way. However, Desire was beginning to listen to the importunities of her dashing young lieutenant—in later years known as Captain John Gorham, who was to lead the 2nd Barnstable Company under command of Major William Bradford, Mercy’s brother, into fame, at the Great Swamp Fight in Philip’s War. The swift knitting needles click in Desire’s hands as she stands by the frame-work of the western window, leaning to watch the progress of the sampler which is being worked by a lovely girl who is sharing the broad window seat with another, who has evidently completed her sewing, having just folded it and put it into a bag hanging from her arm. This young beauty is Betty Alden—eldest of the family of John and Priscilla. She too, is eagerly watching the stitches that are to tell the worker’s admirers and friends, from that day to this, that the sampler was made by Lora Standish, only and much beloved daughter of the Pilgrim’s Captain. That piece of handicraft is the only specimen of their work that we know of and may look at today as if we had seen it when its stitches were being placed, among the group we are picturing of Plymouth Colony’s first-born daughters—the first native generation of Colonial girls of New England. On a seat by the hearth, Mary Cooke and Mercy Fuller have a book between them and are reading aloud snatches of receipts for making perfumes, or poetry, or jokes—this is not a monthly magazine as we might fancy from our own experience, but a yearly periodical, welcomed by every household—Pierce’s Almanac, printed in Cambridge, its contents holding much that is similar but much that is different to the magazines we know. Leaning over the high back, smoothing the soft hair of Mercy Fuller, is Hope Howland. Bonny as her sister is, somehow Hope reminds us more of little Elizabeth Tilly of Leyden. Mercy Bradford is placing little cakes with a pitcher of cider on a big center table and lights one or two bayberry candles in wooden holders that stand upon its polished top and twinkle on it or in the shining pewter dishes and cups. At the window towards the street, Deborah Hopkins and Mary Brewster, granddaughter and namesake of our first Mary Brewster, are looking out—evidently some one is expected. The last rays of the winter sun, the flashing fire and the glowing bayberry flames, strive to light for one more instant this appealing picture. There is sound of footsteps in the cold air outside—stamping and laughing—the brothers and sweethearts have arrived to take the girls home but first to have some slight refreshment at the hands of Mistress Bradford and Mercy. Cloaks are brought and velvet hoods tied snugly over hair both light and dark, surrounding the pink cheeks and sparkling eyes of all the happy girls who have spent the day with Mercy Bradford and her mother.
The snowflakes of winter have turned to falling apple blossoms and spring has awakened the violets in the flower beds under the windows of William Brewster’s library. The fragrance of these and other blossoms is borne through the white curtained windows open to the warm air, mingled with the saltness of Duxbury marshes. The library comprises four hundred books, the largest and most valuable in America. Whether it is or no, matters not, the books are the solace of their owner, who while enjoying his farm life and appreciating the companionship of his son’s families and Isaac Allerton, Jr., his grandson, dwells much within himself. To keep the books dusted and the Elder’s chair in just the right place, Mrs. Love Brewster has often the assistance of her nieces, Jonathan Brewster’s daughters. This bright morning sees Mary, one of the girls in the winter’s frolic at Mercy Bradford’s, attending to these matters. A boy is deep in study by a bookshelf, and Mary, playfully sweeps her duster across his book as she works—it is her cousin, Isaac—preparing for entrance into the new College at Cambridge. Up the road a horse comes at a lively pace and Samuel Fuller has arrived to join with Isaac in reading the precious books, though his father left him some of his own. The owner of the library glances through the window and smiles and nods to the young people—Mary seeing him, runs out to enjoy with him the sunshine and to pat the horse tied near the door. Possibly William Brewster recalls from the past a spring morning when another lad rode a horse, to acquire knowledge from books—but he says nothing as Mary slips her arm in his.
This decade flashes many another change before our eyes. In a few years the first church building has been erected in Plymouth, with Richard Church as architect and builder, as seems appropriate. Its bell rings out for many a year, succeeding the roll of drums to summon worshipers. Many of the girls marry and the younger children succeed to their pleasures. Mercy Bradford has gone to live in Boston as Mercy Vermayes. Her mother’s loneliness is partly relieved by the coming to her of her remaining sister in England, Mary Carpenter. This sister is rather notable among the women of Plymouth, in that she never married. Her attractions were not less than her sisters’; indeed, from what was said of her, quite an appropriate companion for the governor’s wife, her sister, Alice. Another exception to the general rule may be noted, and another spinster of the colony named Elizabeth Pool, daughter of Sir William, who coming as Plymouth’s boundaries expanded, and possessing wealth, property and intelligence, remained unwon. These two esteemed women, one a resident of Plymouth town, the other, one of the founders of the new township of Taunton, are an interesting contrast. Miss Carpenter lived quietly, uneventfully, until ninety years old; of a religious frame of mind and given to kind deeds, unknown, through her retiring nature. Miss Pool seems much more modern in her career. She erected iron works and was altogether enterprising and a promoter of advancement for her settlement. She brought over a minister for the church in Taunton, so had a thought for religion, also, not only for herself but for others. A record states “she died greatly honored, in 1654 aged 66.”
Edward Winslow was again governor for a brief period and then made another trip to England, at the request of the authorities of the Bay, as they had recognized his great abilities as a negotiator of business interests and there were some affairs pressing on the Bay Colony which he undertook to remove. This was to the regret of the Plymouth people who were reluctant to have him go from their own affairs. He left Susanna and his children, almost grown now, in comfortable Careswell, and there, for several years, his wife awaited his return. Not that the Bay or his own affairs took very long, but England herself needed him, as it seemed, and he agreed to a diplomatic mission to an island colony. Loving Plymouth and loving England he was not destined to rest in either; his grave was made in the ocean he had crossed so often. Susanna had parted from her husband for the last time.
Other deaths among the first comers saddened the Pilgrims. Elizabeth Hopkins closed her long and honorable career as one of the women of Plymouth. Her husband soon followed her. In this year perhaps its greatest blow fell on Plymouth when their leader in spiritual and often adviser in temporal things passed from among them. No words can more fittingly describe the beautiful end of his earthly life than those of the governor. There is no greater record of loyalty and affection than that shown in the nearly fifty years between his followers and himself. While his fame, as William Bradford said, is more enduring than a marker at his grave—which he lacks, in company with so many—such words as the governor wrote of him and such work as Constantino Brumidi has made to represent him, serve to keep it vigorous through the centuries. (In the President’s room at the Capitol in Washington, Brumidi has painted Elder Brewster as typifying Religion.)
When Mary Chilton Winslow moved to Boston, it could not have seemed more strange or different than Plymouth had come to be to her by that time. Except the Aldens, the Howlands and her sister-in-law, few remained who had been her companions and friends on the Mayflower and in building the colony. Her husband had become a prosperous merchant in the West India trade and perhaps Boston seemed a necessary relief to them. Their position became at once prominent and important and her life flowed happily onward for many years. In one of her daughters, Myles Standish, Jr., found his fate, and upon their marriage likewise settled in Boston.
Meanwhile Susanna Winslow continued in eminence of circumstance, to live at her beautiful home in Marshfield. Her boys, Resolved and Peregrine, had married and made homes of their own but remained devoted to her. Josiah, her youngest son, reproducing in a marked degree the look and manners of his talented father, remained with her. As he grew into the handsome, courtly man, whom all admired, she must have smiled as she looked sometimes at the little shoes he had worn as her baby and which she carefully kept with other treasures—such as the cradle in which she had rocked all her boys and little girl. That little girl was now Mrs. Robert Brooks of Scituate.
In the heyday of Plymouth’s prosperity a gentleman in England, long interested in colonial life by the reports of it which had found their way to him in his comfortable ancestral home, planned a visit to see life across the sea. With his young daughter, Penelope, Mr. Herbert Pelham came to the Old Colony. The spirit of adventure in them both and the interest they found in their new surroundings caused them to linger for a period beyond the length of a casual visit in their temporary home in Marshfield. To the men, the companionship of Herbert Pelham was a delight, and seeing her father’s pleasure, Penelope, with her own various employments, did not long for home. Her’s is the last romance we may notice as closely connected with the women of our special interest in Plymouth colony, even as that of her mother-in-law, was the first. Penelope Pelham, with her high-bred manner and aristocratic face, made the only permanent impression on the heart of Josiah Winslow and we can easily fancy that in making her bead bag, Penelope had plenty of time to decide that for him she would renounce all thought of returning to her home, and remain a colonial woman. The bead bag, her dressing-case and her portrait are other links connecting us to those vivid lives of our chronicle.
Soon Josiah Winslow was called to the place occupied by his father, for a time, and by William Bradford for many years—when the great governor had left it vacant, forever—so Penelope became the first lady of the land in her adopted home and Susanna closed her life’s history in the first place which had been hers so often in the colony—first mother after the Mayflower found harbor, first bride of Plymouth and now mother of the first native born governor of New England. Truly the footprints of Anna Fuller, since we found them first in Leyden, have led us along a colorful pathway.
The records we find of her brilliant daughter-in-law show her a character after Susanna Winslow’s own type. The second mistress of Careswell lived there for many happy years ere she and her family were forced to flee from it under the fearful scourge of Philip’s War.
Thus on through its seventy years of shadow and sunshine, heroic daring, splendid achievement and independence, we may follow the fascinating records of Plymouth Colony—especially as those records are tinted even faintly by the footprints and finger-touches of its women.
As the first death on the Mayflower at anchor was that of a woman, Dorothy Bradford, so the last survivor of the original Mayflower company was a woman, Mary Allerton Cushman, who saw all of the life with its chances and changes of which we read.
Through the years we may well believe that the women of the Mayflower who became the women of Plymouth, and their children, whether in newer homes or remaining in the old, looked back to the early days of their privation, when by their anxieties, their sorrows, their economies, their endeavors, their fearlessness and faith, the foundation of their colony was laid.
We may well echo their thoughts as they remembered some of Elder Brewster’s words on their first Thanksgiving Day, which one orator has expressed as “Generations to come will look back to this hour and these scenes, this day of small things and say, ‘Here was our beginning as a people. These were our fathers and mothers. Through their trials we inherit our blessings. Their faith is our faith, their hope our hope, their God our God.’”
A CHAPLET OF ROSEMARY.
