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.”