In fact, the incidents of real occurrence and the traditions of real descent, concerning the courtship of Priscilla, are very few. We know that Rose Standish died; that the Captain sent John Alden to urge his suit before Mr. Mullins, who replied favorably; that Priscilla asked him why he did not speak for himself; that Mr. Mullins presently died; that Captain Standish presently married elsewhere; and that John eventually married Priscilla, lived in the neighborhood of the Captain, married his daughter to the Captain’s son, and died in his old age, being known to the end as a severe and righteous and reverend man. These are the bare facts; all the rest is coloring and conjecture. Yet one has the right to surround these facts with all the possibilities of human emotion, alike in any age and with any people, which go to the making of romance and poetry, and which will do so as long as hearts beat, lips tremble, and souls desire companionship.
It is because we like to make these people, looming large through the mists of time, and on the stage of their mighty drama, real enough for our sympathies, that we love Mr. Longfellow’s version of their story. Nothing more skilful, gentle, and beautiful has ever been written concerning the Pilgrims than the beloved poet’s verses. Every incident in their pages is absolutely true to the life of the period, and although the anachronisms are many, yet they do not exceed the province of poetic license,—they are perhaps necessary to it; and many of the events are those which actually took place, if not at the stated time. Thus, for instance, it was at a later season than the poem intimates that the gory head of the savage was brought home; yet it was brought home. It was at another date that the rattlesnake skin filled with arrows was sent; yet it was sent. It was Governor Bradford and not Captain Standish who returned it stuffed with powder and shot; yet it was returned. It was much later than represented that property was held in severalty, and individuals owned their dwellings; yet they did do so in time. It was much later than the first autumn that the ships of the merchants brought cattle; yet they did bring cattle. But whether the cattle came early or late, that snow-white bull with his crimson saddle-cloth gives occasion for one of the most beautiful pictures in literature. Europa herself, fleeing over the meadow on her white bull, flecked with warm sunshine, with shadows of leaves and flowers, all white and rosy loveliness as she fled, is not a fairer picture to the mind than this exquisite one of the bridal procession, where
