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your inkhorn.

That is because I have done it myself, and not left

it to others. Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an

excellent adage ; So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible

army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and

his matchlock, Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and

pillage, And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my

soldiers !” This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes,

as the sunbeams Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in

a moment. Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain

continued : “ Look ! you can see from this window my brazen

howitzer planted High on the roof of the church, a preacher who

speaks to the purpose, Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible

logic, Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts

of the heathen. Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the

Indians; Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try

it the better, Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem,

or pow-Wow, Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokama


Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed

on the landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of

the east-wind, Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim

of the ocean, Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and

sunshine. Over his countenance fitted a shadow like those on

the landscape, Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was

subdued with emotion, Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he pro

ceeded : “ Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried

Rose Standish; Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the

wayside! She was the first to die of all who came in the May

Flower! Green above her is growing the field of wheat we

have sown there, Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of

our people, Lest they should count them and see how many

already have perished !” Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down,

and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books,

and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and

for binding; Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of

Cæsar, Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of

London, And, as if guarded by these, between them was

standing the Bible. Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish

paused, as if doubtful

Which of the three he should choose for his corso

lation and comfort, Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous

campaigns of the Romans, Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent

Christians. Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponder

ous Roman, Seated himself at the window, and opened the book,

and in silence Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb

marks thick on the margin, Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was

hottest. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying

pen of the stripling, Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May

Flower, Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest,

God willing! Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible

winter, Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of

Priscilla, Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan

maiden Priscilla !



NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying

pen of the stripling, Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the

Captain, Reading the marvellous words and achievements of

Julius Cæsar. After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his

hand, palm downwards, Heavily on the page : “ A wonderful man was this

Cæsar! You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a

fellow Who could both write and fight, and in both was

equally skilful!” Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the

comely, the youthful : “ Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his

pen and his weapons. Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he

could dictate Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his

memoirs." Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or

hearing the other, “ Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar! Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right

when he said it. Twice was he married before he was twenty, and

many times after; Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand

cities he conquered;


He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has re

corded ; Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator

Brutus ! Now, do you know what he did on a certain occa

sion in Flanders, When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the

front giving way too, And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so

closely together There was no room for their swords ? Why, he

seized a shield from a soldier, Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and

commanded the captains, Calling on each by his name, to order forward the

ensigns; Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for

their weapons ; So he won the day, the battle of something-or

other. That's what I always say ; if you wish a thing to

be well done, You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to

others !

All was silent again ; the Captain continued his

reading. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying

pen of the stripling Writing epistles important to go next day by the

May Flower, Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan

maiden Priscilla ; Every sentence began or closed with the name

of Priscilla, Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the

secret, Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the

name of Priscilla !

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