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 (1),

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 !

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,

Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth :

<< When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.

Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient ! »

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention : << Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish ». Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:

<< "Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. Since Rose Standish died (2), my life has been weary and dreary;

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother

(1) Il nome d'una nave che doveva presto salpare per l'Inghilterra, (2) Così si chiamava la prima moglie di Miles Standish.

Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the

dying,

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions,

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning;

am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant

language,

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers,

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden ».

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling,

All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,

Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered:

<< Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;

If you would have it well done, I am only repeating your maxim,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others! » But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from

his purpose,

Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth :

« Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,

But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a

cannon,

But of a thundering « No » ! point-blank (1) from the mouth of a woman,

That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it! So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant

scholar,

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases ».

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful,

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: « Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me;

Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship! »

Then made answer John Alden: «The name of friendship is sacred;

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you! »

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler,

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

(1) Avverbio: direttamente, di punto in bianco, improvvisamente. Si adopera specialmente nel gergo militare di cui Miles Standish fa lar ghissimo uso egli infatti ha già detto che we must not waste powder for nothing, che egli non osa march up to a woman, ecc.

John Alden reca il messaggio
d'amore a Priscilla.

Through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;

Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east wind;

Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow; Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla

Singing the Hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting

many.

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden

Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snowdrift Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous

spindle,

While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.

Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth,

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together. Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard,

Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem,

She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of home-spun Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being!

Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless,

Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand;

All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished,

All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion,
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces.
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it,

<< Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards;

Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains,

Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearts of the living,

It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth for ever! »

So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing

Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold,

Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome,

Saying, I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage;

For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning ».

Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled

Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the

maiden,

Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an

answer

Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter,

After the first great snow, when he broke a path from tne

village,

Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway,

Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla

Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside,