party set themselves down and began to build houses, and here the town of Plymouth now stands. The Indian name was Accomack. A indicates Plymouth village, B the Town Brook, C Billington Sea, D Captain's Hill, Duxbury; E Clark's Island, F Saquish Head, G Jones' River. "The Common House," as the first habitation was called, was but twenty feet square, and in it men, women, and children, sick and well, corn, goods and all, were huddled together, until new houses could be built, which was a hard and slow work, so often was it interrupted by alarms of the Indians, by the severity of the weather, and by sickness.

Two of their number soon had the misfortune to lose themselves in the woods, which caused the most painful apprehensions to the rest, and as may be supposed was anything but agreeable to themselves; fear of wild beasts and Indians adding terror to the bitterness of the frost and snow. But it pleased God, to quote their own words, "so to dispose that the beasts came not;" and, after great hardship and fright, they found their way back to the settlement. By the 4th of February, the Common House was as full of beds as they could lie, one beside another; and there, in that rude habitation, and in the strange country to which they had come, the labors of a great number were ended.

Doubly sad must have been the parting of those who had endured so much together they had reached the promised

land only to learn that here there is no rest for us, and no abiding place.

When the spring came, one half the little band lay asleep on the cliff overhanging the rock where they had so lately landed-side by side they were laid, as they stood in life; and their surviving friends, so far from making tombs, or planting flowers, leveled the sacred earth, and planted corn, in order to conceal their great loss from the Indians, lest, tempted by their weakness, they might fall upon and destroy the little handful of survivors which they were become.

When the spring came round, and the flowers began to appear, a solitary Indian, of noble and fearless carriage, made his appearance one "fair warm" day, and using all the English he knew, bade the pilgrims welcome. He proved communicative, and the settlers obtained some valuable information from him. They entertained him as well as they could, that they might counteract the bad impression which the savages already had of them; and when he departed, gave him some little presents. His name was Samoset, and he often returned with his companions to the settlement, after his solitary adventure. He is described as a man of able body, grave countenance, and spare of speech, and differing in attire from his followers only in that he wore a chain of great white bone beads about his neck. "His face was painted a sad red, like murrey, and he oiled both head and

further than you have seen me follow the Lord Jesus Christ." In the sentiment annexed, there is a wisdom which even in this day has been attained by few :

"The Lord has more truth yet to break forth out of his holy word. I cannot sufficiently bewail the condition of the reformed Churches which have come to a period in religion, and will go, at present, no further than the instruments of their reformation. Luther and Calvin were great and shining lights in their times; yet they penetrated not into the whole counsel of God. The Lutherans cannot be drawn to go beyond what Luther saw: and the Calvinists, you see, stick fast where they were left by that great man of God."

And he further charges them to be ready to receive TRUTH whenever it shall be made known to them.

In 1625, "having finished his course and performed his work," he was taken home. In a letter to Governor Bradford, in reference to his death, occurs the following passage :

:

"He was taken away even as fruit falleth before it is ripe, when neither length of days nor infirmity of body did seem to call for his end. The Lord even then took him away, as it were in his anger, whom if tears could have held, he would have remained to this day."

April, 1623, found the settlers reduced to severer privations than they had yet known. The corn was exhausted, and faint and staggering for want of food they began to plant for the harvest. All had been hitherto held in common; but as a greater stimulus to labor, the land was now divided, and each man wrought for himself. No sooner had the corn appeared, than a drought set in, and continued for six weeks, so that starvation seemed inevitable; and the more, that a ship dispatched to their relief, after being driven back twice, was wrecked on the coast. In this fearful exigency a day of fasting and prayer was appointed, and the narrator says:

"In the morning when we assembled together, the heavens were as clear and the drought as likely to continue as ever it was, yet (our exercises continuing some eight or nine hours) before our departure the weather was overcast, the clouds gathered together on all sides, and on the next morning distilled such soft, sweet, and moderate showers of rain, continuing some fourteen days, and mixed with such seasonable weather, as it was hard to say whether our withered corn or drooping affections were most quickened or revived-such was the bounty and goodness of our God."

Having followed the Pilgrims thus through all their sufferings and toils to the dawn of prosperity-the day of magisterial authority-there comes a time of denunciation, of whipping, and banishment, and hanging, which we are glad to pass over. The perilous wandering of Roger Williams, which lasted for fourteen weeks, during which he had no bread nor bed-no shelter from the storm, and no guide or companion-and all for that he pleaded the rights of conscience, has left dark spots on the Puritan character that cannot be washed out.

The public flogging of Anne Burden, who came from London to deliver her message of peace, has left a picture to the world of a whipping-post adjoining the meeting-house; and the meek exclamation of poor Mary Dyer, "The will of the Lord be done," as she folded her hands and awaited on the scaffold the execution, makes us almost deaf to the long prayers of her accusers.

Doubtless they saw at stake truths of eternal moment, and the lives of a few heretics were as nothing in comparison. If it be true that the evil which men do lives after them, and the good perishes with their bones, it is best to discourage the tenacity of bad memories as much as we may by silence.

From "The Pilgrim Fathers," an excellent work to which I have already been much indebted in the compilation of this article, the subjoined particulars of Plymouth as it is now, are gathered :

It is

"It consists of a few principal streets and some straggling by-lanes, running off into the surrounding country-a quiet, old-fashioned place, yet having a cheerful look. charmingly rural, many of the gay rustic looking dwellings being detached, and standing amid gardens full of shrubs and flowers. The principal avenues are lined with wooden houses, often furnished with verandahs, neatly painted white or stone color, and with blinds and shutters of light green. Rows of tall elms with shooting branches meeting overhead give the scene an air of tranquillity and delicious repose."

The street first laid out by the Pilgrims is upon high ground, and below runs "the very sweet brook," the mouth of which afforded harbor for shallops and boats, and in their season abounded with fish. At the head of this street was the hill where the fort was erected, and which was called Fort-hill, now Burial-hill.

The shores are flat, rising with gentle acclivities from the water-with the exception of Captain's-hill, named in honor of Miles Standish, and the ridge of Manomet. From the principal street, Leyden, the descent is steep to another which runs parallel with the seashore, and leads to the Forefathers' Rock. On the left is an abrupt ridge, the top of which is covered with grass, but its sides disguised by modern edifices. This is the Cole's-hill, and was the first burial place of the Pilgrims-there are no tombstones, nor other marks to indicate their resting - places now. Formerly this eminence overhung the seabeach, and immediately below it, and projecting into the waves, was the rock on which the Pilgrims landed. The scene is greatly changed, and the original features with difficulty traced. A part of the rock was removed from its first position in the time of the revolution for purposes of political excitement, and placed in the Town-square; and thence, finally, to its present position in front of Pilgrim-hall, where it is surrounded with an iron railing which bids defiance to the patriotic lovers of memorials, who, if it were accessible, would soon break it to pieces. A picture of this fragment will be found at the head of the chapter.

The Burying-hill is the most remarkable and conspicuous spot in Plymoutha green mound, rising above the buildings, and set thick with gray tombstones. Its summit commands a wide view of sea and land, embracing the whole field of Pilgrim adventure, from the first arrival till the settlement of Plymouth. The white sandhills of Cape Cod in the distance, the indented shores of the bay, embracing within its wave Clark's Island, Saquish Head, and the Gurnet light, the green hill of Duxbury and the pine-clad ridge of Manomet. But the cemetery itself is the most interesting feature of all. It is covered with dark slate stones, most of them brought from England, and adorned with quaint carvings of death's head and cross bones, and bearing the names of the first comers and their descendants. The graves of the earliest pilgrims are, however, unknown. A column was erected some years ago to the memory of William

Bradford, the stout yeoman of Austerfeld, and afterward honored governor of the settlement of Plymouth. The spot was known to his descendants, many of whom are buried around him. Among these the tomb of one of his sons, Major Bradford, is selected as a good specimen of the style of the more ornamental ones.

TOMB OF MAJOR BRADFORD.