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 “Pleasantly murmured the brook as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love, through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses. Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol, Like a picture, it seemed, of the primitive pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world.” AGNES SURRIAGE “_Misled by Fancy’s meteor ray, By Passion driven, But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven”_ [Illustration: down-stairs ran the streets]