The sun,
like an orb of fire, is sinking in a vast sea of gold through
which a few fleecy clouds of a delicate rose color are slowly
drifting. The shadowy forms of the night-hawk are plainly seen
as they sweep the heavens for their evening meal of insects. We
catch their eerie cries that fall from the rosy depths of the
waning sunset to the darkening glades around us, and we hear the
breeze softly sighing as it caresses the myriad leaves of the
forest. The water of the brook grows dim in the deepening
shadows. It is the sweetest hour of the day, and as this song of
peace floats out over the twilight woods it calls to holy
thoughts. It is as if one heard the Angelus of a distant
village.
On returning to Plymouth Rock hotel we were impressed with the
crowded streets, for from far and near people had gathered to
witness the Tercentenary of the Landing of the Pilgrims. In the
gray half light of the evening we saw a majestic elm whose
gigantic size told of an earlier time. It may not be so, yet we
loved to think that the white settlers' cabins rose around it by
the seashore. Perhaps the earliest of the Pilgrim fathers heard
the first prayers on American soil uttered from beneath its now
aged boughs. It probably saw the surrounding forest disappear
and with it, the Indian villages, and now looks down on the
thriving historic town of the white man. The youths of several
generations have frolicked beneath its beneficent branches.
Armies have marched by it. The soldiers of Plymouth may have
passed it on their way to the harbor where they stepped on
Plymouth Rock before embarking on that perilous journey in 1917;
and here it is still standing a silent orator of golden deeds in
a land of noble trees. In it one sees far more than so many feet
of lumber to calculate. Its gleaming crest in autumn speaks
eloquently of priceless deeds of valor and that distant time of
the golden dawn of Freedom.
Right proper it was that a nation saw fit to meet here, to do
honor to the memory of those free and nobleminded souls who
braved the dangers of the mighty Atlantic. Long, severe winters
were endured when they had but a scanty amount of food and faced
unknown dangers from hostile Indian foes. Uncomplainingly did
they endure all of these, rather than submit to tyranny and
oppression. Heroic characters they were, with their strong
principles and high ideals, to found a great nation. What an
epic story of splendid achievement, heroic deeds, and noble
sacrifice those Pilgrim Fathers have chronicled upon the
illustrious pages of our country's history!
The time is July in place of December, the month in which the
Pilgrims arrived. In many respects the place of that first
landing has been greatly altered. The waterfront contains rough
wharves and is lined with storehouses and factories. Plymouth
Rock itself will rest beneath a beautiful granite canopy and
seems an incredible distance from the sea, and one wonders how
they managed to bridge such a distance to get to shore. Yet if
you rely somewhat upon your imagination, you may visualize the
place in all its rugged impressiveness, much the same as when
the Pilgrims beheld it. Nature seems quickly to obliterate the
footprints of man, especially along the sea, and you may wander
along Plymouth beach in the weird twilight and listen to the
sullen boom of the breakers on the cliff, and see and hear as
did they.
The sea has beaten for centuries against the great boulders, yet
the stones have been but slightly changed. The coast is still
"rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun," and the great granite
boulders gleam white in the level rays of the descending sun,
looking like great emeralds as the silvery crests of the
breakers fall upon them.
The evening sky was thickly overcast with clouds as we made our
way down to the shore. The wind blew the dark cloud masses out
to sea, and as we watched the surf curried by the rocks into
foam and heard the wind moaning and wailing among the tossing
branches of the trees on shore, we seemed to catch the spirit of
that time as if "it had been that Friday night, three centuries
before, when the shallop of the Pilgrims came by this very place
lashed by the tempestuous sea, their mast broken in three pieces
and their sail lost in the dusky welter of the angry surf."
The sky became darker, and more menacing appeared the waves as
the time drew near for the pageant to begin. A kind of weird
twilight reigned o'er land and sea. No light was visible save
that from the beacon-tower, which sent a fitful gleam o'er the
angry waves; all else was dark, primal, spectral, as was that
eventful night which these present-day pilgrims were now
gathered to commemorate. The gale dashed salt spray and
raindrops spitefully into our faces, yet it dampened neither our
spirits nor those of the performers.
A large stadium capable of accommodating forty thousand people
had been erected near the seashore behind a field of action or
immense stage four hundred feet wide and with a depth of four
hundred and fifty feet. This stage had to be illuminated from a
distance of over one hundred and fifty feet, requiring for the
pageant over three hundred kilowatts power, enough electrical
energy to operate thirteen thousand ordinary house lights, and
by far the largest installation for this purpose that has been
used in this country.
Suddenly, from a canopied rock, was heard a rich, powerful voice
speaking to the American people of the changes and vicissitudes
that the rock has witnessed since "far primordial ages." Fit
prologue it was from the "corner-stone of the Republic."
Out of the shadowy night from where is heard the mysterious
voice of the rock thirty Indians, bearing ten canoes on their
shoulders, move silently toward the shore.
