CHAPTER I.

’The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-hound coast: 
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tost. 
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o’er,
When a hand of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.’  Hemans.

It was, indeed, a ‘stern and rock-bound coast’ beneath which the gallant little Mayflower furled her tattered sails, and dropped her anchor, on the evening of the eleventh of November, in the year 1620.  The shores of New England had been, for several days, dimly descried by her passengers, through the gloomy mists that hung over the dreary and uncultivated tract of land towards which their prow was turned; but the heavy sea that dashed against the rocks, the ignorance of the captain and his crew with regard to the nature of the coast, and the crazy state of the deeply-laden vessel, had hitherto prevented their making the land.  At length the ship was safely moored in a small inlet, beyond the reach of the foaming breakers; and the Pilgrim Fathers hastened to leave the vessel in which they had so long been imprisoned, and, with their families, to set foot on the land that was henceforth to be their home.  Cold, indeed, was the welcome which they received from their adopted country; and cheerless was the view that met their gaze, as they landed on a massy rock of granite, at the foot of a precipitous cliff, and looked along the barren, inhospitable shore, and over the dark waters which they had so lately crossed.

But hope was strong in the hearts of these exiles; and the faith that had led them to seek these untrodden shores, had not deserted them during their long and tempestuous voyage; and they looked upward through the gloom and dreariness that surrounded them, and fixed their trusting eyes on Him who had guided them in safety over the great deep, and brought them at length to a resting-place.  Their first act was to kneel down on the cold rock, and offer up their prayers and praises to that God for whose sake they had given up country, and friends, and home, and to whose service they now dedicated themselves and their children:  and strikingly grand must have been that act of worship.  The manly voices of the sturdy Pilgrims rose in deep and solemn unison, followed by those of the women and children, and resounded along the silent coast, while the heavy urges of the receding tide kept up a hoarse and monotonous accompaniment.  Then arose a hymn of thanksgiving—­and the rocks and the neighboring hills re-echoed the exulting strain, that seemed to drown the voices of the wind and the waves, and to rise unmixed to heaven.  It was the triumph of faith—­the holy and heartfelt expression of undying trust and confidence in God!  Surely, at that time, the Pilgrims were meet objects for the admiring gaze of men and angels!  But they were not always so.