We are here, at the season of the year at
which the event took place. The imagination irresistibly and rapidly
draws around us the principal features and the leading characters in the
original scene. We cast our eyes abroad on the ocean, and we see where
the little bark, with the interesting group upon its deck, made its slow
progress to the shore. We look around us, and behold the hills and
promontories where the anxious eyes of our fathers first saw the places
of habitation and of rest. We feel the cold which benumbed, and listen
to the winds which pierced them. Beneath us is the Rock,[1] on which New
England received the feet of the Pilgrims. We seem even to behold them,
as they struggle with the elements, and, with toilsome efforts, gain the
shore. We listen to the chiefs in council; we see the unexampled
exhibition of female fortitude and resignation; we hear the whisperings
of youthful impatience, and we see, what a painter of our own has also
represented by his pencil,[2] chilled and shivering childhood,
houseless, but for a mother's arms, couchless, but for a mother's
breast, till our own blood almost freezes. The mild dignity of Carver
and of Bradford; the decisive and soldier-like air and manner of
Standish; the devout Brewster; the enterprising Allerton;[3] the general
firmness and thoughtfulness of the whole band; their conscious joy for
dangers escaped; their deep solicitude about dangers to come; their
trust in Heaven; their high religious faith, full of confidence and
anticipation; all of these seem to belong to this place, and to be
present upon this occasion, to fill us with reverence and admiration.
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