Pilgrim Trails Part 3

We do not know how La Salle and De Soto and the Sieur de Champlain would have looked upon the woods around Plymouth and the Cape. They would probably have thought of them as suburbs of the Mississippi. But as we sit on the Standish doorstep and glance out toward Plymouth, with the harbor between us and the Duxbury woods behind, we realize that the first settlers here were quite completely cut off from the shelter of that comely fort on Burial Hill. There was something very hardy and permanent about their pioneering, though there was always a reasonable explanation for the risks they undertook. There were no heroics about it. Their chronicler says simply, "now they must of necessitie goe to their great lots; they could not other wise keep their katle." They did not come over out of restlessness, or for adventure, or primarily for exploring the new continent, at all. Mr. John Alden spoke in the authentic colonial spirit. They came over to settle it--to open it up.

CHAPTER III

WINSLOW'S "GREAT LOT"

From John Alden's land, in early days, a footpath led out along the sh.o.r.e, over Stony Brook, by Duck's Hill, to Careswell, the "great lot"

granted to Edward Winslow. The lot is now the town of Marshfield, made famous by Daniel Webster and by generations of notable Winslows.

The Pilgrim Winslow was Plymouth's favorite representative in foreign affairs, whether in dealings with the Dutch, or with the Indians, or with the English in London. His friends.h.i.+ps were curiously varied and fortunate; he was admired and trusted by such forceful men as Roger Williams, Ma.s.sasoit, and Oliver Cromwell--a vigorous trio. When he went plying back and forth on his diplomatic voyages between Plymouth and England, his duties varied from the responsibility of convoying twenty hogsheads of beaver to the old country and bringing back three heifers and a bull to the new, to defending the judicial policy of his friends in Boston, and writing such sprightly tracts as "Hypocrisie Unmasked"

and "New England's Salamander Discovered." Oliver Cromwell appointed him Commissioner to go to Hispaniola and Jamaica, and to confer at Goldsmiths' Hall, London, on a question involving Denmark's seizure of English s.h.i.+ps after the treaty of peace. The Commissioners were given a certain time to come to a decision; and if they could not agree by the day appointed, they were to be "shut up in a chamber, without fire, candles, meat, or drink, or any other refreshment, until they should agree." Cromwell believed in international agreements speedily arrived at.

On Winslow's land to-day stands the Winslow house, built on the old foundation by Isaac Winslow in 1699. This famous homestead, which a few years ago was going to wrack and ruin through sheer old age, has been restored as nearly as possible to its original state of comfort and dignity by the Winslow a.s.sociates, furnished throughout with a rare collection of antique furniture, and opened to the many visitors who come that way on their route to Plymouth. As you wander through the rooms, you find the place a perfect study in early building; every detail has been carefully preserved, from the "spatter-painted beams" in the kitchen and the old fire-back in the parlor, to the fine wood finish of the "Parlor Bedroom." You gain a notion of the interesting way in which the restoration was managed, when you learn that thirty-four coats of paint had to be removed from the woodwork of the entrance hallway, and that four fireplaces had to be taken out of the huge dining-room fireplace to bring it back to its original condition.

It is very fitting that this house, on the land of the most internationally minded man of the early colony, should be cordial to visitors now. Old houses make friends easily. They are like people who have known our grandfathers--able on that account to make us feel at home. And when an ancient house bears the name of one of the Pilgrim Forefathers, it plays homestead to the whole United States.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Winslow House, Marshfield, (1699)]

The Winslow mansion, with its great trees and its own broad hearths, has not grown bleak in its old age, or even austere. There is an Indian word preserved for us by Governor Winslow's friend, Roger Williams, that might serve as a motto for this house. "_Nickquenum_" says Roger Williams, "_I am going home_, is a solemn word with them; and no man will offer any hinderance to him, who after some absence is going to visit his family, and useth this word Nickquenum." As we go up the flagstone pathway and lift the Marshfield knocker, we can easily imagine that generations of famous Winslows, returning to their ancestral estate, must have approached this house somewhat in the spirit of that word used by their grandfather's friends the Indians: "Nickquenum, Winsnow!" which is to say, "O Winslow--I am going home."

CHAPTER IV

THE CAPE

If you come from the Firelands in the Middle West, if you discover Cape Cod, if you fall in love with a little empty ninety-five-year-old house there and buy it, with its three acres of pines and locust trees and arbutus and rose bushes--then you long to go to see it after the deed is filed. It may be the dead of winter, but you want to go. You do not want to be merely a "summer person." The sea is rocking with a February gale, and the rain drives over the dunes in slanting gusts. But you go cruising down the Cape in the evening train, disembark two or three stations short of Provincetown, make your way up your lane, unlock your door, light a fire in your stove, set a lamp in your window, and feel that the house has been waiting there all its ninety-five years, for you.

If you are generous with your share of the world, you invite your friends.

In just this way, our friend from the West filed her deed, built her fire with driftwood and pine cones, set her teakettle on the stove, and sent for Barbara and me to come.

We had known Cape Cod in summer, with its blueberries and its sailing-craft, its wharves and artist-colonies and ocean breezes. But we had never seen it in winter, with snow on the sand-dunes and the wind flying over with sleet and rain.

An old house with seafaring memories knows how to behave in a storm. At high tide, our house sits up not so very far above the level of the sea.

A little Ark on a little Ararat, it was built nearly a century ago by Jonah Atkins for Noah Smith; Noah and Jonah--surely names of men equipped to go a voyage. The lumber for the house had to be brought by s.h.i.+p from Maine, thrown overboard off sh.o.r.e, rafted up to the land in time of high-course tide, spread out on the hill to dry, and then set solidly together, and pegged. Jonah Atkins made his wooden pegs to stay.

The gale while we were there blew great s.h.i.+ps far out of their course at sea, but there was not a s.h.i.+ver in the timbers of our roof.

We took the first stormy day to explore the house. To an inlander there is something magical about discovering seafaring implements and deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng-gear of any kind about a house. You expect to find such things on s.h.i.+ps and wharves; but when you find them high and dry, stowed away under rafters, they rouse your anch.o.r.ed spirit like a s.h.i.+p-ahoy. The corners under our roof were as full of treasures as a s.h.i.+p-chandler's loft: all sorts of stowaways that had been hidden for years in out-of-the-way nooks; a clam-fork under the eaves, for instance, and a net-shuttle on the sill. Up in the porch-attic, we found a wooden cradle becalmed under the rafters, left there probably when the last little Noah Smith grew too old to voyage in such small craft. Something glittered in the shadows under the hood of the cradle, and Barbara reached in to explore. She brought out a large globe of heavy gla.s.s--not a fish-globe, with an opening, but a perfect sphere. We all ventured guesses. It could not be a receptacle or lamp-accessory of any kind, for there was no entrance or exit to it, except a tiny pin-hole clogged up, at one point. Was it an ornament, or a toy, or a great lens of some kind, or perhaps a globe used by some old-time crystal-gazer? We found out later that it was a net-float--a gla.s.s buoy to bob on top of the waves, holding up a corner of the net at sea. You find them sometimes on the beach after a storm. An old gla.s.s net-float dry-docked under the hood of a cradle--we put it back where we found it.

One of our fence-posts was made of a piece of a mast, our clothes-horse of teakwood washed ash.o.r.e after the wreck of the Portland, our stool of wreckage from the frigate Jason; and on the end of the string to which our back-door key was fastened, there hung a large snail-sh.e.l.l, like a seal on a fob.

But the most nautical of our possessions was the carpet on the floor of our kitchen; a carpet made of an old sail cut square and spread smoothly and painted gray--an old sail with all the wind taken out of it, spread, not this time for Java Head or Lisbon, but for our kitchen floor!

"Now," said our hostess, calling us to the window, "perhaps you can understand why they call this place The Point."

We looked out. The whole ocean was crowding up the valley,--foam and gulls and driftwood and all,--flooding the bed of the Pamet River. The marsh-gra.s.s and the bottom-lands, which had been solid ground two hours before, were the floor of the ocean now; the familiar winding channel of the Pamet, with its fish-weirs, eel-traps, and boundaries all submerged.

"Isn't this a sea-going promontory?" inquired our proud freeholder, as we watched a sea-gull flap its way up against the rain, alight on the water, and swim toward our territory over the gusty brine. "This, you see, is high-course tide," our friend went on, with that double vanity that comes from being the possessor of a new estate and a new vocabulary. "But it never makes in beyond this Point. The Indians used to have their wigwam here before the house was built."

Barbara and I instantly adopted for our own permanent possession the sea-going promontory, the gulls and the high tide sailing up around our premises, and the house itself.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The Ark"]

During our sojourn on the Cape, we learned just one thing that we can be sure of: You should never make any general statement whatever about Cape Cod. If you do, you will find your statement disproved by the next turn of the tide, or turn of the road. You mention the fact that Bartholomew Gosnold discovered it in 1602, naming it Cape Cod because there his boat was so "pestered" with codfish. And a well-informed friend will set you right by explaining how the Vikings discovered it some six hundred years earlier. Or perhaps you are interested in weather-vanes. After inspecting them on all the barns down the Cape, you say that all weather-vanes here are codfish; some flat codfish, some solid, but all cod. Instantly you look up and see a beautiful swordfish afloat over the roof of your neighbor's barn. Perhaps you see Barnstable in midwinter, with its marshlands and sh.o.r.es packed with cakes of ice, pink and lavender in the sunset, with sea-gulls sitting upright on the edges, like so many penguins on an Arctic floe. You decide that the Cape harbors are full of ice. But if you inspect the harbor of Provincetown on that same day, you are likely to find not a sc.r.a.p of ice on the premises.

You might as well confine yourself to particulars, and avoid large sayings of any sort. Th.o.r.eau is properly cautious about this. Even when he speaks of so simple a matter as the rarity of dogs and cats on the Atlantic side of the Cape, he guards his speech. "Still less," says he, "could you think of a cat bending her steps that way and shaking her wet foot over the Atlantic; _yet even this happens sometimes, they tell me._" They told him the truth. A fine, enormous, distinguished-looking white cat, sitting on your doorstep at the foot of the pilaster of your doorway, is as common on some parts of the Cape as the pointed Christmas-trees in green tubs on the doorsteps of old houses in certain cities inland. Remarkable cats, brindle or yellow or tiger or s...o...b..ll or gray, they are loved while they live, lamented when they die. "If I could look out of the window," said a little boy whose favorite cat had died, "and see my Bobbie coming down the road, wouldn't I wun to let him in?" The Cape Cod cats are not confined to doorsteps. They catch the Cape Cod mice. And at least one elegant pure-white cat of our acquaintance goes stepping down the Cape with her master, shaking her wet foot over the Atlantic, perhaps, but waiting until it is time to go back, and then escorting him home.

Therefore, since it is so unsafe to generalize, we are resolved to make no sweeping statements about the Cape Cod house. You cannot be too sure even about your own. You discover this when you take its measurements for curtains and wall-paper; no two apertures and no two surfaces are alike.

But, with due reservations, there is one sort of old house that was most nearly standardized by the early builders: the low-studded, story-and-a-half house, with its long gable roof, its many little windows tucked up under the point of the gable, its front to the south, its "West Entry" at one side, and its six-panel door, with a row of little square gla.s.s panes above it---sometimes a row of four lights, sometimes five. More rarely there is a fan-light over the door, curving out to the pilasters at each side.

All this varies a little, and most of the houses have been altered more or less by subsequent generations. But whenever you come upon the regulation, unspoiled Cape Cod house, there is a general plan that you recognize at once.

For example: the term "West Entry" is no idle phrase. West Entry means west entry, regardless of your angle to the road. Your house faces the south, and your side entry faces west, though the road may run at random on a wild slant, and though your west entry open on the midst of the sea. It does not matter whether you face the highway or not, does it? A road is a perishable and human thing at best; but the points of the compa.s.s mean business on the Cape.

Our own house is a perfect ill.u.s.tration of the results of this theory: if you should ever wish to reach our West Entry, you would have to circ.u.mnavigate our Point, and scale an all-but-inaccessible bank to the unused door. Because of this inconvenience of our "entry," we always expect callers to come in at the door of our kitchen--our porch. For the benefit of the uninstructed it may be well to say that when we speak of our "porch" on our part of the Cape, we mean the same thing as an ell.

Our porch is an ell with an attic over it, a kitchen chimney, our stove, and our pump and major equipment for the industries of the day. It opens into the "winter kitchen," where they did their fireplace cooking years ago, before there was a stove in the porch.

The outside piazza arrangement, unroofed, we call our platform, or walk.

Ours is very neatly made of matched planks, with one part at the end cleverly arranged to slide, so that you can draw out the planks a little and get down into the manhole that incloses the pipes from pump to drilled well. On cold winter nights, you let yourself down on the ladder twelve feet underground, to turn off the water in the pump, if you are afraid that the pipes are going to freeze. I shall never forget the sensation of usefulness that filled my beating heart when I disappeared down that hatchway one clear cold night and opened the little faucet far below. When you go down that neat, perfectly smooth tube, with the winter stars s.h.i.+ning solemnly down on the top of your head, you feel like a more slender Saint Nicholas making his way down a sootless chimney.

The Cape Cod cellar is also interesting to a newcomer. It is a small circular dungeon-keep, solidly built of masonry, usually under the "east room." You go into it down a short flight of steps on the outside of the house, through a small entry which has the outer aspect of a tall dog-kennel, and the inner aspect of a Dutch interior, perfectly spotless. Some authorities say that the Cape cellars were made circular to prevent the heavy sand from breaking through by undue pressure on any one wall, as would happen in a four-cornered cellar. Others imagine that seafaring men made their cellars circular on the principle of the half-barrel in the sand. An old stone-mason says that they did it because firm corners of field-rock are so hard to make. But when you stand in these spick-and-span circles of solid masonry,--an interior like the inside of a bowl,--you suspect that the tidy housewives planned the rounded walls so as to leave no odd corners for spiders and cobwebs.

There may be square cellars on the Cape, and there certainly are some west entries that point the wrong way. But in general, when you enter a Cape Cod "three-quarters" house, you go in through the porch-door, you sit and visit in the winter kitchen, and you have your wedding in The Room. Porch, winter kitchen, pantry, east bedroom, The Room, the west bedroom near the west entry--it is a charming and compact arrangement for a little house, with regard for s.p.a.ce and views and corners. Unless your "sight" from the windows is cut off by trees or hills, you have views of ocean dawns and sunsets framed in delicate white moulding, and seen through small square panes. The world outside appears like a series of pictures seen through an artist's finder. If your house tops a dune on the narrow part of the Cape, you may see the sails on the horizon of the Atlantic on the east, and the sails on the horizon of the Bay on the west; a clear view of the salt water straight across the Cape in both directions.

As you go down from Barnstable to Provincetown, in automobile or by train, you notice that there are more windows than you expect to see in the triangle under the slope of the roofs. Commonly, you see two large windows in the middle of the upper half-story, and on each side of these, under the slope of the roof, two much smaller windows in the corners. Perhaps there is even a fifth window, sometimes triangular, sometimes elongated, under the very peak of the roof. Th.o.r.eau was mightily pleased with these. He said that it looked as if every member of the family had punched a hole through the upper half-story, the better to see the view--large windows for Father and Mother, small windows for children, on the principle of large door for the cat and small door for the kitten. The two large windows light the one square room finished off under the peak of the roof. The other smaller windows are to ventilate the "open chambers"--the slope-roofed s.p.a.ces left on either side of the finished room, under the rafters. In large families, in the early days, some of the children had to sleep out in these open chambers, under the slope of the roof. There is at least one noted man of affairs in the United States to-day who affirms that there is one rafter in the open chamber of a certain house on Cape Cod that has a slight but clearly defined hollow worn in it, where he used to collide with the roof when he got aboard his trundle-bed in the dark.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Old Fish Wharf, Cape Cod]

The Double House is different; the two-story house is different; the steep-roofed house is different; and so are the houses built by summer people. There are even a few houses made of old windmills, with three stories: living-room on the ground floor, little bedroom on the second floor, tiny bedroom up aloft, and a look-out that is almost level with the windmill sails.

But let us stick to our own experience. In our own house, and in those of the neighbors around us, you see delicate white paneling around the fireplace up to the ceiling; an antique china closet with its old copper-l.u.s.tre and sprigged ware; white wainscoting around the room up to the level of the window-sills; exquisite moulding all around the windows and doors; in short, it is the simplest little house in the world, in plan, with unexpected beauty of detail. Braided mats on the floor, a fire in the stove, and a breeze from the Azores scudding over our roof--there certainly is good comfort even in dead of winter on the Cape.

We are glad that the Pilgrims were "joyfull" at the sight of "Cap-Codd."

They decided not to pause there, but to "stande for ye southward to finde some place aboute Hudsons river for their habitation." But they were turned back by the "deangerous shoulds and roring breakers," and were thankful to bear up again along the Atlantic side of the Cape until they got into harbor, "wher they ridd in safetie."

In our intervals of fair weather, we visited the places where they stopped: Chatham where they were turned back, Provincetown where they waded ash.o.r.e, Truro where they camped for the night and explored the Pamet River, and Corn Hill where they found "diverce faire Indean baskets filled with corne." All this country was as wintry as the Pilgrims found it, with long streaks of snow caught in the beach-gra.s.s on the tops of the camel-back dunes. From the crest of one dune, we watched the sun dropping over the harbor until it rested on the water, like a great luminous net-float drifting off to sea.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Pilgrim Monument, Provincetown]

Provincetown we saw in a flying snow-squall, all the marine colors so loved by the artists softened in the snowy light, even the strange blue of a guineaboat by the fish-wharf. Hollyhock Lane was only a narrow pa.s.sageway of frosty stubble, and the seagulls winging over looked ghostly against the pale sky. The wharves, the monument, the lighthouse, and the sails in the harbor were blurred by the fine flakes that filled the air.

But the snow soon changed to rain, the squall turned into a northeast wind, the wind rose to a gale, and Barbara and I decided to see the Atlantic in a real storm. We went home first for rubber coats, and then set off down the road to the ocean side of the Cape. The wind from the Atlantic goes over the Pamet valley in one great rush of invisible swiftness. As you lean forward against it, you feel that you must run to hold your own. If we had been going the other way, we could have spread our cloaks and gone flying home like witches, over the dunes. As it was, beating our way against it, we had to stop in the lee of the bayberry slopes to catch our breath. Ahead of us we saw only the wave-like crests of the dunes, one after another, with their patches of ruddy wild cranberry, and their streaks of sand and snow. And then, as we went battling over the top of the last rise in the road, we saw between two sand-dunes ahead of us a darker hill beyond, its peculiar heavy gray coloring dull and threatening; its crest lay straight against the sky, and all the snowy white streaks along it were in motion. It was the sea.

We made for the top of the nearest dune ahead. It rose up steep as a breaker itself, with a jagged edge at the top where the wind had scooped out sharp hollows at the roots of the beach-gra.s.s. We each made straight for one of these hollows, in one last determined dash up the sheer slope. All this time, the noise of tumult had been growing louder and louder, and when we reached the crest, there it was before us, the whole Atlantic ocean rearing toward our frail strip of sandy sh.o.r.e. We had the horrible impression that the whole roaring thing was one gray hill of water, coming in. The breakers were plunging along from sky to sh.o.r.e with no regard for order. You could not have watched for the ninth wave, for they were breaking in ma.s.ses, three great thunderheads at a time cras.h.i.+ng into each other from different directions and coming up the beach with a shout, still struggling together in foam. Before they were half-way in, another surge was almost on top of them, with a huge white-horse breaker rearing at one side--everywhere one rush of confusion and terrible tossing with white crests of spray. There was not a sail in sight, or a human being, or an island, or a bird; only a world of furious water and a ragged horizon of mist and trailing cloud as far as we could see in three directions.

It is hard to believe that the Mayflower came cruising over the Atlantic through just such winds. "In sundrie of these stormes," says Bradford, "the winds were so feirce & ye seas so high, as they could not beare a knote of sail, but were forced to hull, for diverce days togither." When we think how the sea can growl around an ocean-liner now, and then think how the little Mayflower went hulling for diverce days in "mighty storme," we wonder how it ever got here at all. And indeed, we are told that at one time in mid-ocean, when the main beam of the little craft buckled, there was nothing between the pa.s.sengers and s.h.i.+pwreck except a certain "great iron scrue ye pa.s.sengers brought from Holland which would raise ye beam to his place." They screwed up the scrue and calked the deck; and though they knew that "with the working of ye s.h.i.+p they would not long keep stanch," they hoped that she might weather the rest of the voyage if they did not overpress her with sails.