"The Lord be merciful! My eyes never saw this place before. We must ran the boat ashore," cries the mate.

      But a sailor sees that the boat will be swamped. "About with her!" he shouts. The rowers bend to their oars, and the boat heads from the shore. They turn a sandy point, and find themselves in smooth water. Shall they go ashore? They are weary, hungry, chilled, and wet to the skin. It will be twelve hours to dawn. Will they not perish before morning? They will land, trusting, if Indians assail them, to defend themselves. They reach the shore, kindle a fire, and dry their clothes, keeping watch the while for Indians. In the morning they find that they are on an island, which they name Clark's Island, for Edward Clark, one of their number. The sun is shining once more; but they are weak and exhausted. Time is precious; but they will rest there through the day — Saturday — and prepare themselves to keep the Sabbath.

      On Monday, rested and refreshed, they sound the harbor, and find it safe and good. They pull westward to the main-land, where they find Indian-corn fields and a river o£ fresh water. They climb a high hill, view the landscape, and are pleased with the prospect. Under the brow of the hill, near a brook, and near springs of pure water, they will rear their homes. They return to the ship, and report their discoveries; and the Mayflower spreads her sails once more, and glides across the bay.

       PLYMOUTH HARBOR, DECEMBER, 1620.

      Winter has set in. The winds are chil)l snow lies upon the hills. the spray freezes upon the shrouds of the vessel. The scene is cheerless — icebound shores, a dense forest, an unexplored wilderness, before them; a savage foe lurking beneath the pines; no homes, no welcome hearth-stone; forebodings of sickness and starvation.

      On Sunday Elder Brewster preaches to them on shipboard for the last time. On Monday they examine once more the ground where they propose to rear their homes; and on Tuesday, after asking God to direct them in all that they are about to do, they take a vote as to where they shall build their houses. It is the first town-meeting ever held in America, and the majority decide. The new State — the new order of things — has begun. That which the human race has struggled for through all the ages has come at last — the right of the people to rule. Old George Buchanan, Mary of Scotland's tutor, enunciated the right to the world; but that which was theory to him has become a fact Self-government has begun. Take note of it, ye lords, nobles, kings, and emperors, for of this beginning there will come a new order of things in human affairs!

      The Mayflower is riding at anchor. The long-boat, filled with men and women, glides over the waves to the shore. They step from the boat to a rock. the new State is in possession of its future domain. January 1st, 1631, is a gloomy day, for death begins his ravages, taking one of the citizens, Degory Priest, Captain Standish goes out, with four or five soldiers, to make explorations. they find Indian wigwams, but none of the savages. The citizens are hard at work building a common house, in which they can store their goods. The boat plies between the ship and the shore, bringing boxes, and bales, and furniture — chairs, chests, pots, and pans. They build their houses of logs, and cover them with thatch; for they have not yet learned to peel the bark from the trees, or to rive the pines into shingles, for roofing. On Sunday, January 14th, they barely escape a terrible disaster, for the thatch on the common house takes fire, and they have hard work to put it out.

      On the 29th of January, a great grief comes to Captain Standish. His beautiful wife, Bose, has been fading day by day. The hardships have worn her down. Possibly she pines for the green fields and the cheerful homes of Old England, which she never more will see. Heaven is nearer than the old home. With tearful eyes and swelling hearts, the living carry her up to the burial-place upon the top of the hill. This is the entry in their journal, mournful in its briefness: "Jan. 29. Dies Rose, wife of Captain Standish."

       CHAIR AND CHEST.

      Two days later the Pilgrims see two Indians lurking beneath the pines, but they quickly disappear. they see no other savages till March 16th, when they are greatly surprised to see an Indian march boldly into the settlement, and to hear him say, "Welcome, Englishmen!" His name is Samoset. He has been down the coast of Maine in other years, and has seen the Englishmen which have been in Sir Fernando Gorges' fishing establishment. He is kindly treated. He goes away, but soon returns with another Indian, Squanto, who was kidnapped years before by a villain named Hunt, who landed and seized twenty Indians, and carried them to Spain. Squanto has been in London, and can speak English. Samoset brings three more, who have skins for sale. He informs the Pilgrims that their great chief, Massasoit, is near by. In a few minutes the chief makes his appearance with sixty Indians. This is the account which the Pilgrims give of the interview:

       "WELCOME, ENGLISHMEN!"

      "After an hour the king comes to the top of an hill over against us, with a train of sixty inch. We send Squanto to him, who brings word we could send one to parley with him. We send Mr. Edward Winslow to know his mind, and signify that our governor desires to see him, and truck (trade), and confirm a peace. Upon this the king leaves Mr. Winslow in the custody of Quadequina, and comes over the birok with a train of twenty men, leaving their bows and arrows behind them. Captain Standish and Master Williamson, with six musketeers, meet him at the brook, where they salute each other; conduct him to a house, wherein they place a green rug and three or four cushions; then instantly comes our governor, with drum, trumpet, and musketeers. After salutations, the governor kissing his hand and the king kissing his, they sit down. The governor entertains him with some refreshments, and then they agree on a league of friendship.

       MASSASOIT'S VISIT TO THE PILGRIMS.

       THE PALACE OF KING MASSASOIT.

      "After this the governor conducts him to the brook, where they embrace and part, we keeping six or seven hostages for our messenger. But Quadequins coining with his troop, we entertain and convoy him back, receive our messenger, and return the hostages."

      Maesasoit's palace is not so gorgeous as that at Hampton, in which King James lives: it is a but in the woods; but the Pilgrims soon discover that tho chief is a better friend than the King of England. He is a true man, and the treaty which he makes with them is faithfully kept. James has persecuted them, but Massasoit befriends them. Archbishop Whitgift has driven them from their homes, but Massasoit bids them welcome. Their Christian brothers of England are their bitterest foes; the heathen savages of the wilderness their best friends.

      But a foe whom they cannot fight is upon them. Spring comes. The trailing arbutus fills the air with its fragrance; the birds returning from the distant South are singing in the forest; the sun sends down its cheerful beams upon the little settlement; but flowers, bird-songs, and the genial warmth of spring can never fill the void of aching hearts. Forty-six of the one hundred and one Pilgrims have finished their pilgrimage, and are at rest in the burial-ground on the top of the hill. They level the earth, that the Indians may not know how many have died. But the living have brave hearts. They go on with their work. On Sunday, William Brewster preaches in the common house, where their goods are piled. No bishop has licensed him to preach; he has assumed the right to use such gifts as he may be endowed with, and his hearers respect him as their religious teacher. He has no other authority over them. The members of the Church decide all questions that arise. William Brewster is their bishop, yet his vote counts but one. Theirs is a democratic State, and a democratic Church. Men are equals. Never before has the world seen such a community.

       SUNDAY AT PLYMOUTH.

      There comes a sad day. Through the winter the Mayflower has been swinging at her anchor in the harbor, but now she is about to depart for England. The last words are spoken, the sails are spread,