should go astray on some of the inextricably
interlocked and branching railways, and they had no doubt that when they
had made the tour of the State they would be discharged, as they finally
were, into this cul-de-sac.
The Pilgrims have made so much noise in the world, and so powerfully
affected the continent, that our tourists were surprised to find they
had landed in such a quiet place, and that the spirit they have left
behind them is one of such tranquillity. The village has a charm all its
own. Many of the houses are old-fashioned and square, some with colonial
doors and porches, irregularly aligned on the main street, which is
arched by ancient and stately elms. In the spacious door-yards the
lindens have had room and time to expand, and in the beds of bloom the
flowers, if not the very ones that our grandmothers planted, are the
sorts that they loved. Showing that the town has grown in sympathy with
human needs and eccentricities, and is not the work of a surveyor, the
streets are irregular, forming picturesque angles and open spaces.
Nothing could be imagined in greater contrast to a Western town, and
a good part of the satisfaction our tourists experienced was in the
absence of anything Western or "Queen Anne" in the architecture.
In the Pilgrim Hall--a stone structure with an incongruous
wooden-pillared front--they came into the very presence of the early
worthies, saw their portraits on the walls, sat in their chairs, admired
the solidity of their shoes, and imbued themselves with the spirit of
the relics of their heroic, uncomfortable lives. In the town there was
nothing to disturb the serenity of mind acquired by this communion.
The Puritan interdict of unseemly excitement still prevailed, and the
streets were silent; the artist, who could compare it with the placidity
of Holland towns, declared that he never walked in a village so silent;
there was no loud talking; and even the children played without noise,
like little Pilgrims... God bless such children, and increase their
numbers! It might have been the approach of Sunday--if Sunday is still
regarded in eastern Massachusetts--that caused this hush, for it was now
towards sunset on Saturday, and the inhabitants were washing the fronts
of the houses with the hose, showing how cleanliness is next to silence.
Possessed with the spirit of peace, our tourists, whose souls had been
vexed with the passions of many watering-places, walked down Leyden
Stre
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