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Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, implor

ing, and patient, That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled

from its purpose, As from the verge of a crag, where one step more

is destruction. Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mys

terious instincts! Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are

moments, Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the

wall adamantine ! "Here I remain !” he exclaimed, as he looked at

the heavens above him, Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the

mist and the madness, Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was stagger

ing headlong. "Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether

above me,

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning

over the ocean. There is another hand, that is not so spectral and

ghost-like. Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine

for protection.

Float, О hand of cloud, and vanish away in the

ether! Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt

me; I heed not Either your warning or menace, or any omen of

evil! There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so

wholesome, As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is

pressed by her footsteps. Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible

presence Hover around her for ever, protecting, support

ing her weakness; Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this

rock at the landing, So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at

the leaving!”

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified

air and important, Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind

and the weather, Walked about on the sands; and the people

crowded around him

Saying a few last words, and enforcing his care

ful remembrance. Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were

grasping a tiller, Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off

to his vessel, Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and

flurry, Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness

and sorrow, Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing

but Gospel! Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell

of the Pilgrims. O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the

Mayflower! No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to

this ploughing!

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs

of the sailors Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the

ponderous anchor. Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the

west wind,



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