Chapter VII · (continued 2)

>From this point the sea appears as a vast poem, "one of those charming idyls in which no element of beauty or power is lacking." From this rough pulpit of masonry we gazed at the booming breakers rolling in with their crests of gleaming silver, that were shattered to fragments immediately below us. Their long sprays of phosphorescent blossoms vanished like stars in the golden light of dawn. The sea was now bathed in a flood of mellow light and its gradations of color revealed palest amethyst along the horizon, while nearer it glowed with brightest sapphire. In such a place and at such a time as this you take no note of time. "Your soul is flooded with a sense of such celestial beauty as you ne'er dreamed of before, and a nameless inexpressible music enthralls you."

Here we saw forty destroyers in the harbor and two others entering it. As we gazed at these groups of vessels lying at anchor, we wondered whether America would always need these grim objects of destruction and death to guard her liberty. Looking at these vessels, what memories were revived! Our hearts sickened at the thought of those thirteen awful days spent in crossing the ocean, when we were packed like livestock in those horrible quarters. Ah, God! the memory of it yet brings a sickening sensation. Then, too, that tempestuous wintry sea that grew black and white as death with horrible billows, while the storm raged, cruel, inexorable, unmerciful, bitter. But why let one's thoughts dwell upon such terrible scenes while standing on the fair shores of our beloved homeland, over which waves the glorious flag, now doubly dear to us.

As we watched the coming and going of the vessels we thought of the many experiences that must have been theirs! For what ports are those vessels bound? From what distant climes have these just returned? What perils they may have encountered! What refreshing memories of the magic beauty of southern seas!

Our reverie was broken by the plaintive cries of the sea birds circling around us. How the hours have slipped by unnoticed since we were out here! Slowly we retraced our steps, pausing now and then to gaze at the fishing boats putting out to sea, or to look at the hosts of gulls alighting and departing from the rocks, as restless as the ocean waves. Again we noted the wonderful blue bloom, like a tropical sea, on which a million points of light were glinting; now we found a delicate shell and marvelled at its exquisite colors; we turned again to look at the sea-birds to learn what the unusually loud clamor was about. At last the shore was gained and we reluctantly turned away from those rocks where Undine dwells in the silvery stream and melodies sweeter than those of the Lorelei still called to us across the waves.

We passed the old Jewish cemetery which gave Longfellow his theme, "The Old Jewish Burial Ground at Newport." What exiles, what persecutions have been theirs, yet here we repeat by the sounding sea the sad history of their race:

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves; Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath, While underneath these leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial place, Seem like the tablets of the Law thrown down And broken by Moses at the Mountain's base.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain And not neglected, for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their memories green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind Drove o'er the sea—that desert desolate— These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past Then saw reflected in the coming Time.

And then forever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! What once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again!

Leaving this quiet abode of the dead we were surprised to find multitudes of people strolling about the town. Of all that motley throng we met with no one save a solitary fisher out on the rocks, from which such glorious vistas of the sea may be had. Then we recalled how few there were who witnessed the wonderful pageant of the dawn. Surely influences of nature so beautiful and profound should touch our feeble hopes and lowly aspirations with new life, inspiring grander visions.

We should leave the frivolous things of life, like the surf, the offal, washed ashore. We should take back for our winter's need bits of brightness gleaned from our summer sojourn by the sea.

As we thought of our coming departure, these questions came to us: Have we treasured up a few of the tints in our lives like the rare colors of the dawn on the boundless sea? Have we filled our earthly horizon with golden thoughts, fair visions of the sea of memory that reach the infinite? Are they transient as the crimson and rose-colored west or shall they flash and gleam silent, yet eternal as the stars above?

How often will the ocean's clean-washed sands, those ever- changing hues and sunsets re-appear when we shall long have been absent from them! How often, too, shall we hear in fancy as we do now in reality the moaning of the storm and the booming breakers along the shore!

The sirens were still calling and their weird enticing melodies yet rippled through our memories. Out over the harbor beyond those enchanted rocks the water was o'erspread with the delicate blue bloom. Later they seemed to withdraw, fading slowly away into blue and mysterious shadows in the deepening twilight. "Far out toward the horizon we watched a vessel fade in the violet dusk; the evening star trembled low on the horizon as if enamored of the waters." Thus Newport passed into memory.

RHODE ISLAND

Little Rhode Island! What a surprise it was to find in this, this smallest member of a family group of forty-eight states, so much of the wild and primeval wilderness. Through long stretches of forest bordered road, stony fields and rough pasture land our road led. Great clusters of ferns grew in the swampy meadows, and many brilliant colored swamp flowers were in blossom, giving the otherwise desolate scene a touch of color. Stone fences bordered some of the meadows and now and then a rustic cottage with its brown-stained sides appeared. For a number of miles we passed through a country where on both sides of the road grew thickets of oak, yellow and white birch and fragrant pine. Interspersed among this growth were numberless chestnut, maple and larch trees.

We soon emerged from this desolate region, however, and at a more attractive spot our eyes fell upon a boulder monument erected by the state of Rhode Island in memory and honor of Thomas Wilson Dorr, whom in an earlier time was considered a menace to his country. How long this man was in receiving the true verdict of his country! Pausing to read the latter verdict, so different from the former, we noted these significant words: "Thomas Wilson Dorr, 1805-1854; of distinguished lineage, of brilliant talents, eminent in scholarship, a public spirited citizen, lawyer, educator, statesman, advocator of popular sovereignty, framer of the people's Constitution of 1842, elected Governor under it, adjudged revolutionary in 1842. Principle acknowledged right in 1912." Then below these words were added: "I stand before you with great confidence in the final verdict of my country. The right of suffrage is the guardian of our liberty."

Here in this charming spot where the beautiful maples stood in groups or grew singly we ate our luncheon beneath these trees whose liberty-loving branches stirred by a passing breeze rustled a leafy accompaniment to a nation's paean of praise. His principles were right, but he was in advance of his time. We were glad to know that such a small state could produce so great a man.

Here we were entering the city where Williams with five others landed at the foot of the hill which he chose as the place of his settlement. In gratitude for "God's merciful providence to him in distress" he called the place Providence. Roger Williams, with his grand idea of religious tolerance, stood far ahead of his time. His aim, like his character, was pure and noble. He was educated at London, and was a friend of Vane, Cromwell and Milton. While at Plymouth and Salem he spent much time in learning the Indian tongue.

Little did he dream as he slept in their filthy wigwams what a great benefit the learning of their language would be to him later on.

The land along the east shore of Narragansett bay was the country of Massasoit; that on the west side, and the islands, belonged to the Narragansetts.

It was in the heart of winter when he made his way in secrecy through snow and ice to a place not far from where Blackstone lived. Here he began to plant and build, and others came to join him. Williams was shown great kindness by the Indians, and he bought the land of natives, thereby soon gaining great influence over them.