its entrance and the extent of sea room upon the bay side make it
accessible to vessels of the largest class in almost all winds. This
advantage, its capacity, depth of water, excellent anchorage, and the
complete shelter it affords from all winds, render it one of the most
valuable ship harbors upon our coast."

We have been thus particular in our mention of this place, because here,
in this harbor, opened the first scene in the most wonderful drama of
modern history.

Let us look into the magic mirror of the past and see this harbor of Cape
Cod on the morning of the 11th of November, in the year of our Lord 1620,
as described to us in the simple words of the pilgrims: "A pleasant bay,
circled round, except the entrance, which is about four miles over from
land to land, _compassed about to the very sea_ with oaks, pines,
junipers, sassafras, and other sweet weeds. It is a harbor wherein a
thousand sail of ship may safely ride."

Such are the woody shores of Cape Cod as we look back upon them in that
distant November day, and the harbor lies like a great crystal gem on the
bosom of a virgin wilderness. The "fir trees, the pine trees, and the
bay," rejoice together in freedom, for as yet the axe has spared them; in
the noble bay no shipping has found shelter; no voice or sound of
civilized man has broken the sweet calm of the forest. The oak leaves,
now turned to crimson and maroon by the autumn frosts, reflect themselves
in flushes of color on the still waters. The golden leaves of the
sassafras yet cling to the branches, though their life has passed, and
every brushing wind bears showers of them down to the water. Here and
there the dark spires of the cedar and the green leaves and red berries
of the holly contrast with these lighter tints. The forest foliage grows
down to the water's edge, so that the dash of the rising and falling tide
washes into the shaggy cedar boughs which here and there lean over and
dip in the waves.

No voice or sound from earth or sky proclaims that anything unwonted is
coming or doing on these shores to-day. The wandering Indians, moving
their hunting-camps along the woodland paths, saw no sign in the stars
that morning, and no different color in the sunrise from what had been in
the days of their fathers. Panther and wild-cat under their furry coats
felt no thrill of coming dispossession, and saw nothing through their
great golden eyes but the dawning of a day just like all other days--