lymouth Harbor is second only to Boston among the
Massachusetts ports of entry, receiving annual foreign imports valued at
over $7,000,000. Into the harbor, where once a single shallop was the
only visible sign of man's dominion over the water, now sail great
vessels from Yucatan and the Philippines, bringing sisal and manila for
the largest cordage company in the whole country--a company with an
employees' list of two thousand names, and an annual output of
$10,000,000. Furthermore, the flats in the harbor are planted with
clams, which (through the utilization of shells for poultry feeding, and
by means of canning for bouillon) yield a profit of from five hundred to
eight hundred dollars an acre.

No, our Pilgrim man and maid would not recognize, in this Plymouth of
factories and industries, the place where once stood the row of log
cabins, with oiled-paper windows. And yet, after all, it is not the
prosperous town of to-day, but the rude settlement of yesterday, which
chiefly lives in the hearts of the American people. And it lives, not
because of its economic importance, but because of its unique
sentimental value. As John Fiske so admirably states: "Historically
their enterprise [that of the Pilgrims at Plymouth] is interesting not
so much for what it achieved as for what it suggested. Of itself the
Plymouth Colony could hardly have become a wealthy and powerful state.
Its growth was extremely slow. After ten years its numbers were but
three hundred. In 1643, when the exodus had come to an end and the New
England Confederacy was formed, the population of Plymouth was but three
thousand. In an established community, indeed, such a rate of increase
would be rapid, but was not sufficient to raise in New England a power
which could overcome Indians and Dutchmen and Frenchmen and assert its
will in opposition to the Crown. It is when we view the founding of
Plymouth in relation to what came afterward, that it assumes the
importance which belongs to the beginning of a new era."

For this reason the permanent position of Plymouth in our history is
forever assured. Old age, which may diminish the joys of youth,
preserves inviolate memories which nothing can destroy. The place whose
quiet fame is made is surer of the future than the one which is on the
brink of fabulous glory. It is impossible to overestimate the
significance of this spot.

The Old Coast Road--the oldest in New England--began here and pushed its
tortuous