BOSTON
What could be more delightful than a visit to Boston? Those
motoring through the New England states will find it both
interesting and profitable to tarry a while in this quaint old
place. There are so many places of interest in this city that
space forbids an enumeration of only a few of the most
important. You will probably want to see the State House with
its gilded dome which was once covered with copper plates rolled
by Paul Revere. The corner-stone of this building was laid by
the Masons, Paul Revere, Grand Master, July 4, 7795. Three times
the original building has been enlarged--an extension to the
rear in 7889, later a wing on the east, and very recently a wing
on the west.
What a throng of past memories cluster here! Near the
intersection of Boylston and Tremont streets lies the old
Central burying ground, noted as the final resting place of
Gilbert Stuart, the famous artist. You will not want to miss
seeing Park Street church, for it was here William Lloyd
Garrison delivered his first address and "America" was sung in
public for the first time. "Standing on the steps of the State
House, facing the Common, you are looking toward Saint Gaudens'
bronze relief of Col. Robert G. Shaw, commanding his colored
regiment. This is indeed a noble work of art and should not be
overlooked. "The Atheneum is well worthy of a visit, and if you
have a penchant for graveyards, you may wander over the Granary
Burying Ground, where rest the ashes of Samuel Adams, Hancock,
Sewell, Faneuil, Otis, and Revere."
We spent a delightful morning in Cambridge. It has been the home
of some of the foremost literary lights of the United States,
and just to the west of it, in Mount Auburn cemetery, lie the
mortal remains of Longfellow, Prescott, Lowell, Holmes, Motley,
and many other prominent men.
Across the blue Charles, like Greek temples rise the buildings
of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The noble marble
group of buildings of the School of Medicine of Harvard are very
impressive. As we crossed the river, we thought how often our
beloved Longfellow had looked on its peaceful tide from his
charming home in Cambridge. The view from his home is still
unobstructed, and it speaks of the veneration in which he is
held by the people of the city. It was while living at Cambridge
that he wrote his Ode to the Charles river, given below:
River, that in silence windest
Through the meadows bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea.
Four long years of mingled feeling
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River,
Many a lesson, deep and long.
Thou hast been a generous river;
I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap upward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin clear.
We paused in front of the old homestead to take a picture of it.
But it mattered little about the picture, for what pictures of
rarest beauty he has left us, always speaking to our hearts
messages of sympathy and love! Even as the years pass,
Longfellow is still the universal poet, and it was with pleasure
we recalled how the Belgian children in the King Leopold school
of the city of Antwerp were acquainted with his more familiar
poems. He is better known among foreigners than any one except
their own poets.
We next paid a visit to the home of James Russell Lowell, that
other sweet singer and nature lover of Cambridge. As we gazed
upon the many venerable trees that drooped their graceful
branches over the old homesteads, we did not wonder that the
people of New England became alarmed when the ravages of the
gypsy moth threatened the trees. At Elmwood we saw the efforts
the people had made to preserve them. The stately trees had been
severely pruned and their trunks wore black girdles of a sticky
substance to ensnare the female moths. The foliage had been
sprayed.
Henry Van Dyke said the last time he saw James Russell Lowell,
he walked with him in his garden at Elmwood to say goodbye.
There was a great horse chestnut tree beside the house, towering
above the gable, covered with blossoms. The poet looked up and
laid his trembling hands upon the trunk. "I planted the nut,"
said he, "from which the tree grew. My father was with me when I
planted it."
As we admired the shrubbery and trees at Elmwood, we thought of
the inspiration this spot afforded that generous soul who dwelt
so happily here.
"Give fools their gold and knaves their power.
Let Fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
Who sows a field or trains a flower,
Or plants a tree is more than all."
Every schoolboy has read about the famous Washington elm of
Cambridge. What a marvelous tree to think about and gaze upon!
It is difficult to analyze your emotions while standing near
this historic spot gazing at this famous tree.
Since the balmy breeze of some far-off springtime caught those
winged seeds from which America's most celebrated tree sprang,
what changes have come to our land! When this patriarch was
young, in the nearby woods Indians and fierce, wild beasts
brushed past its companions. Perhaps the squaws fastened their
linden cradles to their limbs while they planted their maize in
the springtime, and when they had grown larger, orioles hung
their corded hammocks amid their pendulous branches, with no
fear of squirrels or that horror of all low nesting birds--the
black snake.
Summer after summer brought new verdure to their branches. Many
autumns turned their wealth of emerald leaves to golden glory.
Winter upon winter twisted their tough branches and weighed them
down with snows until they now stand the monarchs of other days.
There is the very spot where Washington took command of the
Continental Army on July 3, 7775. How like the man who stood
beneath it was this tree then. It had beauty, strength and
grace, without signs of any weakness, proclaiming it the king of
trees. Here once stood "a man of great soundness of judgment,
moral self-control, intense fiery passions curbed by a will of
iron. His sweet, tender soul had been enshrined in a worthy
temple." His grave and handsome face, noble bearing and courtly
grace of manner all proclaimed him king of men.
But here still stands that great old elm, a nation's shrine. It
struggles bravely to clothe with verdure its few remaining
limbs, still speaking eloquently of those stirring days "that
tried men's souls." Each green leaf in its aged crest tells of
those noble patriots, whose memory of the glorious lives of self-
sacrifice shall forever remain, verdant in the hearts of a
liberty-loving people. This glorious tree, with its few broken
limbs and scanty foliage, wears signs of many a wintry combat
and summer winds surprise attacks "as heroes their scars,"
unbending still through all those years of toil and strife.
Perhaps a few more years and this venerable tree shall yield to
some wintry blast; its present site to be marked by a monument
of bronze or marble. But how much more fitting would it be to
plant a young tree where the old one stood. This would be a
living monument where its cooling shadows would still fall upon
the weary travelers "like a benediction on the road of life."
Here pilgrims from Maine to California's farthest bounds might
some day rest beneath its beneficent branches. We fancy how they
will gaze in admiration at a new tree, whose symmetrical gray
trunk rises like a mighty fluted column, from which graceful
limbs spread out to form a glorious canopy. Its serrated leaves,
each an emerald in that vast corona of verdure, will become in
autumn a topaz in its gleaming crest. When the snows of many
winters shall have clothed its slender, drooping branches with
clinging drapery of star flowers and many springs thatched its
myriad twigs with emerald that droop like sprays of art, it too
shall grow hoary and give way to some fierce blast, making room
for another and still more glorious Washington Elm.
Other places you surely will care to see are Old South Church,
often called the "Sanctuary of Freedom," lying between Milk and
Water streets. The present building was erected in 1730. Faneuil
Hall, the Cradle of Liberty, which is at the disposal of the
people for public meetings whenever certain conditions are met;
on the upper floor of this hall is the armory of The Ancient and
Honorable Artillery Company, the oldest military company in this
country. Old North Church is known to every school boy and girl
in the land as the place where Paul Revere saw the two lights
that were his signal for starting on his memorable ride. Over
the river is Bunker Hill Monument, recalling that resolute stand
made by the patriots in 1775, and from which a fine view over
the city is afforded. King's Chapel, at the corner of Tremont
and School streets, is a most interesting landmark, which was
completed in 1753. Entering, you find a decidedly old-fashioned
atmosphere in the high-backed, square pews and handsome
decorations. George Washington's pew will be pointed out to you.
The Old State House was built in 1748. In it "the child
Independence was born." Here the royal governors of the province
and the royal council sat. It was from the balcony on the State
street side that the news of the Declaration of Independence was
proclaimed. Here, in 1835, William Lloyd Garrison found refuge
from a mob which had broken up an anti-slavery meeting and
threatened the life of this brave agitator.
On the corner of Washington and School streets is a quaint
building, the oldest now standing in Boston. It was erected in
1712 and is known as The Old Corner Book Store. Some of the
largest and most influential American publishing houses had
their inception in this building.
One must not fail to see Copley Square, the center of artistic,
literary and educational life in Boston. Fronting on this square
are Trinity Church, commonly known as Phillips Brooks' church,
as his pastorate there covered a period of twenty-two years. St.
Gaudens' statue of Brooks stands in front of the church. Also
facing this square is the chaste and classic front of the Boston
Public Library. Two of Saint Gaudens' groups adorn enormous
pedestals at either side of the entrance. Inside, on the walls
of the grand stairway, are magnificent paintings by John La
Farge and others, while on the four sides of the main public
room are mural paintings by La Farge, depicting the entire
history of Sir Arthur and the Holy Grail.
Just before crossing the river into Charlestown one's attention
is directed to a small triangular space surrounded by an iron
fence, no side of which is more than five or six feet long, in
which is growing a single tree. To this is attached a sign
proclaiming that "Dogs are not allowed in this park." Just
across the river, not far from Bunker Hill Monument, is the Navy
Yard.
The museum of Fine Arts in Boston contains many important works
from both the old and modern masters. Here you will see Turner's
"Slave Ship." "This picture has been the cause of more criticism
than any that has ever been brought to our shores. Every
gradation of opinion was expressed from Ruskin's extravagant
enconium where he says, 'I believe if I were induced to rest
Turner's immortality upon any single work I should choose the
Slave Ship; the color is absolutely perfect,' to the frank
disapproval of our own George Innes, when he says that it is
'the most infernal piece of clap-trap ever painted. There is
nothing in it. It is not even a fine bouquet of colors.' Some
one said it looks like a 'tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a
platter of tomatoes.' The lurid light that streams through the
mist of the angry sea intensifies a scene already too horrible."
Whoever has seen the peasants of France in their own harvest
fields near Barbizon will not fail to recognize the close
relations and the intimate knowledge Millet had of these humble
peasants. As you gaze at the great mounds of wheat with the
crowd of laborers resting, you seem to catch the very spirit of
the dignity of labor that the artist so admirably portrays in
all his work. You see not only these particular toilers but all
the laborers of earth, who by the sweat of their brows make the
earth yield her increase.
"His figures seem to be uncouth and of the earth; they are
children of Nature who have been so long in contact with the
elements and soil they seem to partake of the sternness of the
landscape quite as much as the sturdy oaks tried by the storms
and stress of unnumbered days of exposure. His Shepherdess is
also worth considering and represents his aim in art." These are
his words: "I would wish that the beings I represent should have
the air of being consecrated to their position, and that it
should be impossible to imagine that the idea could occur to
them of their being other than that which they are--the
beautiful is the suitable."
What poems of grace and beauty the works of Corot are! How well
he knew the trees, for he lived among them and loved them. No
other artist has so marvelously portrayed the very soul of trees
in their swaying, singing, dew-tipped branches. They are vast
harps through which wandering breezes murmur aeolian melodies,
"morning and evening anthems" to the Creator. His paintings have
a freshness and fragrance of the dawn; a mystery seems to hang
over them. The very spirit of the morn broods over that classic
landscape of his "Dante and Vergil." In the opening words of
Dame's Inferno he gives us the vivid setting of this wonderful
scene:
"Midway upon the journey of life he found himself within a
forest dark, for the straight forward pathway had been lost. He
wandered all night and in the morning found himself near the
foot of a mountain. He began the ascent but was met by a
panther, light and exceedingly swift. He was about to return,
but the time was the beginning of morning. A lion with uplifted
head, and a hungry she-wolf next he spied and rushed down toward
the lowlands where he beheld Vergil, who has come to guide him
to his beloved Beatrice."
One should pause to view the "Master Smith." One here sees in
very form the character Longfellow so clearly describes in his
"Village Blacksmith." It is to the eye what the melody of the
poem is to the ear, purest harmony that ever sings the dignity
of labor.
One should also pause to admire the "Sphinx" by Elihu Vedder,
"The Misses Boit" by Sargent, Winslow Homer's "Fog Warning,"
John W. Alexander's "Isabella and the Pot of Basil." This last
picture we love not only as a work of art but because it is the
subject of one of Keat's poems, "Isabel."
Isabella was a beautiful Florentine maiden who lived with her
two brothers. "They planned to marry her to some high noble and
his olive trees." A certain servant, Lorenzo, loved her, and
they had him taken to a forest beyond the Arno and murdered.
Isabella had a dream in which Lorenzo appeared to her and told
of his murder and how to find his grave. In the morning she
found the grave and took the skull and kissed it. "Then in a
silken scarf she wrapped it up, and for its tomb did choose a
garden-pot wherein she laid it by, and covered it with mold, and
o'er set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept wet." Her brothers
discovered why she sat so constant by her pot of Basil and fled
from the city. Isabella pined and died with these pitiful words
upon her lips: "O cruelty, to steal my Basil-pot away from me."
Space forbids us to tell of the many beautiful works of art or
the inspiration to be had by contemplating them, but a trip to
Boston is not complete unless we take away lasting memories of
the famous masterpieces to be seen here.
While visiting the university buildings of Harvard we saw the
photographs of men who had sacrificed their lives during the
World War. Our thoughts wandered far away and we seemed to see a
road that led through Verdun to the front. Its beginning was an
avenue of stately buckeye trees in their autumn livery of faded
green and gold. Back and forth along this road went Red Cross
ambulances on their ceaseless journeys of mercy. The sky that
should have been blue and fair was filled with gray smoke. The
air that in times of peace throbbed with the notes of the lark
now trembled with the report of heavy guns and crashing shells.
Great sheets of camouflage stretched along the road to screen
the view.
One day while making an advance in the Argonne forest, taking
the place of a captain who had been killed, Lieut. Harry Hanley
of Boston fell upon the field of battle. His hip had been
fractured and he was removed to Glorieux hospital, where E. H.
No. 15 was located. It was here that we learned to know and love
him. His hopeful, helpful spirit shone above the dark gloom of
the time like a beacon light. How often, when we wistfully
sought to help those patient sufferers, while we were so weak
our faltering steps failed us ofttimes, did we hear the calm
voice of Lieutenant Hanley filling us with hope and inspiring us
with new courage.
Across the room lay a German suffering from abdominal wounds.
His pitiful moans caught the attention of Lieutenant Hanley and
he said: "I hate to see that German suffer so. How I do hope
this shall be the end of all wars." Such was the spirit of this
noble man.
Well do we remember the day when the regimental band of the 26th
division played for the wounded boys at Glorieux. It was a mild
October day. As they struck up some old familiar airs the face
of Lieutenant Hanley of the 101st Infantry, Company A, of that
division, grew radiant as he said: "How I love to hear those old
melodies." Then for a time he seemed to forget his hard lot and
wandered again in fair New England fields that grew tender and
beautiful in sunset light. A robin caroled softly from a crimson
maple, the meadow brook sang a rippling accompaniment as in
fancy once more he walked with loved ones in the homeland.
We do not know whether or not all these things passed through
his mind, but we do know that among his thoughts was the fond
sister, working and praying in Boston, and a brother fitting
himself for the air-service, and a lovely mother walking and
praying in her lonely home. The burden of their prayer is ever
'the same; morning and night it rises to Him for the safe return
of a dear brother and son. As that absent one turned through the
leaves of the New Testament, wherein he found such comforting
messages in those weary days and long, anxious nights of
suffering, he too sent up a prayer for the loved ones back home.
The day of his departure, how shall we ever forget it? As we
moved about among the cots of Ward E, the cheerful voice of
Lieutenant Hanley came to us as he clasped our hands for the
last time, while he said "I shall never forget you." As the
litter bearers were passing through the door he put up his hand
as a last farewell, saying he would write us on reaching home.
But many months passed before we received the tear-stained
letter from a broken-hearted mother, telling us he had wandered
to fairer fields.
Where broad between its banks stretches the Meuse, mirroring the
bloom in the west and the evening star, where the cornflowers
look up with heaven's own blue and the poppies cover the fields
like a crimson sea, where the skylark unseen is still soaring
and singing, and the nightingale from the snowy hawthorn spray
warbles divinely at even. French mothers who have lost all their
sons in the war shall come with their tribute of blossoms to
those vast cities of the dead. Here while the flowers fall
unnoticed from their trembling hands and with tears streaming
down their careworn faces and with prayers of gratitude upon
their lips, they shall bless the memory of those noble American
boys who poured out the rich, red blood of youth who lie in a
land they crossed the ocean to save.
Among the priceless treasures we have at home is a picture of
Lieutenant Hanley standing among a bower of roses. This was sent
to his mother just before he left the United States. How like
those roses was he--the most perfect flower of all. The dew of
youth, the rosy bloom of manhood, the purity of those fragrant
petals in his soul, all speak to us from that portrait. It seems
as if:
A happy smile flits 'cross his face,
The dream of fair Elysian fields,
A vision of the old home place
To darkened memories swiftly yields.
God had turned the trenches to roses again
When they bore him home across the wave
He was true to self, to God, and man
And was leaving a land he died to save.
How quiet on that August morn
The tolling bell gave forth its sound.
In star-draped casket, slowly borne,
A treasure not of earth was found.
Like dew upon a flower sleeping
Or fairest hue of sunset skies
A jewel in the master's keeping
A radiant pearl of greatest price.
Like amber-tinted clouds of May
By many vagrant breezes driven;
That frail form swiftly passed away
To melt and fade in dawn's fair heaven.
Death is but the mist of early morn
Seen rising o'er the placid river,
An open gateway into heaven
Where the pure with God shall dwelt forever.