LEXINGTON AND CONCORD
Coming into Lexington from the south one passes Follen church,
where Emerson preached. Farther along on the right is the house
of John Harrington, last survivor of the battle; then, near the
corner of Maple street, the great elm planted by his father.
About a quarter of a mile further, on the left, is the Munroe
Tavern, headquarters and hospital of Earl Percy, now the
property of the Lexington Historical Society. The granite cannon
by the High School marks the site of one of the field-pieces
placed by Earl Percy to cover the retreat of the British troops.
In the town hall is the admirable painting of the Battle of
Lexington, by Sandham; also in the town offices statues of
Hancock and Adams.
The Hayes memorial fountain, with an ideal statue of the Minute
Man, by Henry H. Kitson, sculptor, faces the line of approach of
the British from the easterly end of the common. Behind it a
granite pulpit marks the site of the old church past which
Pitcairn led his men; a boulder to the left locates the position
of the Old Belfry from which the alarm was sounded on its bell,
April 19, 1775. A boulder on the common to the right from the
fountain, together with the old monument, under which the eight
men killed during the battle are buried, marks the line of the
Minute Men. The Jonathan Harrington house, on the corner of
Bedford street, was the scene of a touching incident of the
battle. Across Bedford street is the Masonic Temple. The main
part of this building was erected in 1822 for the Lexington
Academy, and in this building the first normal school in America
was opened on July 3, 1839, with three pupils enrolled.
It is good to be here in this section of country not alone for
its historical associations, with which it is so rich, but for
the association of great minds, from which emanated those
flowers of song "that shall bloom in fragrance and beauty in the
gardens of the human heart forever." We note in journeying here
that the scenery is superb, yet we love the land more for the
noble souls who lived and labored here that humanity might rise
to higher things.
One does not wonder that Massachusetts can boast of so many
illustrious names, for "its lovely landscape and stern climate
seem to have been made for the development of genius," and no
other period of history could have afforded more telling
inspiration than that in which they lived. Their songs had in
them the purity of its crystal springs, the beauty of its autumn
landscapes, the strength of its rock-strewn hills.
How quiet was all the landscape on that Sabbath afternoon as we
stood on the North bridge, where once stood the embattled farmer
gazing up the elm-lined vista at the alert figure of the Minute
Man. As one writer has said, it seemed difficult to associate
this charming spot with strife, and try as we would it ever
remained what its name implies, "Concord."
How peaceful the dark, slow-moving stream glided by the town,
with scarce a murmur to break the serene stillness! How gently
the Old Manse looked from its leafy elms! The noise of
automobiles passing along the highway, the rippling laughter of
our little guide, or the gurgling melody of a red-winged
blackbird scarce disturbed its peaceful slumbers. On the golden
stillness of the hot mid-summer afternoon the almost
imperceptible current seemed more sluggish still. The graceful
foliage of willow, elm and alder, joined in friendly groups by
wild grape vines, leaned over the dark water "as if still
listening for the golden thoughts of Hawthorne, Chinning,
Emerson and Thoreau." It was their spirits that seemed to rule
over the brooding landscape rather than that of the Minute Man,
clothing each rock and tree with a luster the remembrance of
which shall illuminate many a somber-colored day of life.
Yet here was the first battle of the Revolution. The only flag
we saw was the vivid red of cardinal flowers, the blue of the
chicory, and the white of the elder. We heard no gun save that
of the bittern, which savored more of love than war. The calm
skies knew no harsher sound than the explosive boom of the night-
hawk. The only drum was that of the bullfrog, calling raw
recruits from among the lily-pads. The dark waters harbored no
submarine save a great turtle who slipped from a log and
submerged, sending a mass of ripples around a much-frightened
blue heron. The woods echoed to the bold bugle of the Carolina
wren. But there, on April 19, 1775, "murmured the first faint
tide of war" that continued until, as the stone on the right
tells us, "it gave peace to the United States."
Gage sent troops to proceed to Concord to destroy the military
stores collected there, but they, like Adams and Hancock in
Lexington, had vanished. They were as much surprised as the
farmer who planted his peas near a woodchuck den; when he went
out to look at them all he had was the smell. For the British,
too, only the smell of the powder remained. After they had left
a small force to guard the bridge, the troops set fire to the
court house. They then cut down the liberty pole, spiked several
cannon, threw several barrels of flour into the river, and
proceeded to hunt for the arms and ammunition that were not
there. The burning flames from the court house kindled the wrath
of the little force of Minute Men, who had seen the ominous
clouds of smoke on that April day. Soon four hundred men were on
their way to Concord. Two hundred regulars, on arriving, seized
the bridge. Here they received and returned the British fire and
were only overcome by numbers. Major Buttrick forced them back
into the village.
As we gazed across again at the Old Manse we thought of the
wonderful essays that had been written here. In the rear of the
old house is a delightful study. It was here that Emerson wrote
"Nature." Here, too, Hawthorne wrote "Mosses from an Old Manse."
We thought of the brave clergyman who, from the north window,
commanding a broad view of the river, stood watching the first
conflict of a long and deadly struggle between the mother
country and her child.
Realizing the danger they were in, the British troops began
their retreat of eighteen miles. They had eaten little or
nothing for fourteen hours. Ages ago freedom loving Nature had
conspired to aid the Americans by shaping the field of battle.
Huge boulders had been left by the glacier, the potent rays of
the April sun made dense masses of verdure in willows, which
thus became an ally of the pine. Stone fences and haystacks
became ready-made fortifications, and every rising spot was
filled with irate hostile yeoman who harried them with aim true
and deadly. They soon began to run and leave their wounded
behind, and in place of a retreat their disorderly flight must
have had the appearance of a Marathon race, the rattle of
musketry acting or serving as signals for each to do his best on
the home stretch.
They were almost exhausted when they fell into a little hollow
square made by Percy's men to receive them. Here the weary,
frightened Redcoats took refuge as in a sanctuary, and
immediately threw themselves upon the ground to rest. Many of
them had either lost or thrown away their muskets. Pitcairn had
lost both his horse and the elegant pistols with which. the
first shot of the war for independence had been fired. They may
now be seen in the town library of Lexington. When the British
soldiers reached Arlington, several miles from Boston, they had
an obstinate fight with the Yanks. The road swarmed with Minute
Men and they could not keep order--but at sunset, when they
entered Charlestown under the welcome shelter of the fleet, it
was upon the full run. Considered as a race, the British stood
far in the lead. Two hundred and seventy-three British were lost
and but ninety-three Americans.
As we still lingered on the banks of the sleeping river we
recalled these lines from Emerson: "My home stands in lowland
with limited outlook, and on the outskirts of the village. But I
go with my friend to the shore of our little river, and with one
stroke of the paddle I leave the village politics and
personalities behind and pass into a delicate realm of sunset
and moonlight." Alert and watchful still stood the figure near
the bridge, and as we turned away from this quiet spot "his
attitude of eternal vigilance still seemed prophetic." He became
at once the noble spirit of a brave Anglo-Saxon, standing for
Freedom and Right; the spirit that gained our independence; that
of 1867 that freed the slave; and that of 1917 that sent the
sons of America across the ocean. This glorious Freeman should
be placed on some lofty mountain peak in the pure, free air of
heaven, where all might read the lesson of Freedom and Human
Rights. This is one of America's shrines of which she may be
duly proud. Could the European tourist carry back no other
memory, it would be well to cross the Atlantic to see this
sight. Leaving the guardian at the bridge standing there, we
made our way to Sleepy Hollow.
We are not particularly fond of cemeteries, but the knowledge
that finally one has to go there himself makes a visit not
wholly purposeless. We strolled past. the quiet homes to the
more quiet plot of ground, "hallowed by many congenial and great
souls." Here on a lofty elevation of ground stood the headstones
of Louise May Alcott, Thoreau and Charming, with that of
Hawthorne enclosed by a fence and withdrawn a short distance.
"What a constellation of stars, whose radiance shall shine on
undimmed through countless centuries!"
Here is what Thoreau wrote concerning monuments: "When the stone
is a light one and stands upright, pointing to the sky, it does
not repress the spirits of the traveler to meditate by it; but
these men did seem a little heathenish to us; and so are all
large monuments over men's bodies from the Pyramids down."
A monument should at least be "starry-pointing," to indicate
whither the spirit has gone, and not prostrate like the body it
has deserted. There have been some nations who could do nothing
but construct tombs, and these are the only traces they have
left. They are the heathen. But why these stones so upright and
emphatic like exclamation points? What was there so remarkable
that lived? Why should the monument be so much more enduring
than the fame which it is designed to commemorate--a stone to a
bone? "Here lies ___" Why do they not sometimes write, "There
rises?" Is it a monument to the body only that is intended?
"Having ended the term of his natural life." Would it not be
truer to say, "Having ended the term of his unnatural life?" The
rarest quality in an epitaph is truth. If any character is given
it should be as severely true as the decision of judges, and not
the partial testimony of friends. Friends and contemporaries
should supply only the name and date, and leave it to posterity
to write the epitaph.
OPPOSITE THE OLD SHORE ROAD
The Old World bended low beneath a load
Of bigotry and superstitions dark,
When Liberty, amid the tottering thrones
Of despots born, with gladness filled the homes
Of men, e'en the Eternal City bade
Her gates imperial open wide; and, like
A cloud the darkness lifted from the land.
Then Freedom's gentle, buoyant spirit, like
The Magi's wand, extended far across
The sea, and thereupon the gloomy flood
Was parted wide asunder, and revealed
A glorious paradise for Freedom's sons.
Columbia, beneath thy banner's stars,
The mind of man in rare luxuriance blooms,
Unfolding one by one the attributes
Of deity. In vision we foresee
The perfect man. In form the image of
His Maker, God. In toleration filled
With charity for all. In Reason's Ways
Profound. In thought, he mounts the throne of power
And sways the world. He tries frolic Nature's grasp
To lure her secrets still untold till we,
Amazed at his bold course, recoil abashed.
--Willis Boughton.