"And here we are in Boston!" said Gertrude. "Find me any thing lovelier
than this Common," she exclaimed, as she seated herself under the trees
one sweet summer morning.
"See! Beyond Charles River the hills stretch away in the distance, while
the fragrant breath of their woods and hay-fields come wafted on every
passing breeze.
"And the Common! one might look till the eye grows weary through those
long shady vistas, on whose smoothly-trodden paths the shifting sunlight
scarce finds place, through the leafy roofs, to play.
"Look, Rose, at those lovely children gamboling on the velvet grass,
fresher and sweeter than the clover-blossoms they hide in their bosoms.
"See! Up springs the fountain! like the out-gushing of Nature's full
heart at its own sweet loveliness; leaping upward, then falling to earth
again, only to rise with fresher beauty. No aristocratic 'park' key
keeps out the poor man's child, for Bunker Hill lifts its granite finger
of warning there in the distance, and the little plebeian's soiled
fingers are as welcome to pluck the butter-cups as his more dainty
little neighbor's.
"God be thanked for that!" said Gertrude. "I well remember one balmy
summer morning in New York, when my gipsy feet carried me out over the
pavements in search of a stray blade of grass or a fresh blossom. My new
dress was an 'open sesame' to one of the 'locked parks' under the charge
of an old gardener. Lovely flowers were there, odorous shrubs, and
graceful trees. The children of the privileged few, daintily clad,
played in its nicely-graveled, shady walks.
"It was beautiful; but outside, the poor man's child, hollow-eyed and
sad, crouched that balmy morning on the heated pavement, pressing his
pale face close against the iron rails, looking and longing, as only the
children of poverty _can_ look and long, into that forbidden Eden!
"It made my heart ache. I could not walk there. That little pale, sad
face haunted me at every step. The very flowers were less sweet, the
drooping trees less graceful, and the lovely green hedge seemed some
tyrant jailor, within whose precincts my very breath grew thick; and
so," said Gertrude, "I thank God for this 'Common'--free to all--yes,
_Common_. I like the homely, democratic word.
"Not that there is no aristocracy in Boston," said she, laughing; "on
the contrary, the Beacon-street millionaire, whose father might have
made his _débût_ three years ago as a tin peddler, looks down
contemptuously on those who live outside this charmed locality. The
Boston Unitarian never dreams of sharing the same heaven as the Boston
Presbyterian, and this is the only platform on which he and the Boston
Presbyterian meet! And 'High Church' and 'Low Church' are fenced off and
labeled, with a touch-me-not precision, for which the 'Great Shepherd of
the sheep' furnished no precedent.
"Still, Boston is a nice little place. One does not, as in New York,
need to drive all the afternoon to get out into the country. Start for
an afternoon drive in New York, you have your choice between the
unmitigated gutter of its back streets, or a half hour's blockading of
your wheels every fifteen minutes, in the more crowded thoroughfares.
Add to this your detention at the ferry, blocked in by teams and carts,
and forced to listen to their wrangling drivers, and you can compute, if
you have an arithmetical turn, how much to subtract from the present, or
prospective, enjoyment of the afternoon; which, by the way, the first
evening star announces to be at an end, just as you arrive where a
little light on a fine prospect would be highly desirable. This, to one
whose preoccupied morning hours admit of no choice as to the time for
riding, may, perhaps, without wresting the king's English, be
called--tantalizing! But what drives are _Boston_ drives! What green,
winding lanes, what silver lakes, what lovely country-seats, what
tasteful pleasure-grounds! And the carriages, so handsome, so
comfortable; and the drivers so decent, respectable, and intelligent; so
well-versed in the history of the city environs. Send for a chance
carriage in New York, one hesitates to sit on its soiled cushions,
dreads its dirty steps and wheels, and turns away disgusted from its
loaferish driver, whiffing tobacco-smoke through the window in your
face, and exchanging oaths with his comrade whom he is treating to a
ride on the box. A handsome, cleanly public carriage, in New York, is as
rare there, as a tastefully-dressed woman or a healthy-looking child.
"Then, Boston has its Sabbaths--its quiet, calm, blessed Sabbaths. No
yelling milk-men or newsboys disturb its sacred stillness. Engines are
not Sabbatically washed, and engine companies do not take that day to
practice on tin horns; military companies do not play funereal Yankee
Doodles; fruit-stalls do not offend your eye at street-corners, or open
toy-shops in the back streets; but instead, long processions of families
thread their way over the clean pavements to their respective churches,
where the clergymen can preach three times a day without fainting away;
where no poor servant-girl, whose morning hours are unavoidably
occupied, finds, after a long walk there, her church closed in the
afternoon, while her minister is at home taking his nap; where churches
are _not_ shut up in the summer months, while the minister luxuriates in
the country at his ease."
"You are severe," said John; "ministers are but men; their health
requires respites."
"I am not speaking of cases where a clergyman is really unable to
labor," said Gertrude; "but that habit of closing churches whole months
in the summer, strikes me most painfully. Death has all seasons for his
own--sorrow casts her shadow regardless of summer's heat or winter's
cold. I can not think it right that families should be left without
_some_ kind shepherd. Even then, with a substitute, every one knows
there are sorrows, as well as joys, with which the most well-meaning
stranger can not intermeddle.
"O, it is from the lips of one's _own_ pastor the parting soul would
fain hear the soul-cheering promise. _His_ confiding ear that one would
entreat for the tearful bed-side weepers! Verily those ministers have
their reward, who, like their blessed Master, are 'not weary of
well-doing.' It were worth some sacrifice of luxurious pleasure to ease
one dying pang, to plume one broken wing for its eternal flight! It were
sad to think the smallest and weakest lamb of the fold perished
uncheered by the voice of its earthly shepherd. Ah! it was a life of
self-denial that the 'Man of Sorrows' led."
"Quite a homily, Gertrude; you are evidently behind the progressive
spirit of the times; when clergymen yacht and boat, and hunt and fish,
and electioneer in the most layman-wise manner."
"I confess to conservatism on these points," said Gertrude; "I dislike
a starched minister, as much as I dislike an undignified one. I dislike
a stupid sermon, as much as I dislike a facetious or a ranting one; I
dislike a pompous, solemn clergyman, as much as I dislike a jolly,
story-telling, jovial one. A dignified, gentlemanly, courteous,
consistent, genial clergyman, it were rare to find; though there are
such, to whom, when I meet them, my very heart warms; to whom I would
triumphantly point the carping unbeliever, who, because of the spots
which defile too many a clerical cassock, sneers indiscriminately at the
pulpit."
"Well--to change the subject, what have you to show Rose and me, here in
Boston?" asked John.
"Use your eyes," said Gertrude; "do you not see that the gutters are
inodorous; that the sidewalks are as clean as a parlor-floor; that the
children are healthy, and sensibly dressed; that the gentlemen here do
not smoke in public; that the intellectual, icicle women glide through
the streets, all dressed after one pattern, with their mouths puckered
up as if they were going to whistle; and that there is a general air of
substantiality and well-to-do-ativeness pervading the place; a sort of
touch-me-not, pharisaical atmosphere of 'stand-aside' propriety?
"Do you not see that slops are not thrown at your ankles from unexpected
back doors, basements, or windows; that tenement-houses and palatial
residences do not stand cheek by jowl; that Boston men are handsome,
but provincial, and do you not know that the munificence of her rich men
is proverbial.
"Yes, John, Boston is a nice little place; that its inhabitants go to
church three times on Sunday, is a fixed fact, and that many of them
discuss fashions going, and slander their neighbors coming back, is
quite as fixed a fact. If I should advise her, it would be after this
wise.
"Hop out of thy peck measure, oh Boston! and take at least a _half_
bushel view of things, so shalt thou be weighed in the balance, and not
be found wanting!
"And yet thou hast thy sweet Mount Auburn! and for that I will love
thee. What place of sepulture can compare with it? Planted by Nature's
own prodigal and tasteful hand, with giant oaks and cedars nesting
myriad birds, now flitting through the sun-flecked branches, now pluming
their wings from some moss-grown grave-stone, and soaring upward like
the freed spirit, over whose mortal dust their sweetest requiem is sung.
"Beautiful Mount Auburn! beautiful when summer's warm breath distills
spicy odors from thousand flowers, trembling with countless dewy
diamonds; beautiful when the hushed whisper passes through its tall
treetops, as weeping trains of mourners wind slowly with their dead
beneath them.
"Beautiful at daybreak! when the sun gilds thy sacred temple; when the
first wakeful bird trills out his matin song.
"Beautiful when evening's star creeps softly out, to light the homeless
widow's footstep to the grave of him, whose strong arm lies stricken at
her trembling feet.
"Beautiful when the radiant moon silvers lovingly some humble grave,
monumentless but for the living statue--Grief!
"Beautiful, even when winter's pall softly descends over its sacred
dust; when the tall pines, in their unchanging armor of green, stand
firm, like some brave body-guard, while all around is fading, falling,
dying; pointing silently upward, where there is no shadow of change.
"Beautiful Mount Auburn! beautiful even to the laughing eye which sorrow
never dimmed; beautiful even to the bounding foot, which despair never
paralyzed at the tomb's dark portal--but _sacred_ to the rifled heart
whose dearest treasures lay folded to thy fragrant bosom!"