1' oil :^- m v.)> 6.^/-^^ 1 C^' ? Ig^a arrett house ...-■••■• One corner of the " Muster Room" looldng into kitchen . Site of the old house, where the British soldiers drank from the well, and " Tory Bliss " was seen Fac-simile of an old engraving of the centre of the town, showing the British soldiers destroying the stores in the " Ebby Hub- bard " house, by throwing them into the mill-pond The " Ebby Hubbard house" with " Ebby " at the gate Fac-simile of an old engraving showing the fight at the old North Bridge. The " I'rovincials " are on the further side The Virginia Road . Thoreau's birth])lace The tablet on the bluff Meriam's corner Ephraim W. Ikdl, the originator of the C The old oven in the Meriam house The Wayside .... Hawthorne's study in the tower at " The Larch path on Wayside ground Hawthorne's seat W^ayside Dining-room Orchard House .... Emerson's home 111 cord grape The Wayside " List of Illustrations. The Thoreau corner .... The old Minott house .... Shattuck's store and tlie pulilic storehouse In the Concord Libiary .... The Library, showing Main Street and Sudbur Mr. French's studio where the Minute Man wa A corner of Mr. French's studio, showing his s Thoreau's cove at Walden Pond Visitors' memorial on the site of Thoreau's hut On the Concord River Fairhaven Bay . On the Assabeth The Hemlocks . The tablet at Egg Rock . The Elislia Jones house Avenue to the Old Manse Hawthorne's grave in Sleepy Hollow Emerson's grave ..... The tablet on Keyes' Hill Site of Harvard College temporarily located a The Hosmer house ..... The old Winthrop house .... The Lover's Path in Fairvland . The sylvan shore ..... Fairyland Pond ...... Fee's Hill On the road to " Nine Acre Corner " Martial Miles' house ..... " The very room where he started his perpetua Irishman Quin's house .... Jennv I3ugan ]>rook .... " Here is the hill where her jjeople lived " Old Marlborousrh Road " y Road ; modeled atue of Endvm Concord niolit)n ! 76 11 80 83 85 89 91 97 99 105 109 ii.l 114 115 118 119 123 126 127 131 ^Zl '39 '43 '47 •51 157 161 '63 '65 169 ^IZ 176 OIgI ConeoPc?] OLD CONCORD HER HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS L A SPRING day with free range through Old Concord ; then, if ever, comes that peace of body and mind that seldom blesses mortals. It may be that the legendary aroma of the amicable settle- ment between our enterprising fathers and the original owners, has permeated the old town. Certain it is that over tlie homesteads and fields broods a deep and abiding content. When all things shall come up for a final adjustment in the last great Day of days, it seems that Concord might be gently passed by, and allowed amid general dissolution, to hold herself together untouched. Other places suggest the hand of the innovator, and the in-letting of a little vitalized blood; Con- cord never. Towns, villages and cities grow up and flourish around her borders, awakening no 9 lO Old Concord. envy, not even surprise. She knows it all, being keenly alive to what is going on in Church or State. With a not unpleasing indifference to material progress, she adjusts her opinions on every subject, considers this adjustment final, and rests by her river, gentle, sluggish and persistent as herself. To accommodate the restless ones within her, it is said the neighboring city of B was founded. Hither go at early dawn, to seek a more stirring life among men, such as find their craving strong upon them, but they return at night, with a glad gleam in the eye, breathe " Concord " gratefully, and are satisfied. The best way to see Old Concord is to take a low phaeton and an easy-going horse ; with a superb indifference to time, to start without the worry of choosing your road. In any direction you will find rich fields. Arrange that the expedi- tion be made in a day with a smart turn-out, and you will return at night, your mind filled with a surprising array of tablets, inscriptions, a Minute Man, a battlefield, a glimpse it may be of the river, a curiosity shop, an alarming number of grave- yards, a sculptor's studio, homes of famous writers, Her Higlnvays and Byiuays. 13 as badly mixed up as the children in " Pinafore;" and you call all this Concord, and wonder that people make such a fuss over it, and why you took the trouble to come over to see it, and wish you had struck off something from the list your well- meaning friend in town had given you of things you must not fail to see, so that you might have reserved time " to do " Lexington also. No; the carriage must be easy to ride in, and easy to get out of, for frequent studies; it must only hold two persons, you and your appreciative friend, who beside a little knowledge of the town must also possess the rare gift of occasional silence. The horse must not be ambitious to get on. He must be reasonable, and not take it ill if occasionally vou foro-et his existence and leave him tethered beyond the time, while you gather the secrets ot the town. It will take several days to "do" Concord in this manner; lazy driving about here and there, as your spirit wills, interviewing the old residents, who, in the seclusion of their ancient homesteads, are delightful indeed, and most valuable to you in your search for authentic records. There are no hazy " may-bes " about the town 14 Old Concord. and its history ; no elaborate dressing up of tradi- tion. Everything is as open as the day for your inspection, and the briglit sunHght of truth shines through it all. You are left free to study, search, and explore to your heart's content. No one is surprised that you have come ; no one urges you to stay. Here, if in any spot on earth, each is mas- ter of his own movements, and lord of his time. The indulgent reader will kindly understand that these sketches will not attempt to re-write Concord's history, nor estimate anew her literary life. They will treat of some of the old town's unwritten spots, and much that might escape the general sight-seer. But any study of Concord, however slight and methodless, must contain much of the past cent- ury's life so closely intertwined with that now going on in these quiet streets, and recognize the subtle influence of the immortal three who wrote, lived and are sheltered here in death. No sound greets us other than the crooning and clucking of the fowls, picking their way across the road, one eye on the carriage and its occupants, and the occasional "caw " of the adventurous crow hungrily threatening the adjacent meadow. The ONE CORNER OF THE " MUS'lEK Room" I.ooKING INTO KITCHKN. Her Highways and Byways. 17 old gnarled apple-trees cast picturesque shadows on the grass of the door yard, which is guiltless of fencing, and over the old homestead as guilt- less of paint. W'e draw rein ; quick footsteps arc heard in the little entry ; the door is thrown back, and our hospitable hostess smilingly bids us enter. " Do let us see the ' Muster Room,' * " we cry, "and tell us the story there," for this is the Colonel James Barrett house, and we have come for the record of the old homestead during the activities of the eventful nineteenth of April, 1775. With the directness of a child, and the quick utterance of one who knows her story well, and enjoys telling it, Miss A. ushers us in, and offers for our acceptance high-backed rockers, but we hasten to the delightful window-niches, and very soon we are no longer living in to-day, but a past century claims us. Colonel James Barrett, her great-grandfather (whose father lived before him in this old house), was born in 17 10. He went through the French *The " Muster Room " is tlie lower from room as seen in the accompanying view of the house. It has two front windows and one on the side. Tlie age of the house is not known it has always been in the possession of the Barrett family. 1 8 Old Concord. War, to come out with impaired healtli. In the threatening times preceding the historic nineteenth, the important duty of buying the provincial stores was entrusted to him ; he kept a portion of them carefully under his personal supervision. He held also the responsibility of examining the soldiers and of enlisting them. This work was always done in the room in which we were sitting. Hence its name — the "Muster Room." (There is a curious hole, shaped like a three-leaved clover, over the door; Miss A. pauses in her description, to tell us that her father said it was cut there when the house was built — for what purpose, other than ventilation, the visitor cannot imagine.) When the British soldiers (a detachment under Captain Parsons being sent to the Barrett house for the stores, and to take Colonel James) were heard coming, the old mother of the Colonel was alone in the house. The family had urged her to flee to a place of safety, but the plucky old lady said, " No, I can't live very long anyway, and I rather stay and see that they don't burn down the house and barn." One of the descendants of the Colonel gives it as his opinion that probably two companies were Her Highiuays and Byiuays. 19 sent to the house — about one hundred and fifty men. (Shattuck's History states three companies.) Captain Parsons stepped up, " Madam, I have orders to search your house." " You won't destroy private property } " asked the old lady, not flinching. SITE OF THE OLD HOUSE, WHERE THE BRITISH SOLDIERS DRANK FROM THE WELL, AND "TORY BLISS " WAS SEEN. "No; we will not destroy private property, but we shall take anything and everything we find that can be made into ammunition, or any stores, and our orders are to take Colonel James Barrett." Early in the morning, when the first news of 20 Old Concord. trouble to come, was heard, the men in the Barrett family ploughed up the land south of the old barn, in what is now the kitchen garden, a space of about thirty feet square, and while one led the oxen, the others followed and dropped into the furrow the muskets that were stored in the house — then went back and turned the earth over them, thus conceal- ing them. They carried the musket balls into the attic and threw them into an empty barrel ; near by was another barrel about three quarters full of feathers ; these they turned over the balls. When searching the house, a soldier, spying the barrel, thought he had a prize, and thrust his hand into the feathers, stirring them up. An officer exclaimed crossly, " You fool you ! What do you expect to find there ! " Jeers instead of com- mendation being the soldier's lot, he stopped short in his investigations, and our forefathers had cause to bless that laugh of the Briton. There was a little trunk holding some pewter plates, very near the barrel. A soldier seized one end of this, lifted it and cried out, " This is heavy," preparing to break it in. The Colonel's old mother said immediately, " This is private property ; it belongs to a maiden lady in the family" — so Her Highways and Byivays. 23 according to the promise fortunately secured from the comniander, it remained undisturbed. On the first alarm, the Colonel's son Stephen (who, the family record in the old Bible tells us, was born in 1750) was sent to Price Place (the cross roads where four roads meet, now called Prison Station) to tell the minute men who were hurrying from Stow and Harvard, and the vicinity, not to go down the road by the Barrett House, but to take the great road into town to the North Bridge. How long he waited at his post, tradition saith not, Ijut when he came back he passed around the house and entered the kitchen door. A British officer met him as his foot crossed the threshold, laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and said, " I have orders to take you in irons to England." His quick^vitted grandmother started up and cried: "No, this is my grandson. This is not Colonel James Barrett; you may take him if you can find him." The soldiers, hungry and defiant, asked the old lady for something to eat. She, with manner as kindly as if ministering to the necessities of friends, brought out pans of milk and set before them, ac- 24 Old Co7icord. companied by sweet loaves of brown bread, saying, " We are commanded in the Bible to feed our ene- mies." After they had eaten the bread and milk, one soldier offered her money. She refused with dignity, saying, " It is the price of blood." He then threw it into her lap. The old barn that was then standing, was about forty feet distant from the house. The lane was the same as the present driveway, which is quite close to the homestead. The soldiers were going to burn the gun carriages there (the best ones had been saved by carrying them to Spruce gutter), but the old lady begged them not to do so, for she feared they would set fire to the barn. Her pluck had conquered their respect, and her kindness had made them gentle ; and they drew them to the side of the corn barn, a small building about ten feet square, nearer to the road, and close to the lane. Here they had their conflagration to suit themselves. The tradition is that one of the soldiers who searched the house came back and stayed several weeks with Colonel James, liis name is believed to be Trott. And now Miss A.'s voice held a tremor of tender Her Hijrhwavs and Bvivays. 25 sentiment as she related the story of the pretty dauo-hter of the house of Barrett. MiHcent was the n-randdauohter of Colonel James, the daughter )f h IS son lames who married and settled in the THE "EBBY HUBBARD HOUSE" WITH " EBBY " AT THE CATE. next house toward Price Place. Milly, being young and pretty, it must be acknowledged, had learned how to coquette, and, so the story goes, had captivated, while on a visit to relatives in Cambridge, the hearts of some British soldiers 26 Old Concord. whom she met in the cotillion and minuet, the dances of the day, especially fascinating one of the officers. She used to tease him, woman-like, to tell her how they managed their military affairs, and how they made their cartridges. He, man-like, told her the manner in whicli they made cartridges, adding if they should find out in England that he had given her the secret, he would, on his return, lose his head. (But it seems he had already lost that ! ) After the eventful nineteenth of April, she came home to her father's house and, woman-like again, at once proceeded to put her knowledge into good results. She gathered all her mates about her, and told them the secret ; and busily the young fingers flew, forming after the directions given by her British swain, the cartridges that were to save her brave countrymen. The scissors that she used were in the Old South Meeting House, but have been given to the Concord Library by a cousin of the heroine. The shadows on the grass are lengthening fast; the fowls that have been so noisily busy, begin to trail back across the road, thinking of twilight and Her Hio^/iways and Bvways. 27 rest, when we come into the present century once more, and realize that we must leave the charming old house. " But first you must hear the story of that knoll yonder," cries Miss A., pointing out the side win- dow. We can see nothing but some trees in the distance, and we say so. " It is the site of another stopping-place of the British soldiers," she said in her quick, earnest way, determined to leave nothnig untold that we might need to know, " At that time there was on the rise of i^round next to this homestead a house occupied by Samuel Barrett and family. He was the only gunsmith living in this vicinity, and made the flint-lock guns for the minute men. It is said that at early dawn of the nineteenth of April a man on horseback, supposed to be ' Tory Bliss,' stopped by this old house, and pointed significantly to Colonel James Barrett's house. " There was a well near the dwelling at the foot of the tree. Here the British soldiers stopped and took long refreshing draughts ; as they drank, a woman in the house held up one of the children to let him see the troops. " Tradition says," continued Miss A., " an old 28 Old Concord. man in the family who was down in the village that morning, in the midst of the sudden tumult when those quiet farmers became determined fight- ers, expressed himself very plainly about the British ; instantly a rough soldier threatened to kill him — to be met with the reply, ' There is no need of your doing that, for the Lord will save you the trouble in a very short time, for I am too old to 1 ■ 1 ' " live long. We seem to be hearing the fearless words of the old patriot as we drive by the quiet meadows, so eloquent of deeds. We have dropped helplessly into the past. Every inch of ground traversed brings us nearer to a mine of history and tradition — the town's centre. The sites of the mill-pond, the mill, the old block-house and town-house, are now covered by the business of the town. Trade has taken pos- session of historic ground. To this centre, where the throbbing secrets of those perilous times were whispered with bated breath, the farmer of to-day comes to talk over, at the post-office and the store, the affairs of the whole world, discussed in the last newspaper. The " Ebby Hubbard house," as it was called, Her HigJnuays and Bxways. 31 was beyond the corner on Walden street. Here was a large quantity of grain and animunition stored on the nineteenth of April, which the British destroyed by throwing into the mill-pond. Malt was made on the Hubbard place; the old malt-house at the end of the house proper, being blown down in the September gale ; the house was pulled down in 1874. The old homestead from the first sheltered a patriotism beyond ques- tion ; for years after when Ebenezer, or " Ebby," the name he carried among the townspeople, inher- ited the old place, he saved every cent that was ]30ssible from his hard earnings, to accomplish his cherished desire that a suitable memorial should mark the spot where the Provincials stood on the day of the fight, and that the old North Bridge should be replaced by a fitting structure. He died as he lived, alone ; the neighbors found him sitting in his chair one morning, but the old patriot had passed on. This was in 1S70. Cairying out the provisions of his will, the year 1875 saw the Minute Man "telling the story in granite and bronze " to an eager multitude who thronged the new North Bridge to honor the nation's birth]3lace. While one detachment of the B)ritish soldiers 2,2 Old Concord. was thus destro3'ing the stores taken from the " Ebby Hubbard" house, a second was sent to Colonel James Barrett's house, a third was guard- ing the Old South Bridge (the site of the present Fitchburg R. R. bridge on Main street), and the fourth was at the North Bridge. The Mill-pond occupied the meadow between Heywood street (then " Potter's Lane " ) and the Mill-dam and Lexington and Walden streets; the site of the old mill being now covered by the gro- cery store. Traditions linger around the old mill. One is the following: — When the soldiers entered to search for stores, the miller put each hand on a barrel of meal, say- ing, " This is my property, and you have no orders to disturb private property," thereby saving by his self-possession much that was intrusted to his care. It appears, in reviewing the history of Old Concord, that all the people were quick-witted on that eventful nineteenth of April. All honor to the minute men, and brave embattled farmers, but we must also acknowledge that the ready tact and sturdy fearlessness of those who went not up to battle helped " to hold the town that day." II. Shut in by the Bedford thoroughfare and the turnpike running from Concord to Lexington, is a thread of a road. As it runs away from either of the highways which it connects, it seems to dehoht m nothing so mucli as executing a series of curves, wmding in and out among the fields, and around an occasional rocky ledge, with indifference to the order a well-behaved road w.nild be supposed to observe. It is a road run riot. And whoever drives down its alder and birch-bordered leno-th or knows its beauty enough to prefer a walk through it, feels at once as frolicsome and care- free as the wayfaring itself. It suggests the antics of a lamb, or the fresh joyousness of a child, with his hands full of daisies, in a sweet English lane. The ideal of quiet; up-s])ringing life healthful and luxuriant, yet abounds on all sides. There is plenty of enterprise in the farms stretching off on 34 Old Concord, either hand; all things blossoming and giving fruit with evidence of being well cared for. Young trees assert themselves most pictur- esquely in that old gnarled orchard back of yon- der stone wall. The very bushes by the roadside, based by the clumps of ferns, grow greener, sweeter and more wholesome than in any other road of our acquaintance. How inexpressibly fresh the air! Long ago, so one is told by the " oldest inhabi- tant " (that convenient individual who shoulders all our slips in accuracy), a negro slave, freed and sent to Boston by his master, built a little cabin on the plains, as the open fields were then called. He was known to his townsfolk as " Old Virginia." At this time it was a mere footpath that ran by the door of the little cabin, and it soon became, in village parlance, the " Old Virginia Lane," which name it retained for many years after the town had widened it. It is at times so narrow, and it has acquired such a trick of doubling and twisting, that the traveler Qroin^: from the Bedford road is not sur- prised to come suddenly upon a small house with its adjacent barn that appears to block his progress, suggesting the unpleasant thought that he has Her Higlnuays and Byiuays. 17 mistaken his way, and is after all making straight into somebody's door-yard. A few steps, however, and the road opens again to his encouraged view around the house, into apparently endless windings. A tidy little homestead of the pattern so common THOREAU S lilRTHPLACE. in New England as to be describable by the hun- dred, meets us at the gentle slope; and presently we come upon two poplars gaunt and grim, seem- ing to say, " we guarded the homestead that 3^ou seek." ^8 Old Concord. " We must believe them," we exclaim, and draw rein, to pay tribute of respect to their undoubted connection with Thoreau. We are delighted to find it all true; that the house in which Thoreau was born, was moved some time afterward from the shelter of the poplars, to its present position of treeless waste. A little more of doubling and winding, and we see the house, an ugly, square fiat-faced domicile, oiven up to a foreign element that swarms in and out its old door. But nothing can undo the fact that within its walls the nature-poet first saw the lio-ht of day. So we gaze reverently at the unpict- uresque shell of a habitation, and determine to see if possible its interior. A surly dog responds to our insinuating rap on the door, by running around the house, piercing the air with short, nervous barks, thus hastening the approach of the good woman of the family who cuffs him for his pains and turns a pleasant face to us. She willingly assents to our request to see the old house, and we step over the threshold, the dog, notwithstanding his rebuff, carefully at our heels, and we are soon within the front room at our left, Her Hig/izuays and Bynvays. 39 wliich we half believe is the apartment where Thoreau was born. As authorities differ, however, we must see the other room that claims the honor, and we beg the privilege. The good w^oman hesi- tates, then bursts out, " 'Tain't decent to look at, we keep our oats and apples and odds and ends there. Tm a-going to fix it up and paper and paint it when my son gets tinie, but" — *' If we only may," we interrupt the stream. She smiles and relents, and presently we are over the stairs and within the room. Neither of the apart- ments is in the least interesting. The house is not old enough to be quaint, and nothing of its interior calls for a description. It is Thoreau's birthplace ; this is its only claim for attention. We pass out silently, and resume our journey. At every curve of the old road, we seem to drop some pestering care ; we are so shut off from the world's highway, that we have absolutely forgotten the gnat-like demands upon our lives. It is as if we were free once more with that security that we do not remember since childhood. And no one shall say us " nay " if we loiter blissfully where we wall. The next moment — and we turn sharply into the broad highway cleverly concealed by one 40 Old Conco7'd. of the usual curves. Life once more takes us up with a " Why liave you tarried so long ? " and we are on the turnpike leading to Lexington. THE TAKLEl ON THE BLUFF. Once on the broad thoroughfare and we are in the clutches of the spirit of unrest again. We can no more resist her, than deny admittance to the air that enters our lungs. Icr IIio/i7L'(ivs and Byzvays. 41 "Only a bit further to the tablet on the bluff. What a pity to come so far and leave it unseen," says our companion wheedlingly — so we are gra- cious ; particularly as our inclination points that way also. Before we reach the bluff, we can see the guide board beyond, at the junction of two roads. It tells us that " both roads lead to Lexington." On the green sward underneath, lies stretched a lazy pilgrim, familiarly called " a tramp," who doubtless oppressed by the activity calling for a choice of roads, concludes to sleep over it. We can almost feel his sullen eyes upon us, querying the Fate that would give us a carriage and deny him one; but in the shadow of the tablet telling of our ancestors' courage, shall we be afraid ? As long as our tramp moves not, we will stay and get our record: — THIS BLUFF WAS USED AS A RALLYING POINT BY THE BRUriSH APRIL 19, 1775- AFIER A SHARP FIGHT THEY RETREATED TO FISKE HILL FROM WHICH THEY WERE DRIVEN IN GREAT CONFUSION. 42 Old Concord. How difficult to believe that this same stony, dusty thoroughfare once echoed terror to the quiet dwellers whose homes lay in the path of the de- stroyer. Fancy how gay they were, those conquer- ing eight hundred soldiers fresh from the massacre at Lexington, and jubilant over the easy victory before them. But the retreat — was there ever such another! Sore, defeated, confused, they hurry from the concealed fires of every bush, till they are routed on this bluff, to scatter in a panic-stricken rush for their lives. The blood in us stirs this mild spring day as we go over the story learned so long ago in the well- thumbed books of our childhood. Not even a gentle bird giving some deprecatory advice to her mate as to the location of their first housekeeping venture, nor the soft spring air playing through the thicket crowning the slope, can soothe us into our usual habit of mind. We wonder if it is the best thing, after all, to record our victories on the face of Nature, chang- ing the peaceful hum of the cricket and the sono- rous call of the rustic to his lazy oxen, into the clash of the bayonet and the rattle of musketry, and making it delightful to feel blood-thirsty. Her Hio;hways and Byivays. 43 We remark as much to our companion wlu.se eye gleams, as we feel that our own is gleaming. She sits straight in our ancient vehicle, and says it meriam's corner. all with stiffened vertebivx, without uttering a word, " We cannot quench History. But our tramp is stirring, and we may be quenched, so we turn ingloriously, and rattle back over the stony '' pike." 44 Old Concord. Aftei a clay in Old Concord, no one is justified in surprise at coming upon a tablet. And no matter how many times one reads the inscription on one of these constantly recurring granite blocks, there is always an involuntary pause (unless hurry- ing to catch a train) in their vicinity. It is some- times a trifie uncomfortable to be so historically surrounded. At present we arc in quest of all such landmarks. So leaving the tablet on the bluff and resuming our course toward Concord Centre, we welcome another at the junction of the Lexington and Bedford roads : MERIAM'S CORNER THK BRITISH TROOPS RETREATING FROAI THE OLD NORTH BRIDGE WERE HERE ATTACKED IN FLANK. BY THE MEN OF CONCORD AND NEIGHBORING TOWNS AND DRIVEN UNDER A HOT FIRE TO CHARLESTOWN. Set back from the road, its side close upon the Bedford thoroughfare, is a square, dingy yellow house with a lean-to and venerable doors. It is Her Hio;Jiways and Byways. 47 picturesque from the road, its door-yard guarded by two flourishing trees of a later date; and from this point appears well-built and able to easily stand the strain of another century. But turning into the Bedford road, the house suddenly belies its brave front, and seems to be on the verge of decrepitude. A second glance, however, shows us that it is only a series of out-buildings clinging to each other till the word to drop comes, when they will probably all go loyally as one. Here we catch a glimpse of a round, good-nat- ured face at the window, and we approach the house, and beg for the local traditions. The matron, we find, is pleased to tell us, and the good man of the house corroborates it all, the informa- tion beine drawn from the descendants of the old family, the original ow^iers of the house. Con- densed it reads like this : When the good wife of the Meriam household heard the drums of the approaching foe, she ran and barricaded the front door with chairs, but the soldiers, hungry and cross, pushed it open and found their way to the kitchen, where, sniffing the hot johnny cake in the brick oven, they drew it out in a trice, while two of their number he.rricd to the barn to milk the cows. 48 Old Concord. Meanwhile " the girls " of the family, rushed across the road (which then ran over the present corn-field) and hid in the clump of quince bushes growing- near the site of the barn put up by the present pro- prietor, while other members of the household dug THE OLD OVEN IN THE MERIAM HOUSE. up from the ash-pit in the cellar the store of silver money (thirty dollars) there concealed and carried it to a place of safety. The milkers at the barn were presently alarmed by the sound of the approaching Billerica minute men, and they retreated in haste, without the com- Her Highiuays and Byways. 51 fortable breakfast they anticipated. As they strag- gled off precipitately " Slow Meriam," as he was called, one of the sons (" never was known to be first in anything," in the words of our narrator), took down his old gun and deliberately aimed at an officer. " He has more stripes on than any of the others," he said, evidently intending to make a brilliant amende for his slowness. The British sol- diers hurrying off over the Lexington pike turned and gave the old house many random shots. One bullet pierced the east door. The hole has been filled up, but the mark made by the bullet is easily seen by the visitor. The old brick oven that baked the Meriam's bread a century ago, is still baking a family loaf on certain occasions, and the quaint closets over the shelf whose doors open in the centre, and the "corner closet," shelter as they did then, household articles of various kinds. It is like manv another old Concord dwellino-, just as fit to live in now, as it was in the old days, and holding twice as much comfort as any of our "Queen Annes," or nondescript "villas." We are sorry to go, but the originator of the Concord grape, Ephraim \V. Bull, lias expressed himself willing to receive us, and we repair to his 5 2 Old Concord. dwelling, which, to use a localism, " is just a piece up the road." " He is in his greenhouse, of course," says my companion, who knew of him by hearsay. " Oh ! I hope among his grapes," we cry. And we are right. There stands the old man, kindly, and keen-eyed, of middle height, and tough, sinewy build. He has the face of a scholar, a shrewd man of the world, and a lover of Nature. He is self-possessed as a ruler over a large domain, yet Fate has de- creed him a small pittance of this world's goods. He is royally happy, and not a cloud dims his out- look on men and things, whom he watches with an observant eye, prepared as few are to keep abreast with the times. With a simplicity that is charm- ing, the old man receives us, and going on with his work of gently pruning his beloved vines, he gives us quiet deference, and listens patiently to every word. We speak of the Concord grape, and find that ill health proved to him a blessing, for it drove him fifty years ago to this home and occupation, and made it possible for him to slowly evolve the precious fruit from the wild cumberer of the ground. The story is familiar to all — would that every one mio-ht hear it from the old man's lips. We are dad to remember as we listen, that public Her Highways and Byways. 55 acknowledgment has been made of the value of the Concord grape, and, at the same time, due honor was given to its originator. It is pleasant to think of one instance, at least, where appreciation is paid to the living, and Fame has a chance to be enjoyed by the one who has earned her favor. The queer little house with its lean-to that looks as if it were built to encourage the greenhouse, is really somewhat commodious, as a family of ten children was brought up within its walls. That the sons and daughters tarried no longer in the home than early youth, must be supposed, in order to believe the story. W^e have, by dropping in among the Concord grape-vines this pleasant morning, happened upon rich findings, indeed. We are delighted to learn that so much of the vicinity of the old garden where we stand is teeming with traditions for us. Concord being the shire town, and the stages running up and down over this old road, quite a local business in the memory of our friend, naturally sprang up here. One must always remember that in the orig- inal settlement of the town, the first houses were built between the mill-dam and Meriam's Corner, on the north side of the road, up against the sand- 56 Old Concord. hill, which afforded protection from the winds and storms of winter, and allowed them to be more easily constructed. If only this old road, as it was then, could be reproduced for us ! But the most slender accounts of the original appearance of the settle- ment, are all that remain for us. We can reach back quite far, however, to credible tales. The memory of our friend, of traditions told to him, supplies much that is interesting. Old Montifuero, an Italian, lived on the espla- nade midway between Meriam's Corner and Mr. Bull's house. He made confections and a certain kind of cakes, quite as popular as the " Election cake " of training-day renown. Mr. Bull relates that on a sad recital in Montifuero's ears, of the ill health of good Dr. Ripley, he looked at first sym- pathetic, then brightened up. " If he die, what a lot of cakes I will sell," anticipating the big crowd drawn to the town. One French, who served in the Revolution, lived at one time in Mr. Bull's house. He was a black- smith, and his shop was in the corner of the grounds next to The Wayside which it adjoins. He lived there till two years before Mr. Bull came, which was in 1837. THE LARCH PA I'H ON WAYSIDE GROUNDS. Her HioJncays and Byways. 59 In the corner of Love Lane, which strikes off from the Lexington road opposite The Wayside, stood a large Headquarters for the stage depart- ment ; the letters were distributed by the stages and taken up from the deputy post-office for this quarter, which was kept in the little square house, forming the main part of The Wayside, whose time of build- ing antedates all traditions. In this little house lived one Samuel Hoar, a man who came from Lincoln, a wheelwright by profession. The story p-oes that he lived and died in the belief that when he died, his spirit would pass into a white horse. (He was evidently trying to eclipse the former occu- pant of the dwelling whom Hawthorne has made immortal by recounting his fixed belief that he had found the secret of perpetual life.) His shop stood in the angle of the old stone wall adjoining the grounds of our friend IMr. Bull. Long years after, it was cut in two, one half being attached to either end of The Wayside. Afterward a Col. Cogswell, of Grafton, who was born in Mr. Hull's house and whose father was an officer in the Revolutionary War, bought The Way- side. He moved West, and subsequently sold the place to Mr. Alcott. 6o Old Concord. Here lived the " Little Women " — Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy — and made the little old house a cheery home indeed ! Here Joe scribbled, and Amy wrestled with her fine words; here was Beth's little cottage piano, and here Meg mothered them all when dear Mrs, March was away. In 1852 Nathaniel Hawthorne bought the place, naming it "Wayside," the Alcott family removing to Boston. We recall the prefatory letter to a friend accom- panying the " Snow Image " in which Hawthorne wrote, " Was there ever such a weary delay in obtaining the slightest recognition from the public as in my case? I sat down by the wayside of life, like a man under enchantment, and a shrubbery sprang up around me and the bushes grew to be saplings, and the saplings became trees, until no exit appeared possible through the entangling depths of my obscurity," His son-in-law, George P. Lathrop, quoting this in a published article, adds, " Although the name ' The Wayside,' applies to the physical situation, Hawthorne probably also connected with it a fanciful symbolism, I think it pleased him to conceive of himself, even after he became famous, as sitting by the wayside and HAWTHORNE'S SEAT. Her HigJnvays and Byways. 63 observing the show of human life while it flowed by him." The last romance written by Nathaniel Haw- thorne, was " Septimius Felton," the scene of which is laid at " Wayside." The great Lexington road has little changed since the days when the wonderful romancer de- scribed it in the opening pages of this last book of his. There is the same " ridgy hill," along whose foot-line the early settlers planted their humble dwellings, substantially built for the most part, as those houses must be that are to shelter one's chil- dren's children ; yet primitive enough with ample opportunity left to those who come after, to extend or to alter as prosperity and civilization may de- mand. This turnpike — "pike " in the vernacular of the oldest inhabitant — connected the centre of Concord, the county town, or "shire," with Lexing- ton, its near neighbor, afterward to be drawn into a closer relationship by reason of the bloody baptism of April 19, 1775. Rose Garfield lived in a small house, says Haw- thorne, " the site of which is still indicated by the cavity of a cellar,* in which I this very past sum- * This is tlie depvessinn at tliu cud of tliL- Larcli iKitli on W.iysidu grounds. 64 Old Concord. nier planted some sunflowers to thrust their great disks out from the hollow, and allure the bee and the humming-bird." Robert Hagburn lived, so the romancer tells us, in a house "a hundred yards or so nearer to the village." This was the Orchard House; the hill, making a little detour, as it were, from the road, the dwelling being set in this curve, and thus drawn back from the wayfaring. Septimius Felton dwelt in a " two-story house," Hawthorne tells us, "gabled before, but with only two rooms on a floor, crowded upon by the hill be- hind." (The Wayside.) "A house of thick walls, as if the projector had that sturdy feeling of per- manence in life which incites people to make strong their earthly habitations." Perhaps this " j^rojector," by some occult law of heredity, handed down through the years his belief in the perma- nence of life, as a bequeathment to Septimius. It was, he tells us, " an ordinary dwelling of a well-to-do New England farmer, such as his race had been for two or three generations past, although there were traditions of ancestors who had led lives of thought and study, and possessed all the erudition that the universities of England could bestow." The Larch path Hawthorne laid out at the top Her Higlnvays and Byways. 67 of tlic gentle slope that rises from the wayfaring; following that winding curve made by the road as it breaks away from the straighter line and the turnpike. Along its outer edge, the romancer and his wife planted the slips of trees brought from Old England, scarcely able to realize, even in a vision, the wealth of foliage, and the graceful, tremulous pendants that now, on a summer day, conceal the path from the curious gaze of the passer-by. In- deed could Hawthorne see now his old home, what surprise would overtake him! No bare hillside with a scanty growth of infant trees and shrubs to mark its summit while bending in discouraged fashion to the stormy north wind, but a brave, luxuriant forest, crowning with lavish beneficence every undulation, till at last on the upper height it raises triumphant arms to the sky above. Drawn back from the Larch path, and within a stone's throw of the old apple-tree on the lawn that furnished a wealth of bloom (his favorite flower) for his friends to strew over him on that May day when the great romancer was laid to rest, is the Haw- thorne path, on whose crest one comes suddenly upon the supposed site that Hawthorne imaged as the burial-place of the young British officer. 68 Old Concord. The dying youth, his brilliant uniform stained with the life-blood that was quickly ebbing away his young life, we remember, begged Septimius to bury him here, where he fell ; voicing his longing for quiet rest in the "little old church at Whitnash, with, its low gray tower, and the old yew-tree in front, hollow with age." But as that could not be, he begs again, " Bury me here, on this very spot. A soldier lies best where he falls." And so Septimius obeys. Still further on over the ridgy crest one follows the ribbon-like Indian trail, as " Hawthorne's path" winds along its narrow way. George Parsons Lathrop speaks of it: " It is as if Nature refused to obliterate the trace of his footsteps," and follow- ing it, one comes at last to the shadow of the " Big- Pine " and the " Hawthorne Seat" at a little remove in a grove of younger trees. P"rom the top of this hill, a good view in Haw- thorne's day, could be enjoyed, of the neighboring- country side. Now the trees are so tall and thick, and the intervening shrubbery so intrusive, that the outlying landscape is shut out. Hawthorne always expressed a great fondness for the scene that lay before him as he daily paced Her Highiuays and Byways. 71 back and forth across this hilltop. " There is," he says, "a peculiar, quiet charm in these broad meadows and gentle eminences. They are better than mountains. ... A few summer weeks among mountains ; a lifetime among green meadows and placid slopes, with outlines forever new, because continually fading out of the memory; such would be my sober choice." The Orchard House, Mr. Alcott's home after he sold The Wayside to Mr. Hawthorne, is separated from it by a rustic fence whose present state is more a shadow of the past than a reality. Here the father gardened, held conversations, wrote his poems, and originated the School of Philosophy. The daughter opened the golden way to Fame and Fortune by the realistic drama of " Little Women," that was immediately set up on the stage of every quiet home-centre. The old house now holds, in the presence of Dr. W^ T. Harris, a deliQ-htful influence stroncr and far-reachin"- toward the solution of the educational problems of the day. " The Chapel " hanging to the side of the hill with philosophic calmness, annually re-filled the scholars who gathered there with the year's supply 72 Old Concord. of analytic wisdom. Many and deep were the re- grets when the Coiicord School of Philosophy closed its doors. We pause beneath the knot of pines by the road- side oruardino- the home of Emerson, and this from " The Poet " springs involuntarily to our com- panion's lips : — " The gods talk in the breath of the woods, They talk in the shaken pine, And fill the long reach of the old seashore With dialogue divine ; " And the poet who overhears Some randoni word they say, Is the fated man of men Whom the ages must obey." And we return for answer, " Never did the ' fated man of men whom the ages must obey,' utter a truer note than this : — "' lie of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly Serve that low whisper thou hast served ; for know God hatl"! a select family of sons Now scattered wide through earth, and each alone Who are thy spiritual kindred, and each one By constant service to that inward law. Is weaving the divine proportions Of a true monarch's soul. Beauty and strength, The riches of a spotless memory, The eloquence of truth, the wisdom got By searching of a clear and loving eye That seeth as God seeth. These are their gifts, Her Highways and Byzuays. 75 And Time, who keeps God's word, Ijiings on the day To seal the marriage of those minds with thine, Thine everlasting lovers. Ve shall be The salt of all the elements, world of the world.'" Half-way up the opposite gentle slope and drawn well back from the road, is the old " Minott House." This dwelling was on the corner of The Wayside p-rounds a century or more aoo. Moved to its present position some eighty years since, and al- tered to the dwelling now known to the town-folk, it is a place that wooes artists most seductively; possessing the right pose on the hill-side, the proper drapery of elm-boughs around its v»'eather-stained walls, and exactly the proportion of gentle dilapi- dation, to make a pleasing picture. The little street (Heywood) fronting the fine old family mansion two centuries old of the same name, is identical with " Potter's Lane." Continuing toward the mill-dam on the right hand side of Lexington Street, we find an inter- esting group of houses, one needing special men- tion, the " old Brown House ; " built by Reuben Brown, a harness-maker whose shop was next toward the centre, and in whose house cartridges were made a century an;o. A few curious bits of 76 Old Concord. this interior give a hint of the old-time quaintness of the house to those who care for the study of such things. Passing down the cellar stairs, one sees a small square door in the wall, opening into a room by the side of the chimney ten feet high THE THOREAU CORNER. and about six feet broad, where the bacon was smoked, the fire being made with corncobs. At the foot of the cellar stairs, a bit to the right, there is the same swinging oaken shelf supported by heavy iron chains that held the Tlianksgiving pies and " Election cake " so many generations Her Highways and Byways. 79 ago. Underneath it are the two beams of oak, where the cider barrels reposed. The " Hving room" with its big fireplace is the family room of a century and a quarter ago. The old house was inherited by the son. Deacon Brown ; and thirty- two years ago it passed into the hands of the family who recently sold it to the Antiquarian Society. Mrs. C. tells us that Mr. Emerson used at one time the upper front east room with its open fireplace, as a study. Here he wrote many lectures and essays. The old house is now occupied by Mr. C. E. Davis, who has moved thither, by invitation of the Antiquarian Society, a large, oddly-assorted, most interesting collection of colonial furniture, curi- osities and relics, hitherto kept in several rooms in the Court House. Here is the " Thoreau Corner," where are grouped the beds, the desk, the chair and table used by the Nature-lover in his hut at Walden and his other homes. On the desk lie the paper-folder and the quill pen picked up where it lay after recording the last words of Thoreau. No one should visit old Concord without paying tribute to the Antiquarian House, whose quaint sign in all the glory of fresh paint, swings allur- 8o Old Concord. inolv from a cross-beam between the two old trees fronting the dwelling. And now we come a bit further up the road to the Unitarian Church on our left, and next to it the famous old Wright Tavern once kept, one must ¥11 »'f *'? * ?< ■- •'•■'^ ^-■•^-'- •• shattuck's store and the public storehouse. remember, by Oliver Brown who was in the Boston Tea Party. Fronting the little park where stands the monument to the memory of the Concord men who fell in the Civil War, is a long old building. A century ago, the inhabitants of Concord saw over the door of the centre of this building the sign, D. Shattuck and Co., paints, oils and drugs; Her Higlnvays and Byzuays. 8i one long end being occupied by Mr. Shattuck as his residence; the other was used as a public storehouse. This last addition afterward became Thoreau s home for a time. " I do not dare to look at the clock on the church," says our companion. " Let us ignore it." But it is striking six, and we remember that no voice of the church should fall upon the unwilling ears of the pilgrims, even though sorely tempted by the rich )'ield of a "Concord day." We turn submissively toward home. III. Let us first visit the Library," so proposes our companion at the breakfast table. On the part of the humble chronicler of these clays in Old Con- cord, there is supreme delight, having, since our entrance into her river-girt borders, desired just this hour in her Library. The order is given for the easy-going beast who by this time quite under- stands our erratic movements, and takes no little pride in meeting all demands upon him with gentle resignation, to be made ready and waiting at the door. Many of our readers know well the history of this orreat e^ift to the town. Throuo^h the wise forethought of a public-spirited citizen, esteemed for that sterling virtue and keen intellect that marks New England character, it planted itself in the very heart of the daily life of the people, where, going or coming, to toil or to pleasure, they must see its presence and hear the voice from its elo- 82 Her Highways and Byways. 83 quent halls: "Come up hither; freely take, and learn how best to live." It is impossible for the youngest citizen of Con- IN THE CONCORD LIBRARY. cord to forget the existence of the Library. Beau- tifully placed, on the point running down between two prominent streets, with a little park in front, that the generosity of the donor has provided shall always be kept open, the lawn like a bit of English 84 Old Concord. grass for greenery and luxuriant smoothness, it appeals to the eye, and woos the senses. It is most attractive of exterior. A mural tablet in the vestibule tells the visitor that — WILLIAM MUNROE Born in Concord, June 24, 1806 Built this Library and gave it with funds for its maintenance and extension for the use of the inhabitants of his native town. On entering the Main Hall one naturally turns to the left into the Reading Room admirably adapted to its purpose, and well supplied with the current magazines and periodicals. Here are several historic reminders of Concord's Great Day; a curious sketch of Concord Jail hangs on the wall. An explanatory note under it says: " The jail in which General Sir Archibald Camp- bell and Wilson were confined when taken off Boston by a French Privateer. This sketch was made either by Campbell or his fellow pris- oner during their confinement in 1777." vw d Her Hig/iways and Byzvays. 87 Here also hang the scissors used by Milicent Barrett in making cartridges during these memora- ble days ; and on the opposite wall is a quaint hand- bill evidently circulated with its fellows to stir up patriotism in the young American blood, entitled, under a row of black coffins, " Bloody Butchery by the British Troops, or, Runaway Fight of the Reg- ulars," and having some memorial verses appended to those " w^orthies who fell in the Concord Fight." There is a fine, half-length portrait in oil over the mantel of Ralph Waldo P^merson, whose serene spirit broods over this realm of thought, lending inspiration to the students and casual readers gath- ered around the tables and in little groups through the room. The view of the Main Hall given in the acconv panying illustration, shows the alcove devoted to the Concord Authors. In its centre is the bust of the donor of the Library; on either hand the busts of Hawthorne and Emerson. In the forc- oround, stands the statue of the Minute Man, one of Concord\s greatest works, and which she is never tired of honoring. Busts of Plato, Agassiz and Horace Mann, voiceless yet eloquent, are on the other sides of the Hall. 88 Old Concoi'd. Here too the very children know there is a pres- ence other than the silent books, the voiceless statues, and the subtle influence of the place, to help them upward ; a wise, kindly presence that shall enter into the needs of each, and intuitively supply them. There is probably a larger number of books drawn from this Library than from that of any other town of its size in the United States. Even the infants appear to be omniverous readers, judg- ing by the returns of the librarian. To be born in Concord, presupposes a love of books, and the first inhalations of the air, it is said, introduce a yearning for the infinite; two or three years more, and the urchin in knickerbockers, or the little maid in a pinafore, trudges serenely down the small walk from the street, clambers over the steps, and demands with a tiny but wholly self-possessed voice, the chosen book at the librarian's desk ! " It stands like a beacon on some slender prom- ontory," observes our companion. " With the life of both roads surging up against it," we add as we come out and pause a moment in the little park to look up at the building. "Yes; and then each tide goes its way with its Her Highii.'ays and Byzvays. 89 human interests purified and strengthened because of this watch-tower. 'After life's fitful fever ' the man who thought enough of his fellows to erect it, must sleep well, their benisons in his ears." Down shadowy Sudbury Street we pass quietly, MR. FRENCH'S STUDIO, WHERE THE MINUTE MAN WAS MODELED. cross the railroad track, between sweet-scented, smiling meadows, follow the curve for a short dis- tance till we reach a low gray cottage with lat- tice window and broad porch, half concealed under spreading apple boughs. Off to the right stretch fertile fields; in front is the ancestral home. Here 90 Old Concord. the young artist wisely built his studio in tlie midst of influences best calculated to make the divine art within him grow to its highest achievement. Here his fellow townsmen recoo'nized the messaore that the young worker had for them, and proudly they intrusted to him their greatest commission. Here was the Minute Man breathed into the clay, till the rough block spoke and told the story of our fathers' struggle for a home and a country. Continuing on the road toward Walden Pond we are presently entangled in a thick growth of shrubbery, through which the faintest trace of a path is visible. Here the aboriginal settlers must have dwelt in comparative safety from their white brethren's envious eyes, so shut in is it, so thor- oughly secluded from all haunts of men. After assuring ourselves over and over in needlessly loud tones that we are not afraid, we plunge in, bestow a gentle reminder on the unresisting horse, and give ourselves up to our determination to find the site of Thoreau's hut, the Cove, and as much else as is possible, of Lake Walden. A whirrincr in the bushes starts our resolution, and makes it pale a bit, but as we cannot turn back because of the narrowness of the path, we Her Highways and Byways. 93 make a show of courao-e and dri\'c on with tioht- ened rein, " A woodchuck," suggests our companion, com- fortingly. We never knew what it was that disturl^ed our peace; and presently after much tearing of the carriage wheels through the undergrowth, and a corresponding amount of head-ducking to avoid the drooping untrimmed branches that insist in recklessly striking our faces, we come suddenly upon, not what we fondly hoped to see, but the railroad track ! We look into each other's faces in despair. " W ould you attempt it t " asks one ; which one, shall remain in oblivion. '' There is no place to turn off; we must retrace our way if we give up," says the other. " We have come to see Lake Walden, and the site of Thoreau's hut, and 'give up' as you put it, hasn't a nice sound." By this time we are over the track, and a smoth- ered " toot " somewhere down the shining rails sends us at a brisk pace tearing a trail for our- selves through the forest. Walden Pond, lying in a deep wood between g^ Old Concord. Lincoln and Concord, about a mile and a half south of the latter town, is nearly a half-mile long, und one and three quarter miles in circumference. It is beautifully located, from all points asserting itself most picturesquely. Even from the railroad, seen from the swift-speeding car, every glance reveals a vision of beauty, and a flash of a blue lake embowered in an emerald thicket of pine and oak haunts one all the rest of that day. But a nearer and more prolonged view, such as one eets over a boat's side in the centre of the pond, convinces one that an emerald tint also belonss to the water as well as to the trees; not so much, as some would tell us, from the reflection of the foliage in the bosom of the pond, as to the peculiarity of the water coloring itself. One part of the shore rises quite abruptly from the water edge to some fifty feet, while on the opposite side the height is still greater, though less abrupt of ascent. Walden has not the grandeur of a lake in the midst of mountainous scenery — that the few may visit and picture to their less fortunate fellows; it is a thought of God for the many, set on a thoroughfare, for the poor and needy, for the little Her Highways and Byways. 95 children, for whoever will, to come and be refreshed by its beauty. It is a sweet dream of Life s possi- bilities in the midst of dull leaden actualities; and that God did give it so freely, and keep it unspoiled from man's improving fingers, is a cause for the deepest gratitude in any one who looks down into its blue depths. Naturally a tradition hovers over its silent bor- ders. Before the white men came, the Indians in holding a powwow upon a neighboring hill, as high as the depth of the pond, employed much profanity to express themselves. In the midst of it, the hill quaked and wavered, and suddenly collapsed. Only one ancient squaw named Walden escaped the general ruin. The stones of which tlie hill was composed, rolled down to become the shores of the pond that now opened to let the Indians and their naughty tongues down to a bottomless pit. As the Indians were rarely known to be profane, or indeed to sive their tono-ues much license, this ancient tradition lacks credibility in one particular at least. People there are who aver that the lake is bot- tomless. Thoreau, its best student and its ardent 96 Old Concord. lover, says, " The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at a depth of twenty-five or thirty feet." He also says, — " The pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know. It is commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not corresponding to the general wet and dryness." There is no discoverable inlet or outlet to Wal- den but, using again the words of Thoreau, " rain and snow and evaporation." A beautiful curve, as seen from the Lake, in shape like a crescent, its wooded slope gentle of ascent, shielding him who would pace up and down by the water edge, fitly frames " Thoreau's Cove." Just far enough removed from the transient visitor to Walden Pond, quite difhcult of access through the woods, it was yet easy for the hermit poet to permit himself a view of his fellows, whom he was fond of studying with a grim kind of pleasure. No recluse of the friar's frock and sackcloth girdle was he ; nor was he sent to solitude by the pangs of a nature preying upon itself, and crying out that all the world misunderstood him. Cheek by Her Higlnuays and Byways. 97 jowl with Nature even in her merriest moods, he found himself, and never a little bird tripped across his path but lingered to tell him her happiest secret. All things breathed for him their best life, giving just as the sunshine did, warmth and beauty to his soul, because he too was a child of the sun. THOKEAU'S COVE AT WALDEN PONO. By the shores of Walden, Thoreau lived but a brief period as men count time — two years and two months ; but in the twenty-four hours of each day he passed a long uninterrupted life of thought, in which God alone was his teacher; he in turn becomincr teacher to other men who necessarily gS Old Coucoj^d. must live in crowded marts, and toil in the heat of the day. " Like a voice crying in the wilderness " was his stern invective against all the immoralities of money-getting, and the deceptions of social life, suggesting a brighter day of cleanness of living, through the soul's recognizance of its own divinity. Thoreau never sent one into the wilderness to find this out; he went himself, as thus to go was the only thing that fitted his necessities, but he allowed each one to discover the royal road to happiness. Scornino- to assume a teacher's seat, he was essen- tially a Doctor of the Laws of life, and the chair in which he was placed by willing scholars, was endowed by the Alma Mater of us all — Mother Nature herself. A curious pile of stones now marks the spot where Thoreau's hut was built by himself. It is interesting to note that these stones have been brought here singly from the edge of the Lake by the sympathetic hand of each visitor. Sometime, let us hope in the near future when those yet re- maining who knew and loved him can voice their sympathy with the movement, there is to be a more enduring expression than this pile, that shall tell the passing stranger something like this: — visitors' memorial on tiik site of iTKiKEAr's iirr. Her Highicays and Byzvays. loi Here was Thoreau ; here he Hvecl apart from men those days and nights, developing in the light of Nature, and taught of God, when his soul grew apace. Why did Thoreau turn from the haunts of men, to a life in the w^oods ? His own words tell us: " I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could noi; learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived, ... I wanted to live deep, and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and vSpartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why, then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion." W^hy did he choose Walden for the scene of his voluntary isolation? Hear him: "Why, here is Walden, the same woodland lake that I discovered so manv years ago; where a forest was cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as I02 Old Concord. lustily as ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it is the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and it may be to me." After a variety of amusing and original expe- riences in which he becomes the possessor of boards and nails, this man of the wilderness, hew- ing the tall and stately pines, consenting that none other shall supply the rafters for his dwelling, at last has a semi-public raising, and becomes, to use his own words, "a squatter" by the Pond. " My house was on the side of a hill, immediately on the cdoe of the larf-er wood, in the midst of a young forest of pitch pines and hickories, and half a dozen rods from the pond, to which a narrow foot-path led down the hill." Every little item of expense attendant upon this new venture in housekeeping, is put down most carefully, and given ingenuously to the public. To meet a part of this outlay, he plants two and a half acres of beans, a commodity that his association and trainino- tauirlit him could not fail to be salable. The cabin was furnished with a simplicity that matched its exterior. Part of it was Thoreau's Her HigJnvays and Byiuays. 103 own handiwork; the " bed, table, chairs, desk and writing utensils " being given as an illustration in the description of the " Thoreau corner " in the Antiquarian House. " In short," he says, " I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one's self on this earth is not a hard- ship but a pastime, if we live simply and wisely." He is very careful to add, " I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account, for beside that before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself. I desire that there may be as many different persons in the world as possible ; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way." To interpret the message of Walden Pond to the human heart, one should study her often, dur- ing many seasons, and through moods as changeful as the shifting lights that play upon her surface. It is rarely that one can abide by her as did Thoreau — the mcssaw is sent to most of us in another way. We, looking down into the mirror of her clear innocence, take it thankfully, and go our way into the thick of the world again, helped where we needed hel[). IV. For a little time pilgrims may put aside the claims of the Concord River; but the days are numbered. Go whither one will, threading the rose-brier and alder-bordered lane, or traversing the broad public thoroughfare; plunging into the sequestered spots in search of the remotely his- toric, or sitting at the feet of some modern sage or brilliant literary light — one is kept in and through it all distinctly conscious of the presence of the liquid highway, down whose silent surface he m.ay glide, and find in the gentle flow of the stream, and the shifting beauty of the shore, that repose and inspiration that every well-meaning life demands for itself. An idyllic day in Concord presupposes some touch of the River. It is possible in launching one's canoe from the little landing-place by the Minute Man, to lose the thread of existence that connects one with the remainder of humanity, bid- 104 Her HigJnuays and Byivays. 107 ding them a serene good-by as your bark leaves the shore, and floats off through the Hly pads to revel in solitude. It is by no means a selfish enjoyment. You become acquainted with your own nature as you are shut in by the bank on either side, to the mirror of this shining stream that seems to be scanning you with the clear eyes of truth, and luring the best possibilities within you, to become sturdy realities. It is the gentlest of teachers, and leaves the pupil unconscious of being led, which is the most exquisite of all influences. You only know that uncharitableness and kindred sins seem to drop off and float away from you down the stream to dis- appear in yonder shallow curve ; you are even sorry that you were cross to the book agent who called at your door in the early morning to be sure of finding you at home, and )'0u have a vague idea that you were responsible for that flurry with the cook that arose on your daily round through her department, that day. Before starting on this expedition, you were quite sure that she alone of all the women created, was the most trying and persistently evil creature ; but now, the wild beat- ing of your righteous indignation dies down to a io8 Old Concord. sluggish rhythm, in tune with the river, and you are gently sorry that you gave her temptation to air her tongue. But your remorse, however salutary, must be gentle. None of the stiff breezes tliat stir up a harrowed conscience to a bitter resume, blow upon your soul here. The liquid melody as your canoe olides on throuQ"h the water, miuQ-linsf with the note of the wood-bird shaping his course by the river, suggests hope and peace together with your sweet contrition ; and you slowly prepare, while lazily manipulating your oars, for meeting life on the morrow, in the proper attitude toward all men. For the moment you do not even care where you are going. The fierce spirit of unrest that takes possession of the sight-seer, has no hold upon you. In due time, you are confident, you will come upon the meeting-place of the rivers, into the sacred precincts of the liemlocks, over by the Island, and into stately Fairhaven Bay. You are content to float on and bide your time, and absorb all that is a part of your living present. There are wdld, adventurous pilgrims who rush up and down this liquid thoroughfare. You meet them ; they are distressed at its placidity, and Her Highways and Byways. 1 1 1 because there is nothing "going on," but them- selves The shadow of the hemlocks to them is an insipid washed-out darkness, with not a hint of a ruin or buried cave to relieve its dullness. Nashawtuck tablet on Egg Rock is something like what they have come to see, and they 1^,11 up beside it, wishing there was more of it. But then- restlessness is soon over, like an uneasy dream ; and onlv the ripples caused by their departing boat, remain 'to tell that they have disturbed Nature in one of her most delightful hiding places. The Musketaquid, Grass-ground River, or Great River whose waters bordered the happy hunting o-rounds of the first owners, has its rise, through one of its branches, in Southern Hopkmton, and the other in a pond and a cedar swamp in West- borou-h, and after traversing many towns, for some of which it forms the boundary line, it empties itself, swelled by the North or Assabeth River, into the Merrimack at Lowell. It has a sluggish, scarcely perceptible current; at low-watcr mark the stream is from four to fifteen feet deep, beinj8 P' \ii iiiifltifri liirmihiila 1 '« «8*4**» n«Hi»MWKttMMan«ft C BMmX9'*«<, mmie vmitt^m tai^^^^ i^piiipiiii^^ JjIB^^^flEar' ■ > ^^HPHHHH «. Bk *^ ^'^i^ ''■'^StS^^^'i^ t^.i'v ,.x,.:--^-,, .,,.,•«? THE TABLET ON KEYES' HILL. And just across the narrow driveway is the new- made grave of one who, called in the midst of his work, found here appropriate resting-place. Just as unique in his way — just as striking a figure in his individuality, his was the part in life's great work to break a path for the tender feet of the little 1 A " % ''i '/ f 1, ife -.A SITE OK irARVARD COLLKGE TiaiPORARILV LOCATED AT CONCORD: Her Highways arid Byzvays. 129 ones who clamored for knowledge. The " children's friend" brought to them their printed page — their own Hterature; he went into new and untried ways to do it; he made himself their champion; he struo'sled on mid difficulties and obstacles that would have defeated one not sent by God to do that work. And suddenly he was not, for God took him ^ the man with the heart of a little child, and the will and the fibre of a hero. Midday finds us after a visit to the Tablet on Keyes' Hill, lunching in our phaeton, in a shady spot on " College Road." Over a winding thorough- fare, striking off near the old Barrett House, we have come ; not only winding is the road, but with constantly narrowing sides, it is growing more and more stony and uncomfortable for horse, and car- riage occupants, until at last it resolves itself into a respectable cart path, where there is small danger of meeting a fellow traveler. This is the time we seize to become a disciple of William Black ; and never did food or a bottle of milk taste better to a pilgrim. After the lunch is disposed of, we clamber through the thicket, wondering how the college boys liked it, the turning out in winter, by the 1 30 Old Concord. order of the Provincial Congress, from their espe- cial quarters in Cambridge, to give place to the soldiers. As the Professors were accommodated down in the village, the President being housed at good Dr. Minott's, the young fellovv'S in the woods probably had as fine a chance for their pranks, unseen, as could be desired. Several of the stu- dents boarded at an old house at the foot of Lee's Hill ; this was burned about twenty-five years since. Lee was the notorious Tory, it will be remembered, who was for a time a prisoner within his own farm limits, as ]3unishment for his treason- able sentiments. The sun is nearly down, the most becoming light we had almost said, in which to view the quaint old house to which we now drive up, after a leisurely circuit. But we remember that in early morning we have wandered by this fascinating bit of antiquity, and again at noon, and eacli time have found the old Hosmer House with its sur- roundings, irresistible in its appeal to our sense of picturesqueness. Set back from the road, and guarded by its rambling stone wall, overarched by a drooping elm in the doorvard, the other trees at a slight remove, Her Highivays and Byways. the old house looks at one with a gentle dignity as if it held itself aloof from all other dwelling- places that must yield to the inroads of Time. As was observed of the Minott House, it is most THE OLD WINTHRDP HOUSE. favorably placed for an artistic effect ; all its group- ings adding to the quaintness of outline, and its weather-stained front. Within, is one of the old- time gentlewomen who, carrying her ninety years lightly, meets one graciously as if on the threshold of life; glad to open for a new-comer her store of reminiscences of noted people and places in the I 34 Old Concoj^d. old town. This is the home of friends of Thoreau, who grew up witli him, into sympatliy with Nature and truth. In front, and quite near to the stone wall, stood the quaint, old W'inthrop House. Beautiful oak panelings modeled from the homesteads in Old England, adorned this interior. When the dwel- ling was taken down, some thirty years since, a sheathing to a beam, being torn off, disclosed an account written in chalk, of a sale of lumber, over a century and a half ago recorded there, covered and left, a silent witness of the past. We drive home, crossing the river at the " Red Bridge." The western glow drops down upon the shining stillness that scarce tells of a current. But inevitably, it is running to its end, surely, steadily underneath. So do our two lives, co77i- pagnons dc voyage, as we are, move down the stream of time. Peaceful sightseeing and reminis- cence-gathering must soon give place to busy work and a new hold on sterner duties. Life bears us on with imperceptible current, yet just as relent- lessly as does that of the river, to its end. V. And a day comes at last, when the easy-going horse, hitherto of tlie most courteous and obh'g- ing demeanor, liatly persists in his refusal to do any more " pilgriming." In other words, he can- not be found when wanted — and at last traced with great difhculty, by one of his two companions in the trips recorded in this simple history, he is discovered peering from a thick covert in one cor- ner of the pasture, his equine mind flatly made up to assert his equine will. And he shows such de- cided skill in displaying the teeth still left him, whenever her hand essays to pat his aged nose, that she concludes it would be unkind to insist that he be led forth and go on a tour this day. Particularly as all her blandishments in the way of sugar and cake-bits, and even a juicy apple, still create in him only a deep displeasure. So she de- sists with a sigh, and says, approaching the window where her wiser comrade has had an eye to the >35 136 Old Concord. whole proceeding, " I really prefer not to use the phaeton to-day ; let us walk." Thus it is that Fairyland is entered and possessed. " How foolish those persons are who have never learned the art of walking," observes the pilgrim who has just parted from the old horse. " Half the pleasure in life consists in this simple exercise; there is positive exhilaration in each step." " Yes," asserts the other pedestrian, as they tramp down Walden Street, past the large, dun-col- ored domicile before whose door the two had appeared on their first day in Concord. " How were we to know it was not a boarding- house ! " they had exclaimed to each other, as they gained the street, after being told that it was the almshouse, by the pleasant-faced woman who heard their request to be " taken in and lodged and kept." " Was ever anything so delusive } Why I looked through the window as I stood on the piazza — I couldn't help seeing, you know — and there was an old man fondling a little child in his lap, and the two were laughing, and it was all as neat and cosy and home-y as you please." And then down a little farther, on this same Her HigJnuays and Byivays. 137 Walden Street, the two had inquired at another house standing "back from the village street," a pillared aristocrat among its fellows, for the privi- leo-e, for any consideration within reasonable bounds that the owner should stipulate, of calling the place " home " while they sojourned in Concord. " We will make no mistakes this time," said the other pilgrim. "You would do better to let me in- quire, for I am quite certain here," and she walked up the steps and in between the pillars with an erectness of spine that precedes victory. " This is the home for the aged, ma'm," observed the domestic in answer to the question, and peering throuo-h the screen door that shut the two out from the elysium they sought. "What; a charitable place?" cried the pilgrim, fixed as a statue and with about as much change- fulness of expression. "Yes, m'am, for th' old ladies and gentlemen — we're ooin' to have a lawn party for 'cm to-morrow, won't you come t " The two turn, after they are well on the thor- ouo-hfare once more, and gaze long and steadfastly at the fine old mansion and its well-kept grounds. " If w^e were only a little poorer, or a little older. I 28 Old Concord. a we could get in one of these houses maybe, and give lawn parties, too," cries one. But our pilgrims must stop reminiscing and give themselves up to Fairyland. With faces set toward Walden Pond, serene in its translucent blue, and shimmering in the morning- sunlight, the two pedestrians walk as briskly as those can who have hitherto trusted to the powers of an equine conductor to "get on," — and by the time they have passed the junction of the road with Thoreau Street, they are quite willing to espy the little opening" in the woods to the left, that will ad- mit them to Fairyland and her treasures. At this point the chronicle of these Concord explorations must record the first falling out these comrades have sustained. The waving line of dense foliage has many little breaks that necessitate a choice between them, by one who is seeking a path. It is with faces flushed and a manner far from serene, there- fore, that the pilgrims at last stand drawn deep within the cool, sylvan dell that divides them from the outer world and its quarrels. " We have been like two naughty children," ob, served Pilgrim No. i, coming to her senses with a gasp — "that is, I have been." Her Highways and Byways. 141 " Your repentance is better than your grammar," remarks the other, taking refuge in a pert reply, to hide the shakiness of her voice. " ' Let's make up,' as the children say." " Wait till we get to Lover's Path," says tlit other with a short laugh. So the two strike into a winding road ; one on side the bank withdrawn, high and green, a wealth of lusty foliage waves soft yet insistent messages of goodwill and peace ; on the other is the deep ravine, hinting in its mysteri- ous depths of heavy brake, and darkening shrub, of hidian lurking-places and aboriginal security. " I verily believe," says Pilgrim No. i, dropping into an " hidian-iile " pace, behind her companion, as they slowly thread their way along, " that this is the original camping ground of the first owners of Concord — the Musketaquidians." "You forget," contributes the other, "all history locates them in quite another part of the town." " One ought sometimes to rise superior to his- tory," cries No. i impatiently; " those Indians must have lived here. Th.ink what a glorious place for the Squaw-Sachem to hold her court, and " — "Oh! Fd much rather believe the truth — that Nashawtuck was their home," cries the other. 142 Old Concord. " Besides, the Indian Queen never lived in Concord at all." Her companion wisely takes time to gaze long at slope and dell, before she answers : " I think we would better get to Lover's Path and make up our little difference," she remarks slowlv. " Before we begin another," finishes Pilgrim No. 2, grimly. And on they walk in silence. And presently in an idyllic curve of Lover's Path they sit down, adjust their differences, and then take up once more the Lidian question. " Here is my theory," begins No. i, switching the nodding ferns with the tip of her parasol, thereb}' rousing indignant colonies of ants, and black beetles, with an occasional gray lizard to lend dignity to the scene ; " that when the renowned Nanapashenit died, the government being in a woman's hand, the Squaw-Sachem was wise enough to move to Concord, and that she located as near Walden Pond as it was possible to get. Pm sure I should, had I been in her place ; and that she made the seat of her power here in this very spot ; here she married Webbacowet, the pow-wow, wizard, priest, sorcerer, chirurgeon, and what-not, of the tribe." Her HigJiways and Byivays. 143 " But all that happened elsewhere," breaks in the other pilgrim, with fire in her eye, to defend her point. " Tahattawan, the Sub-chief, may have lived on Nashawtuek," continues the self-appointed histo- rian ionorino- all insinuations and waxing warmer, THE SYLVAN SHURE. " that Tm willing to allow, but don't walk over my pet theory, I beg." *' Perhaps you can see Captain Moseley's wig hanging on that tree," suggests her friend with an ironical tinge to the "color of her tone" — and pointing to a twisted specimen of oak just across the path. " You remember that story } " " No ; never heard it." 144 Old Concord. " I'm so glad, because now it gives me a chance to talk," leaning forward in a conversational atti- tude : " Why, you see there was a certain Captain Moseley, a soldier, but a terror on the sea as well, for he had been a West Indian Buccaneer. Well, he indulged in a bit of New England finery in those days, a wig. Probably his locks underneath were flowing and plentiful, in the pirate style, but for dress-up occasions his caput was not complete without an extra arrangement of hair. When he was soldiering, and before an engagement, he would carefully hang his wig on a bush or branch of a tree. So of course the Indians thought he had two heads. It was bad enough to fifrht the Evil One with a single head; when it came to having two, it was quite time for the tomahawk to be buried, and the spear and arrow to follow." " Nonsense ! As if an Indian would care whether two or twenty heads sat on a pair of shoulders ! In fact the richness of scalp material would please him best. However, let that pass. What was Cap- tain Moseley doing in Concord, pray tell ? Imagine a dashing buccaneer in this quiet spot ! " " Oh ! he brought twelve pirates ; they had been ofiven their freedom to fiirht the Indians." Her Highways and Byways. 145 " All the clogs of war let loose on the poor red man — the old story," murmurs the other. "But this was after King Philip's war, when the Indians came back to Concord from Nashoba w^hich is now part of Littleton. Aren't you getting the dates a little mixed } " " I don't care about dates ; one must rise supe- rior to dates," retorts the first pilgrim recklessly. " I'm only indulging in harmless tradition ; do let me ! the spot provokes it." " Very well ; what next } " " Well, these Indians were hurried away to the rough and stormy shores of Deer Island, where even they dwindled to a mere remnant of a tribe until finally but one warrior lived " to tell the tale." " If Deer Island had been wanted for the enter- prise of the white agriculturist, I suppose the Indian would have moved off accommodatingly into the sea. " I presume so. But let us go back to the In- dian Queen. 'I just love her,' as the children say ; for real charity, and that old-fashioned virtue one seldom hears of nowadays, gratitude, give me one who can say as she said to Jotham Gibbons " — " And who, pray, is Jotham Gibbons } " I ^.6 Old Concord. " Oh ! he was the son of Captain Edward Gib- bons of Boston — never mind ; the father had been kind to her, and the Squaw-Sachem didn't forget it. So she gave the choice piece of land, some- where near the Mystic ponds, she had saved for her- self, to this same Jotham Gibbons; and this comes down through the years as the message that went with the gift — from an " untutored savage" mind you — "for the many kindnesses received from his father, and for the tender love and respect which she bore to the son, and desired that these be re- corded in perpetual remembrance of this thing." "And so you see," continues No. i, "this is one reason why I want to locate the Indian Queen in this charming spot. Think of Sylvan Lake, where she could view her dusky face, and braid her elfin locks, as by a mirror; over which her light canoe could dance, and " — " I see I must get you away," says No. 2, strug- o-lino- to her feet," before, like Silas Wegg, you " drop into poetry." " Let us go around the pond," cries the other, " rU promise not to say " Lidian " again, only the driest of facts concerning the origin of Fairyland." " I know that already," her companion, far \— -'-— ii: Her Highzuays and Byzuays. 149 ahead now in the path, gives back over her shoul- der. " Ebby Hubbard owned it, and it was after- ward sold to a public-spirited citizen who spent much time and thought and money on it. It was a laroe tract of rough unpromising land ; your beau- tiful pond had to be evolved by the generous hand that has thrown this all open to whomever cared to enter in. All honor to this public-spirited citizen, I say, who laid a debt at each man's door, for this same old-fashioned virtue of gratitude to repay." 0, Sylvan Lake! with thy veil of delicate tree- twigs drawn before thy face, like the tracery of a fairy dream that only half reveals the mystic beauty of a longed-for Paradise — sweet be thy bordeis, shut in by interlacing boughs of Nature's most prodigal forest growth ; so far removed from haunts of man, that only the echoes of the wilderness con- fuse thee, yet so close to the shining rail along which run the feet of traflfic, and by which are con- ducted the daily going and coming of the human family, that the shy bird takes quick warning at the rumble of the train, and lifting her pretty head de- serts thy limpid banks, and, her thirst unquenched, on frightened wing she hurries to a place of safety and repose. i;o Old Concord. So profound tlie stillness is with thee ! Never broken save by hum of bee, the twitter of bird, or chatter of squirrel ; only the sky to smile into th}' bosom, and disturb thy quiet, by the dancing light of a sunl^eam. The winds that break and twist the writhing forms of the oak and maple, the alder and the pine, do not come near thee to ruffle thy fair surface. It is as if the gentlest of hands had soothingly passed over thy shining face, that was thenceforth to image only the reflection of the Divine content, expressed at the birth-throe of creation — " and God saw that it was good." And on the morrow the easy-going horse, being clothed in his right mind once more, comes humbly up to the door while the pilgrims are eating their morning repast, pokes his nose within, as one who would say, " Here I am ; take me," his eye shining- clear with Duty's light. And so, easily forgiven, he is trusted once more v;ith the environment of harness and shafts, and he turns his head to gaze triumphantly at the familiar old dashboard and the vehicle with its gentle slope that accommodates a tired-out spring; and he for- gets his sin of the day before, and is content as a child with himself and all the world. ^?fe--: Her Higlnvays and Byways. i - -> And thus the pilgrims drive out to Lee's Hill, so rich in tradition and incident as to require a volume for itself. But our pilgrims are not after statistics and historical information ; this is already well given in various places. What they desire is to revel in all the feast of tradition and story ; to carrv awav some of the local colorino- and to o-et a word picture or two of some of the episodes connected with life at the Hill in the olden days. " Of course the place is named for ' Tory Lee ' ? " suggests the one who manipulates the reins. " I don't know, but I presume so ; he seems to have been a man who made his mark here in Con- cord. Whatever is to be said of him, Joseph Lee did not ' let the grass grow under his feet.' " " And yet he found time to keep up a lively church quarrel. To him, I presume, is due the origin of the Black Horse Church, that was held, 'so they say,' in the big room of a tavern wdiich had for a sign a black horse ; the tavern was near the spot where the library now stands." " I don't see why the Concordians were so easy with him for giving secret information to the British ; his head ought to have come off for a spy," exclaims the other pilgrim indignantly. 1^4 ^^'■^ Concord. " Well, it was pretty bad for him to be made a prisoner on his own farm for fourteen months," answered her companion. " That must have been dreadful ! " " Particularly when the Harvard students were turned loose on him. Twelve were portioned out to Tory Lee's farm, you remember, when the col- lege was moved to Concord ; just think of it ! " " Poor Tory Lee ! it is safe to say that life wasn't easy for him then. Well, why wasn't the hill named Willard Hill, I wonder, for good Simon Willard, that benefactor of the young community, without whom nothing seems to have been done ; or Gray Hill, after ' Billy Gray of Salem,' who at one time owned the farm ? Now Billy was a man to proudly perpetuate any association vnth ; and besides, when we reflect that it was his golden aid that made it possible for ' the good ship Constilii- tioji ' to give the world some valuable ideas con- cerning our young independence, it would have been very natural for his name to be honored in this way. But Tory Lee!" " By the way, were not some of the timbers of the Constitution cut from trees on this same Lee's Hill .? " Her Highivays and Byways. 00 " Possibly; but tlien it's glory enough that ' Billy Gray ' floated lier on the waters when she took the Gucrrierc ; never mind how she was built." " But the credit of that belongs to Concord too, and people ought to know it," insisted the other pilgrini obstinately. Her companion turned and regarded her. " Con- cord has been first in everything, it seems to me, since the world began ; it appears to be too late to dispute now her right to universal suprem- acy. Oh ! most fortunate they who are born Concordians." VI. Even the " oldest inhabitant," from whom one can usually wrest some information to suit his fancy or that can be " restored " till it becomes his- tory, fails one when appealed to for the origin of the name of " The Nine Acre Corner." Then the "oldest inhabitant" (otherwise the very essence of kindness and brotherly love) turns his head away and says, " I don't know." And no entreaties that he shall go down into its hitherto forgotten past, for a scrap of ancient lore concerning it — just a scrap that would make the fortune of the humble scribe — can move him to anything other than "I don't know," as final as the executioner's knife. There is a belief current in some quarters, that the grant of nine acres granted to Peter Bulkeley, somewhere in that vicinity, may be responsible for the title. But the " oldest inhabitant," when ap- pealed to on this point, only shakes his head again and steadfastly murmurs, " I don't know." 156 iP P3 1 < -«««. ,1 I Her Highways and Byways. 159 Mystery enhances the charm the locality holds over the one who would see Concord from a pha- eton. And so one brio-ht mornino:, when not too bright, after a recent rain (that the sand awaiting them in the ancient thorouohfare known as the " Old Marlborough Road " may not be too powdery), our pilgrims make an early start; for they have grimly announced their determination not to come home alive without adding to the delightful drive to " Nine Acre Corner," a conscientious inspection of the " Old Marlborough Road." " Heaven help you both ! " exclaims the friend who hears, and immediately she looks over her little store of household remedies for the soothing herb, that brewed, will waft them on their return, into a sweet forgetfulness of the misery into which they are being lured. And she blames herself for countenancing Thoreau's seductive invitation. But they tuck the book in under a flap of the old phaeton cushion, and are content with all the world. O, " Nine Acre Corner " people ! our pilgrims wonder if you know how happy you ought to be, drawn back into such a sweet seclusion, where your ancient records even have evaded curiosity. " The i6o Old Concord. Happy Valley " pales before the glow of your re- treat, with its soft outline of rich, undulating meadow, the comfortable, refined homestead, its barn bursting with the generosity of its crops, its Sabbath stillness, as if all Nature were hushed to a quiet thanksgiving too deep for words. The very insect, elsewhere booming his joy in noisy fashion as he riots in the field, hushes his turbulence to a gentle refrain, or a dignified, resonant hum, as one who ever carries within his bosom an abiding- respect for his environment. And the bird twitters mildly, or sings its roundelay in clear, high strain that soars to the blue above, forgetting any discord- ant note that mioht drao- him to earth. Shall the hours spent within thy borders, O, " Nine Acre Corner," ever be forgotten by our two pilgrims, who are true Concordians, at least in loving thee ! Drawn back under its generous shadows of elm and maple, the gently undulating range of hills beyond the sweep of farm and meadow, the " Mar- tial Miles house " stands in serene content on the wane of this century, as if quite determined so to stand on the ebb of another. Once within, and our explorers thrill with delight. Here are the ideal old rooms with limitless numbers of cupboards, \ \ \ * % . '^ Her HigJnuays and Byivays. 163 cubby-holes and dressers; with kitchen and shed and "annex" without stint. Here are the bewitch- ing stairs, "so easy to fall down," as one old resi- dent wisely remarks, " 'cause you can fetch up on the landin's an' get a chance to catch hold of somethin'," a provision it may be that our fore- "THE VERY ROOM WHERE HE STARTED HIS I'ERPETUAL M(JTION ! " fathers kept in mind when looking out for the weary foremothers who would use those stairs in their unceasing round from " pillar to post." And here is the old garret, full of bewitching suggestions of a musty past, from which one pilgrim draws out an ancient leather-and-nail-bound trunk, crossing 164 Old Concord. the palm of the owner with good American silver for the pleasure of calling it her own ; which so enhances her delight, that she picks her way down the dark, twisted stairs, in a dazed condition, to stand in front of the door of the little room under the garret, there to listen to the tale that sets forth the old man, the father of Martial, who therein wrought at his machine that was never to know rest. " Oh ! if we had missed that," she cries, as out they pass through the ancient front door of the house, like all its cotemporaries seldom opened ex- cept for wedding or funeral, and casting a lingering o-lance at the old house. " To think we have stood in the very room where he started his perpetual motion ! " " And where it stopped. Can we ever be thankful enough ! " breathes the other. " Nut many there be Who enter therein Only the friends of the Irishman Quin," murmurs Pilo-rim No. i, drawino- rein before the remnant of house left by that individual. " Think what we have to tell when at last we must turn our backs on Concord and go once more into the world." Her Highly' ays and By 20 ays. 167 No. 2 pierces the very grass blades with her rapt f^aze. " And the other worthies," she says wnth a sigh, when there is no more to conquer, and draw- ing out her well-thumbed Thoreau, " can't we see them all ? " " No," says Pilgrim No. 2, " we can't ; they're dead." " Oh ! — I mean the houses, or the places where the houses were. We shall be forever disgraced if we lose one." Elisha Dugan — " Oh ! man of wild habits Tartridges and rabbits, Who hast no cares, Only to set snares, WHio liv'st all alone, Close to the bone. And where life is sweetest Constantly eatest " — " And so he lived here close to the bone." Our phaeton pauses before " Jenny Dugan Brook," tumbling under a little bridge arched with stone and protected by the road. " Just a stone's throw away," remarks her com- panion, consulting the memorandum in her hand, given by the "oldest inhabitant." "Never mind, w^e shall have to imagine the house. Elisha's father lived in it, so of course it's gone years ago." 1 68 Old Concord. " O, yes! well, why is this the Jenny Dugan Brook ? " " Why, it's named for his mother," replies the other pilgrim, trying not to appear too elated be- cause she knows, " and so of course it is the Jenny Dugan Brook." " A most generous thing! " warmly responds the first pilgrim, stepping briskly down to the brook- edge, followed by the other; the old horse, who fully approves of this method of viewing relics and byways, shambling of¥ for a wayside nibble. " And just like Concord to be the first to bestow fame on a woman. What other town would have done \\} It is well that woman's day has come. But Concord didn't wait for that, she " — " ' Took time by the forelock,' as we had better do if we wish to get farther on the ' Old Marl- borough Road,'" interrupts Pilgrim No. i with more speed than grace. " And here I believe the farmers at ' Nine Acre Corner' used to bring down their logs to the saw-mill?" remarks Pilgrim No. 2, interrogatively scanning one of the roads that unite at this point. " And the other is the back road to town, isn tit.'' JENNY DUGAN BROOK. Her Highways and Byways. \ 7 1 " Correct," says her companion. " Accordincr to the 'oldest inhabitant.' " " And Jenny ? Oh ! can't you make up some- thing about her? Do," cries No. i impulsively. " She must have had a history." " We know," answers her companion reflectively, " that her husband rejoiced in the name of Tom, that he was the first one in the neighborhood who cradled grain, that " — " But that's not Jenny. Tell me something about her," breaks in the other impatiently. " Well, the brook rises a mile to the southward, and the name of this meadow throuo-h which it runs is Nut Meadow " — " But that's not Jenny. I want something about her," reiterates Pilgrim No. i sharply. " Did not Ellen's Isle speak of the woman for whom it was named, and shall not black Jenny have fame 1 " " I presume she used to whip Elisha and the other pickaninnies who played before the cabin door," replied her companion considering. " She was an excellent washerwoman, tradition says, and a silent worker." " O, no ! she was a woman — it can't be ! From her gift of silence I presume her to be part Indian. 172 Old Concord. Now I'll confess ; my dearest dream about this lovely brook is to make Jenny Dugan an Indian woman ; then I'll easily trace her descent to the Indian Oueen. What more reasonable ? " Pilo-rim No. I throws her hitherto well-preserved composure recklessly to the winds, and clasps her hands in a rhapsody. " Here is the hill where her people lived," waving her head toward the slope that ran away from their feet. " Arrow-heads and chips from their spear-points are to be had for the trouble of picking up." " Let us stop and get some now, then," interrupts her companion. "No, no; time is precious; think of the 'Old Marlborough Road!' Yes, I'm quite sure that Jenny was an Indian ; I can never be satisfied unless I make her so. Now I come to think of it, she was given the power to rule, by her mother, the Indian Queen's daughter, wasn't she } So in Jenny were vested all the rights of the sovereign of her tribe, only she preferred to marry this colored man, this slave — yes, let us make Tom a slave, it's so much more picturesque to mate him with Jenny; the last survivor of a dead system with " — Her Highways and Byways. /D " The remnant of a lost tribe," finished Pilgrim No. 2. " Well, now, I suppose if you have finished Jenny to your satisfaction, we will attack the 'Old Marlborough Road.'" One more glance at the dancing brook, tumbling over its hidden mound of stones to the wealth of delicate ferns below holding out tremulous arms to receive it, and banded across by many a log and fence-rail that have slipped from their controlling support. One more long look over the hill and Thoreau's plain, reclaimed from the sandy waste of which he sang, to a semi-fertile show of grass and shrubs, and our pilgrims are off for the "Old Marlborough Road." If the Virginia Road, before mentioned in this simple record, makes its lazy pilgrim forget all his cares and troubles, the " Old Marlborough " Road is well calculated to cause him to take them up again. Hiere is not a grain missing of the "gravel " that Thoreau knew, with even a goodly addition, to plough through. One looks, if he be of a philan- thropic turn of mind, pityingly at the horse ; surelv he ought not, by all the laws that govern man's dealings with the lower brutes, to be compelled to draw a heavy phaeton and two able-bodied women over this thoroughfare whicli " nobody repairs," 1/6 Old Concord. decide our pilgrims. So out they step, gently thril- ling with a sweet satisfaction in their own benev- olence; and hoping their steed has the proper amount of gratitude, they persuasively lead him by the flowing reins while, gingerly elevating, their skirts, they begin to plough their way along. Truth compels us to state, however, because this record "old MARLBOROUGH ROAD prevaricateth not by so much as a hair's breadth from the white line of verity, that after a quarter of a mile of traveling in this fashion has been enjoyed, the pilgrims pause, look to each other for a decision, which neither expressing, they step quickly into their phaeton and with an abrupt " Go on, Dobbin ! " they acknowledge to him, and to all the world that Her Highways and Byways. 177 is there to hear, their willingness to be drawn over the remainder of the " Old Marlborough Road." "It is not too late to turn back." Pilgrim No. i peers furtively into her companion's face, but the sight wilts her, and she drops into her corner of the phaeton. " I'd die before I'd turn back ! " mutters she-of- the-whip between her teeth. And in weary silence the two occupants of the phaeton mechanically watch the horse settle his feet with a thud into the sand-bed and pick them out, his head observing that peculiar series of jerks known to those who manipulate the reins, when the propelling power between the shafts is obliged to " o'et on " ao-ainst his will. " We are positively cruel," murmurs one pilgrim leaning forward at a disadvantage and holding her breath, under the impression that she is thus reduc- ing her weight, " to make this poor creature pull us over this diabolical sand " — " We can't help it," sighs the other in re- sponse, though feeling like a murderer, "and it is Thoreau who was cruel ; for after his poem, w^ho could look a Concordian in the face and not see the " Old Marlborough Road." Go on, Dobbin." I 78 Old Concord. She even essayed to reach the whip, but the stern eye of her confederate forbade. " No, we will draw the line at the whip," said the latter in cold displeasure, projecting herself several additional inches toward the dashboard, at the risk of again meeting, in personal contact the " Old Marlborough Road." And so, conversation dying down, the two lapse into miserable reflections, while the twittering of the birds in the wayside thickets tell off the slowly passing moments, until — our pilgrims draw a con- scientious breath, nearly ready to leave this world, since they have seen, not Rome, but the " Old Marlborough Road;' But Pilorrim No. i must vent her inward unrest. '• To think we have done all this, to go — nowhere, as Thoreau says." " You forget. He also says ' you may go round the world by the Old Marlborough Road,' " says she-of-the-vvhip, waking up.