Turning to its historic interest, one is reminded of it at every side. Upon a faithful reproduction of the original meeting-house, a tablet informs the visitor that here the first meeting was held that led to national independence. A placard on a quaint old hostelry informs us that it was a tavern in pre-Revolutionary times. Leaving the "common," around which most New England towns cluster, one soon reaches Monument Street. Following it until houses grow infrequent, one comes to an interesting specimen which seems familiar. A conspicuous sign proclaims it private property and that sightseers are not welcome. It is the "Old Manse" made immortal by the genius of Hawthorne. Near by, an interesting road intersects leading to a river. Soon we descry a granite monument at the famous bridge, and across the bridge "The Minute Man." The inscription on the monument informs us that here the first British soldier fell. An iron chain incloses a little plot by the side of a stone wall where rest those who met the first armed resistance. Crossing the bridge which spans a dark and sluggish stream one reaches French's fine statue with Emerson's noble inscription,—
"By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world."
No historic spot has a finer setting or an atmosphere so well fitted to calm reflection on a momentous event.
On the way to Concord, if one is so fortunate as to go by trolley, one passes through Lexington and catches a glimpse of its bronze "Minute Man," more spirited and lifelike in its tense suspended motion than French's calm and determined farmer-soldier. In the side of a farmhouse near the Concord battle-field—if such an encounter can be called a battle—a shot from a British bullet pierced the wood, and that historic orifice is carefully preserved; a diamond-shaped pane surrounds it. Our friend, Rev. A.W. Jackson, remarked, "I suppose if that house should burn down, the first thing they would try to save would be that bullet-hole."
But Concord is richest in the memory of the men who have lived and died there, and whose character and influence have made it a center of world-wide inspiration. One has but to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to be impressed with the number and weight of remarkable names associated with this quiet town, little more than a village. Sleepy Hollow is one of a number of rather unusual depressions separated by sharp ridges that border the town. The hills are wooded, and in some instances their steep sides make them seem like the half of a California canyon. The cemetery is not in the cuplike valley, but on the side and summit of a gentle hill. It is well kept and very impressive. One of the first names to attract attention is "Hawthorne," cut on a simple slab with rounded top. It is the sole inscription on the little stone about a foot high. Simplicity could go no farther. Within a small radius are found the graves of Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott, John Weiss, and Samuel Hoar. Emerson's monument is a beautiful boulder, on the smoothed side of which is placed a bronze tablet. The inscriptions on the stones placed to the memory of the different members of the family are most fitting and touching. This is also true of the singularly fine inscriptions in the lot where rest several generations of the Hoar family. A good article might be written on monumental inscriptions in the Concord burial-ground. It is a lovely spot where these illustrious sons of Concord have found their final resting-place, and a pilgrimage to it cannot but freshen one's sense of indebtedness to these gifted men of pure lives and elevated thoughts.
The most enjoyable incident of the delightful Decoration Day on which our trip was made was a visit to Emerson's home. His daughter was in New York, but we were given the privilege of freely taking possession of the library and parlor. Everything is as the sage left it. His books are undisturbed, his portfolio of notes lies upon the table, and his favorite chair invites the friend who feels he can occupy it. The atmosphere is quietly simple. The few pictures are good, but not conspicuous or insistent. The books bear evidence of loving use. Bindings were evidently of no interest. Nearly all the books are in the original cloth, now faded and worn. One expects to see the books of his contemporaries and friends, and the expectation is met. They are mostly in first editions, and many of them are almost shabby. Taking down the first volume of The Dial, I found it well filled with narrow strips of paper, marking articles of especial interest. The authors' names not being given, they were frequently supplied by Mr. Emerson on the margin. I noticed opposite one article the words "T. Parker" in Mr. Emerson's writing. The books covered one side of a good-sized room and ran through the connecting hall into the quaint parlor, or sitting-room, behind it. A matting covered the floor, candlesticks rested on the chimney-piece, and there was no meaningless bric-a-brac, nor other objects of suspected beauty to distract attention. As you enter the house, the library occupies the large right-hand corner room. It was simple to the verge of austerity, and the farthest possible removed from a "collection." There was no effort at arrangement—they were just books, for use and for their own sake. The portfolio of fugitive notes and possible material for future use was interesting, suggesting the source of much that went to make up those fascinating essays where the "thoughts" often made no pretense at sequence, but rested in peaceful unregulated proximity, like eggs in a nest. Here is a sentence that evidently didn't quite satisfy him, an uncertain mark of erasure leaving the approved portion in doubt: "Read proudly. Put the duty of being read invariably on the author. If he is not read, whose fault is it? I am quite ready to be charmed—but I shall not make believe I am charmed." Dear man! he never would "make believe." Transparent, sincere soul, how he puts to shame all affectation and pretense! Mr. Jackson says his townsmen found it hard to realize that he was great. They always thought of him as the kindly neighbor. One old farmer told of his experience in driving home a load of hay. He was approaching a gate and was just preparing to climb down to open it, when an old gentleman nimbly ran ahead and opened it for him. It was Emerson, who apparently never gave it a second thought. It was simply the natural thing for him to do.
Walden Pond is some little distance from the Emerson home, and the time at our disposal did not permit a visit. But we had seen enough and felt enough to leave a memory of rare enjoyment to the credit of that precious day in Concord.
FIVE DAYS
There are several degrees of rest, and there are many ways of resting. What is rest to one person might be an intolerable bore to another, but when one finds the ultimate he is never after in doubt. He knows what is, to him, the real thing. The effect of a sufficient season, say five days, to one who had managed to find very little for a disgracefully long time, is not easy to describe, but very agreeable to feel.
My friend [Footnote: Horace Davis] has a novel retreat. He is fond of nature as manifested in the growth of trees and plants, and some seventeen years ago he bought a few acres, mostly of woods, in the Santa Cruz Mountains. There was a small orchard, a few acres of hillside hayfield, and a little good land where garden things would grow.