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THE ANNUAL PCCTfCLIC In the week of April 19, 1929, a group of students in an art school in Boston felt a curious vibration of their car drums. Not all of the student body experienced this sensation, but many of those who did recognized it as the knuckles of Oppor- tunity rapping for attention. 1 hey know the sound, these few, and seized the lady by the hand. She spoke through the Eng- lish teacher, a man whom she had often employed. He proposed a pilgrimage to America ' s Holy Land, which was his designation for historic Concord and Lexington. He em- broidered the theme. He won his group to the idea, and finally, he held elaborate conferences with the officials of different bus lines and succeeded in chartering an Elevated bus for the day. He was a man of “infinite sagacity,” and besides, he had made the trip on foot many times be- fore. On the morning of the 19th, which was the day of days, the party set out two score strong in the bus, witli two trailers driven by people fortunate enough to have cars of the ir own. The day was fine, with a clearing sky and a fresh, cool wind. Their Cuide was in a merry mood, tem- pered somewhat with that touch of hu- mility which the student feels on ap- proaching the hallowed places of those great scholars of a former day. The pres- ence of his two young sons, manly fel- lows, yet with all the unrestrained ex- uberance of young Americans on a hol- iday, added to the merriment of the party. Their faces shone; their eyes sparkled; their grins from time to time divided their faces into two parts, and at all times they were known to enjoy themselves hugely. The ride from Boston to Concord is a fair one, and the time passed (piickly. Emerson ' s home, at ten o ' clock in the morning, wore the attitude of a city home at about a quarter to seven. It looked lived in. hut it had an air of not having arisen for the day. The wanderers gath- ered on the front walk and waited while the Guide made arrangements with the gentleman at the door. At length, the door, which had been drawn back cau- tiously, was hospitably opened wide and the pilgrims crowded in. Without a glance at the semi-dark hall with its wide stair- case, they passed into Mr. Emerson ' s Pilgrimage study where they stood tightly jammed together staring at whatever met their eyes. There was a distinct musty smell in the air, as if the house had not been opened since Mr. Emerson passed through the broad front doorway for the last time. From somewhere near the door came the voice of Mr. Hall, the Superintendent of Schools, who had come over especially to help extend the hospitality of Concord. This sound was broken in turn by the voice of Miss Legate, who live d there at the time and kept the house in its orig- inal state, even to the position of the fur- niture. The pilgrims looked about them. They saw the whale oil lamp (which had since been electrified). They saw vari- ous relics vhich Mr. Emerson had brought from Egypt. They saw a whole wall solid with books from floor to ceil- ing. They crowded closer and scanned the titles, and were elated when they found familiar ones, and appalled at the number which were not familiar. Whenever an authoritative voice dominated the buzz of conversation, all heads jerked smartly in that direction. The listened with their ears. They looked with their eyes, noting the many cpiaint family pictures on the walls and the rather crowded arrangement of comfortable furniture. They sniffed the musty air and presently slipped on into the next room, all rooms large, high, and square. Here was the parlor room, the room in which Mr. Emerson entertained and in which all the memorable discussions were held. Here was a more agreeable ar- rangement of furniture, a long .sofa, a piano of a later date, and a sulky fire on the hearth. The pilgrims passed on through the end of the hall on the way to the dining room. Several were cap- tivated by the charms of an ancient rock- ing horse with miraculously preserved mane and tail. They exclaimed over it with delight as they had not done over Mr. Emerson ' s books, perhaps from a sense of awe. (Students are not in awe of a rock- ing horse, even if they have never seen it before.) Tn the dining room they saw an interest- ing table composed of two tables placed closely together, these both from the Emerson side of the family, while the oth- er pieces had been brought from Plymouth by Mrs. Emerson. All this they learned from Miss Legate, who was ever a gra- cious hostess. They stood a bit longer be- fore a photograph of Mr. Carlyle, a rather striking camera study which had been con- sidered daring and unusual when it was made. Presently the visit was over and they were outside, swarming over the grass, turning to view the house, rushing up and down with cameras, squinting into the box and up at the sun. Here and there, people with pencils and sketch pads, sought to reflect a bit of history, literattire, of architecture and scenery, through their own personalities. The boys, the two young sons, had long since escaped the confines of the house whose wall treasures were yet too pon- derous for their eager minds. Some day they would return with their father to ex- perience that thrill which he knew on treading this hallowed ground. This day they knew only the countryside which they had glimpsed on going in. They were discovered by other merry souls who also heard the pipes of Pan, down at the edge of the brook in a field behind the Emersoti barn, helping a lone and patient angler to fish. All had deserted the spot, even the angler, before the scattered pilgrims could be assembled for their marching orders. From there on, the pilgrims were to tramp about the lanes and highways of Concord on foot, with the exception of the occupants of the two trailers. The bus was dismissed till the afternexjn. The band filed on, two and four abreast, the front ranks constantly shifting as eager members inadvertently tried to gain a autage point beside, or within hearing distance of, the Guide. The official camera- man of the party made .strides ahead, set up his camera in the walk and snapped the on-coming horde. The destination was the Alcott house. Arrival found it closed, with the curtains tightly drawn. The pil- grims, swept forward, surrounding the house, peering into the few dark windows which had been left uncovered, and calling back and forth to their friends. Mur- murs of “Amy, Beth, and Jo,” were heard. The house made little response to their advances. It wore the dormant resigna- tion of one whose thoughts look back- ward. The group swarmed up the grassy 3
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slope to the picturesque School of Philos- ophy. This building held aloof from the house and sat its grassy pedestal with an air of quiet contemplation. Its windows held a dreamy stare, as if it felt the vis- itors, but did not deign to see them. They pressed closely and applied themselves thickly to every reachable pane of glass. Within was the same air of temporary idleness, of suspended activity. The benches and chairs were arranged as for a lecture and the chairs around the speak- er ' s table were in that natural disorder which thej- assume when a lecture is over and the audience comes forward to meet the guest of honor. The pilgrims gazed and speculated. They climbed up behind and found a better view of the hall from the window at the back. Cameras clicked. Talk and laughter stirred the air. , The people became conscious of the steep hill behind them, whose unseen top was like a beckoning hand. They forgot “Little Women’’ and the School. The voice of the Sage was drowned in the music of Pan ' s pipes. With one accord they scurried up the rough, steep incline, intent on seeing “the other side of the mountain. At the top was a large, flat field, yellow in the sun. Like juvenile satyrs they capered across its ample ex- panse. At the far edge they stopped and filled their delighted minds with the sub- stance of a long look across the land. Tree tops pointed up at them from below. Farms nestled in low hills in the distance. Little roads wove in and out. They were closer to the sky than the land below and that was good. The sun was warm. The wind was fresh and cool. They were hap- py. Just over the brink of the flat plateau, in the rich, coarse, rooty sand, someone turned a stone to the animation of the two boys. Disturbed by the sudden glare and the unaccustomed rush of air, two unusual beetles, whose colors brought forth ac- clamations from the art students, moved wearily about, a little confused and be- wildered, in search of a new alwde. The group straggled back, descending the hill with great furore. Once down, the spirit of the Alcotts won them over and the climb up the ridge along Haw- thorne ' s walk was made in true humility. City bred feet sunk gratefully into the soft carpet of pine. The ears were be- guiled by the sound of the wind in the trees. No whisper of spring breezes, this was a Voice speaking aloud in a tongue they could understand. “Peace,” it said. “Peace and Tranquility. So ye be calm, ye shall know all. Lift up thine eyes to the fair, high hills whence cometh thy help. Nothing in Nature is hurried; be thou the same. “Peace to the tired heart. “Peace to the harried brain. “Peace. Standing quietly at the foot of the tree which still held in its sturdy arms the un- safe remnants of the bower that Haw- thorn e built, the little hand of pilgrims felt something of reverence and a keen enjoy- ment in these living evidences of a glorious past. The pipes of Pan grew fainter, sur- placed by the music in the trees. Tliey left the tree reluctantly, regain- ing their merriment on the rough path down to the Hawthorne house. This, too, was closed, and like the Alcott house, it wore an air of placid sadness, like an old face lingering in the past. The tower, atop the roof, which Mr. Hawthorne had built for use as a sanctuary when bad weather made the tree-house inconvenient, was tightly boarded and gave no evidence of the activity which once justified its presence. The pilgrims assembled behind the hedge while the photographer added to history. This seemed to cheer them, as if they had brightened the old house by their presence instead of intruding in its reverie. The picture over, they dis- banded in small groups on their way to the center of the town for lunch. As they drew nearer, the shrill fife and the muffled staccato of the drum came to them from the distance. Occasionally, the flash of color from a passing flag would catch the eye. There was a feeling of parades about, afar off, always just around the corner. They did not see one, but they knew. They knew also, that they trod hallowed ground, and that theirs was a holy day. That was in the air. They began to feel patriotic. The front ranks paused before the old cemetery to view the town. This was Concord’s visiting day and the little center was full of cars. The pilgrims found their number challenged. There were many devout souls in the Holy Lands that day. Traffic swept by. An ice-cream delivery truck passed, and as it jounced along, Setelx)s saw and jerked open the door allowing a gallon container to fall into the street. There was a ripple, not wholly devout, among the pilgrims. To a man, they became children again. They slipped between passing cars and brought the cov- eted carton to the curb. They lifted the lid, — strawberry — fifll to the brim, firm, cold, pink. A murmer arose, a shout of triumph as they gaze i in childish delight and anticipation. The rear guard arrived, and with them, the Guide. No fooling the Guide in any way. The truth came out. He laughed, — and hoi)ed, too, that the cream would not be missed, — but until they were sure that the truck would not return, the creamy surface must not be disturbed. They sighed, and were honest, but whimsical Setebos had heard. They should have feigned indifference. The truck came back. A callous creature thanked them and returned the cream to the car. There was a gentle moan as it disappeared in the refrigerator’s gloom. Their pilgrimage was not without Ordeal. N(X311 found them scattered, munching fraternally in small groups. Strange places knew their gaiety. Two bright red apples and the chaste column of a cpiart of milk lent color to the graveyard. Tlie river, winding behind the Old Manse, be- held another group along its banks. Some mistcKsk the quiet anterot: m of the Police Station and spent their noon hour on its ample settees. The watering trough knew them through its bubbling fountains, and the drug stores met their numbers in fran- tic haste. Vlien they had pacified the inner man, they met in the square again and .set out for “the rude bridge that arched the flood.” . t the Old Manse they found the trail- ers waiting, and the two boys running about in high spirits. From time to time strangers joined the ranks and listened as the Guide explained and described events which gave each stopping place acclaim. Small boys came, listened for a moment, appraised the two sons, and were gone Oil n.cre important business of their own which would not wait. Under the Guide ' s persuasion old occupants lived again. Re- turned was Pastor Emerson, watching the Battle from his window, storming because he was not there, and for the time, losing his pastoral dignity. Here lived again Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Hawthorne, toe. The little group moved on. The road was lined with cars ; Americans horn, and .Americans made, come to pay homage at their country’s birthplace. They passed down the tree-arched lane to the bridge below, pausing before the British grave to read : “They came three thousand miles and died To keep the Past upon its throne ; Unheard, beyond the ocean tide. Their English Mother made her moan.” Emotion touched them. Something struck in upon their carefree mood, a picture of this war, of other wars, and of the irreparable losses which ensued. Here, in this lane, the English men bail formed, their red coats gleaming in the sun. Here, they had marched for the last time under English sky, had fallen not to rise, on foreign soil. In perfect precision they had approached the narrow bridge. As fighting gentlemen they had taken it four abreast, their numbers drawn out in a long, sure target and desperate “rebels,” also fighting for a cause, had mown them down. The bridge, this April morning, arched the flood as of old. High water gave the band a glimpse of how it must have been that day in 1775. They stood in the little circle just be- yond and studied the Minute Man. Their trained minds ran in grooves. They dis- cussed the workmanship ; they walked around it to get the effect from different angles; they judged it seriously, as if it had not stood so long and been judged by thousands belort them ; and they decided that it might remain. Here, also, the Guide spoke to others than his own group, and all who had come to see were eager to hear. Rack through the shady lane they filed, enroute to Sleept ' Hollow. The sun smiled on them, the way was long to unaccustomed feet, and in the open valley, the breeze was gentle. .At a place where roads took leave of one another, disappearing into the wood or behind the hill, they halted by a vine- covered wall. Before them in a kind of rough semi-circle, flanked bj ' the thick, dark foliage of rhododendron, rose the white beauty of the sculptor’s art, the D. C. Erench Memorial to the Melvin brothers. Its broad recesses invited them, and its low steps offered a resting place. They crowded closer and read the inscriptions which closer inspection disclosed in the floor of the 4
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