Massachusetts College of Art and Design - Palette and Pen Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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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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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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monument. In this sylvan atmosphere they again assembled for the camera, grouping themselves with accustomed ease. W ' hen they had rested, the Guide led off up the path which dipped and rose, turned a hit, and in its circuitous way, brought them finally, single file, to the crest of the hill where is the Holiest Ground. On this ridge in magnificent solitude is the last resting place of the great ones, the Emersons, Thoreaus, Hawthornes, Alcotts. Before the Em- erson lot the little caravan halted. Be- yond the tiny square the land dropped sharply off to the valley below. Here one might gaze for miles, the strength of the wind in his face; here one might sleep for an aeon, its susurrus his slumber song. Through the tall trees the wind spoke to them now, in its strong, fierce way, wrapping their bod- ies in coolness, touching them with a sudden, clean cold. It sang in their ears of the great ones, and the Guide answered hack in words. The pilgrim band moved on. The path led down in an erratic course which took them past the lovely, laurel- covered place where rests Thoreau, and by tlie other two, so that they found the old friends, as in life, gathered together. Back in the sunny street, they felt the difference, less of the wind, and more of mortal folk. They marched along in jovial haste, atuned once more to present century life, . t the center, they made a final visit to the fountain and assembled on the friendly seats about a tall old Concord elm to ' wait the bus. Here there was some miscalcula- tion and the bus came not. They waited quietly, glad of a chance to rest, while the Guide went forth on foot to find their errant steed. The tag-end of a lost parade approached and disband- ed, loosing half a hundred Boy Scouts in the ,s([uare. The Guide returned with a perple.xed look and no news. The pilgrims were amused. It was pleasant in the sun, let the bus delay; Imt then it came! The driver offered an excuse and they scrambled in. Bump- ily they trundled over the rough road to Walden Pond where they poured out again before a flourishing wayside stand. The Guide led off through the wood. They missed the path, but they could not lose the way. The Cairn was like a beacon burning. Straight on they came, in a snake-line line undulating over the rolling ground. A shout from the dis- coverers broke the line. From the crest of a little rise, they descended around the Cairn like a primitive tribe. Weather, and the sad work of unknow- ing hands had laid it low. Its original spire-like (piality was gone. In un- beautiful array, it scpiatted comfortably iu a leafy clearing, where, from its spire it must have gazed upon the lake. Still, it was dear to them. Even in its placidity was something of Thoreau. It marked the place where he had lived, and learned. Its content was his con- tent. It knew the things he knew. It looked on the same scenes; it dwelt in the same place. Had it been so they could, the pilgrims would have fallen to work and with their own hands re- stored it to its former shape. Gladly they would have raised its spire again, given it grace, but time for them was short. Much had they seen and done, and there was more to do. They went down to the pond and scanned its shores. They dipped their fingers at its edge and tried to imagine the echo of the loon across its surface. And very fervently a little few, with a peb- ble in each hand, because other devout souls before them had gleaned the shore at that point of sizeable stones, returned to the Cairn and deposited their gifts as all good followers should. So the Cairn grew, and so it grows, generously fed with small fry now where boulders were before. Reluctantly they left. The woods were sweet that afternoon. Their city noses sniffed the air in bliss. They lost the path again and this time it stayed lost. The road could not call them as the Cairn could. They plunged through the underbrush tearing their stockings, whipping their faces on back-swinging l)ranches. The sun, looking down, saw them, a scattered herd of little creat- ures. stumbling along, calling to each other, stopping to crush the dry sweet- fern in their hands, pinning it to their coats, sniffing it joyously. The sun smiled, and when they regained the road with their shoes full of pebbles and twigs, they felt their skins burning and looked anxiously at their noses in the glass at the front of the bus. So they rode on to Lexington, con- scious of the sun’s work but happy. Over endless rises they climbed past fair farms and spreading country homes. Even as their city feet had felt the change, so did the bus, for it was city- l red too. Accustomed to the even pavements, it wrestled valiantly with country hills which threatened defeat, and gradually it gained, but for a time they feared for its good lungs. It had a sorry time. Once up on even ground, they sped along with ease, and found themselves in time, in I-exington. At the old Tavern, they clustered around the Guide before the door. He told them, in his quiet wajq what things they would see. and what had held him most. Then they went in, the better prepared for the experience. In the first room, was a woman whose task it was to enlighten visitors as to the contents of the place. The lady knew her task. Her swift tongue told them all. Their poor heads jerked spasmodically, now to the shutters, now to the old Dutch tiles over the fire- place, back to the pictures on the wall, rested for a moment while the history of these was recounted, and then ro- tated agilely as they read the inscrip- tion on the banner which encompassed the room at the top. This last, which had been used on the occasion of La- fayette’s second visit to America in 1824. brought prickles of appreciation to their spines. Welcome, Lafayette, to the birthplace of American liberty.” They were allowed to go where they would, so long as they kept moving. In the next room they found an end- less assortment of colonial accessories, lanterns, candle molds, tools, arms, etc. They passed through a tiny room which had been someone’s study, into an annex in which were kept the most valuable relics. Here, they saw, behind glass doors, the drum which beat the stirring call at the battle of Here, too, were diaries and other let- ters in fine colonial script, which the more ambitious gamely tried to read. There were old uniforms, elaborately embroidered vests, and a three- cornered hat. This room held them the longest although it had more of a museum atmosphere than the room be- fore. At last they went on, through a bedroom with an old chintz-covered, canopied four-poster in which John Hancock, according to the label, did not sleep. Upstairs were other bed- rooms and a kind of attic in which they found a large loom, spinning gear, and several wooden cradles, some of such unusual size that they wondered if ba- bies of old were larger than in their later day. There was a need now to hurry; the Boston Elevated Bus was Boston bound; their day would soon be done. They went directly to the Green. In a sea of grass stood the Minute Alan, guarding the emblems of the first Thir- teen. A stiff breez flung them out and the sun sparkled on their folds. Like jewels they flashed against the white and the green. The pilgrims scuttled under the rope and came up inside the circle of flags. On the walk before the Minute Alan thej ' stopped and read the inscription on the base. They noticed especially the familiar old American names which appeared there, and also the church at the left expressing in its simple spire, the faith of their fore- fathers. .-A stranger joined the group, and went away the richer for his stay- ing. Children came past, playing at tag between the flag sticks. The sun was slipping lower. With a last gaze at the festive little Green, the pilgrims turned their backs on a memorable day; but hovering above the common- place to which they would return was the magic path of memory, and even as it ended, the journey was re-begun. Concord Revisited Alusic in the tall trees. Wind among the boughs. Like the sound of high seas Crashing from steep prows. Alusic in the high trees. Country fields ' laid wide. Like the silent smooth seas. When the gray gulls glide. Alusic in the high trees. The tempest roars, is gone. Space reminiscent breathes Great ,s])irits passing on. H. L. E. 5