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

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Kins’s Chapel Marie MacDonnell

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etiicatUut Buried deep within our school closeted with weird creatures of wire and cotton-battins, surrounded by wonderful chests overflowins with spangles velvets and rich stuffs, costumes for every land, every fancy — prospective modistes are in- troduced to stitch, hem, and gusset. To the mistress of that fairyland of muslin and brocade, lady deft and charming, M iss Martha Flint we affectionately and gratefully dedicate this book.

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CUiiAcUzi, ol [SUSAN RICHERT] KING’S CHAPEL. If King’s Chapel could stand today as its architect drew it, the tower completed and the colonnade left off, it would be a typical colonial church, like the Park Street or the Old North, or like any of the white clapboarded elm-shaded meeting houses which raise their fragile spires to New England skies. But perhaps it is better as it is — grim and black and solid as a bank. For, so sheltered, the interior is all the more completely breathtaking. A white church always seems something of a miracle. But this has a radiance of more than painted walls and unstained windows — the dazzling radiance of an ' inward and spirit- ual grace.’ Obviously this church was not so much designed as inspired. Every detail has the mark of essential fitness — the delicate Corinthian columns, the canopied Governor’s pew, the paneled pulpit with its winding stairs, the two altar candles, tall and white and steady; the church has a thousand ways to win your heart. And the sun, streaming in through the swirled glass of the deep-set windows, lies on the high box pews and the stone flagged floor as once it caressed Washington, decorous in black velvet asittouched broad-shouldered Ol iver Wendell Holmes. Th eir way of life has long since passed, but it lingers on here where they sat, where time stands still, dreaming in the late afternoon sunshine. Close outside are the thick clustered stones of the burying ground. It was in the first year of the town’s settlement that Isaac Johnson bought this ground and hurried down to Salem to comfort his frail pretty wife with plans for their new home which should be as much like the one she had left in England as he could make it. But when he came again from Boston, Lady Arbella lay buried in Salem. A few months later Johnson himself died and was buried at his own request in the spot I had marked out for our house.’’ And after him came many others — gentle John Winthrop, fiery John Cotton, unsung William Dawes, and, more immortal than any of these, Elizabeth Pain, who wore on her breast, wherever she went.