See America First Part 19

We spent a delightful morning in Cambridge. It has been the home of some of the foremost literary lights of the United States, and just to the west of it, in Mount Auburn cemetery, lie the mortal remains of Longfellow, Prescott, Lowell, Holmes, Motley, and many other prominent men.

Across the blue Charles, like Greek temples rise the buildings of the Ma.s.sachusetts Inst.i.tute of Technology. The n.o.ble marble group of buildings of the School of Medicine of Harvard are very impressive. As we crossed the river, we thought how often our beloved Longfellow had looked on its peaceful tide from his charming home in Cambridge. The view from his home is still un.o.bstructed, and it speaks of the veneration in which he is held by the people of the city. It was while living at Cambridge that he wrote his Ode to the Charles river, given below:

River, that in silence windest Through the meadows bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea.

Four long years of mingled feeling Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River, Many a lesson, deep and long.

Thou hast been a generous river; I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap upward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin clear.

We paused in front of the old homestead to take a picture of it.

But it mattered little about the picture, for what pictures of rarest beauty he has left us, always speaking to our hearts messages of sympathy and love! Even as the years pa.s.s, Longfellow is still the universal poet, and it was with pleasure we recalled how the Belgian children in the King Leopold school of the city of Antwerp were acquainted with his more familiar poems. He is better known among foreigners than any one except their own poets.

We next paid a visit to the home of James Russell Lowell, that other sweet singer and nature lover of Cambridge. As we gazed upon the many venerable trees that drooped their graceful branches over the old homesteads, we did not wonder that the people of New England became alarmed when the ravages of the gypsy moth threatened the trees. At Elmwood we saw the efforts the people had made to preserve them. The stately trees had been severely pruned and their trunks wore black girdles of a sticky substance to ensnare the female moths. The foliage had been sprayed.

Henry Van d.y.k.e said the last time he saw James Russell Lowell, he walked with him in his garden at Elmwood to say goodbye.

There was a great horse chestnut tree beside the house, towering above the gable, covered with blossoms. The poet looked up and laid his trembling hands upon the trunk. "I planted the nut,"

said he, "from which the tree grew. My father was with me when I planted it."

As we admired the shrubbery and trees at Elmwood, we thought of the inspiration this spot afforded that generous soul who dwelt so happily here.

"Give fools their gold and knaves their power.

Let Fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field or trains a flower, Or plants a tree is more than all."

Every schoolboy has read about the famous Was.h.i.+ngton elm of Cambridge. What a marvelous tree to think about and gaze upon!

It is difficult to a.n.a.lyze your emotions while standing near this historic spot gazing at this famous tree.

Since the balmy breeze of some far-off springtime caught those winged seeds from which America's most celebrated tree sprang, what changes have come to our land! When this patriarch was young, in the nearby woods Indians and fierce, wild beasts brushed past its companions. Perhaps the squaws fastened their linden cradles to their limbs while they planted their maize in the springtime, and when they had grown larger, orioles hung their corded hammocks amid their pendulous branches, with no fear of squirrels or that horror of all low nesting birds--the black snake.

Summer after summer brought new verdure to their branches. Many autumns turned their wealth of emerald leaves to golden glory.

Winter upon winter twisted their tough branches and weighed them down with snows until they now stand the monarchs of other days.

There is the very spot where Was.h.i.+ngton took command of the Continental Army on July 3, 7775. How like the man who stood beneath it was this tree then. It had beauty, strength and grace, without signs of any weakness, proclaiming it the king of trees. Here once stood "a man of great soundness of judgment, moral self-control, intense fiery pa.s.sions curbed by a will of iron. His sweet, tender soul had been enshrined in a worthy temple." His grave and handsome face, n.o.ble bearing and courtly grace of manner all proclaimed him king of men.

But here still stands that great old elm, a nation's shrine. It struggles bravely to clothe with verdure its few remaining limbs, still speaking eloquently of those stirring days "that tried men's souls." Each green leaf in its aged crest tells of those n.o.ble patriots, whose memory of the glorious lives of self- sacrifice shall forever remain, verdant in the hearts of a liberty-loving people. This glorious tree, with its few broken limbs and scanty foliage, wears signs of many a wintry combat and summer winds surprise attacks "as heroes their scars,"

unbending still through all those years of toil and strife.

Perhaps a few more years and this venerable tree shall yield to some wintry blast; its present site to be marked by a monument of bronze or marble. But how much more fitting would it be to plant a young tree where the old one stood. This would be a living monument where its cooling shadows would still fall upon the weary travelers "like a benediction on the road of life."

Here pilgrims from Maine to California's farthest bounds might some day rest beneath its beneficent branches. We fancy how they will gaze in admiration at a new tree, whose symmetrical gray trunk rises like a mighty fluted column, from which graceful limbs spread out to form a glorious canopy. Its serrated leaves, each an emerald in that vast corona of verdure, will become in autumn a topaz in its gleaming crest. When the snows of many winters shall have clothed its slender, drooping branches with clinging drapery of star flowers and many springs thatched its myriad twigs with emerald that droop like sprays of art, it too shall grow h.o.a.ry and give way to some fierce blast, making room for another and still more glorious Was.h.i.+ngton Elm.

Other places you surely will care to see are Old South Church, often called the "Sanctuary of Freedom," lying between Milk and Water streets. The present building was erected in 1730. Faneuil Hall, the Cradle of Liberty, which is at the disposal of the people for public meetings whenever certain conditions are met; on the upper floor of this hall is the armory of The Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company, the oldest military company in this country. Old North Church is known to every school boy and girl in the land as the place where Paul Revere saw the two lights that were his signal for starting on his memorable ride. Over the river is Bunker Hill Monument, recalling that resolute stand made by the patriots in 1775, and from which a fine view over the city is afforded. King's Chapel, at the corner of Tremont and School streets, is a most interesting landmark, which was completed in 1753. Entering, you find a decidedly old-fas.h.i.+oned atmosphere in the high-backed, square pews and handsome decorations. George Was.h.i.+ngton's pew will be pointed out to you.

The Old State House was built in 1748. In it "the child Independence was born." Here the royal governors of the province and the royal council sat. It was from the balcony on the State street side that the news of the Declaration of Independence was proclaimed. Here, in 1835, William Lloyd Garrison found refuge from a mob which had broken up an anti-slavery meeting and threatened the life of this brave agitator.

On the corner of Was.h.i.+ngton and School streets is a quaint building, the oldest now standing in Boston. It was erected in 1712 and is known as The Old Corner Book Store. Some of the largest and most influential American publis.h.i.+ng houses had their inception in this building.

One must not fail to see Copley Square, the center of artistic, literary and educational life in Boston. Fronting on this square are Trinity Church, commonly known as Phillips Brooks' church, as his pastorate there covered a period of twenty-two years. St.

Gaudens' statue of Brooks stands in front of the church. Also facing this square is the chaste and cla.s.sic front of the Boston Public Library. Two of Saint Gaudens' groups adorn enormous pedestals at either side of the entrance. Inside, on the walls of the grand stairway, are magnificent paintings by John La Farge and others, while on the four sides of the main public room are mural paintings by La Farge, depicting the entire history of Sir Arthur and the Holy Grail.

Just before crossing the river into Charlestown one's attention is directed to a small triangular s.p.a.ce surrounded by an iron fence, no side of which is more than five or six feet long, in which is growing a single tree. To this is attached a sign proclaiming that "Dogs are not allowed in this park." Just across the river, not far from Bunker Hill Monument, is the Navy Yard.

The museum of Fine Arts in Boston contains many important works from both the old and modern masters. Here you will see Turner's "Slave s.h.i.+p." "This picture has been the cause of more criticism than any that has ever been brought to our sh.o.r.es. Every gradation of opinion was expressed from Ruskin's extravagant enconium where he says, 'I believe if I were induced to rest Turner's immortality upon any single work I should choose the Slave s.h.i.+p; the color is absolutely perfect,' to the frank disapproval of our own George Innes, when he says that it is 'the most infernal piece of clap-trap ever painted. There is nothing in it. It is not even a fine bouquet of colors.' Some one said it looks like a 'tortoise-sh.e.l.l cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes.' The lurid light that streams through the mist of the angry sea intensifies a scene already too horrible."

Whoever has seen the peasants of France in their own harvest fields near Barbizon will not fail to recognize the close relations and the intimate knowledge Millet had of these humble peasants. As you gaze at the great mounds of wheat with the crowd of laborers resting, you seem to catch the very spirit of the dignity of labor that the artist so admirably portrays in all his work. You see not only these particular toilers but all the laborers of earth, who by the sweat of their brows make the earth yield her increase.

"His figures seem to be uncouth and of the earth; they are children of Nature who have been so long in contact with the elements and soil they seem to partake of the sternness of the landscape quite as much as the st.u.r.dy oaks tried by the storms and stress of unnumbered days of exposure. His Shepherdess is also worth considering and represents his aim in art." These are his words: "I would wish that the beings I represent should have the air of being consecrated to their position, and that it should be impossible to imagine that the idea could occur to them of their being other than that which they are--the beautiful is the suitable."

What poems of grace and beauty the works of Corot are! How well he knew the trees, for he lived among them and loved them. No other artist has so marvelously portrayed the very soul of trees in their swaying, singing, dew-tipped branches. They are vast harps through which wandering breezes murmur aeolian melodies, "morning and evening anthems" to the Creator. His paintings have a freshness and fragrance of the dawn; a mystery seems to hang over them. The very spirit of the morn broods over that cla.s.sic landscape of his "Dante and Vergil." In the opening words of Dame's Inferno he gives us the vivid setting of this wonderful scene:

"Midway upon the journey of life he found himself within a forest dark, for the straight forward pathway had been lost. He wandered all night and in the morning found himself near the foot of a mountain. He began the ascent but was met by a panther, light and exceedingly swift. He was about to return, but the time was the beginning of morning. A lion with uplifted head, and a hungry she-wolf next he spied and rushed down toward the lowlands where he beheld Vergil, who has come to guide him to his beloved Beatrice."

One should pause to view the "Master Smith." One here sees in very form the character Longfellow so clearly describes in his "Village Blacksmith." It is to the eye what the melody of the poem is to the ear, purest harmony that ever sings the dignity of labor.

One should also pause to admire the "Sphinx" by Elihu Vedder, "The Misses Boit" by Sargent, Winslow Homer's "Fog Warning,"

John W. Alexander's "Isabella and the Pot of Basil." This last picture we love not only as a work of art but because it is the subject of one of Keat's poems, "Isabel."

Isabella was a beautiful Florentine maiden who lived with her two brothers. "They planned to marry her to some high n.o.ble and his olive trees." A certain servant, Lorenzo, loved her, and they had him taken to a forest beyond the Arno and murdered.

Isabella had a dream in which Lorenzo appeared to her and told of his murder and how to find his grave. In the morning she found the grave and took the skull and kissed it. "Then in a silken scarf she wrapped it up, and for its tomb did choose a garden-pot wherein she laid it by, and covered it with mold, and o'er set Sweet Basil, which her tears kept wet." Her brothers discovered why she sat so constant by her pot of Basil and fled from the city. Isabella pined and died with these pitiful words upon her lips: "O cruelty, to steal my Basil-pot away from me."

s.p.a.ce forbids us to tell of the many beautiful works of art or the inspiration to be had by contemplating them, but a trip to Boston is not complete unless we take away lasting memories of the famous masterpieces to be seen here.

While visiting the university buildings of Harvard we saw the photographs of men who had sacrificed their lives during the World War. Our thoughts wandered far away and we seemed to see a road that led through Verdun to the front. Its beginning was an avenue of stately buckeye trees in their autumn livery of faded green and gold. Back and forth along this road went Red Cross ambulances on their ceaseless journeys of mercy. The sky that should have been blue and fair was filled with gray smoke. The air that in times of peace throbbed with the notes of the lark now trembled with the report of heavy guns and cras.h.i.+ng sh.e.l.ls.

Great sheets of camouflage stretched along the road to screen the view.

One day while making an advance in the Argonne forest, taking the place of a captain who had been killed, Lieut. Harry Hanley of Boston fell upon the field of battle. His hip had been fractured and he was removed to Glorieux hospital, where E. H.

No. 15 was located. It was here that we learned to know and love him. His hopeful, helpful spirit shone above the dark gloom of the time like a beacon light. How often, when we wistfully sought to help those patient sufferers, while we were so weak our faltering steps failed us ofttimes, did we hear the calm voice of Lieutenant Hanley filling us with hope and inspiring us with new courage.

Across the room lay a German suffering from abdominal wounds.

His pitiful moans caught the attention of Lieutenant Hanley and he said: "I hate to see that German suffer so. How I do hope this shall be the end of all wars." Such was the spirit of this n.o.ble man.

Well do we remember the day when the regimental band of the 26th division played for the wounded boys at Glorieux. It was a mild October day. As they struck up some old familiar airs the face of Lieutenant Hanley of the 101st Infantry, Company A, of that division, grew radiant as he said: "How I love to hear those old melodies." Then for a time he seemed to forget his hard lot and wandered again in fair New England fields that grew tender and beautiful in sunset light. A robin caroled softly from a crimson maple, the meadow brook sang a rippling accompaniment as in fancy once more he walked with loved ones in the homeland.

We do not know whether or not all these things pa.s.sed through his mind, but we do know that among his thoughts was the fond sister, working and praying in Boston, and a brother fitting himself for the air-service, and a lovely mother walking and praying in her lonely home. The burden of their prayer is ever 'the same; morning and night it rises to Him for the safe return of a dear brother and son. As that absent one turned through the leaves of the New Testament, wherein he found such comforting messages in those weary days and long, anxious nights of suffering, he too sent up a prayer for the loved ones back home.

The day of his departure, how shall we ever forget it? As we moved about among the cots of Ward E, the cheerful voice of Lieutenant Hanley came to us as he clasped our hands for the last time, while he said "I shall never forget you." As the litter bearers were pa.s.sing through the door he put up his hand as a last farewell, saying he would write us on reaching home.

But many months pa.s.sed before we received the tear-stained letter from a broken-hearted mother, telling us he had wandered to fairer fields.

Where broad between its banks stretches the Meuse, mirroring the bloom in the west and the evening star, where the cornflowers look up with heaven's own blue and the poppies cover the fields like a crimson sea, where the skylark unseen is still soaring and singing, and the nightingale from the snowy hawthorn spray warbles divinely at even. French mothers who have lost all their sons in the war shall come with their tribute of blossoms to those vast cities of the dead. Here while the flowers fall unnoticed from their trembling hands and with tears streaming down their careworn faces and with prayers of grat.i.tude upon their lips, they shall bless the memory of those n.o.ble American boys who poured out the rich, red blood of youth who lie in a land they crossed the ocean to save.

Among the priceless treasures we have at home is a picture of Lieutenant Hanley standing among a bower of roses. This was sent to his mother just before he left the United States. How like those roses was he--the most perfect flower of all. The dew of youth, the rosy bloom of manhood, the purity of those fragrant petals in his soul, all speak to us from that portrait. It seems as if: