Part 21 (1/2)

On March 4, 1888, Bronson Alcott died, and two days later Louisa Alcott followed her father. They lie near together on the ridge a little beyond Hawthorne. Initials only mark the graves of her sisters, but it has been found necessary to place a small stone bearing the name ”Louisa” on the grave of the author of ”Little Women.” She had made every arrangement for her death, and by her own wish her funeral was in her father's rooms in Boston, and attended by only a few of her family and nearest friends.

”They read her exquisite poem to her mother, her father's n.o.ble tribute to her, and spoke of the earnestness and truth of her life. She was remembered as she would have wished to be. Her body was carried to Concord and placed in the beautiful cemetery of Sleepy Hollow, where her dearest ones were already laid to rest.

'Her boys' went beside her as 'a guard of honor,' and stood around as she was placed across the feet of father, mother, and sister, that she might 'take care of them as she had done all her life.'”

Louisa Alcott's last written words were the acknowledgment of the receipt of a flower. ”It stands beside me on Marmee's (her mother) work-table, and reminds me tenderly of her favorite flowers; and among those used at her funeral was a spray of this, which lasted for two weeks afterwards, opening bud by bud in the gla.s.s on her table, where lay the dear old 'Jos. May' hymn-book, and her diary with the pen shut in as she left it when she last wrote there, three days before the end, 'The twilight is closing about me, and I am going to rest in the arms of my children.' So, you see, I love the delicate flower and enjoy it very much.”

Reverently, with bowed heads, we stood on that pine-covered ridge which contained the mortal remains of so many who are great and ill.u.s.trious in the annals of American literature. A scant patch of earth hides their dust, but their fancies, their imaginings, their philosophy spanned human conduct, emotions, beliefs, and aspirations from the cradle to the grave.

The warm September day was drawing to a close; the red sun was sinking towards the west; the hilltop was aflame with a golden glow from the slanting rays of the declining sun. Slowly we wended our way through the shadowy hollow below; looking back, the mound seemed crowned with glory.

Leaving Concord by Main Street we pa.s.sed some famous homes, among them Th.o.r.eau's earlier home, where he made lead-pencils with the deftness which characterized all his handiwork; turning to the left on Th.o.r.eau Street we crossed the tracks and took the Sudbury road through all the Sudburys,--four in number; the roads were good and the country all the more interesting because not yet invaded by the penetrating trolley. It would be sacrilegious for electric cars to go whizzing by the ancient tombs and monuments that fringe the road down through Sudbury; the automobile felt out of place and instinctively slowed down to stately and measured pace.

In all truth, one should walk, not ride, through this beautiful country, where every highway has its historic a.s.sociations, every burying-ground its honored dead, every hamlet its weather-beaten monument. But if one is to ride, the automobile--incongruous as it may seem--has this advantage,--it will stand indefinitely anywhere; it may be left by the roadside for hours; no one can start it; hardly any person would maliciously harm it, providing it is far enough to one side so as not to frighten pa.s.sing horses; excursions on foot may be made to any place of interest, then, when the day draws to a close, a half-hour suffices to reach the chosen resting-place.

It was getting dark as we pa.s.sed beneath the stately trees bordering the old post-road which leads to the door of the ”Wayside Inn.”

Here the stages from Boston to Worcester used to stop for dinner.

Here Was.h.i.+ngton, Lafayette, Burgoyne, and other great men of Revolutionary days had been entertained, for along this highway the troops marched and countermarched. The old inn is rich in historic a.s.sociations.

The road which leads to the very door of the inn is the old post-road; the finely macadamized State road which pa.s.ses a little farther away is of recent dedication, and is located so as to leave the ancient hostelry a little retired from ordinary travel.

A weather-beaten sign with a red horse rampant swings at one corner of the main building.

”Half effaced by rain and s.h.i.+ne, The Red Horse prances on the sign.”

For nearly two hundred years, from 1683 to 1860, the inn was owned and kept by one family, the Howes, and was called by many ”Howe's Tavern,” by others ”The Red Horse Inn.”

Since the publication of Longfellow's ”Tales of a Wayside Inn,”

the place has been known by no other name than the one it now bears.

”As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.”

A portrait of Lyman Howe, the last landlord of the family, hangs in the little bar-room,

”A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all Sudbury as 'The Squire.'

Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh.”

And now as of yore

”In the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed.”

The small window-panes which the poet describes as bearing

”The jovial rhymes, that still remain, Writ near a century ago, By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made,”

are preserved in frames near the mantel in the parlor, one deeply scratched by diamond ring with name of Major Molineaux and the date, ”June 24th, 1774,” the other bears this inscription,--

”What do you think?

Here is good drink, Perhaps you may not know it; If not in haste, Do stop and taste, You merry folk will show it.”