IN OLD CONCORD oo 



as after the Minute Man and his times passed the 

 little village slumbered, seeming to wait placidly 

 for the next troubling of the waters, so now 

 Sleepy Hollow, where these four dreamers lie, 

 seems to be the real center of the town. The 

 mystic dreams of Hawthorne, the golden seren- 

 ity of Emerson, the primal wisdom of Thoreau, 

 and the roseate fog of Alcott's transcendentalism 

 all flow serenely forth over its rim and flood the 

 green hills and shadowy valleys of the region 

 with peace and sweet content. Here, almost side 

 by side, rest the four, and such blood of the gods 

 as flowed in them is piped to all the world by way 

 of what each wrote. No wonder Concord is a 

 place of pilgrimage and people come by thou- 

 sands to these graves as devout Mohammedans 

 go to that of the prophet. Red oaks set their 

 roots deep in the knoll where these lie, and white 

 pines tower above them as if forming the first 

 and most fitting round in their ladder to the 

 stars. Out of the tops of these pines the harper 

 wind should pluck harmonies beyond those com- 

 mon to groves. 



Hither come the pilgrims that have hastily 



