CHAPTER XII. CAMBRIDGE COMMON AND LANDMARKS. "The country of our fathers! May its spirit keep it safe and its justice keep it free!" PURS URSUING our circuit of the Common, "on hospitable thoughts intent," we ought briefly to pause before the whilom abode of Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse. This house may justly claim to be one of the most ancient now remaining in Cambridge, having about it the marks of great age. The strong family resemblance which the dwellings of the period to which this belongs bear to each other renders a minute description of an individual specimen applicable to the greater number. Here are still some relics of the "American Jenner," and some that belonged to an even older inhabitant than he. In one apartment is a clock surmounted by the symbolic cow. At the head of the staircase, in an upper hall, is another clock, with an inscription which shows it to have been presented, in 1790, to Dr. Waterhouse, by Peter Oliver, former chief justice of the province. The old timekeeper requests its possessor to wind it on Christmas and on the 4th of July. There is also a crayon portrait of the Doctor's mother, done by Allston when an undergraduate at Harvard. The features of Henry Ware, another inhabitant of the house, look benignly down from a canvas on the wall. Some other articles may have belonged to William Vassall, who owned and occupied the house, probably as a summer residence, before the war. Still another occupant was the Rev. Winwood Serjeant, rector of Christ Church. Dr. Waterhouse is best remembered through his labors to introduce in this country vaccination, the discovery of Jenner, which encountered as large a share of ridicule and opposition as inoculation had formerly experienced. Several persons are remembered who were vaccinated by Dr. Waterhouse. At one time the old barracks at Sewall's Point (Brookline) were used as a small-pox hospital. This was in the day of inoculation, when it was the fashion to send to a friend such missives as the following: "I wish Lucy was here to have the small-pox. I wish you would persuade her to come here and have it. You can't think how light they have it." The visitor will find some relics formerly kept at the State Arsenal on Garden Street, in several pieces of artillery mounted on sea-coast carriages and arranged within the Common. These guns were left in Boston by Sir William Howe, and, thanks to the care of General Stone, when that gentleman was adjutantgeneral of the State, were preserved from the sale of a number of similar trophies as old iron. As the disappearance of the arsenal left them unprotected it is to be hoped that the State of Massachusetts can afford to keep these old war-dogs which bear the crest and cipher of Queen Anne and the Second George. The largest of the cannon is a 32-pounder. All have the broad arrow, but rust and weather have nearly obliterated the inscriptions impressed at the royal foundry. The oldest legible date is 1687. Besides these, were two diminutive mortars or cohorns. Within one of the houses were two beautiful brass field-pieces, bearing the crown and lilies of France. Each has its name on the muzzle, one being the Venus and the other Le Faucon, and on the breech the imprint of the royal arsenal of Strasburg, with the dates respectively of 1760 and 1761. A further search revealed, hidden away in an obscure corner and covered with lumber, a Spanish piece, which, when brought to light by the aid of some workmen, was found literally covered with engraving, beautifully executed, delineating the Spanish Crown and the monogram of Carlos III. It is inscribed, "El Uenado. Barcelona J8DE Deceimbre De J767." Inquiry of the proper officials having failed to enlighten us as to the possession of these cannon by the State, we conclude them to be a remnant of the field artillery sent us by France during the Revolution. The Spaniard, when struck with a piece of metal, gave out a beautifully clear, melodious ring, as if it contained an alloy of silver, and brought to our mind those old slumberers on the ramparts of Panama, into whose yet molten mass the common people flung their silver reals, and the old dons their pieces of Eight, while the priest blessed the union with the baser metal and consecrated the whole to victory. Whitefield's Elm, under which that remarkable man preached in 1744, formerly stood on a line with its illustrious fellow the Washington Elm, and not far from the turn as we pass from the northerly side of the Common into Garden Street. It obstructed the way, and the axe of the spoiler was laid at its root two years ago. Dr. Chauncy and Whitefield were not the best friends imaginable. They had mutually written at and preached against each other, and reciprocally soured naturally amiable tempers. The twain accidentally met. "How do you do, Brother Chauncy," says the itinerant laborer. "I am sorry to see you," replies Dr. C. "And so is the devil," retorted Whitefield. In the early part of his life this gentleman happened to be preaching in the open fields, when a drummer was present, who was determined to interrupt the services, and beat his drum in a violent manner in order to drown the preacher's voice. Mr. Whitefield spoke very loud, but the din of the instrument overpowered his voice. He therefore called out to the drummer in these words: "Friend, you and I serve the two greatest masters existing, but in different callings. You may beat up volunteers for King George, I for the Lord Jesus Christ. In God's name, then, don't let us interrupt each other; the world is wide enough for us both, and we may get recruits in abundance." This speech had such effect that the drummer went away in great good-humor, and left the preacher in full possession of the field. Many a pilgrim daily wends his way to the spot where Washington placed himself at the head of the army. Above him towers "A goodly elm, of noble girth, The constant seasons ran Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt, He surveys its crippled branches, swathed in bandages; marks the scars, where, after holding aloft for a century their outstretched arms, limb after limb has fallen nerveless and decayed; he pauses to read the inscription lodged at the base of the august fabric, and departs the place in meditative mood, as he would leave a churchyard or an altar. Apart from its association with a great event, there is something impressive about this elm. It is a king among trees; a monarch, native to the soil, whose subjects, once scattered abroad upon the plain before us, have all vanished and left it alone in solitary state. The masses of foliage which hide in a measure its mutilated members, droop gracefully athwart the old highway, and still beckon the traveller, as of old, to halt and breathe awhile beneath their shade. It is not pleasant to view the decay of one of these Titans of primeval growth. It is too suggestive of the waning forces of man, and of that "Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history." As a shrine of the Revolution, a temple not made with hands, we trust the old elm will long survive, a sacred memorial to generations yet to come. We need such monitors in our public places to arrest our headlong race, and bid us calmly count the cost of the empire we possess. We shall not feel the worse for such introspection, nor could we have a more impressive counsellor. The memory of the great is with it and around it; it is indeed on consecrated ground. When the camp was here Washington caused a platform to be built among the branches of this tree, where he was accustomed to sit and survey with his glass the country round. On the granite tablet we read that UNDER THIS TREE FIRST TOOK COMMAND OF THE AMERICAN ARMY, On the spot where the stone church is erected once stood an old gambrel-roofed house, long the habitat of the Moore family. It was a dwelling of two stories, with a single chimney standing in the midst, like a tower, to support the weaker fabric. In front were three of those shapely Lombard poplars, erect and prim, like trees on parade. A flower-garden railed it in from the road; a porch in front, and another at the northerly end, gave ingress according as the condition of the visitor might warrant. |