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[Photo - "Old Manse, Concord"]

CHAPTER IX

OLD MANSE OF CONCORD AND ITS MINISTERIAL OCCUPANTS. -- CUPID IN THE REVOLUTION

      THE foregoing extracts from the parsonage diary, yet extant, afford the reader, not only a glimpse into the busy life of the minister, but also present a realistic view of the burdens and anxieties of the patriots during the time that the seat of war was confined to Massachusetts. He has seen the intimacy between neighboring ministers, and noted the hospitality of the parsonage. He has become particularly interested in the minister of Concord, Rev. William Emerson, and is prepared to turn to another parsonage, and there consider the footsteps of the patriots as they centre about the --

OLD MANSE.

      Here, as at the Burlington parsonage, a digression is made to consider the history of the place.
      Probably no other homestead of New England supplies the warp and woof of such a brilliant fabric of history as the old manse of Concord.
      The green lawn that extends in front and on either side of the manse was once the site of

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an Indian village, evidence of which, in the line of arrows and spear-heads, the searching ploughshare has often brought to light.
      The village was abandoned, and the scattered remnant of the tribe had built their wigwams elsewhere, before the sale of the "six miles square" by Squaw Sachem and others to the "English undertakers."
      The site of the old Indian village was included within the twelve lots of six hundred and sixty acres recorded as belonging to James Blood, Sen. and Jun., in 1665.
      The Bloods are said to have come to Concord in 1639. James Sen. died in 1683, and his wife Ellen nine years earlier. James Blood, Jun., married Hannah, daughter of Oliver Purchiss of Lynn, in 1657. They lived in a primitive dwelling on these acres, and had four children, only one of whom, Sarah, survived her parents.
      James Blood, Jun., was the fourth deacon in the Concord church; he died Nov. 26, 1692, having outlived his wife fifteen years.
      Sarah Blood, who was born March 5, 1659, married William Willson of Concord in 1686, and at the death of her father succeeded to the ownership of the estate. He was town clerk from 1710 to 1718; was chosen one of the selectmen in 1700, and held the office eighteen years; was representative to the General Court in 1702, and in seven subsequent years. His wife Sarah died

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in 1717, and he in 1745, leaving a second wife, Hannah Price.
      The property remained in the family until about the time of the death of Rev. Daniel Bliss, the associate of Whitefield and other ardent preachers, which occurred in May, 1764. It was then purchased by the Bliss family.
      The solemn pomp and funereal splendor attendant upon the burial of Rev. Daniel Bliss was still a theme for conversation, and the people were enjoying a sort of mournful satisfaction because they had maintained their dignity among the towns and churches by furnishing rings and gloves at the funeral of their deceased minister, and the town had assumed the burial charges of £66 13s. 4d., when steps were taken to secure a pastor to fill the vacancy.
      Rev. William Emerson was called to the position. He married Phebe Bliss, the daughter of his predecessor in the ministry of the town, in August, 1766, and established a home in the house so well known as the Old Manse. It was erected for Rev. Mr. Emerson and his bride, and here they lived in the full enjoyment of a Colonial parsonage during his ministry of ten years. Theirs was the peace and comfort of the beautiful home, which stood in the midst of the town, --his parish, --being cheered and encouraged by the love and esteem of his people.
      Oliver Wendell Holmes says of him, "The

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Rev. William Emerson, grandfather of Ralph Waldo, was an excellent and popular preacher, and an ardent and devoted patriot. He preached resistance to tyrants from the pulpit; he encouraged his townsmen and their allies to make a stand against the soldiers who had marched upon their peaceful village; and would have taken a part in the fight at the bridge, which he saw from his own house, had not the friends around him prevented his quitting his doorstep."
      He took this stand in the face of the opposition of his brother-in-law, Daniel Bliss, who was an avowed Tory, and still living in the village.
      On Aug. 16, 1776, Rev. Mr. Emerson left his family, this beautiful home, his church and people, by their consent, to join the army at Ticonderoga as chaplain. He was discharged by General Gates after about two months of service, because of declining health, and died at Rutland, Vt., en route for his home, at the age of thirty-three years, where he was buried with military honors. His people described his virtues at length on a memorial stone set upon Burial Hill in 1826. It concludes thus:

ENTHUSIASTIC, ELOQUENT, AFFECTIONATE,
AND PIOUS;
HE LOVED HIS FAMILY, HIS PEOPLE, HIS GOD,
AND HIS COUNTRY.
AND TO THIS LAST HE YIELDED
THE CHEERFUL SACRIFICE OF HIS LIFE.

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      There were left at the Manse, besides the widow of the patriot, their four children. William, their only son, born in 1769, and Mary Moody Emerson, a daughter, and namesake of her grandmother, became well known in the world, the latter through the portrayal made by her nephew, Ralph Waldo Emerson.
      William, the son and namesake of the "patriot priest" and "high son of liberty" of Concord, was graduated at Harvard College in 1789, settled as minister in Harvard in 1792, and in 1799 as minister of the First Church in Boston. In 1796 he married Ruth Haskins of Boston. He died in 1811, leaving five sons, of whom Ralph Waldo was the second.
      In November, 1778, Rev. Ezra Ripley was ordained as minister at Concord; and two years later he married the widow of his predecessor, Phebe Bliss Emerson, and took up his abode at the Manse, where he continued to live during his ministry of more than sixty years.
      Hence appears the proof of the accuracy of Hawthorne's statement in "Mosses from an Old Manse:" "A priest had built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other priestly men from time to time dwelt in it; and children born in its chambers had grown up to assume the priestly character."
      While pursuing his studies at Harvard College, Ezra Ripley was styled, "Holy Ripley," because

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of his superior moral and religious character. These traits, most commendable, especially for one of his profession, dominated his entire life. He received the honorary degree of doctor of divinity from Harvard College some years before his death. The excellent judgment of Dr. Ripley, with other rare qualities, led many pastors and churches to call him to sit in councils. He was called upon in the latter part of his life to take part in a council called at Bedford; it was when the conflict between the liberal and old faith broke out in that town as it did throughout New England. The session was delayed till late into the night, and then adjourned to the following day. Not expecting to be delayed so long, the reverend doctor, who wore a wig by day, was without a necessary reclining garment, -- a night-cap, --hence he awaited the dawn while sitting in his chair. Dr. Ripley died about 1840; and the estate, although having come by his wife, descended to the Ripley heirs. Dr. Ripley gave the battle-ground to the town some years before his death, and before patriotic sentiment had aroused the interest of later years. But his prophetic wisdom foresaw the day that has already dawned.
      During an interim of the occupancy of the Ripley family was that brief, interesting, and well-known experience of Nathaniel Hawthorne, which alone would have given the estate unending notoriety.

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      In July, 1842, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Sophia Peabody were married at the home of Dr. Peabody in Boston, and sought the seclusion of the vacant parsonage at Concord as a desirable place for the full enjoyment of each other. They occupied the Manse four years, during which time their daughter Una was born. They then left it for Salem, Mass., where Mr. Hawthorne entered upon a position at the Custom House. The owners now took possession of the Old Manse. Rev. Samuel Ripley, son of the Concord minister, resigned a long pastorate at Waltham, and settled here with his family.
      Mr. Hawthorne describes the preparations for the retiring minister thus: "Carpenters next appeared, making a tremendous racket among the out-buildings, strewing the green grass with pine shavings and chips of chestnut joist, and vexing the whole antiquity of the place with their discordant renovations. Soon, moreover, they divested our abode of the veil of woodbine which had crept over a large portion of its southern face.
      "All the original mosses were cleared unsparingly away; and there were horrible whispers about brushing up the external walls with a coat of paint, --a purpose as little to my taste as might be that of rouging the venerable cheeks of one's grandmother." With the exception of that "vexing of antiquity," a bay-window on the east end of the house (which the writer watched

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in formation), the present external appearance of the Old Manse and its surroundings is not unlike that so vividly described by the "first lay occupant." "Between two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone we beheld the old parsonage, terminating the vista of an avenue of black ash-trees."
      Some of the ash-trees have been replaced by other varieties, but the lines bordering the avenue are well kept.
      A scattering remnant of the orchard, planted by Dr. Ripley in his old age, still remains. Although discouraged by his neighbors in the planting of the orchard, Dr. Ripley lived to enjoy its fruits; and Hawthorne reluctantly feasted upon its luscious apples and pears, sharing the bounty with Ellery Channing, Henry Thoreau, and others of kindred tastes.
      In the rear of the Manse is seen the place where, according to tradition, a boy was chopping wood for the clergyman on the morning of April 19, 1775, and after the battle went with his axe in hand to the field of carnage, and finding a wounded British soldier, used his blade in finishing his misery.
      Near this place the river winds along as sluggishly as when Hawthorne and his odd visitors pushed out in their boat upon its smooth surface. The interior of the Manse presents very much of the appearance of the old parsonage.
      The study of the Rev. Ezra Ripley is a small,

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square room, with elaborate wainscoting, and beams of oak crossing the ceiling.
      The huge fireplace is still there, before which more than three thousand sermons were probably penned by Dr. Ripley; but the chair in which the minister sat and wrote has found a place in the collection of the Concord Antiquarian Society.
      It was in this room that the ghost used to appear, according to Hawthorne; but as no perturbed spirit has been reported as lifting the latch since his stay at the Manse, it is reasonable to explain that apparition as the vivid imagination of the author.
      Opposite the study is a large room containing many modern adornments, and used by the present occupant (1891), a representative of the third generation of Ripleys, as a parlor.
      A door from the parlor leads to the ancient dining-room, where old-time feasts were spread according to the most approved plan of the parsonage. Very many of the old-time ministers of New England have feasted and chatted in this room, as may be inferred from the diary of Rev. Mr. Marrett already quoted.
      The big kitchen, where the oaken beams show no sign of attempted disguise, and the modern cooking-range stands as an apology for the once spacious fireplace, had a peculiar charm for me when in boyhood I made my regular entrance to the Old Manse by the kitchen-door, but in later

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life received a cordial welcome from the same lady at the front entrance.
      The Old Manse, with its gambrel roof, is thought to have been the first house in the village built with two stories, making the old Colonial parsonage suggestive of the standing of its honored occupant.
      In the apartment over the dining-room, Ralph Waldo Emerson, grandson of the first minister in possession, wrote "Nature" and many of his best poems, during a sojourn at the ancestral dwelling with his grandmother's family. In the same room Hawthorne wrote "Mosses from an Old Manse," in the first chapter of which he gives a vivid description of it.
      "The study had three windows, set with little old-fashioned panes of glass, each with a crack across it. The two on the western side looked, or rather peeped, between the willow branches down into the orchard, with glimpses of the river through the trees. The third, facing northward, commanded a broader view of the river, at a spot where its hitherto obscure waters gleam forth with the light of history. It was at this window that the clergyman who then dwelt in the Manse stood watching the outbreak of a long and deadly struggle between two nations. He saw the irregular array of his parishioners on the farther side of the river; he awaited in an agony of suspense the rattle of the musketry. It came, and it needed

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[Photo - Drawing "Window of Old Manse"]

but a gentle wind to sweep the battle smoke around his quiet house."
      The first Sunday-school of Concord had its beginning in the very room made famous by so many great minds. While in the preparation of "The Rise and Progress of the Sunday-school in America," I was cordially received at the Manse by a granddaughter of Rev. Ezra Ripley, who communicated the facts.
      Miss Sarah Ripley, daughter of the minister, conducted a school in this house. She had day pupils from various families of the village, and others from different towns, who boarded in the family. Rev. Mr. Ripley conducted the instruction in the Latin language and higher branches.
      Miss Ripley was an energetic, persevering woman, and besides caring for an invalid mother, conducted the day-school, giving added instruction in moral and religious truth. She thus laid the foundation for the Sunday-school of the town.
      "The room," said Miss Ripley, "in which the school had its sessions, and which Ralph Waldo

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Emerson later occupied, has ever since been known in the family as the schoolroom."
      It is more than two centuries since the name of Emerson was first connected with the history of Concord. Rev. Joseph Emerson, son-in-law of Concord's early minister, fled from Mendon to this town when that village was destroyed by the Indians during Philip's war.
      It is one hundred and thirty years since Rev. William Emerson, great-grandson of Rev. Joseph, took up his abode in this house, and became the pastor of the twelfth church formed in the colony.
      The name has received added lustre with each succeeding generation, and the voice of Rev. William's grandson has been heard as far as the shot fired --

"By the rude bridge that arched the flood."

CUPID IN THE REVOLUTION.

      In the Tenth Regiment of the royal army that constituted a part of the participants in the April raid of 1775 was a sturdy young native of London. Having attained the age of thirty years, he was too thoughtful to regard the acts of General Gage as did many of his associates; but he was in the service of the king, and must do his duty. He met with Provincials, both Tories and patriots, during his stay in Boston, and enjoyed their society. In fact, the dull routine of camp-life would have been much more monotonous had it not been

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for the New England people whom he frequently met. He noticed the struggles of many families to exist during the severe weather of the winter of 1775, and frequently expressed sympathy for them in their deprivations. The tears of a faithful mother mourning over her situation did not call from this thoughtful young man, as from many, the harsh words, "Give up your rebellious ideas, and swear allegiance to our king; "but the careworn expression of this woman reminded the soldier of his mother across the Atlantic, as she bade her son farewell when he set out for America, and he could but give expression to his sympathy for the sufferer. The bright eyes of a young lady of the family riveted his attention; he detected the youthful bloom of her cheeks growing pale through the weeks of anxiety, and did not fail to cheer her by his smile. He accompanied this young lady to the Old South Meeting-house on the last anniversary of the Massacre before the beginning of hostilities. They both noticed the thoughtfulness of Samuel Adams in giving the best seats to the officials known to be his enemies. They listened to every word uttered by the fearless Warren; and when the speaker dropped his silk handkerchief over the uplifted hand, in which were the bullets intended to frighten him, the eyes of these young people met in an expression of sympathetic admiration for the graceful act of the orator.

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      Had these young people given expression to their sentiments when leaving the meeting-house that night, they would have found that they were not at variance. Despite all his efforts to conceal his feelings, the young soldier's comrades detected them, and were soon aware of the real situation. They took pleasure in hurling at him their sharpest taunts, and placarded his barrack as "The lodgings of the besieged heart," "Caught in Provincial meshes," and annoyed the young man in many ways, while he vainly tried to present a cheerful appearance. After being detained some days by extra duties in the camp, the anxious soldier stole out from his quarters, and made haste to the street and door where he had last seen the object of his growing affections. To his surprise all evidence of life had departed, the shutters were closed, the doors barred, and no light flickered from any window. His shrill whistle only brought an answering echo from the shed in the rear. He turned sorrowfully away, revolving in his mind the thought, could it be that this family had been driven to such a state of desperation as to leave their home and go into a country town, as so many had done? He then wished he had made bold to tell her his inmost feelings, but believed that his silence had led her to the conclusion that he was in full sympathy with the movements of the officials, and was only waiting for an opportunity to kill her people. He

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would not go back to camp without using every possible means for ascertaining where the family had gone. He inquired of every one whom he met in the neighborhood, first for the name of the young lady who had lived there; even this he had failed to learn, she was so reticent and distrustful of the soldier. "Mary?" was the prompt reply of one, given in an interrogative manner. "Yes, Mary. Where is she?" said the young soldier, not knowing that he had then received a correct answer, for evasive means were so often resorted to in order to prevent gratifying the enemy in the town. "Gone to Concord," was the honest reply of one who knew all about the hardships of that family; but the readiness of the answer led the inquirer to doubt the truthfulness of it, and he went back to his quarters with a sorrowful heart. Those bright eyes were before him wherever he went. When on the duty of a guard at night, he fancied their tearful presence; and when trying to while away an hour in his berth, he fancied the same company. When sitting on his couch, with his face buried in his hands, this soldier was found by a comrade who had no sympathy for him, but thrust darts into his troubled soul by crying out, "Here he is. Sam has surrendered, captured by a Boston maiden." With a show of bravado the soldier rushed out, and tried to shake off the spell that was upon him. The absence of one whom he

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longed to have love him served to recall one in his distant home whose love he knew was sure. It was his sister, and Mary was her name. She had pressed a parting kiss upon his lips when he left the old home. It was the remembrance of her, and of his faithful mother, that first prompted him to turn an interested glance towards the home of sorrow in Boston, into the secrets of which he now so much wished he had penetrated.
      As the spring days brought out the buds of the trees on the Common, and recalled the birds from their winter quarters, this soldier longed to return to his home, where he knew there were anxious hearts waiting for him; he regretfully thought of his indifference toward those who had so often manifested affection at the old hearthstone, and made many silent resolves to be more dutiful in the future, should he ever return to his native shore. He recalled the sternness of his father, who in the midst of his tears at parting had bidden him not return to his door until he had either subdued or killed the rebels in America.
      Various were the emotions that filled the hearts of the British soldiers when the order was given for a march into the country under cover of the night. The confinement and dull routine of camp-life had become irksome in the extreme, and all were glad to have a change. Many, in fact, longed to have a skirmish with the Yankees, wanted to show them how to fight, believing that it would

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require but the slightest effort to subdue the whole. At first they were as antic and frisky as a farmer's cattle when let loose in spring after the winter's confinement in and about the barns; but they soon began to feel the burden of the march, and derived their impetus from anticipated success at the end of the route. They had not gone far before it was generally understood that they were bound for a town called Concord. "We'll show them it's 'Conquered' they are before we leave them," and kindred sentiments, were whispered from man to man as they passed silently along. Marching without music was no pleasure to the British regulars; but the novelty of it, and the anticipation of surprise, cheered them on, until they began to hear from every side the sound of bells and an occasional discharge of a musket. These caused the officers to shake their heads with an expression of unpleasant apprehensions, and set peculiar emotions astir in the minds of all. Coming into the village of Menotomy, they saw occasional lights flitting about in houses; and at one they made bold to knock in a most imperative manner. Their inquiry as to why they were up so early was quickly met by a woman, who said, "Making herb drink for my sick husband." They passed on without pausing to learn that it was bullets that she was making, and possibly herb drinks as well. Foreign tea was not in order in the homes of the patriots.

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      One there was in the ranks whose greatest ambition was to reach Concord. He was ready to respond to an order for a "double-quick," thinking not of military stores, but of another and to him more precious object.
      As they approached Lexington village, they heard the beat of a drum in the distance, the first indication of martial music of that morning. The careless words, "We'll soon silence that," passing down the ranks, met with no approval from one of the number; his only hope was that he might peacefully gratify his own personal ambition. There was no joy in the heart of the young soldier when the order came to fire upon the Provincials at Lexington. His musket was discharged into the air, if at all, where it could do no damage to any one, lest it might carry sorrow to a heart which he believed throbbed in sympathy with his.
      Fall in and march on "were welcome orders to the soldier whom we have kept in mind. Over the hills they go as if nothing had happened. What's a little Yankee blood? enough rebels left," were thoughts that found expression with many a thoughtless servant of the king. Tramp, tramp, on they go, meeting with no resistance; the only semblance of mockery came from the gobble of the turkey-cocks, roused to spread their wings in strutting indignation by the bright coats of the soldiers. With the sun upon their backs already removing the chill of the midnight fog,

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they march into the village of Concord, but no longer to make their undisturbed progress. There was confusion on every side, while the sound of the fife and drum in the distance bespoke the hastening march of the yeomen.
      While breaking open the barrels of flour, and committing other depredations, the privates were acting out the feelings expressed by an officer when stirring his brandy at the town bar. But they little realized that they were thus adding fuel to the flame that was heating the Yankees' blood to that degree that would tell upon the army of the king.
      "There's no life in you, Sam," said more than one comrade to the young man, who had no apparent interest in the work of destruction enjoyed by some to the fullest extent. He had no death-dealing shot for the yeomen, either at the bridge or in the return to the village; but ere he had passed the meeting-house, a yeoman's bullet struck him down. Weary, discouraged, and thinking of home, possibly of the frowning face of his father and the careworn countenances of mother and sister, he made no effort to rise and reassert himself.
      "Too far gone to take back with us" was the decision of the hastily impanelled jury.
      With no show of vindictiveness, the wounded and abandoned soldier was taken up by those who had already suffered at the hands of the enemy, and carried into the dwelling of the village sur-

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geon, Dr. Minot. He was not alone in his misery; others were there, who in turn were being served by the good doctor and his assistants. One high in rank had just been taken away with a horse and chaise which the enemy had appropriated to their use. These had been left by a farmer, who had galloped into town, and dismounted for more effective service upon his feet. In their haste the soldiers had only time to say "Poor Sam," as they left the doctor's house, and started towards Boston. While the doctor had been devoting himself to the more hopeful cases, the one supposed to be mortally wounded was revived by the faithful care of the young lady in the home; and when the skilful hands of Dr. Minot were at liberty to serve the last patient, he was in a more hopeful condition than when he was brought into the house. When giving directions to his assistant, the doctor addressed her as Mary; this brought open the eyes of the wounded soldier, and he fixed them upon her who was so quietly standing at his side.
      It was not many days before the faithful doctor, in dressing the wounds of his patient, confidently said, "You'll live; you are in a fair way to recover." To this the encouraged soldier replied, "But not to go back to the army to fight against such friends." It was some weeks before Dr. Minot discovered the remedy that was working so effectually. No patient of his had ever made

[Photo - "Merriam's Corner, Concord"]

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such rapid strides in convalescence. To the doctor's words of cheer, "You must have been in a perfectly healthy condition when the Yankee bullet struck you," the soldier replied, "That's true, doctor; and my mind has been more fully at rest since I opened my eyes and saw Mary here, than for many weeks before we were ordered to march out of Boston."
      Another mind was at rest; and the bloom of health returned to those pallid cheeks, while the former sparkle of the eyes was detected by the soldier, as Mary Piper glided about the room on her errands of love and mercy.
      Samuel Lee soon began to inquire after the condition of affairs in the country, and expressed a desire only that the Colonists might be victorious. When an opportunity came for an exchange of prisoners, he was able to go if he was so inclined; but love and devotion had conquered him, and he refused to return to the army. Before the besieged town of Boston was rid of the obnoxious army there was a marriage in Concord, -- Samuel Lee of London and Mary Piper of Concord were made one under the laws of the Province of Massachusetts Bay.
      In the records of that town is the following: --

      "Polly Lee D. of Samuel Lee and Mary his wife born January 10th, 1777.
      Saml. Lee son of Saml. Lee and Mary his wife was born December 14th, 1779."

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      And other records show that to this couple, made wretched and also happy by the war, there were born other children. Before the infuriated father across the Atlantic was willing to forgive his son for turning his back on the king, there was made a record in Concord thus: --

"Mr. Samuel Lee died August 6, 1790, aged 45."

      The mother and sister in that distant home of luxury were not permitted to welcome back the object of their affection, neither was the son permitted to feel the touch of their devoted hands; but the few years of his life in Concord were made happy by her who silently loved him when sitting by his side in Old South Meeting-house in March, 1775, and whose affection went out to him when a bleeding soldier of the king he was brought into the home of Concord's good physician and surgeon, Dr. Minot.
      Neither the widow nor children of Samuel Lee were benefited by the great estate across the ocean, but they made a prosperous record in Concord and elsewhere. On May 25, 1794, Mary Lee became the wife of Joseph Hoar, married by Rev. Ezra Ripley. The children of Samuel Lee and Mary Piper may be traced to honorable positions in the country. Rufus, born in 1788, married Mary Hallowell of Southborough, who was two years younger. Of their children, Charles, who was born in Watertown in 1826, and his sister Mrs. Anna

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L. Goodnow are both now living in Waltham. From these grandchildren of the couple who were brought together by sorrow, I have gathered the more substantial facts of this story, supplying some missing links from the general history of the times in which they lived together in America.
      Says Mrs. Goodnow, "It is one of the ungratified longings of my life to penetrate the hidden secrets of the Lee family in the ancestral home in England, where wealth and luxury abounded. We have but few reminders of our grandfather; his silver knee-buckles worn into battle were treasured by us for many years, but have now disappeared. His sword, which he laid down in peace at Concord, is treasured there with many other reminders of those soldiers who went out of Boston to Concord with no desire to kill, but were in the obedience of the government.
      Other children of Samuel Lee made homes elsewhere. Samuel, the namesake of the soldier and father, was lost with his only son on the St. Lawrence River during the 1812 war.
      For more than a century the unwilling subject of King George III. has slept in an unmarked grave in old Concord, perchance by the side of the very yeoman whose well-directed shot laid him low, and became the circumstance of his life which brought him the greatest joy.

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