USA > Massachusetts > Middlesex County > Arlington > Town of Arlington annual report 1913 > Part 31
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I have been introduced as a lawyer, not as a lawyer pure and simple, as Judge Hart once introduced Causten Brown; after a large number of judges and jurists had spoken, Judge Hart said, "And now, having listened to these words of wisdom and these authorities on jurisprudence, I have the pleasure of introducing to you a lawyer pure and simple, Causten Brown." I have wondered, however, as a lawyer, whether I could not go upon the witness stand at East Cambridge or anywhere else, and testify that I knew that that Medicine Man had his last wigwam about fifty yards from the second tee on our golf grounds; because you know under our law tradition may be proved by any one to whom it has come down in legitimate course, and so I say to you, that standing upon the land - that is essential, you see, in tradition - standing upon the
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land Stephen Langley, then the owner of the land, told me that his grandfather, standing on the land, and being the then owner of it, told him that his grandfather, then the owner of the land and standing upon it, told him that the cutting in the north bank, just a little back from the brook, by its crystal waters, was the last home of the Medicine Man of Squa-Sachem, built into that cutting, protected from the north winds by the north bank above it. I am not going to ask you to pass upon that question of law at this time, I am merely identifying the place where the brook is.
How difficult it is to place ourselves back over the years which have intervened when there were no roads or trolleys or shops or mills or churches or schools; when the scream of the steam whistle, and the gong of the trolley, and the honk of the motor horn were unknown in the land; when the still- ness was broken only by the wild goose or the cry of the fox or' the bark of the wolf. The genius of the sculptor has caught the genius of the place. In the midst of the stress and strain of modern living, near the school and the library and the Town House, close by the crowded road he has placed the perfect figure of the kneeling master of the hills. The son of the forest is not worrying much about books or schools or Town affairs, or politics or philosophies or home or foreign missions. Athletic rank and contest do not excite him, the evening paper will not bring him the result of the race or game or standing of the local club. He has no aspiration to serve his people on the hill in Boston or on the banks of the Potomac. He will make no swift flight across the continent nor across the sea. He stoops beside the fountain and raises the cooling water to his lips, his lithe figure, perfect in its pose, and forever restful in its still strength, links the present to the past. The hand of the sculptor tells us the story and the bronze will forever speak to us and those who come after us. Thorvaldsen gave to Lucerne the figure of the dying lion, and immortalized in stone the valor of the Swiss guard. Dallin has given to Arlington and to the world a living figure which portrays an epoch in history and a departed race.
You are bringing to a close the ceremonies of Dedication which began three weeks ago. They have indeed been most signal and significant; rarely has a building been dedicated
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to the uses of the public with so much of brilliancy and beauty. You have not been content with formal service of Dedication, with the presentation and acceptance of the keys of the edifice, with the words of the architect and the poet, with the presence and speech of the highest officers of the Commonwealth, but have brought into your service the pomp and pageantry of the past. As one recalls the brilliant kaleidoscope of color on the shores of the Mystic and seeks apt words for its de- scription he is brought to the silence of Mulvaney in "Soldiers Three" who could only wet his lips, make a few inarticulate sounds and then succumb to a gorgeous memory.
You remember that a facile writer in attempting to describe the World's Fair at Chicago two decades since, said that he was in the hopeless position of the early New Zealanders who, being taught figures, could never get beyond eighty-four. If anything was in the hundreds or thousands or millions they said it was eighty-four. And so of your ever to be remembered Pageant. It runs into the tens of thousands, but paucity of speech brings to our lips nothing but eighty-four. We shall always fancy as we look down to the Lake and its shores nymphs and the naiads, the heralds and the graces, the flower maidens and the procession of the hours, the coming and going of the seasons, the sweep of the winds, Ceres and the tragedy of Proserpine, the flowering of the seed and the harvest dancers. The Lake and shore can never again be mere Lake and shore, but will always resound with music, be instinct with beauty and be peopled with the figures of a fabled past. There will always march before our eyes the history of our own by- gone days; the Norsemen will sweep across the Lake and Columbus will discover the New World; the Mayflower will thread its way into the harbor and the Pilgrims devoutly land upon the shore. Squa-Sachem and her chiefs, the Puritans and their austerity, will stand before us; Paul Revere will make again his midnight ride; the Minute Men will gather on the green; the old men of Menotomy will seize the supply train and the redcoats will be swept back along the road. Lafayette will come again in a rickety coach; the old Town will be reincorporated before our eyes; the dark days of the Civil War will come and Arlington will again pour out its full quota to the preservation of the country. The present
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will be linked with the past, and the children's blood will warm and their cheeks flush at the deeds of the fathers. It has indeed been a signal celebration and as red-letter days will linger in the history of the Town.
Arlington has much occasion for pride as well as gratitude in the reception of this gift. It does not come from outside hands. It is not a cold and studied benefaction. It comes from the warm hearts of ones who have been nurtured on its soil; it is a gift of love, gratitude and affection.
More than a century and a quarter ago Nathan Robbins became a settler in the Second Parish of Cambridge. His wife, too, was a descendant of one of the first settlers. Nathan Robbins, their son, lived where his father and mother had lived, and throughout a long, laborious life was a citizen of West Cambridge. His brothers, Amos and Eli, though living and doing their life work in the metropolis of the country, never forgot the Town of their birth. The widow of one has given to the Town the magnificent library which marks the eastern boundary of this civic square, and now Winfield Robbins presents to the Town this house for the Town's life and activities. Born in New York, college bred, widely traveled, a man of many lands and languages; scholar and citizen of the world, he was no stranger to the home of his forebears. "The salt, unplumbed, estranging seas" never estranged him. In his later years the instinct of home brought him back to the old Town and made it the object of his benefactions. To his taste and judgment are largely due the serene dignity and many of the treasures of the library yonder, and now to his generosity the Town owes this magnificent gift.
With modesty which well becomes him, he dedicates it to the memory of his father, and with wisdom he leaves to his kinswomen, life-long residents of the Town, the final word as to the form and structure of the memorial. Well was his. confidence placed. Though by the terms of his will much or little of his fortune might have been devoted to the gift, they, with free hand, have placed all at the disposal of the Town. To them, and to the artist in stone whom they have selected, you owe the grace and dignity of this building. They tender it here today with no reserves and no conditions. It is a noble gift, nobly given, and the Town in accepting it pledges it-
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self anew to the privileges which underlie New England life. It pledges itself and the generations yet to come to the in- dustry and fair dealing which marked the lives of the givers and made the gift possible. It pledges itself to the ideals of government which the Town house and the Town meeting of New England have always typified; to liberty which is not license, to the self-denying ordinance which subordinates the individual to the common weal; to obedience to law and con- stituted authority; to that justice for all which prohibits privilege to the few; to that charity and justice and sound judgment which must ever find their source and wellspring in the faith, devotion and religion of the fathers.
It was my fortune recently to visit the Eternal City for the first time. Standing on the Capitoline Hill, I looked through the Forum and down the Sacred Way. Close at hand were the Temples of Saturn and Vespasian, the Rostrum and the Arch of Severus, the Temples of Castor and Augustus, the Arch of Titus, the Home of the Vestals, and towering over all were the palaces of the Cæsars. The scene marked the climax of pagan civilization. In the distance stood the massive and magnificent ruins of the Coliseum where the populace by the tens of thousands gloated over the blood and death of men and of beasts. Rome was mistress of the world. It brought to the imperial city the wealth and treasures of every land. Its buildings and its monuments were the work of slaves. This was its civic center. It proudly said that it sat upon its seven hills and ruled the world; that to be a citizen of Rome was nobler than to be a king.
Thence to a New England town, the way is long in time and space. Here is your civic center. Here is your forum. Church and library and school and Town House are your monuments. They are not the work of slaves, but the gifts of generous and devoted sons and daughters. Your rule is that of justice and of right. Past these monuments sweeps not the Via Sacra, but the road made sacred by the lives and blood and fortitude of your fathers.
How marvelously the world has changed! Honest toil has taken the place of pillage; charity the place of cruelty. Debate has taken the place of force; equality of men the place of serf
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and noble; study the place of surfeited indolence, and law the place of despotism.
Into this heritage of liberty under law we have come; liberty which is ours without alarm from the cradle to the grave, and , under law which we ourselves impose. A monument to that liberty and to that law which comes nearest to us in our daily lives is the edifice in which we are assembled. It stands for the New England town meeting. It has come down to us unmutilated and secure from the earliest days. Within its walls the humblest citizen is secured a hearing. No despot silences its deliberations or thwarts its decisions. It has furnished the model for Commonwealths and States and for the Republic itself. Such is the edifice which you dedicate today; not merely a structure of mortar and of stone, useful and beautiful as it is, but a monument to three centuries of self-restrained democracy, a temple of assurance for the cen- turies yet to come.
MR. BRACKETT: This is a gathering of neighbors, and one of its most pleasing features is the neighborly spirit pervading it. The same spirit guided those who made the preparations for the Dedication. For our oratory we called upon our neigh- bor from Winchester who has so eloquently responded to the call. For our poetry, we called upon our neighbor from Arling- ton whose works have given him so high a place in the literary world and in whose long and noble career we take a just and natural pride because he is one of us. While he was invited to write and read an original poem for the occasion, the option was given him to respond either in poetry or in prose, for we knew that his response in either form would be inspiring.
I now have the pleasure of presenting our venerable and venerated fellow citizen, John Townsend Trowbridge.
REMARKS OF JOHN T. TROWBRIDGE.
Fellow Citizens, Friends and Welcome Guests:
I was honored with an invitation to prepare something in the way of verse for this event; and a few mornings since, with my mind open to impressions,- listening to the twitter of birds and pondering what I should write,- I wandered about
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the newly graded grounds and looked up at the edifice we dedicate today.
"It is itself a poem!" I said, contemplating the quiet beauty of it, in its setting of slope and lawn and shrubbery, garden, fountain and statuary; fancying the flagstaff figures in place and the bronze Indian unveiled. And the vision expanded before me of future generations entering these doors, occupying the offices, thronging the Auditorium; bent on business, civic service, social affairs, entertainment; men and women too, I believe - here casting their ballots for law-givers, governors, presidents.
How reflect that vision in fitting verse? Even while con- sidering it, my thoughts outflew the limits of rhyme and rhythm and touched the fuller significance of such a bequest to the Town. It stands here, an emblem of what is noblest and best in human life. It is a silent, solid answer to those doubting philosophers who - like the eminent English naturalist, Wallace, in a recent book - argue that civilized society is retrograding, its wrongs and evils growing more and more rampant and unrestrained. Evidences of this we indeed admit and deplore; the ruthlessness of competition; fraud and corruption in politics and affairs, officers of the law in partnership with crime; the pitiful conflicts between capital and labor, appalling contrasts between idle luxury and heart-sickening want; mob outrages, lockouts, dynamiting, anarchists lurking to destroy what they cannot control; militant suffragettes grotesquely advocating their fitness for making the laws by senselessly breaking them (happily not yet on this side of the sea!) and, most monstrous folly of all, so-called Christian nations taxing their resources, impoverishing the people, to maintain fleets and armies, menac- ing each other with huge and huger battleships and more satanic life-annihilating devices, - converting even the innocent flying machine into an engine for dropping warlike explosives!
It is all mad and sad and bad enough; and it sometimes seems as if our modern progress were indeed an illusion, like that of the lost Arctic voyagers, tramping hopefully toward warmer waters and brighter skies, only to find that the field of ice they traversed was drifting still faster under them, bearing them back to polar cold and darkness.
But our civilization is not drifting backward! Ours is an
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age of real and amazing advancement not in wealth and wonder- ful inventions only. Surely there was never so much mutual helpfulness and good will in the world as there is today. Even the nations weary of competing in the hideous game of warlike menace, and are already, I believe, at the dawn of an era of arbitration and peace, the glory of which many of you here - perhaps even I-may live to see!
Everywhere we are cheered by signs of a broadening and brightening beneficence; humanitarian activities, endowments of hospitals, libraries, galleries of art, institutions of learning and research, agencies for promoting peace, justice, health, the happiness and enlightenment of mankind.
Such is the shining import of this munificent gift to the Town, - this model Hall, so altogether admirable in plan, finish, furnishings and adaptation to manifold uses.
Arlington is fortunate in being the recipient of such bequests. There is the well-appointed Symmes Hospital on yonder hill. Here, the beautiful Robbins Library just across the lawn; and now these newly completed walls so fitly neighboring those, and uniting with them to commemorate a name forever asso- ciated with the history of the Town; the name of a family native to it, that from humble origins rose through perfect probity and prosperous enterprise to become its benefactors; now graciously represented by the three sisters, who have in so many ways endeared themselves to it and won its gratitude and admiration; who, in executing the trust of that generous, unassuming gentleman - their cousin, Winfield Robbins, - have given their minds and hearts, time, thought and enthusiastic purpose, to the perfection of this palace of the people, this monument of peace and good will.
MR. BRACKETT: This building, as you are aware, was intended by Mr. Robbins as a memorial to his father, Amos Robbins, but it will ever stand as a memorial to both father and son. The Misses Robbins, feeling that there should be from them a special memorial to Winfield Robbins himself, have to that end laid out the beautiful garden adjoining the Hall, with its fountain and rippling stream and the artistic statue of the Indian hunter. At the close of the exercises in the Hall the statue will be unveiled, with appropriate cere-
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monies, and you are all requested immediately after the benediction to pass from the Hall to the garden where these ceremonies will take place.
The benediction will now be given by the Rev. Mr. Bushnell.
BENEDICTION BY REV. SAMUEL C. BUSHNELL.
Almighty God, all beneficent Father, we the grateful people here assembled rejoice once more to be reminded that the good which a man does lives after him in human influence, survives its first and formal expression, and the lives of men repeat themselves in the years to come. We rejoice in the gift not only of an individual, but of the family, and we pray that there may be crystalized in our hearts and lives today all the fine feelings and emotions that have been stirred on this occasion, and that the after life of those here may be stronger and finer and better because of these services and ceremonies today; and now may the greatest mercy and peace from the infinite God, the Eternal Creator, Father and Friend of us all, abide with and bless us forever more. Amen.
The gathering then passed to the grounds where the ex- ercises of the unveiling of the statue took place.
UNVEILING OF THE STATUE. BY MASTER LAWRENCE DALLIN.
MR. BRACKETT: Ladies and Gentlemen: The statue of Menotomy will now be unveiled by young Mr. Dallin, the son of the sculptor, Cyrus E. Dallin.
MR. BRACKETT: In presenting our esteemed fellow citizen, Mr. Trowbridge, in the Hall a few minutes ago, I referred to the pride we people of Arlington felt in having as a citizen a man of his standing in the field of literature; it also adds to our pride that we have as a neighbor a man of like high standing in the field of art, whose latest work has just been unveiled by his son.
I have now the pleasure of presenting the sculptor, our friend and neighbor, Cyrus E. Dallin.
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REMARKS BY THE SCULPTOR.
CYRUS E. DALLIN.
Friends, the unveiling of this memorial fountain this after- noon provides me with an opportunity of paying homage to the memory of Mr. Winfield Robbins, whose gift to the Town of Arlington, the magnificent new Town Hall, has just been so impressively dedicated. It also provides an opportunity of expressing due appreciation and recognition of the part the Red Man played in our early history.
The peculiar fitness of this memorial lies in the fact that the Indian is linked with the early history of our Town, and
" MENOTOMY "
also in the fact that Mr. Robbins' poetic and imaginative mind especially delighted in this phase of my work, and I shall never forget the kindly and sympathetic interest he always showed in my Indian statues.
Therefore, when the project for a memorial to him was suggested, knowing that he would never approve of the erection
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of an effigy of himself, the fitness of an Indian subject occurred to me. Happily, the suggestion met with the approval of the Misses Robbins, whose broad artistic culture enabled them to realize the value and influence of ideal sculpture.
Thus the historic significance and poetic associations of the Indian with Arlington provided me with a longed-for opportunity to embody in plastic form the picturesqueness and charm of the life of this child of the forests before the white man came to disturb him in his haunts.
In writing on "Sculpture in America" some years ago, I used the following expressions: "The statues and. monuments that adorn our cities and towns should have a twofold purpose - not only should they be memorials to brave men and brave deeds, but they should ornament and beautify our public squares, stimulating thereby the imagination and the love of beauty in all beholders." The erection of this memorial has given me an opportunity to express, however inadequately, my artistic convictions.
Unquestionably, the average portrait statue in America is a cold horror, and is no more to be considered as a work of art than a piece of carpentry. The question arises, why is it that we, who are such an eminently practical people, insist on erecting effigies which have little or no artistic value, whereas the same money if expended for works of the imagination would bring a rich return in joy and inspiration. It is a marvel to me that although the Indian is perhaps the finest and noblest specimen of primitive man, American sculptors have had so few opportunities to immortalize him, notwithstanding the great debt our forefathers here in New England owed to him. Yet New England is pitiably poor in works of art that suggest the Indian tales and romances with which our early history teem's, or that portray the fine Indian characters that once freely roamed where we now dwell.
That noble Indian who boldly walked among the Pilgrims with his "Welcome Englishmen" rises before my mind now, as the embodiment of all that constitutes the finest flowers of romance. Samoset, as one pious and fervent Pilgrim exclaimed, was one sent by God. Certainly, he was a godsend, as he taught them how to plant the corn, where to fish and all the wiles and art of woodcraft. Today, no man knows where his
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lonely grave lies, and he simply lives in the pages of history as "Samoset, the friend of the White Man."
Back of Samoset looms largely the kingly figure of Massasoit, who with the faith of a simple child of nature made that notable first treaty of peace with the Pilgrims, which was kept inviolate as long as he lived. Yet how few of us realize that because of this treaty the Plymouth Colony for more than half a century was left absolutely free to grow and develop without fear of the lurking savage, as so many historians love to call the Indian.
The contrast between the past and present was most strik- ingly brought to my mind the other day when I made a. pil- grimage to the house of the last lineal descendants of this mighty chief - three aged sisters - the last of the race. Once Massasoit, proud chief of a free people, was the undisputed possessor of fertile fields and vast hunting grounds; now these aged women eke out a scant living from the little farm of about twelve acres, the last remnant of six hundred acres which was the original holding.
Here on the shores of a little lake near Plymouth is being enacted the last scene in the great tragedy - the passing of the Red Man - and I cannot express how profoundly the realization of this moved me.
Artistically, I feel that to the Indian I owe my first glimpse into the great work of art. It was his beautifully decorated costumes and his noble bearing that first awakened my imagina- tion to the charm of the picturesque. I shall never forget with what joy I used to follow the Indians about and study with eager curiosity every detail of their dress.
The other day, as I sat by the shores of the Mystic Lakes, I saw the pages of history unroll before me, the representation of the sale of the land in Menotomy by the Squa-Sachem perfectly typical of the dealings of the White Man with the Indian.
For little more than a handful of gold, a coat to be given annually, and a few strings of wampum, all the lands which compose the Town of Arlington passed into the possession of the White Man and history says that the Squa-Sachem was even obliged to bring suit in court to secure the payment of the annual coat.
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In closing, let me speak of the great historic crime that was perpetrated when the White Man, not content with getting possession of the lands of Menotomy for a mere paltry sum, also filched its good name. "He who steals my purse steals trash, but he that filches from me my good name, robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed."
ONE OF THE IRON GATES
In the name of poetic association, in the name of historic significance and in the name of the vanished people who loved this beautiful spot, I call upon you, our townspeople, to right this wrong. The name of Arlington is not more beautiful than Menotomy, nor has it any association or meaning for us. Besides there are many Arlingtons scattered all over our country, while the name Menotomy is ours alone, sanctified by poetic traditions and the inalienable right of possession.
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