In one respect,
however, the Rev. Peter Bulkley was fully justified, for Concord has
become more famous in the arts of peace than if a Marengo or Gravelotte
had been fought there. It has a place in the history of literature, and
its name is pleasant either to speak or think of.
The town is beautifully situated and seems to sleep in the hollow of the
hills. It is now a suburb of Boston, with artistic bridges, water from
Sandy Pond, a bronze statue of the minute man, and a good deal of
suburban elegance; but thirty years ago it was one of the neat,
unpretending, yet so respectable looking, New England villages, such as
are still to be met with in the central part of Massachusetts. The
country roads wound into the town and wound out of it; the river crept
lazily by with only a slight swirl or eddy on its surface; and the wild
flowers on its banks bloomed and faded without attracting more attention
than in the days of the Indians. Early in the morning ten or a dozen
well-dressed gentlemen might be seen hastening to the railway station;
then after the children had gone to school there was a nearly unbroken
silence until they came out again. Occasionally a farmer in his hay-cart
or other rude vehicle would jingle through the village, or a woman with
a shawl and sun-bonnet would call at one of the stores, make some small
purchase, and return as she came.
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