front: curious little shops where
sailors' supplies are sold; airy lofts where sails are cut and stitched
and repaired; fish stores of all descriptions; sailors' haunts, awaiting
the pen of an American Thomas Burke. The old Custom House where
Hawthorne unwillingly plodded through his enforced routine is here, and
near it the new Custom House rears its tower four hundred and
ninety-eight feet above the sidewalk, a beacon from both land and sea.

The North End of Boston has not fared as well as the South End. The sons
of Abraham and immigrants from Italy have appropriated the streets,
dwellings, churches, and shops of the entire region, and even Christ
Church (the famous Old North Church) has a Chiesa Italiana on its
grounds. There are many touches to stir the memory in this Old North
Church. The chime of eight bells naively stating, "We are the first ring
of bells cast for the British Empire in North America"; the pew with the
inscription that is set apart for the use of the "Gentlemen of Bay of
Honduras"--visiting merchants who contributed the spire to the church in
1740; vaults beneath the church, forbidden now to visitors, where lie
the bones of many Revolutionary heroes; a unique collection of
vellum-covered books, and a few highly precious pieces of ancient
furniture. The most conspicuous item about the church, of course, is
that from its tower were hung the signal lanterns of Paul Revere,
destined to shine imperishably down the ever-lengthening aisles of
American history.

Before we press on to Bunker Hill--for that is our final destination--we
should cast a glance at Copp's Hill Burying Ground, that hillside refuge
where one can turn either back to the annals of the past or look out
over the roof-tops and narrow streets to the present and the future. If
you chose the latter, you can see easily Boston Harbor and Charlestown
Navy Yard--that navy yard which has outstripped even its spectacular
traditions by its stirring achievements in the Great War. "Old
Ironsides" will lie here forever in the well-earned serenity of a secure
old age, and it is probable that another visitor, the Kronprinzessin
Cecilie, although lost under the name of the Mount Vernon and a coat of
gray paint, will be long preserved in maritime memory.

The plain shaft of Bunker Hill Monument, standing to mark the spot where
the Americans lost a battle that was, in reality, a victory, is like a
blank mirror, reflecting only that which one presents