cows pass through to the Common.

Let us stand upon the steps of the State House and look out over the
Common. To our right, near the intersection of Boylston and Tremont
Streets, lies the half-forgotten, almost obliterated Central Burying
Ground, the final resting-place of Gilbert Stuart, the famous American
painter. At the left points the spire of Park Street Church, notable not
for its age, for it is only a little over a century old, but for its
charming beauty, and by the fact that William Lloyd Garrison delivered
his first address here, and here "America" was sung in public for the
first time. It was the windiness of this corner which was responsible
for Tom Appleton's suggestion (he was the brother-in-law of Longfellow)
that a shorn lamb be tethered here.

The graceful spire of Park Street Church serves not only as a landmark,
but is also a most fitting terminal to a street of many associations. It
is on Park Street that the publishing house of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
(now Houghton Mifflin Company) has had its offices for forty years, and
the bookstores and the antique shops tucked quaintly down a few steps
below the level of the sidewalk have much of the flavor of a bit of
London.

Still standing on the State House steps, facing the Common, you are also
facing what has been called the noblest monument in Boston and the most
successfully placed one in America. It is Saint-Gaudens's bronze relief
of Colonel Robert G. Shaw commanding his colored regiment, and if you
see no other sculpture in a city which has its full quota you must see
this memorial, spirited in execution, spiritual in its conception of a
mighty moment.

If we had time to linger we could not do better than to follow Beacon
Street to the left, pausing at the Athenaeum, a library of such dignity
and beauty that one instinctively, and properly, thinks of it as an
institution rather than a mere building. To enjoy the Athenaeum one must
be a "proprietor" and own a "share," which entitles one not only to the
use of the scholarly volumes in scholarly seclusion, but also in the
afternoon to entrance to an alcove where tea is served for three
pennies. Perhaps here, as well as any other place, you may see a
characteristic assortment of what are fondly called "Boston types."
There is the professor from Cambridge, a gentleman with a pointed beard
and a noticeably cultivated enunciation; one from Wellesley--this, a
lady--with that keen and paradoxically impr