Brookline Motor Tour--Part 1

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Arctacuda and I happened to have the same day off at one point. It was raining. (It is always raining here. People will tell you that’s not quite true, they are wrong.) So we decided to do a motor tour. Because it was bad outside, we decided to do a nearby motor tour, and chose Brookline. Full disclosure: I live one block from Brookline—in fact, I go to church in Brookline—and I kind of adore Brookline. You know why? Because I am the kind of person who loves opulent comfort.

So, before descending into the very long, very confusing, very wet motor tour of Brookline, let’s learn a bit about this community, shall we? It is a whole 18 feet above sea level. It was settled around 1638, incorporated as a town in 1705, and in 1937 had a population of 50,319. Apparently, it had a swimming pool you could gain access to for a ten-cent fee, but there were separate hours for men and women. In 1937, Longwood Cricket Club played host to national championship tennis matches, while Brookline Country Club hosted horse shows and races.

In 1937, as today, Brookline was almost exclusively residential. Composed of three hills—Fisher, Corey, and Aspinwall—it contains the “the homes of people who find their source of income in the business districts of Boston.” At the beginning of the twentieth century, Brookline was nicknamed the “Town of Millionaires,” but by 1910 “it had begun to open its doors to residents of far more modest means.” The book states that “restricted areas are still occupied by hedged and landscaped estates, handsome showplaces of the metropolitan area.” I still think Brookline is a gorgeous area, filled with gorgeous houses I would be more than happy to own, but I suspect the 1937 book would be disdainful of the houses that so impress me.

Brookline was basically founded by John Cotton, who was granted the first allotment in the area on January 8, 1638. At the time, Boston Common was overrun by too many cows, and the settlers needed to find new grazing land, so they turned to a place they called “Muddy River Hamlet.” By 1639, almost all of the new land had been snatched up. By 1662, the town was sending produce into Boston for trading at Faneuil Hall Market. In 1705, the town of Muddy River Hamlet was incorporated, evidently named “for the estate of Judge Samuel Sewall, of witchcraft fame.” This makes no sense, however, as it seems to me that, according to the book, the area had always been referred to as Muddy River Hamlet, since 1638, so who knows? Also, confusingly, the book never explains why the town is now called Brookline or when that change happened. Unless the estate of Judge Samuel Sewall was called Brookline, but then why was the town incorporated as Muddy River Hamlet? CONFUSING.

By the middle of the nineteenth century, Brookline had begun to take on the character of a large, bustling “commuter’s town,” which it still has today. Indeed, by that time the Coolidges had set up shop in the area still known today as Coolidge Corner.

Six times, beginning in 1870, Boston attempted to annex Brookline. Each time, the citizens of Brookline blocked the proposal, although at times it was a close call. In 1937, Brookline was the largest town in New England and was “an ‘island’ almost entirely surrounded by Boston.” In 1937, it had a “modified form of town government” which it still has today (So! Many! Elections!). Also in 1937, it was “equally divided among native inhabitants, foreign-born residents, and those of mixed parentage.” Apparently, the biggest “foreign-born” strain was Irish, followed by Jewish. I do not notice a large Irish influence in Brookline, but it’s true that it’s still heavily Jewish.

Famous Brookline citizens, according to the 1937 book:

• Hannah Adams, “the first woman in America to follow the profession of literature”
• Serge Koussevitzky, the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra
• Jack Sharkey, a heavyweight champion prize-fighter of the world
• Roland Hayes, “renowned Negro tenor, whose work furthered acceptance of the Negro Spiritual as an art form;” and
• “the brilliant Amy Lowell, who during her later years was one of the striking figures in contemporary American poetry.” We had to study Amy Lowell in high school. Is this something everyone does, or is it a New-England-centric thing? The 1937 book waxes rhapsodic about her: “Among her contributions to poetry, which include ‘A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass’ and ‘What’s O’Clock,’ must be reckoned the perfecting, in her best work, of the technique of free verse; her almost unrivaled command of the vocabulary of sensuous impressions; the wide range of the themes to which she has given poetical expression; and the clarity and restrained beauty of many of her shorter poems.” What the book doesn’t tell you about Amy is that she was part of the two leading families of the Boston area, from the famous Boston jingle: “The Lowells talk only to Cabots / And the Cabots talk only to God.”

Famous Brookline citizen not mentioned by the 1937 book: John F. Kennedy, who was born on a shady side street in Brookline. At the time this book was written, JFK still had a living older brother to fulfill the presidential hopes of the family, and Joseph P. Kennedy was a year away from being appointed Ambassador to the Court of St. James. The house is on the National Register now, and you can take tours. I went there to sign the condolence book for Ted Kennedy, although I didn’t do the tour, just darted in to sign the book. It’s just a regular-looking house on a regular-looking street.

1. Brookline Public Library
 


I’m just realizing that there is a library on every motor tour. The author of the book is clearly obsessed with them. Anyway, this one was built in 1910 and was designed by R. Clipston Sturgis, whose name surely must be an anagram for something. In 1937, it was “set well back from the street in landscaped grounds.” I think the road must have been widened since 1937, as I wouldn’t consider that “well back from the street.” The library has an art collection that boasts Maufra, Bloos,


 
Banderweiden, and Dodge MacKnight. 
 


Isn’t Dodge MacKnight a great name? I love that name.

Anyway, in hunting around the library for the art, we eventually resorted to asking at the circulation desk, and they were so excited to get a question about the art. It was very cute.

The library was having a book sale, and I bought this book:
 


It’s about a tall man from Boston.

2. Harvard Congregational Church


 
NO, WE DO NOT KNOW WHY THIS PHOTO TURNED GREEN AFTER I TOOK IT. EXCEPT THAT IT CANNOT MEAN ANYTHING GOOD.

Ahem. 
 


We are not near Harvard here, but we are on Harvard Street, so I guess that’s where the church gets its name. Built in 1873 and designed by E. Tuckerman Potter (seriously, where do these names come from?), it’s “a low rambling brownstone building in Gothic style with a high tower which contains an unusually fine set of chimes.” Alas, we did not hear the chimes, if they still exist.

Here is where the book said “L. from Harvard St. into Marion St.” Sadly, I had passed Marion Street in order to get this photo. “I’m just going to turn around,” I said. “I don’t see a sign saying ‘no U-turns,’ do you?” “Uh,” said arctacuda, and pointed to the sign right in front of me. 


 
Oops. There went my plausible deniability.

3. All Saints’ Church
 


This was consecrated in 1926 but was “built slowly over a period of years,” “like the cathedrals of Europe.” It’s a late Gothic design, supposed to resemble similar churches in England, with high walls, a low-pitched roof, and “restrained use of carving.” The rose window is by Charles J. Connick, apparently “the American authority on stained glass.”
 


The church was closed, so we couldn’t get in to see the window, but it was so dark it probably would have barely registered. (Dark because of THE RAIN.)

And here’s something awesome about the church:
 


They have a Celtic Mass! There, I guess, is that Irish influence.

4. Corey Hill Outlook

I think I was worried that it wasn’t going to exist anymore, so I had arctacuda take a photo of the random street we were driving on, as a placeholder:
 


Because, honestly, who would have thought, in a place as built-up as Brookline now is, that there would still exist a random outlook from which to view the area around Brookline? Well, I was dead wrong, because the Corey Hill Outlook is still there. 


 
If only it hadn’t been RAINING, and if only it had been 1937, this is what you would have seen: the towns of Brighton and Watertown, the tower of the Perkins Institute for the Blind, the Watertown Arsenal, Harvard Stadium, Harvard College, and the Charles River. I have no idea how much of that is still visible.

5. Brookline Trust Company
 


As best as we can figure, it is now this Sovereign Bank. In 1937, this building housed the Ernest B. Dane Collection of Tapestries, which included “four Gobelin tapestries valued at $2,000,000.”

6. Edward Devotion House

Arctacuda loves all of you a whole lot, because she got out in the POURING RAIN to take this picture for you. I refused to do it, because it was raining too hard. I planned to give all of you this picture, deeming it good enough:


 
But no, she insisted that we had to get a picture, and I sat in my warm, dry car while she darted off, and she came back looking like a drowned rat but having secured a good photograph.

Now, the 1937 book tells me the house was built in 1680 by Edward Devotion, who was “town perambulator, town constable, fence viewer, and tythingman.” It sounds to me like he was kind of annoying. Anyway, the historical plaque in front of the house, which arctacuda was also kind enough to get a picture of, says that, while the frame of the house dates to 1680, the house itself was built in 1740 by Edward Devotion’s grandson, Solomon Hill. The historical plaque also tells me that Edward Devotion’s son gave money to Brookline to fund public schooling. Hence, the house in 1937 (and I think still today) sits on the grounds of the Devotion School. I feel like Edward Devotion’s son thought that, with a last name like Devotion, he just had to get a school named after him. It’s just too perfect.

7. Hawes Pond
 


We think this is now called Hall’s Pond. It just must be the same place, because we followed the book’s directions, and we ended up here. The book tells us that it used to be called White Horse Pond, because “a white horse and wagon once sank in its reputedly bottomless depths.” So this pond has apparently been called a lot of different things.


 
 

The puddles came up over my feet. I was extremely miserable. 
 


But not as miserable as these poor ducks.

8. Netherlands House
 


This “is a close copy of the Stadthuise at Franeker in Fresland (16th century).” It was the Dutch Cocoa House at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, and then was moved here “piece by piece.” The 1937 book gives zero explanation as to why, but does say that the door frame “is a replica of the doorway of the Enkhaisen Orphanage,” which I guess may be meaningful.



My favorite part of the house was the unusual roofline, which the 1937 book doesn’t even mention: 
 


To be continued...