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A public-domain text about Boston, accessioned whole so the archive can quote it.","text_extract":"F  73 \n.37 \n.E42 \nCopy    1 \n\n\n\\ \n\n\nTHE  FUNCTIONS   OF   A   (JITY. \n\n\nAN \n\n\nORATION \n\n\nBEFORE  THE \n\n\nCIIY  AUTHORITIES  OF  BOSTON, \n\n\nFOURTH    OF    JULY,    18(38. \n\n\nBY   ^ \n\n\nsamiteiXeliot.  ll.d. \n\n\nBOSTON: \n\nALFRED    MUDGE  &  SOX,  CITY   PRINTERS,   34    SCHOOL    STREET. \n\n1868. \n\n\nTHE    FUNCTIONS     OF    A    CITY. \n\n\nAN \n\n\nORATION \n\n\nBEFORE     THE \n\n\nCITY  AUTHORITIES  OF  BOSTON, \n\n\nFOURTH    OF    JULY,    186  8. \n\n\nBY     SAMUEL    ELIOT,    LL.D. \n\n\n/ \n\n\nBOSTON: \nALFRED   MUDGE  &  SOX,  CITY  PRINTERS,  3i  SCHOOL  STREET. \n\n1868. \n\n\n/  k^ \n\n\nORATION. \n\n\nBOSTON,     OLD     A>^D     NEW. \n\nThe  Boston  that  hailed  the  early  birthdays  of  the \nnation  has  almost  passed  away.  A  few  of  its  historic \nbuildings  keep  their,  places,  but  with  changed  aspects \nand  generally  changed  associations.  Thi-ee  or  four \nof  its  churches  remain,  but  in  localities  so  altered  as \nto  alter  them,  and  even  to  forebode  their  removal.  Its \nmansions  have  completely  vanished.  Their  stately \nfronts,  their  fair  proportions  of  height  and  breadth, \ntheir  wide  halls,  easy  stau's,  massive  wainscots  and \ngraceful  alcoves,  the  trees  before  them,  the  vines  climb- \ning their  porches,  the  flowers  blooming  beneath  their \nwindows,  the  terraces  and  gardens  surrounding  them, \nlinger  only  in  remembrance.  Remembrance  itself  but \nfaintly  recalls  the  streets  like  those  of  present  villages, \nthe  open  spaces  then  styled  greens,  the  pastures  where \ncattle  browsed,  the  fields  unoccupied  except  in  the \nplaytime   of  children,   the   shores   that  met   the   water \n\n'with  lips    it   did  not   shrink  from  kissing.     The  very \n1* \n\n\nb  JULY    4,    18G8. \n\nhills  which  gave  the  place  its  first  name,  instead  of \nhaving  proved  everlasting,  have  sunk  beneath  the \nspade,  their  loftiness  brought  literally  to  the  dust. \nEven  the  sea  washing  our  peninsula,  no  more \n\n\"  Unchangeable  save  to  its  wild  waves'  play,\" \n\nfinds  its  azure  brow  wrinkled  with  walls  and  marked \nby  lines  of  building  where  fluttered,  years  ago,  a  gar- \nland of  snowy  sails. \n\nAnother  Boston  has  arisen  on  the  old  foundations \nand  the  new.  Once  a  single  neighborhood,  it  is  now \na  group  of  neighborhoods  ;  once  a  society  of  personal \nacquaintances,  now  a  population  of  indistinct  connec- \ntions, where  men  cannot  inquire  into  one  another's \naff\"airs  with  the  same  success  as  of  yore ;  a  scene  for- \nmerly of  limited,  latterly  of  expanded  action,  of  customs \nshaped  according  to  a  broader  rule,  of  enterprises  laid \nout  upon  a  larger  scale,  of  relations  more  complex, \nsystems  more  varied,  standards  more  aspiring ;  no \nlonger  a  town  but  a  city,  with  all  the  present,  all  the \nfuture  prospects  of  which  a  city  is  the  centre.  Imag- \nine a  citizen  of  the  Kevolution,  or  of  the  War  of  1812, \nreturning  hither  to  find  his  birthplace  buried  beneath \na  warehouse,  his  church  swallowed  up  in  an  abyss  of \ntraffic,  an  avenue  where  he  skated,  and  a  long  vista  of \nreef-stone  facades  where  he  bathed.     Follow  him  on \n\n\nORATION.  1 \n\nthe  round  of  our  institutions,  especially  those  where \nforeign  tongues  prevail  over  the  native,  and  pieces  of \nthe  Old  World  appear  to  have  fallen  on  the  New.  He \nmight  find  cause  to  think  Boston  as  unlike  its  former \nself  as  some  of  its  statues  to  their  originals.  Then \nhear  him  warned,  as  we  are,  that  the  city  is  declining, \nand  that  unless  its  capitalists  provide  it  with  half  a \ndozen  new  railroads  to  the  interior,  and  its  harbor \ncommissioners  give  it  a  new  channel  to  the  sea,  its \ndoom  is  sealed.  Ah,  he  might  exclaim,  it  needs  the \nopening  of  a  vein  or  two  to  reduce  its  symptoms  of \nplethora.  Signs  of  decay  they  cannot  be ;  these  sights \nand  sounds,  these  throngs,  these  labors,  these  excite- \nments are  not  the  hectic  of  decline.  Would  he  not  be \nrights  Does  not  the  handwriting  upon  our  walls \npromise  better  things  than  the  overthrow  of  the  city, \nor  the  transfer  of  its  prosperity  to  its  neighbors  ] \n\nNot  content  with  her  own  expansion,  Boston  has \nlately  taken  unto  herself  her  sister  Roxbury.  Not  a \nmarriage  exactly,  but  a  joining  of  hands,  an  endowing \neach  other  with  their  worldly  goods  (to  say  nothing  of \ntheir  debts),  it  has  made  of  twain  one  city.  Common \nmemories,  common  associations  and  common  interests \nprepared  the  connection ;  now  that  it  is  consummated, \nthey  foreshow  its  happiness.  Brought  to-day  before \nthe  national  altar,  and  blending  in  the  national  festival \n\n\n•8  JULY    4,    1868. \n\nfor  the  first  time,  let  the  union  of  the  sisters  and  of \nthe  sisters'  sons  be  confii-med  in  these  hours  of  patriotic \ncommemoration. \n\nAGE     OF     GREAT     CITIES. \n\nIn  becoming  a  city,  Boston  shares  in  a  characteristic \nmovement  of  the  period.  Our  age  has  been  called  the \nAge  of  Great  Cities,  and  there  is  as  good  reason  for \nthis  name  as  for  any  other  which  it  bears.  For  the \ncities  of  the  time  are  not  only  greater,  taken  together, \nthan  those  of  former  times,  but  more  numerous,  more \nwidely  spread,  and  above  all,  more  active  in  the  work \nwhich  in  all  ages  falls  chiefly  to  them. \n\nThis  work  is  civilization,  a  term  that  cannot  be  ex- \nplained but  by  going  back  to  its  Latin  root,  where  we \nfind  the  citizen,  and  with  him,  the  city.  Men  scatter, \nin  order  to  discover ;  they  concentrate,  in  order  to  civ- \nilize. When  the  city  brings  them  together,  mingling \ntheir  numbers  and  their  interests,  it  sets  them  across \nthe  dividing  line  between  barbarism  and  civilization. \nIt  carries  them  farther  and  farther  into  the  civilized \nregion  by  augmenting  their  resources  and  enabling \nthem  to  meet  the  multiplying  demands  of  their  new \nsituation.  Civilization  is  a  costly  process,  especially  in \nthe  modern  era.     To  all  the  expenses  it  involved  in  the \n\n\nORATION.  y \n\ndays  of  old,  to  all  the  operations  of  government,  all \nthe  luxuries  of  society,  all  the  splendors  of  the  arts \nand  sciences,  are  added  in  our  day  the  claims  of  public \neducation,  the  exhaustless  purposes  of  charity  and \nfaith.  Every  reform  of  this  generation,  every  hope  of \nsoothing  the  afflicted  or  recovering  the  lost,  every  eifort \nto  make  sunshine  in  a  shady. place,  is  expensive,  often \nlavishly  expensive,  though  not  a  dollar  be  wasted, \nbut  dollar  upon  dollar  be  saved  in  the  end.  No  civil- \nizing agency  can  do  much  without  a  fund  to  draw \nupon.  Philosophy  used  to  shake  her  head,  insisting \nthat  nothing  was  surer  to  ruin  a  people  than  their \nbecoming  rich.  But  she  confesses  now-a-days  that \npoverty  is  a  greater  drawback  than  wealth  upon  social \nadvancement.  What  Burke  said  of  public  virtue  is \nequally  true  of  civilization,  that  \"  being  of  a  nature \nmagnificent  and  splendid,  instituted  for  great  things \nand  conversant  about  great  concerns,  it  requires  abun- \ndant scope  and  room,  and  cannot  spread  and  grow  under \nconfinement,  and  in  circumstances  straitened,  narrow \nand  sordid.\"  It  was  the  love,  not  the  use  of  money \nwhich  the  Apostle  pronounced  the  root  of  all  evil ;  the \nuse  that  implies  no  love  for  it  in  itself  is  the  root  of \nmuch  good.  If  the  history  of  civilized  nations  teaches \nany  lesson,  if  travel  among  the  uncivilized  brings  back \nany  testimony,  it  is  the  necessity  of  wealth  to  civiliza- \n\n\n10  JULY    4,    1868. \n\ntion.  For  this  there  must  be  concentration,  for  this \nthe  solitary  must  be  set  in  families,  families  in  com- \nmunities, and  communities  in  cities. \n\nThe  Age  of  Great  Cities  therefore,  signifies  the  Age \nof  Great  Civilization,  It  is  a  title  which  the  cities \nmay  be  proud  to  give,  and  the  age  to  wear,  a  title  not \nmerely  of  grandeur  or  power,  but  of  liberality  and \ntenderness,  including  all  sorts  and  conditions  of \nhumanit}%  its  sufferings  as  well  as  its  triumphs,  and  its \n\"  still,  sad  music\"  as  well  as  its  loudest  hallelujahs. \n\nFUNCTIONS    OF    A    CITY. \n\nIf  Boston  is  to  be  among  the  great  cities  of  civiliza- \ntion, she  must  do  more  than  annex  her  suburbs  or  fill \nin  her  water  lots,  more  than  build  her  blocks  or  rea,r \nher  monuments,  more,  much  more,  than  swell  the \nvolume  of  her  taxes ;  for  neither  territory  nor  popula- \ntion, neither  architecture  nor  any  other  art,  not  even \nthat  of  the  assessor,  establishes  the  greatness  of  a  city. \nTo  this,  internal  growth  is  indispensable,  the  powers \nincreasing  with  the  frame,  the  mind  and  the  heart  ex- \npanding with  the  body,  the  immaterial  elements  corre- \nsponding with  the  material.  A  city  is  no  inorganic \nmass  growing  by  simple  accretion,  but  an  organism  of \nvarious  and  mysterious  forces  developing  from  within. \n\n\nORATION.  11 \n\nIts  functions  determine  its  rank,  just  as  the  classifica- \ntion of  any  living  being  is  determined.  They  consti- \ntute its  character,  its  history.  If  great,  they  render  it \ngreat,  and  it  ascends  with  as  little  effort  as  the  dawn  to \na  place  among  the  cities  of  civilization. \n\nFUNCTIONS    NOT    OF    A    CITY. \n\nThere  are  some,  indeed,  many  things  which  a  city \ncannot  do.  It  has  no  direct  share  in  the  labors  of \nwhich  the  country  is  the  natural  field.  It  cultivates \nno  land,  produces  no  food,  not  even  the  water  which \nit  needs.  It  has  no  mines  to  open,  no  fabrics,  com- \npared with  those  of  the  great  manufacturing  centres, \nto  call  its  own.  It  does  not  act  upon  nature,  except \nto  obliterate  it,  or  upon  most  of  the  products  of \nnature  until  they  have  been  worked  up  elsewhere. \nFor  what  it  receives  from  abroad,  it  offers  in  return \nthe  values  produced  by  its  citizens  as  artisans,  mer- \nchants, or  members  of  the  different  professions,  using \nthese  words  in  their  broadest  sense.  Neither  does \nnature  act  upon  the  city,  or  upon  the  people  within \nits  borders,  for  here  they  are  beyond  her  reach,  beyond \nher  skyey  or  earthy  influence,  save  in  their  public \ngardens,  and  even  there,  the  builders  are  apt  to \ncrowd  upon  the  gardeners. \n\n\n12  JULY    4,    1868. \n\nFurthermore,  there  are  many  things  which,  though \nthey  may  be  done  in  a  city,  may  not  be  done  by  a  city, \nbut  by  its  citizens.  Municipal  energy  has  one  sphere, \nindividual  energy  another,  and  much  the  wider,  em- \nbracing aifairs  of  every  kind  and  powers  of  every \ndegree.  So  far  from  substituting  the  city  for  its  citi- \nzens in  their  undertakings,  they  should  be  substituted \nfor  it  in  any  of  its  undertakings  which  they  can \nsafely  assume.  The  newspapers  of  a  few  days  or \nweeks  ago  published  a  letter  from  one  of  the  best \nfriends  our  country  has  in  Europe,  saying  how  much \nhe  was  impressed  by  the  difference  between  the  town \nor  commune  in  France  which  manages  its  citizens, \nand  the  town  in  the  United  States  which  its  citizens \nmanage.  It  is  the  difference  between  centralization \nand  self-government,  between  the  system  which  makes \na  man  a  puppet,  and  that  which  makes  him  a  free \nagent,  between  that  which  fits  him  more  and  more \nfor  subjection,  and  that  which  fits  him  more  and  more \nfor  liberty.  Paris  has  been  called  the  Bostonian's \nparadise,  but  never  the  Bostonian's  city.  Nor  would \nhe  ever  choose  it  as  the  scene  of  his  civil  existence ; \nfor  this,  he  wants  opportunities  of  action  which  the \nFrench  capital,  with  all  its  magnificence,  cannot \nsupply. \n\n\nORATION.  13 \n\n\nPOLITICAL    FUNCTIONS. \n\n\nThe   functions    of    a   city   are,   in    the   first   place, \n\npolitical.      The     earliest     city,    whether    that    named \n\nEnoch   or  another,  was  the  earliest  political  lever  to \n\nmove  the  world.     Throughout  the  ancient  generations, \n\nthe  weapons  with  which  they  plucked  bright  honor \n\nwere    their   cities,   within   whose    walls    their   power \n\ncentred,    and   in   whose    names    their   fame    extended \n\nover  the    earth.      As  the   chief  means   of  defence  to \n\ntheir  inhabitants,  they    gradually   became   the   means \n\nof  such  freedom  as  was  then  possible,  sometimes  the \n\nmere   negation  of  despotism,   sometimes    the    positive \n\nassertion  of  nascent  liberties.     All  that  was  freest  in \n\nthe  politics   of  antiquity,  all  that  gave  them  general \n\nanimation,  sprang  directly  or  indirectly  from  the  city. \n\nThe  times  were  so   unripe  for  any  broader  principle, \n\nfor    anything    like    modern    nationality,     that     every \n\nattempt   at  such  appears  to   have  failed  the  moment \n\nit    was    made.      Only    a    local    organization    like    a \n\nmunicipality  could  establish  itself  in  a   period  when \n\ndemocracy  was  fierce  and  absolutism  yet  fiercer,  when \n\nfire   and   the   sword  were    the    portion  of  states,   and \n\nthe  clouds  under  which  men  contended  seldom  turned \n\nforth   a   silver   lining.     It   was    an   imperfect   liberty, \n\n\n14  JULY    4,    1868. \n\nnot  merely  in  being  municipal,  without  any  national \nadmixture,  but  also  in  being  the  monopoly  of  a \nruling  class,  or  in  other  words,  the  liberty  of  the \nruler.  Its  hour  soon  came,  and  it  fell,  but  not  in \nlifeless  ruin.  Out  of  its  crumbled  foundations,  later \nages  derived  much  of  the  material  for  their  own \ninstitutions,  and  when  the  time  arrived  for  the  city \nto  be  restored,  the  free  towns  of  the  Continent  and \nthe  boroughs  of  England  appeared,  not  like  their \nforerunners,  in  the  grasp  of  a  dominant  order,  but \nopen  to  the  middle  or  burgher  classes,  plebeian  rather \nthan  patrician,  the  cradles  of  the  Commons.  English \nhistory  has  no  more  stirring  narrative  than  that  which \ntells  how,  when  the  crown  was  on  an  imbecile  head, \nand  most  of  the  higher  offices  were  in  strangers' \nhands,  when  the  Charter  was  habitually  violated,  and \nthe  rights  of  the  nation  were  incessantly  invaded, \nuntil  the  public  distresses  culminated  in  civil  war, \nthen,  close  upon  the  first  victory  of  the  national \nparty,  their  leader,  Simon  de  Montfort,  summoned \nthe  boroughs  to  send  their  representatives  to  the \nParliament  of  1265.  There  municipal  freedom  and \nnational  at  last  met  together,  and  there,  as  they \nclasped  hands,  began  that  movement  which,  more \nthan   any  other  earthly  influence,  has   controlled  the \n\n\nORATION. \n\n\n15 \n\n\nmodern  states,  and  given  to  some  of  them  the  pos- \nsession, to   all  of  them  the  hope  of  liberty. \n\nOf  the  many  subsequent  blows  struck  for  freedom \nby  the  Commonalty  of  England,  none  was  more \neffective  than  their  colonization  of  these  American \nshores.  Here,  where  every  good  seed  from  the  Old \nWorld  was  destined  to  spring  up  and  bear  a  hundred- \nfold, the  city,  or  as  it  used  to  be  termed,  the  town, \ngrew  into  larger  life.  No  longer  the  heritage  of  a \nsingle  class,  upper  or  loAver,  it  became  that  of  the \nwhole  community,  around  whose  private  and  public \nresorts  it  spread  in  overhanging  clusters  of  freedom. \nIt  was  at  once  a  refuge  and  an  inspiration  to  our \nancestors.  It  confirmed  their  habits  of  law  and \norder ;  it  strengthened  them  in  their  colonial  as  well \nas  theu*  municipal  relations,  and  prepared  them  for \nthe  day  when  the  tempest  lowered  from  beyond  the \nsea.  The  town  here  was  always  free,  enacting  its \nown  ordinances,  choosing  its  own  magistrates,  and \nadministering  its  own  affairs.  It  felt  the  heavy  hand \nof  the  mother  country,  not  as  the  town,  but  as  a  part \nof  the  colony,  on  which  alone  the  immediate  oj)pres- \nsions  of  crown  or  parliament  descended.  The  for- \neigner who  has  best  divined  our  institutions,  Alexis \nde    Tocqueville,  said,  years   ago,  that  the  sovereignty \n\n\n16  JULY     4,    1868. \n\nof  the  people  in  the  town  Avas  \"  not  only  an  ancient, \nbut  a  primitive  state  \"  in  America. \n\nSo,  when  the  tempest  came,  and  the  air  was   thick \nwith  revolution,  the  towns  of  the  threatened  colonies \nstood   fii-m.     Boston   unhesitatingly   placed  herself  at \ntheir  head.     Her  Town  House,  —  let  us  be  thankful \nthat  its  shell,  if  nothing  more,  is  spared,  —  was  \"  the \nfirst  scene,\"  as  John  Adams  declared,  \"  of  the  first  act \nof  opposition  to  the  arbitrary  claims  of  Great  Britain,\" \nwhen  James  Otis,  \"  a  flame  of  fire,\"  blazed  out  in  burn- \ning argument  against  Writs  of  Assistance,  and  \"  breathed \ninto  the  nation  the  breath  of  life.\"     \"  Then  and  there,\" \nexclaimed    Adams,     \"  the    child     Independence    was \nborn.\"     It  was  to  Boston  that  British  troops  were  first \ndespatched,  a  century  ago  this  very  year,  to  crush  the  in- \nfant Liberty.     It  was  here,  below  the  same  building  in \nwhich  the  birth  occurred,  that  the  first  baptismal  blood \nwas  shed  in  the  massacre  of  March.     It  was  here,  in  the \nwaters  of  the  Bay,  that  the  tea  which  symbolized  par- \nliamentary taxation  was  poured    out  on  a  December \nnight  in  one  deep  di-aught  for  freedom.    It  was  here  that \nthe  Port  Bill,  following  Xerxes'  example,  would  have \nscourged  the  very  waves  for  sharing  in  the  rebellion  of \nthe  people.     And  here,  at  the  breaking  of  the  day,  the \nmorning  stars  of  Lexington  and,  nearer  yet,  of  Bunker \nHill,  shone  in  the  horizon,  until  the  sunrise  fell  on  Dor \n\n\nORATION.  17 \n\nChester  Heights,  where  he  whom  the  nation  gave  to \ndeliver  the  town,  achieved  his  first  great  victory.  All \nthrough  these  years  of  trial,  all  through  the  years  that \ncame  after,  Boston  never  faltered  : \n\n\"  Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share. \nLord  of  the  liou  heart  and  eagle  eye  ! \nThy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare, \nKor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky.\" \n\nAs  Boston  followed  then,  so  she  did  again  in  the \nyet  more  terrible  storm,  when  the  telegraph  brought \nfrom  Washington  a  demand  for  fifteen  hundred  men ; \nwhen  the  first  to  respond,  three  Marblehead  companies, \nmarched  from  the  railway  to  Faneuil  Hall  in  rain  and \nsleet  which  the  welcome-shouting  crowds  seemed  to \nmistake  for  sunshine ;  when  Boston  troops  were  arm- \ning, Boston  men  giving,  Boston  women  working,  Bos- \nton children  sympathizing;  when  the  flag  streamed \nfrom  every  staff  and  above  almost  every  door,  its \nsacred  hues  crowning  the  city  with  a  halo  of  undying \npatriotism ;  when  our  heroic  Governor  had  no  need  to \nspeak  unto  the  children  of  Israel  that  they  go  forward, \nfor  forward,  of  their  own  accord,  they  plunged  into  the \nred  sea  of  war,  so  that  he  could  write  back  to  Wash- \nington on  the  self- same  day  of  the  call  for  aid,  \"  I  find \nthe  amplest  proof  of  a  warm  devotion  to  the  country's \ncause  on   every  hand  to-day,\"  words  that  might  serve \n\n2* \n\n\n18  JULY    4,    1868. \n\nfor  a  national  watchword  as  long  as  the  nation  lasts ; \nthen  Boston,  in  common  with  Massachusetts,  gave  full \nproof  of  her  fidelity,  not  only  to  her  own  liberty,  but \nto  the  liberty  of  the  Union. \n\nThe  political  functions  of  a  city  are  never  confined \nto  its  own  limits.  It  belongs  to  the  nation,  and  if  true \nto  its  duties,  nay  if  true  to  its  instincts,  it  must  minister \nto  the  national  well-being.  Montaigne  said  he  was  a \nFrenchman  only  by  virtue  of  Paris.  We  are  not \nAmericans  only  by  virtue  of  Boston,  and  yet  the  better \nBostonians  we  are,  the  better  Americans  we  shall  be. \nCharles  Kiver  does  not  more  surely  tend  to  Massachu- \nsetts Bay,  or  the  Bay  to  the  ocean,  than  the  city  built \nby  these  waters  tends  to  the  nation.  If,  like  the  child \nwho  held  the  shell  to  his  ear,  we  have  ever  listened  to \nthe  city  and  its  voices,  we  have  heard \n\n\"  Murmurings  whereby  the  monitor  expressed \nMysterious  union  with  its  native  sea,\" \n\nthat  sea,  the  Indivisible  Republic.  Our  local  institu- \ntions have  often  been  charged  with  weakening  the  cen- \ntral government.  But  wherever  they  have  not  been \ntampered  with,  they  have  written  out  a  record  over \nwhich  they  and  the  Union  may  well  rejoice  together. \n\n\nORATION.  19 \n\n\nEDUCATIONAL    FUNCTIONS. \n\n\nThe  educational  functions  of  a  city  are  at  once  a \ncause  and  an  effect  of  the  political.  A  cause,  since \neducation  is  necessary  to  liberty ;  and  an  effect,  since \nliberty  is  necessary  to  education  or  to  general \neducation.  Free  communities,  above  all  others, \nneed  free  schools,  where  the  young  can  be  pre- \npared for  the  liberties  into  which  they  are  to \nenter.  On  the  other  hand,  free  schools  need  free  com- \nmunities from  which  they  will  receive  the  requisite \nsupport  almost  without  the  asking.  Elsewhere  they \nhave  an  artificial,  here  a  natural  life,  in  keeping  with \nthe  life  around  it,  set  in  a  kindly  soil,  fed  by  the  air \nand  moisture  of  congenial  skies.  From  schools  abroad, \nours  may  borrow  a  theory  here,  a  practice  there ;  from \nsome,  thoroughness  ;  from  others,  refinement ;  from  all, \nwhateve  r  superior  traits  may  distinguish  them.  But \nfrom  none,  from  no  educational  institutions  in  the \nworld,  have  ours  anything  to  borrow  with  regard  to  the \npublic  spirit  which  maintains  them.  In  this,  ours \neasily  take  the  lead.  Such  a  connection  as  exists \nbetween  them  and  the  homes  around  them,  such  a \nharmony  in  the  purposes  of  the  teacher,  the  child  and \nthe   parent,   such   a  unity   of  educational   and   social \n\n\n20  JULY4,18G8. \n\ninterests,  is  unknown  under  exclusive  institutions. \nThe  free  country  and  the  free  school  are  like  mother \nand  daughter  to  each  other. \n\nBorn  of  the  common  will  and  nurtured  by  the  com- \nmon affection,  our  schools  remain  a  part  of  the  com \nmunity  rather  than  of  the  Government.  To  them,  as \nto  any  other  constituency,  the  city  lends  a  helping \nhand,  founding  them  where  they  are  needed,  and \nadministering  them  as  their  circumstances  require. \nOne  asks  for  organization ;  another  already  organized, \nfor  a  new  building,  or,  if  preferring  bread  to  stone,  for \na  new  course  of  instruction ;  whatever  their  demands, \nreasonable  and  at  times  unreasonable,  they  are  almost \nsure  to  be  gratified.  Two  centuries  and  a  half  of  such \ncare,  honorable  alike  to  the  city  that  has  given  and  to \nthe  schools  that  have  received  it,  are  nearly  past,  and \nit  is  as  unwearied  as  ever. \n\nThis  relation  between  the  city  and  its  schools  renders \ntheir  improvement  practicable  at  any  time.  To  reform \nis  not  to  upheave,  but  to  establish  them,  provided  only \nthat  the  reformation  is  wisely  executed.  Perhaps  the \ngreat  principles  of  education  are  not  so  mutable  as  they \nare  sometimes  regarded;  easily  shaken,  they  do  not \nappear  to  be  -easily  overthrown  or  even  displaced.  But \nwith  respect  ito  many  of  their  applications,  an  opinion \nis  generally  forming,  if  not  formed,  that  these  should \n\n\nORATION.  21 \n\nbe  changed.  Teacher  and  pupil  alike  desire  it ;  vigor \nof  body  or  of  mind,  in  both,  depends  upon  it ;  the  cul- \nture of  the  school  and  of  the  community  is  to  be  de- \ntermined by  it;  why  should  it  be  delayed?  Educa- \ntional reform  is  not  like  a  certain  mountain  that  refuses \nto  be  pierced,  despite  the  profusions  of  legislatures  and \nthe  profits  of  contractors.  It  is  a  comparatively  gentle \nslope  which  our  chariot  wheels  may  surmount  with- \nout much  difficulty,  if  they  do  not  tarry  too  long. \n\"  While  you  are  considering,\"  said  Dr.  Johnson, \n\"  which  of  two  things  you  should  teach  your  child  first, \nanother  boy  has  learned  them  both.\"  \"We  may  yet  be \ndeliberating  what  improvement  to  begin  with,  when \nothers  have  already  eff'ected  it,  and  many  another  after \nit.  Each  obstacle,  if  not  removed,  increases ;  each \nevil  that  might  be  checked,  but  is  not,  becomes  more \nand  more  portentous.  The  longer  our  faces  are  set  in \na  wrong  direction,  the  longer  it  will  take  to  turn  them \nin  the  right  one.  At  the  coronation  of  George  III., \nthe  Lord  Steward  had  trained  his  horse  to  back  down \nthe  hall  after  the  presentation  of  a  cup  to  the  king, \nbut  the  steed  backed  up  the  hall,  and  brought  the \nsteward  with  his  back  to  his  sovereign.  It  is  a  pity  to \ntrain  our  children  to  walk  backwards,  a  pity  to  teach \nthem  anything  which  they  will  have  to  unlearn  here- \nafter. \n\n\n22  JULY    i,    1868. \n\nIt  seems  as  if  the  system  which  has  done  so  much \nmight  do  yet  more.  It  lies  somewhat  too  motionless \nupon  the  waters ;  the  mast  creaks,  the  .sails  flap,  and \nthe  helm  appears  to  be  in  an  uncertain  grasp.  Bell \nafter  bell  strikes,  and  the  watch  is  called.  Let  it  be \nthe  beginning  of  a  new  effort  to  set  the  ship  upon  her \ncourse,  and  to  carry  her,  with  her  precious  freight  of \nchildren,  to  shores  as  yet  unknown  in  education. \n\nFor  the  majority  of  our  childi-en,  their  mere  pre- \nsence, persuasive  in  freshness  and  promise,  the  anxie- \nties of  parents,  the  sympathies  of  friends,  are  powerful \nmeans  to  bring  about  all  desirable  reforms.  But  for \nothers  whose  aspect  has  no  charm,  whose  prospects \nexcite  no  enthusiasm,  whose  parents  and  friends  are \noften  their  worst  enemies,  for  these,  children  of  the \nstreets  rather  than  of  the  schools,  many  a  voice  must \nbe  uplifted,  before  they  are  cared  for  as  they  should  be. \nBoston  never  did  a  better  deed  than  in  providing  in- \nstruction for  her  newsboys  and  others  like  them.  She \nhas  but  to  follow  up  that  step,  and  either  to  open  new, \nor  adapt  existing  schools  to  all  her  children,  in  order \nthat  they  may  be  snatched  from  the  dangers  which \nwaylay  them.  Should  any,  thus  enabled  to  choose  the \ngood,  prefer  the  evil,  still  let  them  be  treated  as  child- \nish, not  as  hardened  offenders.  You  knock  truancy  on \nthe  head  by  sending  the  truant  to  the  reformatory ;   but \n\n\nOEATION.  23 \n\nyou  also  run  the  risk  of  stunning  his  better  nature  for- \never. No  reformatory,  however  faithfully  administered, \ncan  put  off  the  likeness  of  a  prison  or  put  on  the  like- \nness of  a  home ;  yet  nothing  but  a  home  can  enable \nthis  spirit,  parched  by  years  of  desolation,  to  bear  blos- \nsoms of  childhood.  The  more  of  a  vagrant  he  is,  the \nmore  he  needs  domestic  dews.  Offspring  of  misery  or \nsin,  brought  by  the  stream  to  the  foot  of  our  Palatine, \nthe  wolf  will  be  his  only  nurse  until  the  shepherd \ncarries  him  to  the  woman's  arms.  Instead  of  being \nshut  up  with  those  who  have  perhaps  fallen  lower  than \nhe  has  done,  he  should  find  tlie  discipline  he  needs  in \nmingling  with  others  unlike  himself  and  learning  the \nsweet  lessons  of  love. \n\nThe  principle  of  attraction,  as  wonderworking  in \neducation  as  in  any  other  cause,  has  yet  to  expand  in \nour  schools.  Make  them  more  winning,  and  this \nmakes  them  more  commanding.  Give  them  gentle- \nness and  this  gives  them  strength.  Whatever  increases \ntheir  power  of  attracting,  increases  also  their  power  of \nteaching  and  governing'  their  pupils.  \"  I  may  be  drawn \nby  a  thread,\"  said  a  Ehode  Island  representative  in  a \nlong-forgotten  Congressional  skirmish,  \"  but  I  never \ncan  be  driven  by  the  club  of  Hercules.\"  The  less  of \nthe  club  and  the  more  of  the  thread  in  the  management \nof  our  schools,  the  deeper  they  will  be  set  in  the  affec- \n\n\n24  JULY4,1868. \n\ntions  of  their  children ;  the  deeper,  too,  iu  the  affec- \ntions of  all  who  hold  their  children  dear.  Were \nthere  no  other  reason  than  the  beauty  introduced  by \nit,  the  musical  instruction  now  forming  a  part  of  our \nsystem  would  deserve  to  be  cherished.  But  it  has \nother  recommendations,  as  a  means  of  discipline,  as \na  development  of  human  faculties,  and  as  an  illustra- \ntion of  Divine  harmonies.  A  city  ought  to  be  the \nhome  of  all  the  arts.  They  owed  their  first  great \ntriumphs  to  the  cities  of  antiquity,  their  next  to  the \nmediaeval  cities ;  why  should  they  not  owe  their  latest \nto  the  cities  of  the  modern  age  ?  And  where,  if  they \nare  taught  among  us,  can  the  first  lessons  in  some \nof  them  be  more  fittingly  given  than  in  our  schools  ? \nGreat  artists  would  not  be  multiplied ;  but  troops  of \ncontented  pupils  would  be.  They  could  not  but  be \nthankful  for  anything  to  tone  down  the  sharp  out- \nlines of  their  training,  to  soften  the  perspective  of \ntheir  studies,  and  throw  a  tender  glow  about  the \nfar-off  summits.  Their  intellectual  atmosphere  would \nbe  both  lovelier  and  healthier  with  a  little  haze. \n\nBoston  has  a  model  of  her  own  to  guide  her  upward \nsteps  in  education.  An  institution  founded  but  the \nother  day,  yet  rising  as  if  its  foundations  had  been \nlaid  with  the  city's,  has  placed  itself  at  the  head  of \n\n\nORATION.  25 \n\nour  educational  institutions,   and  lifted  them  at   once \nto   a  higher  level. \n\n\"N\"o  workman  steel,  no  ponderous  axes  rung; \nLike  some  tall  palm  the  noiseless  fabric  sprung.\" \n\nBut  not,  as  the  poet's  next  line  begins,  \"  Majestic \nsilence.\"  Rather,  majestic  speech,  the  speech  of  ages \nbefore  the  Temple,  of  times  remoter  and  nearer,  of \nthe  very  time  in  which  we  live.  \"  I  have  sat  before \nthat  picture,\"  said  a  monk  pointing  to  a  Last  Supper \nin  his  convent,  \"  year  after  year,  and  w^hen  I  see  the \nchanges  among  us  and  the  unchanged  figures  there, \nI  think  that  we,  not  they,  must  be  the  shadows.\" \nSo  in  comparison  with  the  speech  of  books,  the  tongue \nof  man,  however  loud,  seems  silence.  They  speak \nwith  the  authority  of  the  past,  he  with  the  uncertainty \nof  the  present ;  they  speak  of  things  abiding,  he \nof  things  passing  away.  Would  the  city  fulfil  her \noffice  as  an  educator,  would  she  ascend,  and  lead  her \nchildren  with  her,  to  a  higher  culture  than  has  yet \nbeen  reached,  she  has  but  to  turn  to  her  Public \nLibrary.  It  stands  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  ben- \nefactors who  have  endowed  it  and  the  still  greater \nbenefactors  who  have  administered  it,  yet  already \nthe  centre  of  our  educational  system,  the  source  of \nlight    and    heat    to    every   school    and    every   scholar \n\n3 \n\n\n26  JULY    4,    1868. \n\naround  it,  with  no  cloud  between  them  and  its  inspi- \nration. \n\nCHARITABLE    FUNCTIONS. \n\nThe  charitable  functions  of  a  city  partly  mingle  with \nand  partly  transcend  its  educational.  It  ministers  in \nteaching,  it  ministers  also  in  relieving  its  dependent \nclasses.  Many  of  the  ancient  cities  were  represented  on \ntheir  coins  as  women  with  crowns  and  flowing  robes,  and \nmany  a  modern  city  wears  a  crown  of  mercy  upon  her \nhead,  a  robe  of  charity  about  her  form,  while  at  her  feet, \nin  place  of  the  captive  or  the  victim,  a  suff\"erer  waits  for \nbread,  if  he  is  hungry ;  for  care,  if  sick ;  for  shelter,  if \nan  outcast.  Fairest  among  the  features  of  the  present \ncivilization  is  its  sympathy.  Instead  of  exposing  the \nfoundling,  it  opens  an  asylum ;  instead  of  tramp- \nling down  the  weak  in  body  or  mind,  it  gathers  them \nin  hospitals ;  instead  of  hurrying  the  convict  to  hope- \nless imprisonment  or  yet  more  hopeless  death,  it \nwatches  over  his  reformation ;  instead  of  letting  want \nand  despair  run  their  course,  it  seeks  to  close  their \nsources  and  prevent  them  from  overtaking  their  prey. \nIn  all  these  labors,  the  city,  as  the  handmaid  of  civili- \nzation, bears  her  part.  Much  as  she  leaves  to  her \ncitizens,  there  remains  much  which  no  power  but  hers \ncan  accomplish.     Sufl\"erers  from  fault  or  suff\"erers  from \n\n\nORATION.  27 \n\nmisfortune,  the  suffering  classes  require  a  hand  to \ncontrol  as  well  as  to  succor  them.  Not  the  charity \nalone,  but  the  authority  of  the  city  is  wanted  in  dealing \nwith  the  sinned  against  and  the  sinning,  the  man  with- \nout manhood,  the  woman  without  womanhood,  the  child \nwithout  childhood,  the  long,  long  tiles  of  degradation \nthat  straggle  through  the  streets,  starting  at  every \nsound,  fleeing  from  every  shadow,  panting  for  rest \nthough  they  ask  it  not,  thii'sting  for  compassion  though \nthey  accept  it  not,  a  multitude  of  which,  however \nshameful,  no  city  doing  her  best  to  save  them,  need \nbe  ashamed.  Persevere,  long-seeking,  long-baffled \nmother,  relieve  thy  children,  relieve  the  stranger \nwithin  thy  gate,  and  the  ear  that  hears  thee  shall \nbless  thee,  the  eye  that  sees  thee  shall  bear  witness  to \nthee  in  thy  work  of  charity. \n\n\nRELIGIOUS    FUNCTIONS. \n\nThe  religious  functions  of  a  city,  above  all  others, \nare  necessary  to  its  completeness.  With  no  establish- \nment, no  observances,  no  doctrines  of  its  own  to  main- \ntain as  a  system,  it  has  a  spirit  to  keep  up,  a \ndetermination  to  be  just  to  man,  a  desire  to  be  faithful \nto  God,  which  is,  in  the  truest  sense,  a  religious  spirit. \nWithout  it,  the  existence  of  a  city  is  a  disgrace,  and  its \n\n\n28  JULY4,1868. \n\nmagnitude  a  calamity.  The  poet,  struck  by  the  cor- \nruptions of  London,  a  century  ago,  asserts, \n\n\"  God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town.\" \n\nHe  was  as  wide  of  the  mark  as  if  he  had  said  that  God \nmade  the  country,  and  man  the  garden.  Men  hxy  out \ntheir  streets  and  put  up  their  buildings ;  they  cannot \ncreate  the  site  or  the  material,  much  less  themselves \nthe  builders,  in  whom,  rather  than  in  earth  or  stone, \nthe  town  consists.  If  our  city  means  anything  by  the \nmotto  she  borrows  from  King  Solomon,  it  is  that  the \nDivine  Hand  led  the  fathers  and  still  directs  the  sons. \nShe  confesses,  therefore,  that  she  is  not  her  own,  but \nHis  who  has  fashioned  her  from  the  beginning  until \nnow.  Plutarch  speaks  of  Sparta  as  seeming  \"  not  to \nbe  a  policy  or  commonweal,  but  rather  a  certain  holy \nplace,  and  order  of  religion.\"  What  Sparta  seemed,  let \nBoston  be.  As  Eve  appeared  to  him  for  whom  she \nwas  created,  so  let  this  city  of  ours  appear  to  those  for \nwhom  she  has  been  created, \n\n\"  heaven  in  her  eye, \nIn  every  gesture  dignity  and  love.\" \n\nFaith  in  the  unseen  can  alone  fill  out  the  seen.  The \nreligious  functions  of  a  city  can  alone  perfect  its  other \nfunctions ;    political,   educational    or    charitable,    their \n\n\nORATION.  29 \n\nhighest  motive,  their  noblest  performance  centres  in \nreligion,  and  that  religion,  Christianity. \n\nTRUTH    AND    LIBERTY. \n\nAll  hnman  institutions  derive  their  strength  from  a \nsource  beyond  themselves.  Liberty  itself  avails  only \nso  far  as  it  is  nourished  by  truth. \n\n\"  He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free.\" \n\nThat  is  the  free  state  which  the  truth  brings  into  the \nworld,  and  guides  in  infancy  and  maturity.  Like  the \nthrice  repeated  action  which  the  great  master  of  ancient \neloquence  declared  essential  to  his  art,  truth  first,  truth \nlast,  truth  always,  not  thrice  but  perpetually  repeated, \nis  the  essence  of  liberty.  It  is  the  soul  of  the  body \npolitic,  the  life  of  the  city  and  the  nation. \n\nJust  at  this  moment,  it  seems  to  be  in  peril  among  us. \n\"Warlike  struggles  over,  warlike  virtues  no  more  in \ndemand,  something  too  much  like  reaction  is  setting  in. \nOur  statesmanship  wavers ;  our  general  and  local  ad- \nministrations drift  shoreward  ;  corruption  surges  on  this \nside,  wickedness  on  that,  and  the  currents  drive  in  upon \nthe  breakers.  Party  usurps  the  place  of  country  ;  irre- \nsponsible bodies,  like  the  caucus  and  the  ring,  substitute \nthemselves  for  constituted  authorities  ;  combinations \ntreated  as  overpowering,  but  which  one  hour  of  general \n\n\n30  JULY    4,    1868. \n\nuprising  would  rend  asunder,  crowd  hard  upon  individ- \nual independence.  Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  treas- \nure, our  labor,  our  blood,  for  this  that  our  dear  heroes \ndied  ?  Are  those  years  of  sacrifice  already  forgotten, \nthat  these  years  of  conspiracy  and  spoil  are  come  so \nsoon  ]  It  is  no  hour  for  flattery.  It  is  no  day  for  idle \nexultation.  One  word,  one  thought  of  truth,  one  decla- \nration in  her  behalf  keeps  this  anniversary  of  another \ndeclaration  better  than  a  thousand  careless  huzzas. \n\nNeither  our  war,  nor  its  greatest  victory,  the  act  of \nemancipation,  neither  reconstruction  nor  suffrage,  neither \nold  institutions  nor  new,  can  bear  fruit  in  a  half-hearted \nfreedom.  '  No  longer  partial,  but  total,  independence  is \nto  spread  like  light  throughout  the  nation.  Emerging \nfrom  its  old  eclipse,  the  slave  restored  to  freedom,  and \nthe  freeman  to  consistent  principle,  it  is  to  suffer  no \nnew  eclipse.  /  The  republic  is  to  be  a  reality  at  last.  It \nis  to  prove  worthy  of  the  toils  endured  for  it,  the \nwounds  and  deaths  encountered,  the  tears  fallen  and \nstill  falling,  the  shadows  never  to  be  chased  away  in \nthis  world.  The  least  that  can  be  done  by  those  who \nhave  not  suffered,  is  to  abstain  from  marring  the  work \not  those  who  have  suffered.  They  ought  to  do  more, \ninfinitely  more,  and  suffer,  if  need  be,  in  their  turn,  that \nnot  a  single  pang  may  have  been  felt,  not  a  single  loss \nsustained  in  vain. \n\n\nORATION.  31 \n\nWould  that  the  lines  from  yonder  City  Hall  to  the \nchurch  towers  which  call  out  our  defences  against  con- \nflagration, were  paralleled  by  lines  to  sound  a  yet  louder \nalarm  against  the  fires  that  smoulder  beneath  our  insti- \ntutions. Peal  upon  peal,  in  the  full  stir  of  day  or  the \nsilent  watches  of  night,  would  ring  out  an  irresisti- \nble summons.  Call  us,  call  the  city,  call  the  nation,  to \nmanliness,  honor,  devotion  to  pure  ends  by  pure  means, \ncall  us  to  the  victories  of  peace,  yet  more  renowned \nthan  those  of  war,  and  where  her  white  plume  leads, \nthere  let  us  follow,  to  achieve  the  truth,  the  stainless \nand  deathless  truth  of  American  Liberty. \n\n\n,  ^ \n\n\nLIBRftRY  OF  CONGRESS \n\n\n0  014  077  939  8  % \n\n\n","title":"The functions of a city : an oration before the city authorities of Boston, on the Fourth of July, 1868","updated_at":"2026-09-05T09:59:36.609399Z","urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:the-functions-of-a-city-an-oration-before-the-city-authorities-of-boston-on-the-fourth-of-july-1868","version":1,"withdrawn_reason":null},"urn":"urn:lemay:boston:document:the-functions-of-a-city-an-oration-before-the-city-authorities-of-boston-on-the-fourth-of-july-1868","version_history":[{"change_note":"accessioned from the Internet Archive, item functionsofcityo00elio","changed_by":"archive-ingest 0.1.0","recorded_at":"2026-09-05T09:59:36.911244Z","version":1}]}