Considered historically, the fifty years of Cambridge charter life—the working lifetime of a man—has shown a most gratifying, even a wonderful development in municipal service. Considered comparatively with the present efficiency of other cities in Massachusetts and in the other States, the showing which Cambridge makes is also most gratifying. But this chapter would be unduly prolonged if we were to enter into a study of this latter point.
As for the spirit of municipal unity which has so wonderfully developed in these charter years, we may well indulge ourselves in a further consideration. We have seen how the spirit of division and village independence predominated fifty years ago. Perhaps, as has already been suggested, the ‘accent’ which nature placed upon this division was the chief cause of the unfortunate sectional feeling which then prevailed and influenced all municipal action. Marshes and woodlands ‘interposed, made enemies of those who else like kindred drops would mingle into one.’ Bad roads–those great obstacles to civilization—kept the Old Villagers, the ‘Porters,’ and the ‘Pointers’ apart. Especially was this condition then considered by the residents of the Old Village necessary to continue what Chronicler Holmes at the beginning of the century had described as ‘eminently combining the tranquillity of philosophic solitude with the choicest pleasures and advantages of refined society.’ Years ago, Sir Charles Dilke wrote: ‘Our English universities have not about them the classic repose, the air of study, which belongs to Cambridge, Massachusetts. Even the English Cambridge has a breathing street or two, and a weekly market-day; while Cambridge in New England is one great academic grove, buried in a philosophic calm which our universities cannot rival as long as men resort to them for other purposes than work.’
But the day of village isolation and philosophic calm is passed. Gradually the boundary lines of the three communities have widened from the three centres of activity,—like the widening ripples from the pebbles cast into the placid bosom of our Fresh Pond,—until these lines have met, mingled, and disappeared. Bad roads were made good; street cars began their civilizing mission; sidewalks were built. The playful plaint of Lowell in a letter to Leslie Stephen written in 1871 is suggestive of the change: ‘The city has crept up to me, curbstones are feeling ’
