In looking around me on this beautiful scene of hospitality, I am reminded of that doge of Genoa, who, finding himself amid the splendors of Versailles, in its incomparable palace, and being asked what about him caused the most surprise, replied, “To find myself here.” And so to me, coming from other scenes, and for many years absolutely unused to such occasions, this spectacle is strange. But it is not less welcome because strange. Coming here to take part in this interesting celebration, I am not insensible to the kindness of good friends among you, through whom the invitation was received. But I confess a neighborly interest in your festival. Born in Boston, and educated in Cambridge, I am one of your neighbors. Accept, then, if you please, the sympathies of a neighbor on this occasion. Yours is not a large town; nor has it any extended history. But what it wants in size and history it makes up in beauty. Yours is a beautiful town. I know nothing among the exquisite surroundings of Boston more charming than these slopes and meadows, with background of hills and gleam of water. The elements of beauty are all here. Hills are always beautiful; so is water. I remember hearing a woman of genius, Mrs. Fanny Kemble, say more than once, that water in a landscape is “like eyes in the human countenance,” without which the countenance is lifeless. But water gleams, shines, sparkles in your landscape. Here the water-nymphs might find a home. Gardens, beautiful to the eye and bountiful in nourishing and luscious supplies, are also yours. Surely it may be said of those who live here, that their lines have fallen in a pleasant place. I go too far, when I suggest that you are without a history. West Cambridge was part of that historic Cambridge so early famous in our country, the seat of learning and the home of patriotism. The honor of Cambridge is yours. West Cambridge adjoins Lexington, and was in the war-path of the British soldiers on that 19th of April, which, perhaps, as much as any day after the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, determined the fortunes of this continent. The shots of Concord and Lexington were heard here before their echoes began the tour of the globe. Shots from here followed, and your beautiful fields bore testimony in blood. The road from Concord was a prolonged battleground, on which British troops fell; there were patriots, also, who fell.