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Updated: June 13, 2025
His statue stands to-day in the square named after him, not far from the Old South and the old Town House, and within sight of Faneuil Hall. But we trespass beyond the period of this history. When Howe sailed away, Boston's share in the Revolution was practically ended. No attempt was made to retake the town, for there could be no profit in gaining what could not be held.
They had done all that men could do more than men could do and it was not enough. At that moment all they wanted in the world was the privilege of lying down, never to rise. Long hours before, shortly after midnight, when it had become certain that help would be needed, the wires had carried to the nearby cities Boston's appeal for aid.
Janet scarcely heard him as she tore open the envelope. "Dear Janet," the letter ran. "The doctor told me I had a false alarm, there was nothing to it. Wouldn't that jar you? Boston's a slow burg, and there's no use of my staying here now. I'm going to New York, and maybe I'll come back when I've had a look at the great white way. I've got the coin, and I gave him the mit to-night.
All he knew of me was, that I had been flung from my horse on my way to a fair for the purpose of disposing of the animal; and that I was now his guest. I might be a common horse-dealer for what he knew, yet I was treated by him with all the attention which I could have expected, had I been an alderman of Boston's heir, and known to him as such.
He could have clapped stoppers on Boston's and Blackie's jaws by just telling them to shut up. They stood in such awe and fear of him. He could have as easily silenced Cockney; aye, and the gang, too. We all stood in awe of him. There wasn't a man forward who would dream of opposing him openly. But Newman was contemptuous of stiffs' talk. "Oh, let them blow off steam," says he.
They had worked all night and most of the morning, had little food and water, saw as yet nothing of the relief that had been promised them, and could tell by the fever of activity visible in Boston's streets that the red coats soon would come against them. Of those who carried back the tools, few returned. But Prescott's remainder was stanch.
Any institution supported otherwise than by voluntary contribution, or in the hands of paid public officials, can never have the spirit of charity nor be correctly called a charity. Boston's public charitable institutions, so called, are not charities at all; the motive is not sympathy, but necessity.
Yankee Swope had his finger upon the pulse of his ship. A mutiny, however sudden, would not catch the master of the Golden Bough napping. That is what I thought as I watched him, and Boston's vague scheme became harebrained in my eyes. The second mate was seldom aft during the two hours I stood at the wheel. The times he did appear, he engaged in conversation with the Old Man, beyond my hearing.
Margaret Ruthven Lang, another of Boston's gifted musical women, was born November 27, 1867. The name of her father, Mr. B. J. Lang, is familiar to all Americans who can claim to know anything of music. Her mother was an exquisite amateur singer, and in the musical atmosphere of the family the daughter's talents have had every opportunity to develop.
He called his report "Boston's Boarding-Houses," and he spent a paragraph upon the relation of boarding-houses to civilization, before detailing his own experience and observation.
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