Sunrise on Dec. 28,1880, was "heralded by the ringing of church bells, and by a salute of 100 guns on the Common. The sun ushered in the morning, its rays gilding the spries throughout the city, and giving the promise of a bright and clear day."

That cold morning 100 years ago marked the commemoration of the city's 250th anniversary--and the early risers who made a chronicle of its beginning stayed on the job all day, leaving a picture of a celebration just as enthusiastic as this weekend's.

Cambridge was a smaller city then--42,000 residents, $50 million in taxable property--and the customs and habits of the city's residents differed considerably from today's. No fireworks or parades for these forefathers. Instead, the day featured speeches, more speeches, and then, to finish the program, still more speeches.

A children's festival held in Harvard's Sanders Theater opened the day; 1000 schoolboys and girls from the Webster, Putnam, Thorndike, Allston, Shepard, Harvard and Washington schools crowded into the hall, where "they bent their eager gaze" upon a stage full of dignitaries.

Chief among the celebrities were the poets Oliver Wendall Homes and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Holmes addressed the children first, reciting a poem he had written while homesick during a trip to Pisa, Italy. "And still in Memory's holiest shrine, I read with pride and joy," he said in a gentle tone. "For me the stars of empire shine; that empire's dearest home is mine; I am a Cambridge boy."

Longfellow, by now and old man, was not scheduled to speak. But when the governor sent word at the last minute that he could not attend, the author of "The Village Blacksmith" agreed to say a few words. "I feel very much as I suppose some of you do when you are suddenly called upon in your classroom," he told them. After thanking the schoolchildren for the gift to hin of a rocking chair, Longfellow concluded with a statement that can only be described as philosophical: "I am afraid that 50 years hence, this day and all that belongs to it will have passed from your mind, for an English philosopher has said that the ideas as well as children of our youth often die before us."

Sanders was the scene of the afternoon ceremonies, too--possible proof that relations between Harvard and Cambridge were somewhat warmer then. As Mayor James W. Hall said, "It is especially fitting that we meet here today, having for our host an institution which, since the beginning of its history, has been so largely identified with the civil, intellectual and riligious welfare of our land. It is always instructing and instructive to see tow old people together."

Harvard's president, Charles Eliot, returned the compliment. Recounting the early days of the city and the University, he said "We have come to a famous town, an historic town, and, what is more, a town which is perfectly sure to be dear to English-speaking people for generations to come."

Many national dignitaries attended the celebration; dozens more sent regrets and wished the city a happy 250th. Joining the mayors of New York, San Francisco and a dozen other cities, not to mention literary figures like Walt Whittier in expressing sorrow at not being able to attend, was the poet James Russell Lowell. "Where'er I roam, whatever climes I see, My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee," Lowell worte.

Lowell and the rest missed an unrivaled banquet. The day concluded in Cambridge's Union Hall, with a dinner by invitation only for 650 guests. Red, white and blue pennats hung from every rafter. "Upon the center of the wall was a painted female figure, nine feet high, representing the genius of America." The committee charged with reporting on the day's events broke with objectivity when they described the scene--"the general effect was pleasing in the extreme."

Even fitting all the city's officeholders on the platform was difficult. The school committee boasted 16 members, and there were 10 aldermen as well as a mayor. Twenty citizens sat on the Common Council, and there were even a half dozen "Overseers of the Poor."

The only sparks of the evening flew when Eliotrebuked Gov. Long for failing to address the women in the hall as well as the men. "I am sure that on plantation or town or colony was settled except by the aid of women," Eliot told the governor. Minutes later, though, Eliot added, "The men have to hunt and fish and plough and dig and carry wood and water, but the women must cook and wash and sew and bear and bring up the children."

The rest of the remarks were more typical of such affairs--long-winded, occasionally moving, sometimes corny. But two men spoke as much of the generations that would come as those that had gone before.

"What the next 250 years will produce we may not tell: our wildest conjecture would fall far short of the reality," Hall said, adding that even "what the next 50 years will bring, we can but dimly imagine."

And then former mayor, Charles Saunders, rounded out the ceremonies with this hope, addressed to those who would celebrate future anniversaries of this city. "May they be able to rieterate this sentiment which I am sure we fell today," Saunders said--"The line have fallen unto us in pleasant places; yea, we have a goodly heritage."