s, for the most part, pleased with himself, has
confidence that the big elm will last another hundred years, keeps his
patriotism fresh by an occasional walk near the meat market under Faneuil
Hall, and reads the "Atlantic Monthly." We believe there is less fidgeting
in Boston than in any city of the country. We think that the average of
human life must be longer there than in most cities. Dyspepsia is a
rarity; for when a mutton chop is swallowed of a Bostonian it gives up,
knowing that there is no need of fighting against such inexorable
digestion.

The ladies of Boston have more color in their cheeks than those of many
cities, and walk as though they would live to get round the next corner. It
is not so fashionable to be delicate. They are robust in mind and always
ready for an argument. State what you consider an indisputable proposition,
and they will say: "Yes, but then--" They are not afraid to attack the
theology of a minister, or the jurisprudence of a lawyer, or the pharmacy
of a doctor. If you do not look out, the Boston woman will throw off her
shawl and upset your logic in a public meeting.

We like the men and women of Boston. They have opinions about
everything--some of them adverse to your own, but even in that case so well
expressed that, in admiration for the rhetoric, you excuse the divergence
of sentiment. We never found a half-and-half character in Boston. The
people do not wait till they see which way the smoke of their neighbors'
chimneys blows before they make up their own minds.

The most conspicuous book on the parlor table of the hotels of other cities
is a book of engravings or a copy of the Bible. In some of the Boston
hotels, the prominent book on the parlor table is "Webster's Unabridged
Dictionary." You may be left in doubt about the Bostonian's character, but
need not doubt his capacity to parse a sentence, or spell without any
resemblance of blunder the word "idiosyncrasy."

Boston, having made up its mind, sticks to it. Many years ago it decided
that the religious societies ought to hold a public anniversary in June,
and it never wavers. New York is tired of these annual demonstrations, and
goes elsewhere; but in the early part of every June, Boston puts its
umbrella under its arm and starts for Tremont Temple, or Music Hall,
determined to find an anniversary, and finds it. You see on the stage the
same spectacles that shone on the speakers ten years ago, and the same bald
heads, fo