burgh, and almost, if not quite, as good
as Paris.

Dolby continues to be the most unpopular man in America (mainly because
he can't get four thousand people into a room that holds two thousand),
and is reviled in print daily. Yesterday morning a newspaper proclaims
of him: "Surely it is time that the pudding-headed Dolby retired into
the native gloom from which he has emerged." He takes it very coolly,
and does his best. Mrs. Morgan sent me, the other night, I suppose the
finest and costliest basket of flowers ever seen, made of white
camellias, yellow roses, pink roses, and I don't know what else. It is a
yard and a half round at its smallest part.

I must bring this to a close, as I have to go to the hall to try an
enlarged background.

[Sidenote: Miss Hogarth.]

BOSTON, _Sunday, Dec. 22nd, 1867._

Coming here from New York last night (after a detestable journey), I was
delighted to find your letter of the 6th. I read it at my ten o'clock
dinner with the greatest interest and pleasure, and then we talked of
home till we went to bed.

Our tour is now being made out, and I hope to be able to send it in my
next letter home, which will be to Mamie, from whom I have _not_ heard
(as you thought I had) by the mail that brought out yours. After very
careful consideration I have reversed Dolby's original plan, and have
decided on taking Baltimore, Washington, Cincinnati, _Chicago_ (!), St.
Louis, and a few other places nearer here, instead of staying in New
York. My reason is that we are doing immensely, both at New York and
here, and that I am sure it is in the peculiar character of the people
to prize a thing the more the less easily attainable it is made.
Therefore, I want, by absence, to get the greatest rush and pressure
upon the five farewell readings in New York in April. All our announced
readings are already crammed.

When we got here last Saturday night, we found that Mrs. Fields had not
only garnished the rooms with flowers, but also with holly (with real
red berries) and festoons of moss dependent from the looking-glasses and
picture frames. She is one of the dearest little women in the world. The
homely Christmas look of the place quite affected us. Yesterday we dined
at her house, and there was a plum-pudding, brought on blazing, and not
to be surpassed in any house in England. There is a certain Captain
Dolliver, belonging to the Boston Custom House, who came off in