"Oh, it is very nice of course——but it isn't Boston."
Another, equally quiet, is this:
Two ladies walking along the road, in the environs of Boston, came to a mile-stone bearing the inscription:
I M
FROM
BOSTON.
"How simple! how touching!" exclaimed one of the ladies, taking it for a grave-stone; "nothing but these words: 'I'm from Boston.'"
Boston, and the whole State of Massachussets, of which it is the chief city, are the homes of most of the literary celebrities of America. Longfellow lived there; Whittier, Lowell, and Holmes live there still; Mr. Howells and Henry James are Boston men, I believe.
Before leaving Boston, I had the pleasure of seeing Oliver Wendell Holmes at home.
The Doctor received me in his study, a fine room well lined with books, and having large windows overlooking the river Charles and facing his Harvard University. Lit by the setting sun, the picture from the windows was alone worth going to see. The Doctor's reception was most cordial.
He is a small man, looking about seventy-five; but the expression of his face is young, and will always be so, I imagine. His smile is clever-looking, sweet, and full of contagious gaiety. Thick bushy grey eyebrows, which stand out, and a protruding under-lip, make his profile odd looking. The eyes are twinkling with humour—and good humour. Philosopher, poet, and humorist are written plainly on the face.