A Bundle of Letters

The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in Boston talks like me–if every one is as intellectual as your poor correspondent. She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I can’t get rid of Boston. The other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race. Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over Europe alone– to see it, she says, for herself.