University of Virginia Library

13. XIII.
BOSTON — A MORAL CITY.

It is Sunday in Boston. I have been sitting in
my room, No. 78 Tremont House; by the window,
which commands a cheerful view of a grave-yard,
musing on various matters and things in a
solemn state of mind well befitting the place and
the occasion. Seventeen inches of snow fell last
night, and Boston looks white like the Island of
Ichaboe, and to the full as desolate. Through the
hollow and reverberating passages of this ancient
building; around the corners of the sinuous
streets; from each door and window, in every private
and public building, and from the houses of
God, resounds the peculiar sharp, hacking cough
of the population of Boston. Every soul of them
has it. It is the disease of the country. When I
meet an acquaintance in the street, I abstain from

the usual greeting, and invariably say, “How is
your cough?” and the reply invariably is, “About
the same.” Coughing, and the ancient pastime of
hawking, (followed by expectoration,) are the
principal amusements in this cold city. In the
grave-yard beneath my window, on a slate tombstone,
may be found, I am informed, the following
touching inscription:
which, I doubt not, describes the case of the majority
of the silent incumbents of that place of
rest.

The Tremont House is in many respects a good
institution; it is perfectly clean and well arranged,
the attendance is good and the fodder excellent;
but there is an indescribable air of gloom and solemnity
pervades the entire establishment well suited
to Boston, but chilling to a stranger to the last degree.
The waiters, dressed in black with white
neckcloths, move silently and sadly about the tables,

looking like so many Methodist ministers with
thirteen children, four hundred a year, and two
donation parties; the man in the office never
smiles — in any point of view; a large Bible with
the name of the House stamped upon it in gilt letters,
(to prevent religious strangers from bottling
it,) lies on every table, and the chambermaids attend
family prayers in the basement. All is
“grand, gloomy,” and it must be confessed, exceedingly
peculiar. I have attempted but two
jokes in this solemn place, and they fell like the
flakes of snow, silent and unnoticed. An unfortunate
individual in the reading-room last evening
was seized with an usually violent fit of coughing,
which, if a man could by any possibility be
turned inside out, would have done it; and as a
partial cessation of it occurred, with his hair standing
on end, (he had coughed his hat off,) his face
glowing with exertion, and the tears standing in
his unhappy eyes, he very naturally gave vent to
a profane execration. Every body looked shocked!
I remarked in an audible tone to my companion,
that the exclamation was a coffer-dam; an
admirable contrivance for raising obstructions from
the bottom of streams, and probably adopted by
the gentleman to clear his throat; but no one
laughed, and I incontinently went to bed.

This morning on arising I discovered that my
boots, left outside the door to be embellished with
blacking, had, like those of Bombastes, not been
displaced; so I said to the porter, a man of grave
and solemn aspect: “You have a very honest
set of people about this house.” “Why?” said
the porter, with a somewhat startled expression.
“Because,” I rejoined, “I left my boots outside
my door last night, and find this morning no one
has touched them.” That man walked off all
slow and stately, and never knew that I had been
humorous.

Disappointments have been my lot in life. I remember
in early childhood going to the theatre to
see Mrs. W. H. Smith appear in two pieces; the
bills said she would do it, and she came on the stage
perfectly whole and entire like any other lady. Upon

the whole it is my impression that Boston is a
dull, gloomy, precise, and solemn city, which I take
to be owing entirely to the intense cold that prevails
there in the winter, which chills and freezes up the
warmer nature of the inhabitants, who don't have
time to get thawed out before the cold comes back
again. I have met many Bostonians in more genial
climates, who appeared to be very hearty and
agreeable fellows.

I took a short ride yesterday in the Metropolitan
Rail-Road cars, which are dragged by horse-power
from the Tremont House to Roxbury. The only
other occupant of my car was a young and lovely
female in deep mourning. She wore a heavy,
black veil, and her thick and auburn hair was gathered
up on each side her face beneath a spotless
cap, a widow's cap of snowy muslin. I had always
a feeling for widows; young and pretty widows
particularly, always excite my deepest interest
and sympathy. I gazed with moistened eye on
the sweet specimen before me, so young, so beautiful,
I thought, and alas! what suffering she has

experienced. I pictured to myself her devotion
to her husband during his last illness, the untiring
watchfulness with which she hung over his pillow,
the unwearying and self-sacrificing spirit with
which she hoped on, hoped ever, till in despite of
her care, her love, he sank forever, and her agonized
shriek rang in my ear, as with hands clasped
and upturned eye, she felt that he was dead, her
dream of life was over, her strength was gone, her
heart was broken. The young widow had been
regarding me earnestly during this time, and probably
imagined what was passing in my mind, for
throwing her veil over her hat, she turned partly
around toward me, and looking steadfastly in my
face — she winked her eye! Yes, sir, she winked
her eye at me — the moral Phœnix; and I rose
from my ashes and left the metropolitan car and
returned to the Tremont House.

They don't have theatrical performances in
Boston on Saturday evenings; the theaters open
at 3 o'clock P. M., and the performance is over at
six. Thalberg was allowed to give a concert here

last evening, however. He was practising a little
this morning also on the piano, when a message
came from a serious family in the next room begging
him not to play dancing tunes. He didn't.

I had intended to have written to you more at
length, but am off to New Orleans directly, and
must pack my trunk. Boston is a great place. I
am sorry I hadn't time to go and see the Monastery
presided over by Abbot Lawrence, that was
burned by the Orangemen.