ir summer in the city, to whom the
joys of Sharon, Saratoga, the Hudson, and of Lake George are as
impossible as though these delightful resorts were in other planets.
Perhaps, like Mr. T. A.'s 'good Americans,' they have a vague hope that
when they die they can visit these famous places! For myself, I long ago
made out my 'visiting list.' Oh, bless you! as soon as I shall be 'out
of the body,' I shall start on the most delightful tour (no bother about
the luggage, checks, or couriers!); it will be years and years before I
fairly 'settle down' in that

'bright particular star'

I have selected for my permanent residence. Yes! you horrible madame!
oh, you horrible madame, who express your fears that I shall 'never be
settled,' speaking of me as if I were the coffee in your
coffee-pot--(only, of course, such a well-regulated dame's coffee is
never anything but _quite_ clear and settled)--yes, to relieve your
poor, narrow mind, I can bid you hope that in another and pleasanter
world I fully expect to be--'settled.' I tell you this beforehand, for I
am very sure that you won't go to the same planet, and therefore will
never have the satisfaction of knowing the fact from personal
observation.

But what am I about? Building castles in the skies! Mr. Editor Leland,
as usual, protests against my sad lack of con-cen-tra-tion! Let us
concentrate, therefore, my beloved hearers! With or without sugar? Oh, I
was beginning to tell you about Newport--_my_ Newport, the Public Garden
of Boston, _alias_ Hub-opolis--which you, poor things! belonging to the
'higher orders' and living on Arlington, Berkely, Clarendon, and the
Duke of Devonshire streets, never have a chance to see in its Augustan
pomp and glory. In fact, till this summer, its 'pomp and glory' were
quite concealed by dust and ashes; but now, thanks to the 'City
Fathers,' it is

'Ye land of flowers.'

Let me describe it to you; for though your dwellings are directly
opposite, yet, custom compelling you to leave them before the flower
season begins, you in reality know less of it than I do, living in a
street whose name must not be mentioned to ears polite. 'Tis far from
the Beacon 'haunts of men,' far from the Garden, and uncommonly far from
the Common. I rise betimes on these summer mornings, and, before I go to
my work, shaking off the dust of my obscure street, I enter your sacred
precincts, oh, F. F. B.'s! Bless you, it can do you no harm, for even
your boudoi