BOSTONIANS.
We ran up to the Boston anniversaries to cast our vote with those good
people who are in that city on the side of the right. We like to go to the
modern Athens two or three times a year. Among other advantages, Boston
always soothes our nerves. It has a quieting effect upon us. The people
there are better satisfied than any people we know of. Judging from a few
restless spirits who get on some of the erratic platforms of that city, and
who fret and fume about things in general, the world has concluded that
Boston is at unrest. But you may notice that the most of the restless
people who go there are imported speakers, whom Boston hires to come once a
year and do for her all the necessary fretting.
The genuine Bostonian is satisfied. He rises moderately early, goes to
business without any especial haste, dresses comfortably, talks
deliberately, lunches freely, and goes home to his family at plausible
hours. He would like to have the world made better, but is not going to
make himself sick in trying to cure the moral ailments of others.
The genuine Bostonian is, for the most part, pleased with himself, has
confidence that the big elm will last another hundred years, keeps his
patriotism fresh by an occasional walk near the meat market under Faneuil
Hall, and reads the "Atlantic Monthly." We believe there is less fidgeting
in Boston than in any city of the country. We think that the average of
human life must be longer there than in most cities. Dyspepsia is a
rarity; for when a mutton chop is swallowed of a Bostonian it gives up,
knowing that there is no need of fighting against such inexorable
digestion.
The ladies of Boston have more color in their cheeks than those of many
cities, and walk as though they would live to get round the next corner. It
is not so fashionable to be delicate. They are robust in mind and always
ready for an argument. State what you consider an indisputable proposition,
and they will say: "Yes, but then--" They are not afraid to attack the
theology of a minister, or the jurisprudence of a lawyer, or the pharmacy
of a doctor. If you do not look out, the Boston woman will throw off her
shawl and upset your logic in a public meeting.
We like the men and women of Boston. They have opinions about
everything--some of them adverse to your own, but even in that case so well
expressed that, in admiration for the rhetoric, you excuse the divergence
of sentiment. We never found a half-and-half character in Boston. The
people do not wait till they see which way the smoke of their neighbors'
chimneys blows before they make up their own minds.
The most conspicuous book on the parlor table of the hotels of other cities
is a book of engravings or a copy of the Bible. In some of the Boston
hotels, the prominent book on the parlor table is "Webster's Unabridged
Dictionary." You may be left in doubt about the Bostonian's character, but
need not doubt his capacity to parse a sentence, or spell without any
resemblance of blunder the word "idiosyncrasy."
Boston, having made up its mind, sticks to it. Many years ago it decided
that the religious societies ought to hold a public anniversary in June,
and it never wavers. New York is tired of these annual demonstrations, and
goes elsewhere; but in the early part of every June, Boston puts its
umbrella under its arm and starts for Tremont Temple, or Music Hall,
determined to find an anniversary, and finds it. You see on the stage the
same spectacles that shone on the speakers ten years ago, and the same bald
heads, for the solid men of Boston got in the way of wearing their hair
thin in front a quarter of a century ago, and all the solid men of Boston
will, for the next century, wear their hair thin in front.
There are fewer dandies in Boston than in most cities. Clothes, as a
general thing, do not make fun of the people they sit on. The humps on the
ladies' backs are not within two feet of being as high as in some of the
other cities, and a dromedary could look at them without thinking itself
caricatured. You see more of the outlandishness of fashion in one day on
Broadway than in a week on any one street of Boston. Doubtless, Boston is
just as proud as New York, but her pride is that of brains, and those, from
the necessities of the case, are hidden.
Go out on the fashionable drive of Boston, and you find that the horses are
round limbed, and look as well satisfied as their owners. A restless man
always has a thin horse. He does not give the creature time to eat, wears
out on him so many whip lashes, and keeps jerking perpetually at the reins.
Boston horses are, for the most part, fat, feel their oats, and know that
the eyes of the world are upon them. You see, we think it no dishonor to a
minister to admire good horses, provided he does not trade too often, and
impose a case of glanders and bots on his unsophisticated neighbor. We
think that, as a minister is set up for an example to his flock, he ought
to have the best horse in the congregation. A minister is no more sacred
when riding behind a spavined and ringboned nag than when whirling along
after a horse that can swallow a mile in 2.30.
The anniversary week in Boston closed by a display of flowers and fruits in
Horticultural Hall. It was appropriate that philanthropists and Christians,
hot from discussions of moral and religious topics, should go in and take a
bath of rose leaves and geraniums. Indeed, I think the sweetest anniversary
of the week was that of these flowers. A large rhododendron presided.
Azaleas and verbenas took part in the meeting. The Chinese honeysuckle and
clematis joined in the doxology. A magnolia pronounced the benediction. And
we went home praying for the time when the lily of the valley shall be
planted in every heart, and the desert shall blossom as the rose.