We like Boston. We were born there--and perhaps it is just as well not to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostonians are very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their Common is no common thing--and the duck-pond might answer--if its answer could be heard for the frogs. But with all these good qualities the Bostonians have no soul. They have always evinced towards us individually, the basest ingratitude for the services we rendered them in enlightening them about the originality of Mr. Longfellow. When we accepted, therefore, an invitation to “deliver” a poem in Boston--we accepted it simply and solely, because we had a curiosity to know how it felt to be publicly hissed--and because we wished to see what effect we could produce by a neat little impromptu speech in reply. Perhaps, however, we overrated our own importance, or the Bostonian want of common civility--which is not quite so manifest as one or two of their editors would wish the public to believe. We assure Major Noah that he is wrong. The Bostonians are well-bred--as very dull persons very generally are. -- Edgar Allan Poe
Posted on: Fri, 30 May 2014 20:44:03 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015