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Updated: June 13, 2025
Naturally, at this period, I frequently met the members of Boston's most inspiring group the Emersons and John Greenleaf Whittier, James Freeman Clark, Reverend Minot Savage, Bronson Alcott and his daughter Louisa, Wendell Phillips, William Lloyd Garrison, Stephen Foster, Theodore Weld, and the rest. Of them all, my favorite was Whittier.
"Good luck to you!" says Shorty, and off he skipped in a hurry to get at the rest of his part of the ceremonies not paying no attention to Boston's most getting down on his knees to him begging him to come along.
Being in the business, Santa Fé was apt to get peevish when anybody took to talking about gambling; and Boston's throwing in hell on top of it that way was more'n he cared to stand.
The bank, perhaps, took its title from the fact that it owed its chief support to the Beacon Hill families, Boston's aristocracy; and Boston's standard names appeared upon its list of managers. If business led you that way, you mounted the well-worn steps, and entered the rather strict and formal door, over which clung the weather-worn sign, faded gold lettering upon a rusty black background.
It ought to be called the blue-berried dogwood, by reason of its extremely beautiful fruit, which formed a singular and delightful contrast to the profusion of red and scarlet fruits so much in evidence, one September day, in Boston's berry-full Franklin Park.
He was the only son of Boston's first Mayor, both to the manor and to the manner born, rich in his own right; proud, handsome, strong, gentle, refined, educated a Christian gentleman, heir to the best that Boston had to give a graduate of the Boston Latin School, of Harvard College, of the Harvard Law School living with his widowed mother in a mansion on Beacon Hill, overlooking Boston's forty-three acres of Common!
On Monday my good friend Chamberlin, The Listener of The Transcript filled his column with a long review of my heretical harangue. With one leap I had reached the lime-light of conservative Boston's disapproval! Chamberlin, himself a "philosophical anarchist," was pleased with the individualistic note which ran through my harangue.
For days huge crowds had swarmed through Boston's great railway stations, fleeing to Maine and Canada; and across the Charles River bridge there had passed an endless stream of automobiles bearing away rich families with their jewels and their silver. Among them were automobile trucks from the banks, laden with tons of gold.
Vincent-Hunter and the other an English duchess! The Coppereds have always been among Boston's best families. It's terrible," said Mrs. Culver. "Well, I think it is," the girl agreed warmly. "Judge Clyde Potter's grandson, and brought up with the very nicest people, and sensitive as he is I think it's just too bad it should be Duncan!" "There's no doubt she was an actress, I suppose, Emily?"
Finally, her thoughts becoming too painful, she got up and looked out of the window. And far below her, through the mist, she beheld the burying-ground of Boston's illustrious dead which her cabman had pointed out to her as he passed. She did not hear the door open as Mr. Wentworth returned, and she started at the sound of his voice.
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