We did not reach Boston until six o'clock, when the day was
already waning, and the Stump of St. Botolph's Church stood dim
against the sky. It was a long drive through the suburban streets
from the station to the hotel, which we found full, and which
with its crazy floors touched the fancy as full of something
besides guests. But it was well for us so, because across the
market-place, which forms the chief public square of Boston, was
a far better hotel, where we were welcomed to the old-fashioned
ideal of the English inn, such as I did not so nearly realize
anywhere else. The ideal was a little impaired by the electric
light in our bedrooms, but it was not a very brilliant electric
light, and there was a damp cold in the corridors which allowed
no doubt of its genuineness. In the dining-room, which was also
the reading-room, there was an admirable image of a fire in the
grate, and a prevailing warmth and brightness which cheered the
heart of exile. When we presently had dinner, specialized for us
by certain differences from that of two other travellers, there
seemed nothing more to ask, except the conversation of our
companions, and this we duly had, quite as if we were four
wayfarers met there in a book.
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