writ or spoken of waterfalls before, not excepting Byron's Terni. Last Saturday, I dined at ----'s; where, for my greater happiness, I sat between ---- and ----. I remember especially two bright things uttered; the one by the one, the other by the other of these worthies. Mr. ----, speaking of Knowles's Hunchback, said, "Well, after all, it's no great matter. The author evidently understands stage effect and dramatic situations, and so on; but as for the writing, it's by no means as good as Shakspeare." I looked at the man in amazement, and suggested to him that Shakspeare did not grow upon every bush. Presently, Mr. ---- began a sentence by assuring me that he was a worshipper of Shakspeare; and ended it by saying that Othello was disgusting, King Lear ludicrous, and Romeo and Juliet childish nonsense: whereat I swallowed half a pint of water, and nearly my tumbler too, and remained silent; for what could I say? However, in spite of this, I owe ---- some gratitude, for he brought ---- to see me the other day, whose face is more like that of a good and intellectual man than almost any face I ever saw. The climate of this place is dreadful! The night before last, the weather was so warm, that, with my window open, I was obliged to take half the clothes off my bed: last night was so cold, that, with window shut, and additional covering, I could scarce get to sleep for the cold. This is terrible, and forms a serious drawback upon the various attractions of Boston; and to me it has many. The houses are like English houses: the Common is like Constitution Hill; Beacon Street is like a bit of Park Lane; and Summer Street, now that the chestnut trees are in bloom, is perfectly beautiful. But for the climate, I should like to live in Boston very much: my stay here has been delightful. It is in itself a lovely place, and the country round it is charming. The people are intellectual, and have been most abundantly good-natured and kind to me. * * * * * * * * * * I have finished ----'s sermons, which are most excellent. I think he is one of the purest English prose-writers now living. I revere him greatly; yet I do not think his denial of the Trinity is consistent with the argument by which he maintains the truth of the miracles. I have begun the Diary of an Ennuyée again: that book is most enchanting to me,--merely to read the names of the places in which one's imagination goes sunning itself for ever, is delightful. _New York._