I sit, as I write, at my bedroom window, with a view over the
whole of Boston Common, and the beautiful spires of the Back-Bay region
beyond. I step out on my balcony, and the gilded dome of the State
House--"the Hub of the Universe"--is but a stone's-throw off. Through
the leafless branches of the trees I can see the back of St. Gaudens'
beautiful Shaw Monument, and beyond it the graceful dip of upper
Beacon-street. My room is as spacious and luxurious as heart can desire,
lighted by half a dozen electric lamps, and with a private bath-room
attached, which is itself nearly as large as the bedroom assigned me in
the "swagger" hotel of New York--an establishment, by the way, of which
it has been wittily said that its purpose is "to provide exclusiveness
for the masses." All the comforts of the club are at my command; the
rooms are delightful, the food and service excellent. In short, I could
not be more conveniently or agreeably situated. Of course I pay the club
charges for my room and meals, but it is mere hospitality to allow me to
do so. And how do I come to be established in these quarters? The little
story is absolutely commonplace, but all the more typical.
In Washington I made the acquaintance of a gentleman who invited me to
lunch at the leading diplomatic and social club.
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