Artemus Ward.

   Dear Betsy:  I write you this from Boston, "the Modern Atkins," as
it is denomyunated, altho' I skurcely know what those air. I'll
giv you a kursoory view of this city. I'll klassify the paragrafs
under seprit headins, arter the stile of those Emblems of Trooth
and Poority, the Washinton correspongdents!

   The winder of my room commands a exileratin view of Copps' Hill,
where Cotton Mather, the father of the Reformers and sich, lies
berrid. There is men even now who worship Cotton, and there is
wimin who wear him next their harts. But I do not weep for him.
He's bin ded too lengthy. I ain't going to be absurd, like old Mr.
Skillins, in our naberhood, who is ninety-six years of age, and
gets drunk every 'lection day, and weeps Bitturly because he haint
got no Parents. He's a nice Orphan, HE is.

   Bunker Hill is over yonder in Charleston. In 1776 a thrillin dramy
was acted out over there, in which the "Warren Combination" played
star parts.

   Old Mr. Fanuel is ded, but his Hall is still into full blarst.
This is the Cradle in which the Goddess of Liberty was rocked, my
Dear. The Goddess hasn't bin very well durin' the past few years,
and the num'ris quack doctors she called in didn't help her any;
but the old gal's physicians now are men who understand their
bizness, Major-generally speakin', and I think the day is near when
she'll be able to take her three meals a day, and sleep nights as
comf'bly as in the old time.

   It is here, as ushil; and the low cuss who called it a Wacant Lot,
and wanted to know why they didn't ornament it with sum Bildins',
is a onhappy Outcast in Naponsit.

   The State House is filled with Statesmen, but sum of 'em wear queer
hats. They buy 'em, I take it, of hatters who carry on hat stores
down-stairs in Dock Square, and whose hats is either ten years
ahead of the prevailin' stile, or ten years behind it—jest as a
intellectooal person sees fit to think about it. I had the
pleasure of talkin' with sevril members of the legislatur. I told

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