intensely dreary, until I borrowed of �Bill� a certain novel,
�Wuthering Heights� [entituled?] by the author of �Jane Eyre�, � may
�ve, as I�ve read none of hers, but I have not herd the title used
in connection with her �Shirley� or �Jane Eyre�. 	     This same Wu-
thering Heights is a strange wild story, mighty original, and
scarcely a personage in it has not a very devil of Temper.  If tis,
written by a woman, she is vastly superior in intellect to the Ellis, 
Bremer and L L �race. (Not L E L, God bless her, but the �literary [codics?].�
  2. Tuesday.   Day dull and damp. Growled at the notion
I shan�t be able to visit Lowell, if I wish to get back to New
York by the Fourth.   To Halls. Got two blocks. Back, at
at work on them till 9 at night. 
  3. Wednesday.  To J B Halls, and got paid.  With him to Reddings,
where I left him.    Call at a big piano-forte establishment in Washington
Street, as a man who invited it the other night at Parks�.   From
thence, and another glance at Faneuil Hall.   /    I do not know but
that Coopers intensely dull Lionel Lincoln might not prove readable after
seeing Boston.    Back to Morton Place. Dinner, rain setting in thick
and fast, doze till 3; then hurried off to the �depot� to inquire the
time of starting and fare.  Across the wet common, to the Boston &
Stanington terminus.  Back, bill paying, handshaking, and off again.
Fare paid, seat in cars, and off I go from orderly, clean, intellectual
most kindly Boston.	/     For a model American city I would say
clear off New York from Manhattan Island, bodily transplant Phila-