In passing, on our way to Boston, through Worcester in Massachusetts, I
cast a hurried glance at every place that looked like a smithy,
wondering whether it was there that Elihu Burritt had wielded his
forge-hammer and scattered his "sparks from the anvil."
We reached Boston at 9 P.M., and stopped at the United States Hotel.
The next day I called to deliver notes of introduction to several of
the Boston divines. Among them was one to the Rev. Seth Bliss, at the
Tract Depository. Having glanced at the note, he very hurriedly said to
me, "Ah, how do you do?--very glad to see you!--where are you stopping
at?"--"At the United States Hotel, sir." "Oh," he replied all in a
breath, "you had better come to my house,--it'll be cheaper for
you,--they'll charge you 2 dollars a day at the United States Hotel,--I
only charge a dollar and a half,--I have a room at liberty now.
Besides, if you want to get acquainted with ministers, you can't do
better than come to my house. In fact, the wags call my house the
'Saints' Rest,'--because, I suppose, they see I sell the book here."
The conjuncture of "Bliss" and "Saints' Rest!" Who could refuse? We
went.
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