I have bored this ancient city through and through in my daily travels, until I know it as an old inhabitant of a Cheshire knows his cheese.

Why, it was I who, in the course of these rambles, discovered that remarkable avenue called Myrtle Street, stretching in one long line from east of the Reservoir to a precipitous and rudely paved cliff which looks down on the grim abode of Science, and beyond it to the far hills; a promenade so delicious in its repose, so cheerfully varied with glimpses down the northern slope into busy Cambridge Street with its iron river of the horse-railroad, and wheeled barges gliding back and forward over it,--so delightfully closing at its western extremity in sunny courts and passages where I know peace, and beauty, and virtue, and serene old age must be perpetual tenants, -- so alluring to all who desire to take their daily stroll, in the words of Dr.Watts,-- "Alike unknowing and unknown,"-- that nothing but a sense of duty would have prompted me to reveal the secret of its existence.

I concede, therefore, that walking is an immeasurably fine invention, of which old age ought constantly to avail itself.
Saddle-leather is in some respects even preferable to sole-leather.
The principal objection to it is of a financial character.

But you may be sure that Bacon and Sydenham did not recommend it for nothing.

One's hepar, or, in vulgar language, liver,--a ponderous organ, weighing some three or four pounds,--goes up and down like the dasher of a churn in the midst of the other vital arrangements, at every step of a trotting horse.