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1Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Add
 Title:  The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Well, Fritz, it is even true, that notwithstanding my rusticity, I find myself approaching, little by little, to a state of town domestication; and at the earnest solicitation of my worthy bookseller, I am led to resume my weekly observations, and even to extend their influence, if influence they have, by association with a large publishing house, which will give to them a wide country circulation. It is quite possible, therefore, that this may fall under your eye at the house of your parson (if a liberal-minded person), or of your village attorney (if a man of progress), even before you shall have broken my private seal. Mr. Timon:—I have read all you have written, and like it very much. My mamma (for a wonder) likes it too: so does Aunt Sophy. But they have forbid my polking with strange gentlemen, at least those who are introduced to me at the balls. Is not this ridiculous?—one meets such nice young men at the balls, and nowhere else! I wish you would persuade mamma so; if you could, you would greatly oblige your true friend, Sir:—I can't say that I like altogether the tone of your remarks about Washingtonians. You seem to have looked only at such stray individuals as have lost character at home, (which it is possible to do,) and gone to your city to set up. As for the members, I shall not defend them, as they are at best but a shabby set of fellows, who bother us amazingly in the winter-time, and have no more gratitude for favors, personal or domestic, than so many office-holders. Here we are at length, and what a charming place!—such trees, and dinners, and then the bowling alley; (do you ever bowl?) if you do, get a pair of those pretty gaiters at what-d'ye-call-him's. Papa has taken two rooms for us in the east wing, and Marie sleeps in a little alcove just out of mine. The galleries stretch around inside the wing, and several gentlemen—married gentlemen, ma says—(but very handsome) pass very often. You don't know how pleasant it is to sit in the window, in that deshabille you said was so becoming. Ma begins to think so too, for Miss Figgins has got one just like it. My Dear Timon:—Though your paper has rarely reached me, yet I have seen enough of its spirit, to believe that some little account of my country life will serve your turn, and give you some hints, that you may possibly work over to good account. I had made in town, by dint of jobbing, what they call hereabouts a fortune; and not having gained much footing in genteel society,—partly because we didn't care about it, and partly because wife is principled against low necks, and the opera, I determined to set up in the country. A year ago I was married to a belle of the town, and am beginning now fairly to sorrow over my bargain: nor is this because she has lost her beauty; for to tell the truth, I think she is more of a belle now than ever; and is as complacent in her action toward all the beaux, as I ever knew a woman in my life. I can scarce come up a single day, from my business in the city, but I meet her walking with some spruce fellow of her acquaintance, with whom she appears to be enjoying herself as well as she ever did in my company. As you have taken upon yourself to be the censor of modes and proprieties, which office I must say, you have filled quite respectably so far, I want to draw your attention to the developments in a recent work by a distinguished lady, called (I speak of the book, and not the lady)—Truth Stranger than Fiction. Such barbarity as is disclosed in this book, and such extraordinary defence as is made of these barbarities, by the officers of a time-honored Institution, ought to meet with a strong rebuke from every humane person (as I think you are) and to make every woman of maidenly sentiments quiver with indignation and horror.
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