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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875[X]
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1Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Add
 Title:  The sunny South, or, The Southerner at home  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for, if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors presume so much, you need to be put down. The bearer is Colonel Peyton, a planter of intelligence and fortune, who wishes a governess, who will be charged with the education of his daughter. The position seems to be a very desirable one, and I would recommend you to accept it, if he should, after seeing you, offer it to you. My Dear Sir,—There is probably no purgatory on earth (for purgatories abound in this world) so effectually conducive to penitence and repentance as a watering place. If good cannot come out of evil, nor light out of darkness, nor laughter out of sorrow, neither can any thing interesting proceed from a watering place. Nevertheless, I have to fly to my pen for solace. I have read till reading is insufferably tiresome—I have walked till I could walk no longer—I have talked till I am tired hearing my own voice and the voices of others—I have jumped the rope till I have blistered the soles of my feet, and made my hands burn—I have drunk the waters until I shall never bear to hear water mentioned again— I have danced under the trees, and looked on in the old dancing-room, till dancing is worn out—I have yawned till I have nearly put my jaws out—and I have sat till I could hardly keep my eyes open, looking at the trees, the hot walks, the listlessly-wandering-about people, that look as if they could take laudanum, hang themselves, or cut their throats, “just as lief do it as not,” if it were not so impolite and wicked to shock people's nerves by perpetrating such dreadful things! I have slept till my eyes won't hold any more sleep, and are swelled and red like two pink pin-cushions. I have rolled ninepins till I have nearly broken my arm with the heavy balls; and it is too hot to sew, to knit, to net, to do any thing but write! This I can do when all other things fail. I can write off a headache, write away care, and bury miserable thoughts in the dark depths of my inkstand. Therefore, Mr. —, I fly to my escritoire for relief from the tedium which everywhere surrounds me. The day is past; and as it is our last day at the Springs, therefore rejoice with me, Mr. —. I am impatient to be back once more to my dear, familiar room, with its thousand and one comforts. I want to see my pet deer, my doves, my squirrel, my flowers, my books, my own looking-glass, for I don't look like myself in these at the Springs, which look as if they had been made while a stiff breeze was rippling across their molter, surface. To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed. The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare, in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all. “My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't write in return, and that your little heart will dance with gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print. You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I have a story to tell you about these same birds. Now, Mr. —, I know a letter to a child is not the wisest piece of composition that ever was penned, but Charley is a fine little fellow, and may be an editor himself one of these days; so, if you will be so good as to print the letter, I will be very much obliged to you, and send an extra paper containing it to Charley himself. The signal to embark is now heard, and I must end. In my last letter I took you, will you nill you, on a journey to my forest-emburied home. Landing you safely upon the pier, at the gate which enters the lawn of live-oaks, that stretches between the house and the beautiful expanse of water in front, I gave you a warm and hospitable welcome. The same welcome I will joyfully extend to any of your friends, who think enough of me to turn out of the way of the great Father of Waters, to seek me out amid the heart of this lovely region of the South. “Dear Wife:—This epistle is written at `Illewalla,' or `Lover's Lake,' which is the translation of the soft Indian name. It is the romantic and charming home of my old correspondent, `Kate, of the Needles.' I cannot, with my prosaic pen, begin to present to your mind's eye the peculiar beauty of this retreat. On my way up from New Orleans to Louisville, I determined to stop and see my fair friend, in her own home; and having obtained the direction, I embarked at New Orleans on board the steamer `Dr. Beattie,' for Thibodeaux.
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