| | 1 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | 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. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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