Print (PDF) - On this page / på denna sida - January 26 - Boston, February 1, 1850
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handful of that kind. But it is growing, and the
feeling on the subject is growing also.
Recently, at a charming little dinner at Professor
Howe’s, I met Laura Bridgeman. She is now twenty;
has a good, well-developed figure, and a countenance
that may be called pretty. She wears a green bandage
over her eyes. When she took my hand she made a
sign that she regarded me to be a child. One of
her first questions was, "How much money do you get
for your books?" a regular Yankee question, which
greatly delighted my companions, who, nevertheless,
prevented its being pressed any further.
Boston, February 1, 1850. I have lately read a
narrative, or, more properly speaking, a chronicle,
kept as a diary of the life of the first colonists,
the Pilgrims, their wars and labors during the first
year of their settlement. It is a simple chronicle,
without any wordiness or parade, without any attempt
at making it romantic or beautiful, but it affected
me more and went more directly to the depths of the
heart than many a touching novel, and seemed grander
to me than many a heroic poem. For how great in all
its unpretentiousness was this life, this labor! What
courage, what perseverance, what steadfastness and
unwavering trust in that little band! How they
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