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The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 049 [02-15-1851]

              this world.   I wonder what sort of a day �twas, whether still or a raw
gusty one.  Just about then to Richard Gunn, Master Dick�s father had
been killed on the road from Banbury to South Newton, for my mother
was told of it in her confinement. Ned would be told as they do to all
elders, that �his nose was out of joint� and the like.  William Bolton,
my Uncle Henry�s brother was alive, and had the farm then.  So it was; �
now had a magic mirror shewn to my mother what twenty-five years would trans
magnify that red infant into, what would she have said?     My Mary too �
she was then a child of one or two years, toddling about Newman street house
wherein she was born.
  16. Sunday.  In-doors all day, drawing on mahogany. Alf and 
Cross with me.  News of the Atlantic steam-ship, all safe, so I hope to have
Mary�s letter to-morrow.   Little Mason pays us a visit in the afternoon. I
wonder what Charley�s doing, in some strange Boarding house?              The
boys Fred and Eddy called in the afternoon.
  17. Monday.  Drawing all the day. Letters arrive from England.
From home, from Boutcher and from M.    Another from M! �
And as I read it through the old, sad heart ache was with me � even as
I felt years ago. �She had thought, and still thinks she is wrong in writing
to me� �
  I see, and forsee all, now.  Little love has she to give in return for
me so patient and faithful as mine.   Weighing and guaging all by one mode
she can judge by no other.       A narrow, very narrow horizon is hers to breathe
in.   Sympathy, love, duty, all bounded by chapel-walls.    I believe not
in Eternal Hell, so �                           There! I�m weary of it, and
sick at heart.   Little knows she how I have loved; or to sorry purpose
if she knew it.   Like Dobbin in the Tale I have been at her feet so
long that she forgets I may stand erect.   And that I must, will do.               
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