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The Christmas Guest
The Christmas Guest
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CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY, 9
CHAPTER II.
"THE MAIN CHANCE," 17
CHAPTER III.
THE CRADLE-SONG; A FREE TRANSLATION FROM KÖRNER, 35
THE BROTHERS; OR, IN THE FASHION, AND ABOVE THE FASHION, 37
CHAPTER IV.
LOSS AND GAIN; OR, HEARTS VERSUS DIAMONDS, 48
CHAPTER V.
THE BIRD'S RELEASE. BY MRS. HEMANS, 70
THE YOUNG MISANTHROPE, 72
CHAPTER VI.
LIFE IN AMERICA, 91
CHAPTER VII.
SUNDAY, 126
EVENING HYMN, 128
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WOLF CHASE, 133
CHAPTER IX.
THE HISTORY OF AN OLD MAID, 140
CHAPTER X.
THE FAMILY MEETING, 166
CHAPTER XI.
THE DYING HEBREW, 169
"ONLY A MECHANIC," 172
CHAPTER XII.
LOVE AND PRIDE, 196
CHAPTER XIII.
THE TEST OF LOVE. A STORY OF THE LAST WAR, 227
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FLOWER ANGELS, 266
THE
CHRISTMAS GUEST;
OR,
EVENINGS AT DONALDSON MANOR.
CHAPTER I.
The largest and the most picturesque country-house of all I know in
America, is the mansion house of my friends, the Donaldsons. I would
gladly inform the reader of its locality, but this Colonel Donaldson has
positively prohibited, for a reason too flattering to my self-love to be
resisted.
"You know, my dear Madam,"--I give his own words, by which I hope the
courteous reader will understand that I am really too modest even to
seem to adopt the flattering sentiment they convey--"You know, my dear
madam, that your description will be read by every body who is any body,
and that through it my simple home will become classic ground. If I
permit you to direct the tourist tribe to it, I shall be pestered out of
my life when summer comes, by travelling artists, would-be poets, and
romantic young ladies."
I may not therefore, dear reader, tell you whether this pleasant abode
be washed by the waves of the Atlantic or by the turbid current of the
Mississippi; whether it be fanned by the flower-laden zephyrs of the
South, or by the health-inspiring breezes of the North. The exterior
must indeed have been left wholly to your imagination, had I not
fortunately obtained a sketch from a young friend, an _amateur_ artist,
of whom I shall have more to say presently. As I could not in honor
present you with even this poor substitute, as I trust you will consider
it, for my word-painting, without Colonel Donaldson's consent, I have
been compelled, in deference to his wish, to divest the picture of every
thing that would mark the geographical position of the place
represented. The shape of its noble old trees we have been permitted to
retain; but their foliage we have been obliged to render so
indistinctly, that even Linnæus himself would find it impossible to
decide whether it belonged to the elm of the North when clothed in all
its summer luxuriance, or to the gigantic live-oak of the South. Even of
the house itself we have been permitted to give but a rear view, lest
the more marked features of the landscape in front should hint of its
whereabouts. As to the figures which appear in the foreground of the
picture, they are but figments of my young artist friend's imagination.
One of them you may observe carries under the arm a sheaf of wheat, not
a stalk of which I assure you ever grew on the Donaldson lands.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY, 9
CHAPTER II.
"THE MAIN CHANCE," 17
CHAPTER III.
THE CRADLE-SONG; A FREE TRANSLATION FROM KÖRNER, 35
THE BROTHERS; OR, IN THE FASHION, AND ABOVE THE FASHION, 37
CHAPTER IV.
LOSS AND GAIN; OR, HEARTS VERSUS DIAMONDS, 48
CHAPTER V.
THE BIRD'S RELEASE. BY MRS. HEMANS, 70
THE YOUNG MISANTHROPE, 72
CHAPTER VI.
LIFE IN AMERICA, 91
CHAPTER VII.
SUNDAY, 126
EVENING HYMN, 128
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WOLF CHASE, 133
CHAPTER IX.
THE HISTORY OF AN OLD MAID, 140
CHAPTER X.
THE FAMILY MEETING, 166
CHAPTER XI.
THE DYING HEBREW, 169
"ONLY A MECHANIC," 172
CHAPTER XII.
LOVE AND PRIDE, 196
CHAPTER XIII.
THE TEST OF LOVE. A STORY OF THE LAST WAR, 227
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FLOWER ANGELS, 266
THE
CHRISTMAS GUEST;
OR,
EVENINGS AT DONALDSON MANOR.
CHAPTER I.
The largest and the most picturesque country-house of all I know in
America, is the mansion house of my friends, the Donaldsons. I would
gladly inform the reader of its locality, but this Colonel Donaldson has
positively prohibited, for a reason too flattering to my self-love to be
resisted.
"You know, my dear Madam,"--I give his own words, by which I hope the
courteous reader will understand that I am really too modest even to
seem to adopt the flattering sentiment they convey--"You know, my dear
madam, that your description will be read by every body who is any body,
and that through it my simple home will become classic ground. If I
permit you to direct the tourist tribe to it, I shall be pestered out of
my life when summer comes, by travelling artists, would-be poets, and
romantic young ladies."
I may not therefore, dear reader, tell you whether this pleasant abode
be washed by the waves of the Atlantic or by the turbid current of the
Mississippi; whether it be fanned by the flower-laden zephyrs of the
South, or by the health-inspiring breezes of the North. The exterior
must indeed have been left wholly to your imagination, had I not
fortunately obtained a sketch from a young friend, an _amateur_ artist,
of whom I shall have more to say presently. As I could not in honor
present you with even this poor substitute, as I trust you will consider
it, for my word-painting, without Colonel Donaldson's consent, I have
been compelled, in deference to his wish, to divest the picture of every
thing that would mark the geographical position of the place
represented. The shape of its noble old trees we have been permitted to
retain; but their foliage we have been obliged to render so
indistinctly, that even Linnæus himself would find it impossible to
decide whether it belonged to the elm of the North when clothed in all
its summer luxuriance, or to the gigantic live-oak of the South. Even of
the house itself we have been permitted to give but a rear view, lest
the more marked features of the landscape in front should hint of its
whereabouts. As to the figures which appear in the foreground of the
picture, they are but figments of my young artist friend's imagination.
One of them you may observe carries under the arm a sheaf of wheat, not
a stalk of which I assure you ever grew on the Donaldson lands.
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