Letters Home. William Dean Howells

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      Letters Home

      WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

      

      

      

       Letters Home, W. D. Howells

       Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

       86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

       Deutschland

      

       ISBN: 9783849657758

      

       www.jazzybee-verlag.de

       [email protected]

      

      

      CONTENTS:

       I. 1

       II. 3

       III. 8

       IV. 10

       V. 13

       VI. 15

       VII. 16

       VIII. 18

       IX. 21

       X. 24

       XI. 27

       XII. 30

       XIII. 33

       XIV. 36

       XV. 39

       XVI. 42

       XVII. 43

       XVIII. 47

       XIX. 48

       XX. 51

       XXI. 54

       XXII. 56

       XXIII. 58

       XXIV. 59

       XXV. 61

       XXVI. 62

       XXVII. 65

       XXVIII. 65

       XXIX.. 68

       XXX.. 70

       XXXI. 73

       XXXII. 76

       XXXIII. 77

       XXXIV. 78

       XXXV. 83

       XXXVI. 87

       XXXVII 88

       XXXVIII. 92

       XXXIX. 93

       XL. 94

       XLI. 97

       XLII. 99

       XLIII. 100

       XLIV. 101

       XLV. 105

       XLVI. 106

       XLVII 114

       XLVIII. 118

       XLIX. 120

      I.

      From Mrs. Otis Binning to Mrs. Walter Binning, Boston.

      New York, Dec. 12, 1901.

      My Dear Margaret:

      I am afraid it will not do, and that you will have your brother-in-law back on your hands again, for the winter, or lose him indefinitely. I do not mean, lose him to New York; far from that; as far as Europe, in fact; for if I were to take stock (the local commercialism instantly penetrates one's vocabulary) of my emotions, I suspect I should find myself evenly balanced between the impulse to board the next train for Boston and the impulse to board the next steamer for Liverpool. The things are about equally simple: the facilities for getting away from New York compensate for the facilities for getting to New York; and I could keep my promise of amusing your invalid leisure by letter as well from one place as from another. Wherever I am to be, I am not to be pitied as one taxed beyond his strength in keeping a rash promise. Your rest-cure may be good for you, or it may not; but for me I am sure it will be good if it gives me back that boon period of life, when T wrote letters willingly and wrote them long. I have already a pleasing prescience of an earlier time; in the mere purpose of writing you, I feel the glow of that charming adolescence of the world, in the eighteenth century, when everybody, no matter of what age, willingly wrote such long letters as to give the epistolary novel a happy air of verisimilitude.

      I wish I could be more definite