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My impression is that her walk must have been exceptionally long." "I used to tell her not to overwalk herself this weather," said Clym, with distress. "Do you think we did well in using the adder's fat?" "Well, it is a very ancient remedy the old remedy of the viper-catchers, I believe," replied the doctor. "It is mentioned as an infallible ointment by Hoffman, Mead, and I think the Abbe Fontana.
Every one has some worry or other, and as for being peculiar, all foreigners seem more or less so to us, they are so unreserved and demonstrative. I like Hoffman more and more every day, and shall be sorry when I part with him." "Ludmilla is his sister, then, or he didn't tell uncle the truth.
A square house of many rooms, indeed it was a mansion in the city of 1809. Here lived Josiah Ogden Hoffman, the protector of the youthful author, in whose office Irving came by his law training. In the Hoffman mansion, Irving courted Matilda Hoffman, the lawyer's fair daughter; here he saw her sicken and grow more feeble day by day; here she died, and so ended the romance of his life.
One of the familiar figures in Bartlett's book-shop was a keen-eyed, spectacled man who walked with quite a noticeable limp. This was Charles Fenno Hoffman, a notable man of his time, whose song, Sparkling and Bright, was on everybody's tongue. Thirty-four years of his life were behind him, years that were full to overflowing.
"Shall I play for you?" he asked, taking his violin from the top of the bureau, where Paul had placed it. "Will you?" asked Jimmy, his eyes lighting up with pleasure. "We should be very glad to hear you," said Mrs. Hoffman. Phil played his best, for he felt that he was playing for friends. After a short prelude, he struck into an Italian song.
How truly is this passage 'to be interpreted in the light of the event in Irving's history', when it is evident from a comparison of it with the memoranda, that it is a sketch of that scene which wrecked his brightest hopes, and that here he is renewing in this unequaled description of a dying-bed, the last hours of Matilda Hoffman.
He was making his way back leisurely, when, just as he was passing Burnton's bookstore, he saw Phil looking in at the window. He immediately recognized him as the little Italian fiddler who had refused to lend him his fiddle, as described in a previous chapter. In his attempt he was frustrated by Paul Hoffman.
Hoffman stood so near that her dress touched him, and the wind blew her scarf against his hand; and as she thought he watched her while his eyes kindled, his color rose, and once he opened his lips to speak, but she moved at the instant, and exclaimed, "I have it!" "Now for it," he muttered, as if preparing for some new surprise or attack.
In this Hoffman contended at length that the race was not only not holding its own in population, but that it was also astonishingly criminal and was steadily losing economically. In this chorus of dispraise truth struggled for a hearing, but then as now traveled more slowly than error. In the North American for July, 1892, Frederick Douglass wrote vigorously of "Lynch Law in the South."
It is rather curious to note, in connection with this prophecy, that the doors of the Opéra Comique, which were closed against Offenbach after the failure of his Vert-Vert some years before the war, are to be reopened to him next season, his Contes de Hoffman having proved the "Open, sesame!" to those long-barred portals.
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