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Updated: May 5, 2025
But this is not the cause of my present writing. The bearer, Mr. Timothy Trickle, is a distant relation of yours, being the son of the cousin of your aunt Margery, and is not over and above well as to worldly matters.
"Perhaps your mother will be surprised that I did not write this letter to her, as most of it concerns her and her family directly. But I can best explain why I am writing to you by the following: "My brother Paul and your brother John are chums in college, you know, and I heard quite recently that you wished to prepare for High School in Denver this fall.
Taken literally, this is an impossible design, and to put it forward as a practical proposition is as if a man were to declare his intention of writing a minute diary of the life of Julius Caesar from his birth to his death.
When Poe was young he was not a very remarkable poet; but, as years went on and he learned more and more the art of writing, he rewrote and rewrote his verses until at last in conscious art he was almost, if not quite, the master poet of America. Edgar Allan Poe was descended on his father's side from a Revolutionary hero, General David Poe.
"I am sorry I'm a bad hand at writing," he rejoined; and his evil genius prompted him to add: "I hope my coming is not inconvenient?" The colour rose to Bessy's face. "Of course not. But it must seem rather odd to our visitors that I should know so little of your plans." At this he humbled himself still farther. "I know I don't think enough about appearances I'll try to do better the next time."
"Seeing that you are no longer in doubt of the power of the Lord," the bishop proceeded to say while he again stamped on the floor with his foot, "you may rise, count, open your eyes, the abyss of hell is closed again"; the slab had in the meantime been raised and adjusted in its former place. "Hermit, bring the parchment to me and writing materials. You shall be my witness."
As a further test of the involuntary character of this we not only tried her with her eyes bandaged, but by my brother talking with her from one side of the table, while she was writing in reply to my mental questions on the other; she talked with him on one subject at the same moment in which she wrote to me on another.
She had not the happy faculty which some people have of putting their thoughts on paper, lucidly and clearly, and the letter had not been an easy one to write. She had honestly tried to be frank, but when it came to writing of her love, words seemed so bald, so inadequate, that after several efforts she had given it up in despair, and merely stated simple facts.
David Crole, writing in the serious and practical vein of a scientific expert, is moved to a poetic sense of the scene when he speaks of the return of Indian tea pickers from their work at evening:
Yet you judged right, perhaps, that you would have been detected had you endeavoured to get away with your clothes. Cunning creature! not to make one step that we would guess at you by! Cunning to effect your own ruin, and the disgrace of all the family! But does the wretch put you upon writing for your things, for fear you should be too expensive to him? That's it, I suppose.
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