Cover

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Frontmatter

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Contents

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p. v

Acknowledgements

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p. vi

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Introduction

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pp. vii-xxix

Susanna Moodie (nee Strickland) is well known for Roughing It in the Bush and, to a lesser extent, Life in the Clearings, accounts of her New World experience. However, little attention has been paid to the remainder of her extensive output. She began publishing in the 1820s alongside the popular women writers who broke the ground...

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A Dream

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pp. 1-3

I had been confined to the house, during a fortnight, with an intermittent fever. It is one of the properties of this disorder to produce troubled and unquiet slumbers, and even waking fantasies, that present to the eye the grim heads of beasts and monsters; and the most grotesque and horrible caricatures of the human countenance...

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The Pope's Promise

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pp. 4-15

It was St. John's Eve: the summer sun was sinking behind the distant hills, while his last beams glittered on the lofty spires and towers of Marcerata, one of the oldest towns in Italy, and formerly the metropolis of Ancona. The uncommon beauty of the evening had tempted forth most of its younger inhabitants, who were seen in detached groups along the high road, or in the fields...

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Old Hannah; or, The Charm

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pp. 16-24

Poor old Hannah! I see her now before me — her short stout figure, framed as it was for labour — her round red face, which long exposure to the weather had so befreckled and betanned, that not one tint of her original complexion was left — her small, deep-seated, merry grey eyes, and the little turned-up impertinent-looking nose...

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My Aunt Dorothy's Legacy

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pp. 25-30

"And is this all the news you have to tell me?" said my cousin, Tom Singleton, drawing his chair closer into the family group which surrounded our cheerful fire last Christmas day. "After a fellow has been absent from home fifteen years, — a great deal more must have happened than you have thought convenient to relate...

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The Vanquished Lion

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pp. 31-42

Dear mamma, why do you look so very sad?" said Lewis Fenwick to his mother, as she slowly folded together the letter she had just finished re and burst into tears. "That letter is from papa — I know his seal. Is he ill?" "No, my child; he is well, and will be here to-morrow." "Then why do you cry, mamma?" "Lewis," said Mrs. Fenwick, with a glance of such tender concern...

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The Doctor Distressed

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pp. 43-48

"So, my nephew is returned," said Dr. Beaufort, taking off his spectacles, and laying aside the letter he had been reading. "What will he do at home?" This remark was addressed to a stout, rosy, matronly looking woman of fifty, who was seated by the fire knitting, and who acted in the double capacity of companion and housekeeper to the reverend gentleman...

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The Sailor's Return

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pp. 49-63

As one of the chroniclers of my parish, it behooves me to act like a faithful and impartial biographer, not merely regarding with interest the memoirs of the rich and great, but condescending to men and women of low estate. Uninfluenced by worldly motives, to put a restraint upon their feelings...

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The Broken Mirror

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pp. 64-86

"Dry your tears, dear mother. This violent grief destroys your health, without altering in the smallest degree our present circumstances. Look forward with hope to the future. Better days are in store for us." "Robert Harden, you speak like a boy perfectly unacquainted with the trials of life,"...

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The Well in the Wilderness

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pp. 87-97

Richard Steele, was the son of one of those small landholders, who are fast disappearing in merry Old England. His father left him the sole possessor of twenty-five acres of excellent arable land and a snug little cottage, which had descended from father to son, through many generations...

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Rachel Wilde, or, Trifles from the Burthen of a Life

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pp. 98-150

We are all more or less, the creatures of circumstance. Human vanity may rise up in arms and contradict this assertion; but it is nevertheless true. Others have formed links in our destiny; and we in our turn, form links in the destiny of others. No one ever did, or could live for himself alone. We talk of originality of thought...

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The Quiet Horse

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pp. 151-159

Mrs. Harrowby had taken it into her head that she must pay a flying visit to her husband, who had been absent for some weeks from home, superintending the arrangement of a very complicated mercantile business, which had involved his brother-in-law in bankruptcy. There was no immediate necessity for the premeditated visit of Mrs. Harrowby to the city...

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Trifles from the Burthen of a Life

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pp. 160-240

"Rachel, have you forgotten the talk we had about emigration, the morning before our marriage?" was a question rather suddenly put to his young wife Lieutenant M---, as he paused in his rapid walk to and fro the room. The fact is, that the Lieutenant had been pondering over that conversation for the last hour...

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My Cousin Tom

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pp. 241-252

My cousin was an artist. An odd man in the fullest acceptation of the word. He was odd in his appearance, in his manners, in his expressions, and ways of thinking. A perfect original, for I never met with any one like him, in my long journey through life. He had served his apprenticeship with the great Bartolozzy, who was the first copper-plate engraver of his time...

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Washing the Black-A-Moor White

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pp. 253-256

This useless unprofitable speculation has become proverbial. I wonder if any one had ever the folly to undertake it! It is one of those hard uncompromising facts that leaves no opening for pugnacious disputants to fight about. Even the celebrated individual, "that swore I was not I, and made a ghost of personal identity" would have to give it up. Still it strikes me, that the experiment must have been tried...