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23 letter 9  “From Our Lady Correspondent” Daily Alta California July 7, 1856 New York City, New York From Our Lady Correspondent New York, June 5th, 1856 I have just arrived in New York by the propeller Petanisks.1 I paid twenty shillings for as many hours passage: the agony was cheap. I took the propeller just as a man sometimes prefers to have a country doctor pull a tooth, dragging him some minutes by the forceps, all for twenty-five cents, instead of paying a dentist a dollar to take it out in a twinkling. Oh! but I was sea-sick! My internal antagonism to the motion of the cruel deep rose to such a height that I was overpowered by the contest. Phoebe, the stewardess, was only able to get my bonnet off, when she was obliged to cram me into a berth. It was like packing a carpet-bag. I went in with a whalebone petticoat and a great flounced, and tucked, and starched cambric affair. Phoebe had to tuck my material into all the crevices of the berth, and then she left me, laughing like a shark. A raging fever burned my head; hair pins fell out; my hair choked my eyes and floated round the pillow like seaweed, or like signals of distress over a sinking wreck. My feet were like icebergs, and did not seem to belong to me, but to be a pair of obtrusive extremities, that were where there was no room for them. I was in the possession of the Demon of the Sea. There was no help for me. So I emulated the behavior of Prometheus, remembering that he preached from his solitary crag to the winds and waters: “But I needs must hear my doom as easily as may be, knowing as I do that the might of necessity cannot be resisted.”2 I also thought of Mazeppa;3 but could not recall anything from Byron that would suit the case. “Time and the hour” wore through that rough night,4 however, and at last I emerged from the log-like propeller, a gaunt and hungry woman. I am writing from a perch in a big house on 24th street. It is quite elegant outside. The first floor is handsome, and I have strong hopes 24 of misleading my acquaintances as to my real position in the garret by introducing them to the parlor merely. In this manner I have received one of your California delegates to the Philadelphia Convention.5 I am not sure but that he would have been as cordial and pleasant if I had received him upon the aerial heights as he was in the parlor. It would do you good, though, to see how ingeniously the cracks on the wall are covered by pictures. There is no carpet on the floor; but plenty of books. Dusters are unknown in these regions; in fact, this is a genuine literary den. But there is no lion in it. From this traditional situation I think some inspiration may light on my brain. There are so many pairs of stairs between me and the outer world, that unless I choose to make a descent from the window, I shall find it best not to journey often to the outside. But I am sorry not to be in Cincinnati.6 Capt. Rynders7 and Tom Hyer8 are there; and I am as good a Democrat as either. The Democratic party is essentially fisticuffy, and the bullying element is dominant. Sumner9 had his head caved in in a good time. Every cat and thrust that Bully Brooks gave him will bear political fruit. When I left Yankeedom, even the women had the newspapers in hand, and were violently disturbed about Sumner’s assault. The indignation meetings are everywhere fast and furious. The Tribune is powerful and sound, about these times, in many things. It circulates tremendously out West. I should think its articles on the Kansas matters10 would infuriate the hot-headed geniuses. The Tribune also continues to quote advertisements from the Southern papers of negro sales. This reminds me of the little dramatic entertainment that took place at Mr. Ward Beecher’s11 church, last Sunday. After his discourse, he presented a slave girl to his audience for redemption.12 The enthusiasm of the [illegible] [illegible] was so great that an overplus was raised at once. Much clapping of hands ensued, which the reverend gentleman called a “holy clapping of hands...

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