Letters Of A Traveller, By William Cullen Bryant















































































































 -  Not far from
Middlebury, is a village on a fine stream, called Quaker Village, with not
a Quaker in it - Page 119
Letters Of A Traveller, By William Cullen Bryant - Page 119 of 396 - First - Home

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Not Far From Middlebury, Is A Village On A Fine Stream, Called Quaker Village, With Not A Quaker In It.

Everywhere they are laying aside their peculiarities of costume, and in many instances, also, their peculiarities of speech, which

Are barbarous enough as they actually exist, though, if they would but speak with grammatical propriety, their forms of discourse are as commodious as venerable, and I would be content to see them generally adopted. I hope they will be slow to lay aside their better characteristics: their abhorrence of violence, and the peaceful and wholesome subjection in which, of all religious denominations, they seem to have best succeeded in holding the passions. In such remote and secluded neighborhoods as Lincoln, their sect will probably make the longest stand against the encroachments of the world. I perceived, however, that the old gentleman's son, who was with him, and, as I learned, was also a Quaker, had nothing peculiar in his garb.

Before sunset we were in sight of those magnificent mountain summits, the Pico, Killington Peak, and Shrewsbury Peak, rising in a deep ultra-marine blue among the clouds that rolled about them, for the day was showery. We were set down at Rutland, where we passed the night, and the next morning crossed the mountains by the passes of Clarendon and Shrewsbury. The clouds were clinging to the summits, and we travelled under a curtain of mist, upheld on each side by mountain-walls. A young woman of uncommon beauty, whose forefinger on the right hand was dotted all over with punctures of the needle, and who was probably a mantua-maker, took a seat in the coach for a short distance.

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