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- Author: Rebecca Harding Davis
- Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
- ISBN-10: 1720538255
- ISBN-13: 9781720538257
- Format: 21.6 x 28 x 0.2 cm, minkšti viršeliai
- Language: English
- SAVE -10% with code: EXTRA
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Description
Life in the Iron-Mills: The Korl Woman by Rebecca Harding Davis. Life in the Iron Mills is a short story written by Rebecca Harding Davis in 1861, set in the factory world of the nineteenth century. It is one of the earliest American realist works, and is an important text for those who study labor and women's issues. It was immediately recognized as an innovative work, and introduced American readers to "the bleak lives of industrial workers in the mills and factories of the nation." 'A cloudy day: do you know what that is in a town of iron-works? The sky sank down before dawn, muddy, flat, immovable. The air is thick, clammy with the breath of crowded human beings. It stifles me. I open the window, and, looking out, can scarcely see through the rain the grocer's shop opposite, where a crowd of drunken Irishmen are puffing Lynchburg tobacco in their pipes. I can detect the scent through all the foul smells ranging loose in the air.'
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- Author: Rebecca Harding Davis
- Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
- ISBN-10: 1720538255
- ISBN-13: 9781720538257
- Format: 21.6 x 28 x 0.2 cm, minkšti viršeliai
- Language: English English
Life in the Iron-Mills: The Korl Woman by Rebecca Harding Davis. Life in the Iron Mills is a short story written by Rebecca Harding Davis in 1861, set in the factory world of the nineteenth century. It is one of the earliest American realist works, and is an important text for those who study labor and women's issues. It was immediately recognized as an innovative work, and introduced American readers to "the bleak lives of industrial workers in the mills and factories of the nation." 'A cloudy day: do you know what that is in a town of iron-works? The sky sank down before dawn, muddy, flat, immovable. The air is thick, clammy with the breath of crowded human beings. It stifles me. I open the window, and, looking out, can scarcely see through the rain the grocer's shop opposite, where a crowd of drunken Irishmen are puffing Lynchburg tobacco in their pipes. I can detect the scent through all the foul smells ranging loose in the air.'
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