The Very Long Sentence
Today, while reading an 1855 account of the local fireman’s festival, I came across the following whopper of a sentence. It kicked off the story, and I thought writers and fans of writing would enjoy it.
The Fireman’s Festival. — Sacred to the memory of departed militia heroes; of officers in short-waisted, shallow-tail coats, who, at the head of their several commands of citizen soldiery, exhibited more of the “pride of circumstance and the pomp of war,” than any Crimean commander has reason to feel; and that of the rank and file themselves, who, in uniforms and without uniforms, of all sizes and nearly all ages, went through their several duties of marching and counter marching with more zeal than discipline, fired blank cartridges at an imaginary enemy without flinching, and only surrendered as the shades of evening came on, after a prolonged and most unequal contest with “Old jamaica or pure New England”; sacred the the memories of this and of those in the hearts of all Vermonters, is the first Tuesday in June.
