| | 141 | Author: | Taylor
Bayard
1825-1878 | Add | | | Title: | Joseph and his friend  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Rachel Miller was not a little surprised when her nephew
Joseph came to the supper-table, not from the direction of
the barn and through the kitchen, as usual, but from the
back room up stairs, where he slept. His work-day dress
had disappeared; he wore his best Sunday suit, put on with
unusual care, and there were faint pomatum odors in the air
when he sat down to the table. My dear Asten:—Do you remember that curious whirling,
falling sensation, when the car pitched over the edge of
the embankment? I felt a return of it on reading your letter;
for you have surprised me beyond measure. Not by your
request, for that is just what I should have expected of you;
and as well now, as if we had known each other for twenty
years; so the apology is the only thing objectionable— But
I am tangling my sentences; I want to say how heartily I return
the feeling which prompted you to ask me, and yet how
embarrassed I am that I cannot unconditionally say, “Yes,
with all my heart!” My great, astounding surprise is, to
find you about to be married to Miss Julia Blessing,—a
young lady whom I once knew. And the embarrassment is
this: I knew her under circumstances (in which she was not
personally concerned, however) which might possibly render
my presence now, as your groomsman, unwelcome to the
family: at least, it is my duty—and yours, if you still
desire me to stand beside you—to let Miss Blessing and her
family decide the question. The circumstances to which I
refer concern them rather than myself. I think your best
plan will be simply to inform them of your request and my
reply, and add that I am entirely ready to accept whatever
course they may prefer. Since I wrote to you from Prescott, dear Philip, three
months have passed, and I have had no certain means of
sending you another letter. There was, first, Mr. Wilder's
interest at —, the place hard to reach, and the business
difficult to investigate. It was not so easy, even with the
help of your notes, to connect the geology of books with the
geology of nature; these rough hills don't at all resemble
the clean drawings of strata. However, I have learned all
the more rapidly by not assuming to know much, and the report
I sent contained a great deal more than my own personal
experience. The duty was irksome enough, at times;
I have been tempted by the evil spirits of ignorance, indolence,
and weariness, and I verily believe that the fear of
failing to make good your guaranty for my capacity was the
spur which kept me from giving way. Now, habit is beginning
to help me, and, moreover, my own ambition has something
to stand on. When Madeline hung a wreath of holly around your
photograph this morning, I said to it as I say now: “A
merry Christmas, Joseph, wherever you are!” It is a
calm sunny day, and my view, as you know, reaches much
further through the leafless trees; but only the meadow on
the right is green. You, on the contrary, are enjoying
something as near to Paradise in color, and atmosphere,
and temperature (if you are, as I guess, in Southern California),
as you will ever be likely to see. Philip, Philip, I have found your valley! Dear Sir:—“Fay's Geography for Schools” has been added to the list of books
furnished to the schools under the control of the Board of Education. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 142 | Author: | Taylor
Bayard
1825-1878 | Add | | | Title: | The story of Kennett | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | At noon, on the first Saturday of March, 1796, there
was an unusual stir at the old Barton farm-house, just
across the creek to the eastward, as you leave Kennett
Square by the Philadelphia stage-road. Any gathering of
the people at Barton's was a most rare occurrence; yet, on
that day and at that hour, whoever stood upon the porch of
the corner house, in the village, could see horsemen approaching
by all the four roads which there met. Some
five or six had already dismounted at the Unicorn Tavern,
and were refreshing themselves with stout glasses of “Old
Rye,” while their horses, tethered side by side to the pegs
in the long hitching-bar, pawed and stamped impatiently.
An eye familiar with the ways of the neighborhood might
have surmised the nature of the occasion which called so
many together, from the appearance and equipment of
these horses. They were not heavy animals, with the
marks of plough-collars on their broad shoulders, or the
hair worn off their rumps by huge breech-straps; but light
and clean-limbed, one or two of them showing signs of
good blood, and all more carefully groomed than usual. “Sir: Yr respd favour of ye1
1 This form of the article, though in general disuse at the time, was still
frequently employed in epistolary writing, in that part of Pennsylvania.
11th came duly to hand,
and ye proposition wh it contains has been submitted to
Mr. Jones, ye present houlder of ye mortgage. He wishes
me to inform you that he did not anticipate ye payment
before ye first day of April, 1797, wh was ye term agreed
upon at ye payment of ye first note; nevertheless, being
required to accept full and lawful payment, whensoever
tendered, he hath impowered me to receive ye moneys
at yr convenience, providing ye settlement be full and compleat,
as aforesaid, and not merely ye payment of a part or
portion thereof. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 143 | Author: | Thomas
Frederick William
1806-1866 | Add | | | Title: | John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches of
character, including William Wirt | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | I remember some years since to have seen
John Randolph in Baltimore. I had frequently
read and heard descriptions of him; and one day,
as I was standing in Market, now Baltimore Street,
I remarked a tall, thin, unique-looking being hurrying
towards me with a quick impatient step,
evidently much annoyed by a crowd of boys who
were following close at his heels; not in the obstreperous
mirth with which they would have followed
a crazy or a drunken man, or an organ-grinder
and his monkey, but in the silent, curious
wonder with which they would have haunted a
Chinese, bedecked in full costume. I instantly
knew the individual to be Randolph, from the
descriptions. I therefore advanced towards him,
that I might take a full observation of his person
without violating the rules of courtesy in stopping
to gaze at him. As he approached, he occasionally
turned towards the boys with an angry glance, but
without saying anything, and then hurried on as if
to outstrip them; but it would not do. They followed
close behind the orator, each one observing
him so intently that he said nothing to his companions.
Just before I met him, he stopped a Mr.
C—, a cashier of one of the banks, said to be
as odd a fish as John himself. I loitered into
a store close by, and, unnoticed, remarked the
Roanoke orator for a considerable time; and really,
he was the strangest-looking being I ever beheld. Gentlemen: It is a matter of deep regret to me, that I
did not receive your kind letter of the 9th of August till a
very late day. I was in the mountains of New Hampshire,
taking a breath of my native air, and it was the last of
August before I returned. I know not whether, if I had
received your communication sooner, it would have been
in my power to attend the meeting to which I was invited,
but I should have been able to have given a more timely
answer. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 145 | Author: | Thompson
Daniel P.
(Daniel Pierce)
1795-1868 | Add | | | Title: | The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was an anxious, as well as a stirring day with the colonists
at New Plymouth. The public mind, for the last few months,
had been laboring under a very unusual, and a constantly increasing
excitement. Among all classes of men there evidently
existed a deep, though unacknowledged consciousness,
that the calculations of selfishness, craft, and fraud, instead of
obedience to the simple dictates of justice and honesty, had
latterly characterized their intercourse with the Indians.
This, as in most other cases of conscious wrong doing, had
made them, especially the leading men of the colony, peculiarly
sensitive respecting the relations in which they stood
with the red men, filling them with jealousies, suspicions, and
apprehensions, lest the latter, impressed doubtless with the
same or livelier convictions of their wrongs, should be secretly
nourishing thoughts and schemes of redress and retribution.
The colonists were also fully conscious that the injured race
were now no longer the comparatively harmless and contemptible
foes they were in times past, when bows and arrows and
war-clubs were their most formidable weapons, whole scores
of which were scarcely good against a single musket in battle;
but that they had, at this period, almost universally supplied
themselves with fire arms, in the fatal use of which, when
occasion required, they had no superiors, even among the most
expert sharp-shooters of the old world. And especially and
painfully conscious were likewise the leading colonists, that
in addition to the advantages thus possessed by their apprehended
foes, there had now sprung up among them a Master
Spirit who was believed to be fully capable of combining, and
giving direction to all the various elements of their disaffection
with fearful effect. That Master Spirit was Metacom, the
King Philip of subsequent historic renown. And it was not
without reason they feared that he, insulted, fined, and dragooned
as he had been into hollow treaties of peace, would not
long remain inactive or forego—unless prompt and decided
measures were taken to prevent the execution of what was
believed to be his bold and settled design—a war of extermination
against the colonists of New England. “As soon as Captain Willis is able to travel, which I trust
is now, his late captor, or prisoner, or nurse in the woods,
would be gratified to see him at Providence. Enquire of
Governor Williams for | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 146 | Author: | Thompson
Daniel P.
(Daniel Pierce)
1795-1868 | Add | | | Title: | Gaut Gurley, or, The trappers of Umbagog | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | So wrote the charming Cowper, giving us to understand, by
the drift of the context, that he intended the remark as having
a moral as well as a physical application; since, as he there
intimates, in “gain-devoted cities,” whither naturally flow “the
dregs and feculence of every land,” and where “foul example
in most minds begets its likeness,” the vices will ever find their
favorite haunts; while the virtues, on the contrary, will always
most abound in the country. So far as regards the virtues, if
we are to take them untested, this is doubtless true. And so
far, also, as regards the mere vices, or actual transgressions of
morality, we need, perhaps, to have no hesitation in yielding
our assent to the position of the poet. But, if he intends to
include in the category those flagrant crimes which stand first
in the gradation of human offences, we must be permitted to
dissent from that part of the view; and not only dissent, but
claim that truth will generally require the very reversal of the
picture, for of such crimes we believe it will be found, on
examination, that the country ever furnishes the greatest proportion.
In cities, the frequent intercourse of men with their
fellow-men, the constant interchange of the ordinary civilities
of life, and the thousand amusements and calls on their attention
that are daily occurring, have almost necessarily a tendency
to soften or turn away the edge of malice and hatred, to divert
the mind from the dark workings of revenge, and prevent it
from settling into any of those fatal purposes which result in
the wilful destruction of life, or some other gross outrage on
humanity. But in the country, where, it will be remembered,
the first blood ever spilled by the hand of a murderer cried up
to Heaven from the ground, and where the meliorating circumstances
we have named as incident to congregated life are almost
wholly wanting, man is left to brood in solitude over his
real or fancied wrongs, till all the fierce and stormy passions
of his nature become aroused, and hurry him unchecked along
to the fatal outbreak. In the city, the strong and bad passions
of hate, envy, jealousy, and revenge, softened in action, as we
have said, on finding a readier vent in some of the conditions
of urban society, generally prove comparatively harmless. In
the country, finding no such softening influences, and no such
vent, and left to their own workings, they often become dangerously
concentrated, and, growing more and more intensified as
their self-fed fires are permitted to burn on, at length burst
through every barrier of restraint, and set all law and reason
alike at defiance. “Thinking something unusual to be brewing overhead, we
are off for the lake about 10 A. M. “Dear Claud, — You do not know, you cannot know, what
the effort costs me to write this. You do not know, you cannot
know, what I have felt, what I have suffered since I became
fully apprised of the painful circumstances under which
your late expedition was brought to a close; and especially
since I became apprised of the lamentable scenes that occurred
in the court, growing out of that unfortunate — O how unfortunate,
expedition! Before that court was held, and during the
doubtful days which intervened between it and your escape from
the terrible perils that attended your return, the hope that all
would, all must turn out right, in some measure relieved my
harrowing fears and anxieties; though even then the latter was
to the former as days of cloud to minutes of sunshine. But,
when I heard what occurred at the trial, — the bitter crimination
and recrimination, the open rupture, the menaces exchanged,
and the angry parting, — and, more alarming than all,
when I saw my father return in that fearful mood, from which
he still refuses to be diverted, the last gleam of hope faded, and
all became cloud, all gloom, — dark, impenetrable, and forbidding.
My nights, when sleep at length comes to close my
weeping eyes, are passed in troubled dreams; my days in more
troubled thoughts, which I would fain believe were dreams
also. O, why need this be? I have done nothing, — you
have done nothing; and I have no doubt of your faith and
honor for performing all I shall ever require at your hands.
But, Claud, I love you, and all
`Know love is woman's happiness;'
and all know, likewise, that the ties of love are but gossamer
threads, which a word may rupture, a breath shake, and even
the power of unpleasant associations destroy. Still, is there
not one hope, — the hope that this thread, hitherto so blissfully
uniting our hearts, subtle and attenuated as it is, may yet
be preserved unbroken, if we suffer no opinion, no word, no
syllable to escape our lips, respecting the unfortunate affair
that is embroiling our parents; if we wholly deny ourselves
the pleasure of that social intercourse which, to me, at least,
has thus far made this wilderness an Eden of delight? But
can it be thus preserved, if we keep up that intercourse, as in
the sunshine of our love, — those pleasant, fleeting, rosy months,
when I was so happy, O so very happy, in the feelings of the
present and the prospects of the future? No, no, it is not possible,
it is not possible for you to come here, and encounter my
father in such a mood, and then return and receive the upbraidings
of your own, that you are joining or upholding the house
of his foes. It is not possible for you to do this, and your
heart receive no jar, and mine no fears or suspicions of its continued
fealty. I dare not risk it. Then do not, dearest Claud,
O do not come here, at least for the present. Perhaps my
dark forebodings, that our connection is not to be blessed for our
future happiness, may be groundless. Perhaps the storm that
now so darkly hangs over us may pass harmlessly away.
Perhaps this painful and perplexing misunderstanding — as I
trust in Heaven's mercy it only is — may yet be placed in a light
which will admit of a full reconciliation between our respective
families. But, till then, let our relations to each other stand, if
you feel disposed to let them, precisely as we left them at our
last mournfully happy parting; for, till then, though it break
my heart, I could never, never consent to a renewal of our
intercourse. Have I said enough, and not too much? I could
not, under the almost insupportable weight of grief, fear, and
anxiety, that is distracting my brain, and crushing my poor
heart, — I could not say less, I dare not say more. O Claud,
Claud, why has this dreadful cloud come over us? O, pray that
it may be speedily removed, and once more let in, on our pained
and perplexed hearts, the sunshine of their former happiness.
Dearest Claud, good-by; don't come, but don't forget “Mrs. Elwood, my Friend, — Our Mr. Phillips has been
here, and told us all that has happened in your settlement.
Mrs. Elwood, I am greatly troubled at the loss your family
suffer, with the rest of the hunters, but still more troubled and
fearful for your husband and your noble son, about what may
grow out of the quarrel with that dark man. My father knew
him, time long past, and said there would be mischief done the
company, when we heard he was going with them. I hope Mr.
Elwood will keep out of his way; and I hope, Claud, — O, I
cannot write the thought. Mrs. Elwood, I am very unhappy.
I sometimes wish your brave and noble son had suffered me to
go down and be lost in the dark, wild waters of those fearful
rapids. By the goodness of my white father, whom I am proud
22
to hope you may some time see with me in your settlement, I
have all the comforts and indulgences that a heart at ease could
desire; warm, carpeted rooms, dress, books, company, smooth
flatterers, who mean little, it may be, together with real friends,
who mean much, and prove it by actions, which do not, like
words, ever deceive. And yet, Mrs. Elwood, they are all
now without any charms for me. My heart is in your settlement.
The grand old forest, and the bright lake, were always
things of beauty for me, before I saw him; but now, when associated
with him, — O, Mrs. Elwood, if I did not know you
had something of what I meant should forever be kept secret
from all but the Great Eye, in your keeping, and if you had
not made me feel you would be my discreet friend, and keep it
as safe from all as an unspoken thought, I would not for worlds
write what I have, and what I every moment find my pen on
the point of writing more fully. O, how I wish I could make
you understand, without words, what I feel, — how I grieve
over what I almost know must be vain hopes, and vainer visions
of happiness! You have sometimes had, it may be, very
bright, delightful dreams, which seemed to bring you all your
heart desired; and then you suddenly awoke, and found all had
vanished, leaving you dark and sad with disappointment and
regret. If you have, you may fancy what my thoughts are
undergoing every hour of the day. O, how my heart is drawn
away towards you! I often feel that I must fly up, like a bird,
to be there. I should come now, but for what might be thought.
I shall certainly be there in early spring. I can't stay away,
though I may come only to see what I could bear less easy
than these haunting, troubled fancies. Mrs. Elwood, adieu.
You won't show this, or breathe a word about it, — I know you
won't; you could not be so cruel as that. Mrs. Elwood, may
I not sign myself your friend? “To Claud Elwood:— My career is ended, at last. Well,
I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have been nobody's fool
nor nobody's tool. Early perceiving that nine out of ten were only
the stupid instruments of the tenth man, the world over, I resolved
to go into the system, and did, and improved on it so as to make
nineteen out of twenty tools to me, — that is all. I have no great
fault to find with men generally, though I always despised the
whole herd; for I knew that, if they used me well, it was only
because they dared not do otherwise. I don't write this, however,
to preach upon that, but to let you know another thing, to chew
upon. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 147 | Author: | Thompson
Daniel P.
(Daniel Pierce)
1795-1868 | Add | | | Title: | The rangers, or, The Tory's daughter | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Towards night, on the twelfth of March, 1775, a richly-equipped
double sleigh, filled with a goodly company of well-dressed
persons of the different sexes, was seen descending from
the eastern side of the Green Mountains, along what may now
be considered the principal thoroughfare leading from the upper
navigable portions of the Hudson to those of the Connecticut
River. The progress of the travellers was not only slow, but
extremely toilsome, as was plainly evinced by the appearance of
the reeking and jaded horses, as they labored and floundered
along the sloppy and slumping snow paths of the winter road,
which was obviously now fast resolving itself into the element of
which it was composed. Up to the previous evening, the dreary
reign of winter had continued wholly uninterrupted by the advent
of his more gentle successor in the changing rounds of the
seasons; and the snowy waste which enveloped the earth would,
that morning, have apparently withstood the rains and suns of
months before yielding entirely to their influences. But during
the night there had occurred one of those great and sudden
transitions from cold to heat, which can only be experienced in
northern climes, and which can be accounted for only on the supposition,
that the earth, at stated intervals, rapidly gives out large
quantities of its internal heats, or that the air becomes suddenly
rarefied by some essential change or modification in the state of
the electric fluid. The morning had been cloudless; and the
rising sun, with rays no longer dimly struggling through the
dense, obstructing medium of the dark months gone by, but, with
the restored beams of his natural brightness, fell upon the smoking
earth with the genial warmth of summer. A new atmosphere,
indeed, seemed to have been suddenly created, so warm and
bland was the whole air; while, occasionally, a breeze came over
the face of the traveller, which seemed like the breath of a
heated oven. As the day advanced, the sky gradually became
overcast — a strong south wind sprung up, before whose warm
puffs the drifted snow-banks seemed literally to be cut down,
like grass before the scythe of the mower; and, at length, from
the thickening mass of cloud above, the rain began to descend
in torrents to the mutely recipient earth. All this, for a while,
however, produced no very visible effects on the general face of
nature; for the melting snow was many hours in becoming
saturated with its own and water from above. Nor had our
travellers, for the greater part of the day, been much incommoded
by the rain, or the thaw, that was in silent, but rapid
progress around and beneath them; as their vehicle was a covered
one, and as the hard-trodden paths of the road were the last
to be affected. But, during the last hour, a great change in the
face of the landscape had become apparent; and the evidence
of what had been going on unseen, through the day, was now
growing every moment more and more palpable. The snow
along the bottom of every valley was marked by a long, dark
streak, indicating the presence of the fast-collecting waters beneath.
The stifled sounds of rushing streams were heard issuing
from the hidden beds of every natural rill; while the larger
brooks were beginning to burst through their wintry coverings,
and throw up and push on before them the rending ice and
snow that obstructed their courses to the rivers below, to which
they were hurrying with increasing speed, and with seemingly
growing impatience at every obstacle they met in their way.
The road had also become so soft, that the horses sunk nearly to the
flank at almost every step, and the plunging sleigh drove heavily
along the plashy path. The whole mass of the now saturated
and dissolving snow, indeed, though lying, that morning, more
than three feet deep on a level, seemed to quiver and move,
as if on the point of flowing away in a body to the nearest
channels. Vermont was ushered into political existence midst storm and
tempest. We speak both metaphorically and literally; for it is
a curious historical fact, that her constitution, the result of the
first regular movement ever made by her people towards an
independent civil government, was adopted during the darkest
period of the revolution, at an hour of commotion and alarm,
when the tempest of war was actually bursting over her borders
and threatening her entire subversion. And, as if to make the
event the more remarkable, the adoption took place amidst a
memorable thunder-storm, but for the happening of which, at that
particular juncture, as will soon appear, that important political
measure must have been postponed to a future period, and a
period, too, when the measure, probably, would have been defeated,
and the blessings of an independent government forever
lost, owing to the dissensions, which, as soon as the common
danger was over, New York and New Hampshire combined to
scatter among her people. The whole history of the settlement
and organization of the state, indeed, exhibits a striking anomaly,
when viewed with that of any other state in the Union. She
may emphatically be called the offspring of war and controversy.
The long and fierce dispute for her territory between the colonies
above named had sown her soil with dragon teeth, which
at length sprang up in a crop of hardy, determined, and liberty-loving
men, who, instead of joining either of the contending parties,
soon resolved to take a stand for themselves against both.
And that stand, when taken, they maintained with a spirit and
success, to which, considering the discouragements, difficulties,
and dangers they were constantly compelled to encounter, history
furnishes but few parallels. But although every step of her progress,
from the felling of the first tree in her dark wilderness to
her final reception into the sisterhood of the states, was marked
by the severest trials, yet the summer of 1777 — the period to
which the remainder of our tale refers — was, for her, far the most
gloomy and portentous. And still it was a period in which she
filled the brightest page of her history, and, at the same time, did
more than in any other year towards insuring her subsequent
happy destiny. “You are hereby appointed by the Council of Safety to go
through this and the neighboring towns, bordering on the British
line of march; to spy out the resorts of the tories; to mark
and identify all inimical persons; to gain all the information
that can be obtained respecting the movements of the enemy at
large; and make report, from time to time, to this council or
some field officer of our line.*
* Those who may doubt the probability that such a commission would
be issued by this body, would do well to consult that part of the journal
of their proceedings, at this period, which has been preserved and published,
in which will be found several similar ones, to serve as specimens
of the many contained in the part that was lost, and to show how
searching were the operations of these vigilant guardians of the cause of
liberty in Vermont, and how various the instruments they made use of
to effect their objects.
“You remember your promise, Sabrey, to visit me the first
opportunity. That opportunity now occurs. Captain Jones and
other friends have presented your father's name at head-quarters
for promotion; and he has now, I am informed, received an
appointment. If he accepts, as I am sure he will, I hope you will
accompany him, and remain with me. I have just received one
of those letters so precious to me: he says the army will probably
move on to Fort Edward next week, the obstructions in
the road being now mostly removed; so that, by the time you
arrive, I shall probably be enabled to introduce you to the beautiful
and accomplished ladies of whom he has so much to say, —
such as the Countess of Reidesel, Lady Harriet Ackland, and
others, who accompany their husbands in the campaign. But
you will perhaps say that he is interested in praising these ladies
for the love and heroism which prompt them to brave such
fatigues and dangers for the sake of their lords, since he is
warmly urging me to consent to an immediate union, that I may
follow their example. He says, in his last letter, — and I think
truly, — that I cannot long remain where I am, in a section which,
he evidently anticipates, will soon become a frightful scene of
strife and bloodshed; and that I must therefore go away with
my friends, and leave him, perhaps forever, or put myself under
his protection in the army. And he seems hurt that I hesitate in
a choice of the alternatives. On the other hand, my connections
and friends here think it would be little short of madness in me
to yield to my lover's proposal. The people about here are
greatly alarmed at the expected approach of the British army,
which is known to be accompanied by a large body of Indians.
Many are already removing, and nearly all preparing to go.
The crisis hastens, and yet I am undecided. Prudence points
one way, love the other. What shall I do? O Sabrey, what
shall I do? Should you come on with your father, I think I
should feel a confidence in going with you to the British encampment.
Come then, my friend, come quickly; for I feel as if I
could not go without friends, and especially a female friend, to
accompany me; while, at the same time, I feel as if some irresistible
destiny would compel me to the attempt. And yet why
should I hesitate to take any step which he advises? Why refuse
to share with him any dangers which he may encounter? And
why should my anticipations of the future, which have ever, till
recently, during my happy intimacy with Mr. Jones, been so
bright and blissful, be clouded now? I know not; I know not
why it should be so; but lately my bosom has become disturbed by
strange misgivings, and my mind perplexed by dark and undefined
apprehensions. I must not, however, indulge them; and
your presence, I know, would entirely dissipate them. I repeat,
therefore, come, and that quickly. Adieu. “I am at the British head-quarters — not exactly a prisoner,
but evidently a closely-watched personage, having reached here,
with my captors, after a forced and fatiguing journey, which,
however, was not made unpleasant by any disrespectful treatment.
9 *
Although the party, to whom I became a prisoner, have
been frightened back or recalled, and the expedition, of which
they were the advance, given up, yet I think it my duty to say,
that another, and much more formidable one, is in agitation against
Bennington. I hope our people will be prepared for it, and
show these haughty Britons that they do not deserve the name of
the undisciplined rabble of poltroons and cowards by which I here
daily hear them branded. “This is a work I can cheerfully recommend, for in my estimation it
is the best collection of Hymn Tunes that has appeared for several years,
and one of the best ever published in this country. In style, the Music is
very chaste and pleasing, and in its arangement excellent. Being generally
plain and easy of performance, it is admirably adapted to the wants
of Country Choirs. I shall be glad to see the work more extensively
used, and shall take much pleasure in introducing it in my Schools. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 148 | Author: | Thompson
Maurice
1844-1901 | Add | | | Title: | Hoosier mosaics | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | No matter what business or what pleasure
took me, I once, not long ago, went to Colfax.
Whisper it not to each other that I was seeking
a foreign appointment through the influence
of my fellow Hoosier, the late Vice-President
of the United States. O no, I didn't go
to the Hon. Schuyler Colfax at all; but I went
to Colfax, simply, which is a little dingy town,
in Clinton County, that was formerly called
Midway, because it is half way between Lafayette
and Indianapolis. It was and is a place
of some three hundred inhabitants, eking out
an aguish subsistence, maintaining a swampy,
malarious aspect, keeping up a bilious, nay,
an atra-bilious color, the year round, by sucking
like an attenuated leech at the junction,
or, rather, the crossing of the I. C. & L., and
the L. C. & S. W. railroads. It lay mouldering,
like something lost and forgotten, slowly
rotting in the swamp. “Come to see us, even if you won't stay but
one day. Come right off, if you're a Christian
girl. Zach Jones is dying of consumption and
is begging to see you night and day. He says
he's got something on his mind he wants to
say to you, and when he says it he can die
happy. The poor fellow is monstrous bad off,
and I think you ought to be sure and come.
We're all well. Your loving uncle, Mr. Editor—Sir: This, for two reasons, is
my last article for your journal. Firstly: My
time and the exigencies of my profession will
not permit me to further pursue a discussion
which, on your part, has degenerated into the
merest twaddle. Secondly: It only needs, at
my hands, an exposition of the false and fraudulent
claims you make to classical attainments,
to entirely annihilate your unsubstantial and
wholly underserved popularity in this community,
and to send you back to peddling your
bass wood hams and maple nutmegs. In order
to put on a false show of erudition, you lug
into your last article a familiar Latin sentence.
Now, sir, if you had sensibly foregone any attempt
at translation, you might, possibly, have
made some one think you knew a shade more
than a horse; but “whom the gods would destroy
they first make mad.” “Editor of the Star—Dear Sir: In answer
to your letter requesting me to decide between
yourself and Mr. Blodgett as to the
correct English rendering of the Latin sentence
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” allow me to
say that your free translation is a good one, if
not very literal or elegant. As to Mr. Blodgett's,
if the man is sincere, he is certainly
crazy or wofully illiterate; no doubt the latter. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 149 | Author: | Trowbridge
J. T.
(John Townsend)
1827-1916 | Add | | | Title: | Lucy Arlyn | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | IT was a proud day for Archy Brandle and
his mother when Lucy Arlyn came out to their
house to make a friendly visit and to drink tea. “You promised to grant me a favor. This is
what I am directed to require of you. Find yourself at Dr.
Biddikin's to-morrow at three, P.M. There you will meet a
disagreeable little old woman, with yellow hair and a sour
temper, named “Miss Lucy Arlyn. Respected Madam, — The reason
you saw the undersigned a-fishing to-day, and which you may
have seen him on previous occasions passing with rod and line
by the brook which meandures beyond the house which has
the honor of being your residence (viz., Jehiel Hedge's), the
undersigned might explain, and would astonish you, if you
would but grant an interview which he has sought in this way
in order to get a word with you; not venturing to call openly,
fear of offence: though he has in his possession facts of the
most utmost importance to you, whom I fear have been
wronged by a man I have long served faithfully, and blinded
my eyes to his misdeeds, but whom I now suspect is a villain
of the darkest calibre” — “I can no longer be of use to you, and I go; having
already staid a day too long. My spiritual gift — for which
alone you valued me — went before. I lost it when I lost
myself. It will return to me only when my tranquillity returns;
which can never be with you. I loved you, Guy
Bannington. There, take my heart; tread it beneath your
proud feet. I neither hate nor love you now. I am ice.
The universe wails around me; but I hear it with dull ears.
Farewell! I am weary, and wish to sleep.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 151 | Author: | Jones
J. B.
(John Beauchamp)
1810-1866 | Add | | | Title: | The Winkles, or, The merry monomaniacs | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Babbleton was an ancient village near the city of Philadelphia.
It had a wharf where the steamboats landed, and a
depot where the locomotives whistled. Hence, although the
principal mansions were situated on commodious lots, and in
many instances separated from each other by broad yards and
close fences, it is not to be inferred there was ever a monotonous
deficiency of noise and excitement in the place. It had
its proud and its miserable, its vanities and its humiliations,
its bank and its bakers, its millionaires and its milliners; and
was not unfrequently the scene of some of those entertaining
comedies of life, which have been considered in all enlightened
countries worthy of preservation in veracious and impartial
history. Such a record we have attempted to produce; and
although the direct manner of narration adopted may offend
the taste of the fastidious critic, yet the less acutely discerning
reader may possibly deem himself compensated for the
labor of perusal, by the reliable assurance of the anthenticity
of the story, and the interest attending the occurrences flitting
before his mental vision. “My Dear Aunt:—It becomes my melancholy duty to
announce a sad calamity—an unexpected suicide—which must
affect you deeply. This morning poor Jocko was found suspended
from the eve of the portico, and quite dead. That he
did it himself, must be evident from the fact that no human
being would be likely to climb down to the edge of the roof.
It seems that he had driven a large nail into the wood through
the last link of his chain, and then sprang over, either dislocuting.
his neck, or producing suffocation. I could not hear
his struggles, from the distant chamber I occupied, or you
should not have been called upon to lament his untimely end.
Poor Jocko! As the weather is very warm, I will have his
body taken down and packed in ice. It will keep, dear aunt,
until I receive your instructions, in regard to the disposition
you would have made of it. Every thing shall be done according
to your orders. You need not hasten your return to
the city. I am quite comfortable here, and the house is kept
very quiet from morning till night. My love to mother, sister,
uncle, all. “If I see so plainly the imprudence of such disgraceful
matches in others, you may suppose I shall be careful to avoid
falling into the like silly practices myself. It is true I intend
to marry. My nuptials will be celebrated some time during
the present year. But the man of my choice will be a gentleman
of distinction—a genius of celebrity. You know him,
Walter—Mr. Pollen, the poet. If he is poor—if he has been
sometimes, as you informed me, without a shirt—that is no
disgrace. How was it with Chatterton, Defoe, and even
Milton himself? And what lady in the world would not
have been honored by being the wife of a Chatterton, a Defoe,
a Milton? Shame upon the ladies who permitted them to
languish in poverty! I will set an example for the wealthy
ladies to follow hereafter. Genius is the very highest kind of
aristocracy, because it cannot be conferred by mortal man, nor
taken away even by the detracting tongue of women. Farewell.
Present my adieus to your mother and Lucy. We
will not meet again, unless it be accidentally, and then it is
probable there will be no recognition on my part, and I desire
there shall be none on yours. You may say to Mr. Lowe that
a visit from him would be agreeable to me I believe him to
be a gentleman, and would have no objections to his society,
if he could answer one or two questions satisfactorily. You
may say to him that although I am resolved to marry, I don't
expect to feel what the silly girls call a romantic passion for
any man. I don't believe in any such nonsense. I want a
partner at whist as much as any thing else. “My Dear Niece:—I send my Edith for you, and I desire
that you will return with her, by the evening mail. She
is discreet, and no one knows her in Babbleton. By accompanying
her, your persecutor will not be able to trace you to
your asylum. Wear a thick veil, so that he may not recognize
your features when you go to the cars. You may safely
confide in Edith. She has been my confidant for many years,
as your mother knows. She was personally acquainted with
the Great Unknown—Sir Walter—and is familiar with the
plots and stratagems of villains. She reads for me every
night, and has a romantic and literary disposition. Since I
received your dear pathetic letter, I have been going over the
`Children of the Abbey' again, and find my eyes continually
suffused with the miseries of poor Amanda. My dear child!
You remind me of her so much, that I am painfully impatient
to clasp you to my heart! Do not delay a moment. My
love to sister Edith. Tell her not to insist on my Edith having
any refreshments, for she never takes any. “Dear Sir: Excuse my bad writing, for you know I write
with my left hand, and hold the paper down with my right
stump. I saw Col. Oakdale to-day, and he said you would be
home to-night, therefore I write. “Here is news from Babbleton,” said Lucy, and narrated
in my dear mother's merry vein. Listen, aunt:—“Griselda
still keeps my poor brother a close prisoner, while she dashes
about in her coach and four. But she has cut all her poor
acquaintances, and of course I am blotted out of her books.
She passes without calling, and without knowing how heartily
I laugh at the ridiculous figure she makes. But she patronized
our minister, Mr. Amble, and that is a charitable expenditure,
because the money will certainly reach the poor of
the parish. Mr. A. you know, has either nine or thirteen (I
forget which) children of his own, and they must be provided
for. I suppose it is because I could render no
assistance, that he has not called on me lately—not, I believe,
since my house was sold. Perhaps he did not hear I was the
purchaser * * * Still I think Roland is love mad. But his
passion is two-fold. He has laid regular siege to Virginia
Oakdale, who is my guest, and opens his batteries once or
twice every week, and then disappears most mysteriously. I
presume he occupies his blue carriage on the alternate days.
Virginia never refuses to see him; but the spirited girl laughs
at his pretensions, and banters him in such a moeking manner
that he must soon despair of making any progress. Why do
you not treat him in the same way? Or why do you not
marry him, and then have your revenge? It is so absurd to
see men of fortune running after the girls, and vainly teasing
them for a smile. Marry them, and they will run the other
way. Walter is still at Washington, and has not yet received
his appointment. I believe he has ceased writing to Virginia.
What does it mean? More tomfoolery? Lowe has been
absent some time—and I suppose you have seen him. Remember!
* * * We had an exciting scene in the street the
other day. Sergeant Blore, when stumping on his way to
see me, was seized by Mrs. Edwards. She demanded his
money—and he cried murder! He tripped her up with his
wooden leg and made his escape. But it seems he sprained
her ankle, and she has since threatened to bring “an haction”
against him for “hassault” and battery! You see how
husbands are served! Bill Dizzle gallants Patty O'Pan to
church every Sunday. I wrote you how Patty mortally
affronted the Arums and Crudles. She kept up till Bill
and Susan beat a retreat. It has been a mystery to me
how the impudent hussy obtained the means to perpetrate
such an annoyance. Some of her finery must have cost a
great deal of money, and no one ever supposed Lowe possessed
a superabundance of it. By the way, I forgot to
mention that Bell Arum has written home a precious budget
of news, which her mother, as usual, has published to all
her acquaintances. She says she saw you examining the
register, and that you were in the habit of wandering
about alone and unprotected. She says Mr. Lowe is likewise
in the city; and if her ma would put that and that together,
she would know as much as the writer, no doubt! And she
says they have an invitation to the aristocratic Mrs. Laurel's
parties, and that some of the British nobility of the highest rank
are expected over this winter. But (she says) if L. W. and
Mr. L. are to be met there, she is determined to expose them. “My impudent nephew Walter,
who will persist in writing me, notwithstanding I have cast
him off for sanctioning his uncle's marriage with that vulgar
bonnet-maker (I forget her name), informs me that Mr. Pollen,
the silly poet who abandoned my hospitality to borrow a few
dirty dollars of the milliner, is now working himself to death
in New York to earn a scanty living, which he might have had
for nothing by remaining here and behaving himself. He is a
fool—just like other poets who have genius, and therefore he
ought not to be permitted to kill himself. Enclosed I send a
check for a trifling sum payable to bearer, which, perhaps, with
delicate management you may induce him to make use of for
his own benefit. Perhaps he needs some new shirts. I have
seen him twice without any—and I believe he has one of
Walter's yet. Speaking of checks and of Walter, I gave my
cast-off nephew one when he was on his way to that Babylonian
rendezvous of demagogues, which, for some reason—or
rather for the want of reason—he did not use. I suppose he
gave it to some fool or other poorer than himself. But the
cashier of the bank did not pay the money. There needed
Walter's name on it, he said, written with his own hand, as it
was drawn to his order, or something of the sort, which I did
not understand, and did not choose to inquire about. Walter
says Lucy is with you. Tell her I have five letters from
Ralph Roland begging me to intercede for him. I believe him
a knave—but if he writes me again I shall also believe him in
earnest, and that the rascal is absolutely in love. It would
be a better match than her uncle's, which she attended. “It must be for me,” said Walter. “Put it on the
table. I will look at it when I have searched my pockets
once more.” Not finding the check, he opened the letter and
read as follows: “Misther Walther Wankle, Sir — I have
sane Misthress Famble and mi busnes is faxd. She seed you
at super and sez she wants to no you. She ses she liks yer
lukes, and wud like to sarve you but ses Misther Famble is
beging for a nother man. Don't be onasy she kin do mor in
a dozzin husbins. Pleases anser this and lave at the barr for
your obeydant sarvint “Would you deign to read the news here, if I promise not
to be tedious? Well, I promise. The mortgage on our house
and grounds has been paid. Will you facilitate me on that?
You must not ask where the money came from, for that is a
secret upon which to exercise your faculty of guessing. But
that is not all. Colonel Oakdale's debt to Roland has been
paid. That must be news for you. You would never guess
who loaned him the money, and I will tell you, so that you
may pour out your gratitude to him should your relations
with the family of the senator—we have just heard of his election
by the Legislature—ever become more intimate than
they have been hitherto. It was John Dowly, whom every
one supposed to be in indigent circumstances. Blessings on
my old beau. Walter never slept more soundly, or enjoyed more pleasant
dreams, than he did in prison. And he had an excellent
appetite for breakfast, which was damaged, however, by the
contents of the letters and papers brought in by his keeper. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 155 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Cipher | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Spreading this upon the table before him, Mr. Gillies slowly read—but not
aloud, for, to have afforded gratuitous information upon his affairs even to the
walls and the sea, would have been to do violence to his nature—these words: Pardon the seeming discourtesy of my abrupt departure, and my first signifying it to
Francia. I could not see you again, Neria, I could not write to you of less than the
whole. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 156 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Outpost | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “The last day of October!” said the Sun to himself, —
“the last day of my favorite month, and the birthday of
my little namesake! See if I don't make the most of it!” “Since writing to you last month, I have been going on
with my studies under the Rev. Mr. Brown, as I then mentioned.
I do not find that it hurts me to study in the hot
weather at all; and I have enjoyed my vacation better this
way than if I had been idle. “We shall be at home on Wednesday evening, at six
o'clock, and shall bring some guests. You will please prepare
tea for eight persons; and make up five beds, three of
them single ones. Tell Susan to make the house look as
pretty as she can; and send for any thing she or you need in
the way of preparation. Yours of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your
letters always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the
world and the glory thereof, and find that all is vanity, as
saith the Preacher. Do not imagine that I am studying divinity
instead of medicine; but to-day is Sunday, and I have
been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the minister
besides. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 157 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Add | | | Title: | The shadow of Moloch mountain | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The Brewster Place
454EAF. [Page 005]. In-line image of a house with a straw roof and smoking chimney. In
front of the house is a person holding open a gate.
“My Dear Niece Beatrice: It is a long time
since we heard any thing from you, and I trust that
both you and brother Israel are in good health
and prospered in your undertakings. We are all
in the enjoyment of our usual health, except your
grandmother, who has an attack of rheumatism,
from standing at the porch-door talking to Jacob,
our hired man, about the new calf. This calf is
the daughter of Polly, the red and white heifer
that you liked so well and dressed with a garland
of wild flowers, which she pulled off and eat up.
That was last Independence-day, you remember, and
you got mostly blue flowers, because, you said, she
must be red, blue, and white. The new calf is very
pretty, and we think of raising it; but we shall not
name it until you come home, as you may have a
choice in the matter. Grandfather is very well, considering,
and often speaks of you. He says he wants
to see you very much, and hopes you will not have
grown out of knowledge. He forgets, being old, that
you are grown up already, and will not change outwardly
any more until you begin to grow old, which I
suppose will not be yet. “I know that you will feel remorseful, because, even
without fault of your own, you have done me an injustice
by your suspicions; and, later on, have dealt me a
blow whose wound will endure for years. To natures
ike yours, there is no comfort like reparation and
atonement. I offer you the opportunity for both in
this set of trinkets, brought from India by me for the
unknown lady of my love. If you will take them and
wear them, I shall feel that we are friends once more,
and that you have forgiven yourself and me for the injury
that friendship has sustained. Do not refuse me
this amends; and believe me always while I live, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 158 | Author: | Bagby
George William
1828-1883 | Add | | | Title: | What I did with my fifty millions | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | For twenty years at least I had been in the habit of
putting myself to sleep by imagining what I would do
with the precise sum of fifty millions of dollars. An
excellent hypnotic I found it, with no morphine or
chloral after-effects. It may have unfitted me for the
hard grind of actual life, but no matter now. When it
came I was as tranquil as a May morning. The fact is,
the transfer was not completed until the close of the
month of May, 1876. Negotiations, etc., had been going
on for months beforehand, and it has always been a
matter of inordinate pride to me that I attended to my
regular duties and kept the whole thing a profound secret
from my family, friends, and, indeed, everybody in
America—the money having come from Hindostan. It
required a deal of innocent lying to do this, but secrecy
was indispensable to the surprises I meditated, and a
surprise, you know, is the very cream of the delight as
well of giving as receiving. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 159 | Author: | Baldwin
Joseph G.
(Joseph Glover)
1815-1864 | Add | | | Title: | The flush times of Alabama and Mississippi | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | And what history of that halcyon period, ranging from the
year of Grace, 1835, to 1837; that golden era, when shin-plasters
were the sole currency; when bank-bills were “as
thick as Autumn leaves in Vallambrosa,” and credit was a
franchise,—what history of those times would be complete,
that left out the name of Ovid Bolus? As well write the
biography of Prince Hal, and forbear all mention of Falstaff.
In law phrase, the thing would be a “deed without a
name,” and void; a most unpardonable casus omissus. My Dear Sir,—Having established, at great expense,
and from motives purely patriotic and disinterested, a monthly
periodical for the purpose of supplying a desideratum in
American Literature, namely, the commemoration and perpetuation
of the names, characters, and personal and professional
traits and histories of American lawyers and jurists, I
have taken the liberty of soliciting your consent to be made
the subject of one of the memoirs, which shall adorn the columns
of this Journal. This suggestion is made from my
knowledge, shared by the intelligence of the whole country,
of your distinguished standing and merits in our noble profession;
and it is seconded by the wishes and requests of
many of the most prominent gentlemen in public and private
life, who have the honor of your acquaintance. Dear Sir—I got your letter dated 18 Nov., asking me
to send you my life and karackter for your Journal. Im
obleeged to you for your perlite say so, and so forth. I got
a friend to rite it—my own ritin being mostly perfeshunal.
He done it—but he rites such a cussed bad hand I cant rede
it: I reckon its all korrect tho'. My Dear Sir—The very interesting sketch of your life
requested by us, reached here accompanied by your favor of
the 1st inst., for which please receive our thanks. Dear Mr. Editor—In your p. s. which seems to be the
creem of your correspondents you say I can't get in your
book without paying one hundred and fifty dollars—pretty
tall entrants fee! I suppose though children and niggers
half price—I believe I will pass. I'll enter a nolly prossy
q. O-n-e-h-u-n-d-r-e-d dollars and fifty better! Je-whellikens! We can only give it in our way, and only such parts as
we can remember, leaving out most of the episodes, the casual
explanations and the slang; which is almost the play of
Hamlet with the Prince of Denmark omitted. But, thus
emasculated, and Cave's gas let off, here goes a report about
as faithful as a Congressman's report of his spoken eloquence
when nobody was listening in the House. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 160 | Author: | Longstreet
Augustus Baldwin
1790-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Master William Mitten, or, A youth of brilliant talents, who was ruined by bad luck | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Many years ago there lived in a small village in the State of
Georgia, a pious widow, who was left with an only son and two
daughters. She was in easy circumstances, and managed her temporal
concerns with great prudence; so that her estate increased with
her years. Her son exhibited, at a very early age, great precocity
of genius, and the mother lost no opportunity of letting the world
know it. When he was but six years old, he had committed little
pieces in prose and poetry, which he delivered with remarkable propriety
for his years. He knew as much of the scriptures as any
child of that age probably ever knew; and he had already made
some progress in geography and mental arithmetic. With all this,
he was a very handsome boy. It is not to be wondered at, that his
mother should be bringing him out in some department of science,
upon all ocoasions; of course; she often brought him out upon very
unsuitable occasions, and sometimes kept him out, greatly to the
annoyance of her company. Not to praise his performances, would
have been discouraging to Master William Mitten, and very mortifying
to his mother; accordingly, whether they were well-timed or
ill-timed, everybody praised them. The ladies, all of whom loved
Mrs. Mitten, were not unfrequently thrown into raptures at the
child's exhibitions. They would snatch him up in their arms, kiss
him, pronounce him a perfect prodigy, both in beauty of person and
power of mind; and declare that they would be willing to go beggars
upon the world to have such a child. Others would piously
exhort Mrs. Mitten not to set her heart too much upon the child.
“They never saw the little creature, without commingled emotions
of delight and alarm; so often is it the case that children of such
wonderful gifts die early.” Her brother, Capt. David Thomson, a
candid, plain-dealing excellent man, often reproved Mrs. M. for parading,
as he called it, “her child upon all occasions.” “Having recently understood that you have procured a private
teacher, we have ventured to stop your advertisement, though ordered
to continue it until forbid, under the impression that you have probably
forgotten to have it stopped. If, however, we have been misinformed,
we will promptly resume the publication of it. You will
find our account below; which as we are much in want of funds, you
will oblige us by settling as soon as convenient. Hoping your
teacher is all that you could desire in one, “Dear Sir: On taking leave of me, you requested me to give
you early information of the standing, conduct, and progress of your
nephew; and, as my letter will reach you through the kindness of
Mr. Jones, the bearer, nearly or quite a week sooner than it would
by regular—or rather irregular—course of mail, I avail myself
of the opportunity to comply with your request. William has been
under my instruction just a week to-day; and though I would not
venture confident predictions of him, upon so short an acquaintance,
I will give you my present estimate of him, for what it is worth. If
I am not grossly deceived in him, he is destined to a most brilliant
future. He was a little rusty in the principles of construction at
first—no, in the application of them—for of the principles themselves,
he is master, and he improves in the application of them
with every lesson. His class was a week ahead of him in the Greek
grammar, when he entered it. He has already made up the deficiency,
and now stands fully equal to the best in his class in this
study—indeed, in all their studies. He is moral, orderly, and studious,
and if he will only do half as much for himself as nature has
done for him, he will be the pride of his kindred and the boast of
his country. You will not be much more delighted at receiving this
intelligence, than I am in communicating it. “Dear Mother:—I just write for fear you will feel uneasy if you
get no letter from me by this mail. Tom can tell you all about me.
Delighted with my boarding house—Fare much better than New's.
Health good—Told Mr. Wad'l I wished to go to preach'g with him,
if he went to-day, but he don't go till next Sat'y—Best love to all. “My Dearest Boy: Two days after you left us, your Uncle was
attacked with bilious fever. The attack is very severe, but we hope
not fatal. Last evening he begged that you might be sent for. Come
as quick as you can, in mercy to your horse. The Doctor says there
is no probability of his dying in four or five days; so do not peril the
life of your horse, in your haste to get here. “But the main object of this letter is to offer your son encouragements
to return to school. He left here under great depression of
spirits, and under the impression that his character was irretrievably
lost. No one in this vicinity, in or out of the school, thinks so. Now
that the story of his misfortunes is fully understood, every one attributes
them to a train of untoward circumstances which surrounded
him, on his return hither, rather than to depravity of heart. Indeed,
he has some noble traits of character, which almost entirely
conceal his faults from the eyes of the public and his school-fellows—
I say the public, for though it is a very uncommon thing for the public
to know or notice school-boy delinquencies, yet so wide-spread
was William's reputation from his performances at our last Examination
and Exhibition, that every one who knows him takes an interest
in him, and every one, I believe, regards him with more of sympathy
than censure. All would rejoice, I doubt not, to hear of his
return to the school, and his return to his good habits. Gilbert Hay,
his room-mate and bed-fellow, bids me say that he loves him yet, and
that the half of his bed is still reserved for him; and the feelings of
Gilbert Hay towards him, I believe, are the feelings of nine-tenths
of the school towards him. For myself, I shall give him a cordial
welcome. But you will naturally ask, what will be my dealings
with him, if he return? I answer the question very frankly: I shall
feel myself bound to correct him; though in so doing I shall not
forget the many circumstances of extenuation in his case. Had he
been guilty of but one offence, and that of a veneal nature, I should
freely forgive it, as is my custom, with the first offence. But he has
been guilty of several offences, and though none of them are very
rare in schools, they are, nevertheless, such as I have never allowed to
go unpunished in my school, and which I could not allow to escape
with impunity in this instance, without setting a dangerous precedent,
as well as showing marked partiality. I have reason to believe
that William would cheerfully submit to the punishment of his
faults, even though it were much severer than it will be, if that
would restore him to his lost position; now, I can hardly conceive
of anything better calculated to have that effect, than his volunteering
to take the punishment which he knows awaits him on his return,
when he might perchance avoid it by abandoning the school.
But with or without the punishment, he has only to be, for ten
months, what he has been for nearly as many, to regain the confidence
of everybody. Nothing but the peculiar circumstances of this
case, and the very lively interest which I take in the destiny of your
highly-gifted son, could have induced me to write a letter so liable
to misconstruction, as this is. But brief as is our acquaintance, I
think you will credit me, when I assure you, that my own pecuniary
interest has had no more to do with it, than yours will have in deliberating
upon its contents. Verily, the loss or gain of a scholar is
nothing to “When I think, my dearest mother, of the trouble I have
given you—how I abused your goodness, and disappointed your
reasonable expectations, my conscience smites me, and my cheeks
burn with blushes. How could I have been such an ingrate! How
could I have sent a pang to the bosom of the sweetest, the kindest,
the tenderest, the holiest, the best of mothers! Well, the past is
gone, and with it my childish, boyish follies: they have all been forgiven
long ago, and no more are to be forgiven in future. That I
am to get the first honor in my class is conceded by all the class
except four. These four were considered equal competitors for it
until I entered the class, and they do not despair yet; but they had
as well, for they equal me in nothing but Mathematics, and do not
excel me in that. The funds that you allow me ($500 per annum)
are more than sufficient to meet all my college expenses, and allow
me occasional pleasure rambles during the vacation. What I have
written about my stand in College, you will of course understand as
intended only for a mother's eye. “All your letters have been received. They have given the Principal
of the School great uneasiness, and me great delight. He
knows only whence they come—know you whether they have gone;
into the most hallowed chamber of my heart. Mail your letters
anywhere, but at Princeton; my answers will be returned through a
confidante in Morristown. “I have been tormented by strange reports concerning you which
I cannot, I will not believe, until they receive some confirmation from
your own lips. I will not aggravate your griefs by repeating them
now, farther than just to say, that if true, your last brief epistle from
Princeton was untrue. “Mr. William Mitten—Sir: Your dismissal from College,
and your misrepresentation to me, I could forgive; but I never can
forgive your addresses to me, while you were actually engaged to
Miss Amanda Ward. “Let them follow the heart of the giver. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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