| | 3 | Author: | EDITED BY
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Out of his head  | | | | 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: | “On the seventeenth of August, in the year
16—, the morning sun, resting obliquely on the
gables and roof-tops of Portsmouth, lighted up
one of those grim spectacles not unusual in New
England at that period. In Thomas Bailey Aldrich, whose death was briefly
announced in The Times of Wednesday, America has lost
the most brilliant man of letters of the generation that
succeeded the Concord group. He was born in Portsmouth,
New Hampshire, in November, 1836, when Longfellow
and Emerson were in their prime, and he reaped
the benefit of their labours by coming into an age which
they had familiarized with literature and cultivation.
Mr. Aldrich early became a journalist, and was connected
with the New York Evening Mirror, Willes's Home
Journal, and other papers. The outbreak of the war
saw him as newspaper correspondent, and in 1865 he
became the editor of Every Saturday. Nine years in
that post were followed by seven of miscellaneous work,
till in 1881 he reached the height of his career as
journalist by becoming editor of the Atlantic Monthly, a
position he held till 1890. Meanwhile he had written
much original matter both in prose and verse. His genius
was many-sided, and it is surprising that so busy an
editor and so prolific a writer should have attained the
perfection of form for which Mr. Aldrich was remarkable.
Among his novels “Prudence Palfrey” and “The
Stillwater Tragedy” are the best known. From his
country home at Porkapog, Mass., he sent out the charming
“Porkapog Papers,” as graceful and delicate as their
title was ungainly. He described with the skill of a
Hawthorne his native town by the sea, and in “Marjorie
Daw” and other works he proved himself an “American
humourist” of a characteristic type. One of his
books, “The Story of a Bad Boy,” has achieved
notable distinction; it has been translated into
French in a series entitled “Education et Récréation,”
and into German as a specimen of American humour. It
is, however, as a poet that Mr. Aldrich was chiefly
entitled to recognition, and on his poetry that his fame
will rest. Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman regarded him
as “the most pointed and exquisite of our lyrical craftsmen”;
and the words are well chosen. He was the
doyen and the leader of the school of American poetry
which is now being displaced by Mr. Bliss Carman and
others, who are apparently more virile than the preceding
generation. His was the poetry of exquisite finish and
not of great force or profundity. To say that his lyrics
are vers de société in the highest form is not to rate their
content too low nor their manner too high; and it is in
lyric song rather than in the longer poems, such as
“Wyndham Towers,” that Mr. Aldrich excelled. Some
of his poems—that on the intaglio head of Minerva,
“When the Sultan goes to Ispahan,” and “Identity”—
are in every anthology of American literature, and have
won their author fame throughout the English-speaking
world. Suddenly Loses Strength After Partially
Recovering From an Operation. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 4 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The marble faun: or, The romance of Monte Beni | | | | 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: | Four individuals, in whose fortunes we should be glad
to interest the reader, happened to be standing in one of
the saloons of the sculpture-gallery in the Capitol at
Rome. It was that room (the first, after ascending the
staircase) in the centre of which reclines the noble and
most pathetic figure of the Dying Gladiator, just sinking
into his death-swoon. Around the walls stand the Antinous,
the Amazon, the Lycian Apollo, the Juno; all
famous productions of antique sculpture, and still shining
in the undiminished majesty and beauty of their ideal
life, although the marble that embodies them is yellow
with time, and perhaps corroded by the damp earth in
which they lay buried for centuries. Here, likewise, is
seen a symbol (as apt at this moment as it was two thousand
years ago) of the Human Soul, with its choice of
Innocence or Evil close at hand, in the pretty figure of a
child, clasping a dove to her bosom, but assaulted by a
snake. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 5 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The marble faun: or, The romance of Monte Beni | | | | 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: | From the old butler, whom he found to be a very
gracious and affable personage, Kenyon soon learned
many curious particulars about the family history and
hereditary peculiarities of the Counts of Monte Beni.
There was a pedigree, the later portion of which — that
is to say, for a little more than a thousand years — a
genealogist would have found delight in tracing out, link
by link, and authenticating by records and documentary
evidences. It would have been as difficult, however, to
follow up the stream of Donatello's ancestry to its dim
source, as travellers have found it to reach the mysterious
fountains of the Nile. And, far beyond the region of
definite and demonstrable fact, a romancer might have
strayed into a region of old poetry, where the rich soil,
so long uncultivated and untrodden, had lapsed into
nearly its primeval state of wilderness. Among those
antique paths, now overgrown with tangled and riotous
vegetation, the wanderer must needs follow his own guidance,
and arrive nowhither at last. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 6 | Author: | Higginson
Thomas Wentworth
1823-1911 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Malbone | | | | 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: | AS one wanders along this southwestern
promontory of the Isle of Peace, and
looks down upon the green translucent water
which forever bathes the marble slopes of the
Pirates' Cave, it is natural to think of the ten
wrecks with which the past winter has strewn
this shore. Though almost all trace of their
presence is already gone, yet their mere memory
lends to these cliffs a human interest. Where
a stranded vessel lies, thither all steps converge,
so long as one plank remains upon another.
There centres the emotion. All else
is but the setting, and the eye sweeps with indifference
the line of unpeopled rocks. They
are barren, till the imagination has tenanted
them with possibilities of danger and dismay.
The ocean provides the scenery and properties
of a perpetual tragedy, but the interest arrives
with the performers. Till then the shores remain
vacant, like the great conventional arm-chairs
of the French drama, that wait for
Rachel to come and die. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 7 | Author: | Holland
J. G.
(Josiah Gilbert)
1819-1881 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Sevenoaks | | | | 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: | Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so much
like it, in most particulars, that a description of any one of
them would present it to the imagination—a town strung upon
a stream, like beads upon a thread, or charms upon a chain.
Sevenoaks was richer in chain than charms, for its abundant
water-power was only partially used. It plunged, and roared,
and played, and sparkled, because it had not half enough to
do. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing through
the village; and, as it started from living springs far northward
among the woods and mountains, it never failed in its
supplies. “Mr. Robert Belcher: I have been informed of the
shameful manner in which you treated a member of my family
this morning—Master Harry Benedict. The bullying of a
small boy is not accounted a dignified business for a man in
the city which I learn you have chosen for your home, however
it may be regarded in the little town from which you
came. I do not propose to tolerate such conduct toward any
dependent of mine. I do not ask for your apology, for the
explanation was in my hands before the outrage was committed.
I perfectly understand your relations to the lad, and
trust that the time will come when the law will define them,
so that the public will also understand them. Meantime, you
will consult your own safety by letting him alone, and never
presuming to repeat the scene of this morning. “Dear Sir: I owe an apology to the people of Sevenoaks
for never adequately acknowledging the handsome manner in
which they endeavored to assuage the pangs of parting on the
occasion of my removal. The resolutions passed at their
public meeting are cherished among my choicest treasures, and
the cheers of the people as I rode through their ranks on the
morning of my departure, still ring in my ears more delightfully
than any music I ever heard. Thank them, I pray you,
for me, for their overwhelming friendliness. I now have a
request to make of them, and I make it the more boldly because,
during the past ten years, I have never been approached
by any of them in vain when they have sought my benefactions.
The Continental Petroleum Company is a failure, and
all the stock I hold in it is valueless. Finding that my expenses
in the city are very much greater than in the country,
it has occurred to me that perhaps my friends there would be
willing to make up a purse for my benefit. I assure you that
it would be gratefully received; and I apply to you because,
from long experience, I know that you are accomplished in
the art of begging. Your graceful manner in accepting gifts
from me has given me all the hints I shall need in that respect,
so that the transaction will not be accompanied by any clumsy
details. My butcher's bill will be due in a few days, and dispatch
is desirable. “Your letter of this date received, and contents noted.
Permit me to say in reply: “Dear Benedict:—I am glad to know that you are better.
Since you distrust my pledge that I will give you a reasonable
share of the profits on the use of your patents, I will go to
your house this afternoon, with witnesses, and have an independent
paper prepared, to be signed by myself, after the
assignment is executed, which will give you a definite claim
upon me for royalty. We will be there at four o'clock. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 8 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering | | | | 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: | UNCLE EPHRAIM BARLOW was an old-fashioned
man, clinging to the old-time customs of his
fathers, and looking with but little toleration upon
what he termed the “new-fangled notions” of the present
generation. Born and reared amid the rocks and hills of
the Bay State, his nature partook largely of the nature of
his surroundings, and he grew into manhood with many
a rough point adhering to his character, which, nevertheless,
taken as a whole, was, like the wild New England
scenery, beautiful and grand. None knew Uncle Ephraim
Barlow but to respect him, and at the church in which
he was a deacon, few would have been missed more than
the tall, muscular man, with the long white hair, who,
Sunday after Sunday, walked slowly up the middle aisle
to his accustomed seat before the altar, and who regularly
passed the contribution box, bowing involuntarily
in token of approbation when a neighbor's gift was larger
than its wont, and gravely dropping in his own ten cents
—never more, never less, always ten cents—his weekly
offering, which he knew amounted in a year to just five
dollars and twenty cents. And still Uncle Ephraim was
not stingy, as the Silverton poor could testify, for many
a load of wood and bag of meal found entrance to the
doors where cold and hunger would have otherwise been,
while to his minister he was literally a holder up of the
weary hands, and a comforter in the time of trouble. “Miss Helen Lennox: Please pardon the liberty I have taken in
inclosing the sum of $500 to be used by you in procuring whatever
Katy may need for present necessities. Presuming that the
country seamstresses have not the best facilities for obtaining the
latest fashions, my mother proposes sending out her own private
dressmaker, Mrs. Ryan. You may look for her the last of the week. Mr. Wilford Cameron: — I give you credit for the kindest of
motives in sending the check which I now return to you, with my
compliments. We are not as poor as you suppose, and would almost
deem it sacrilege to let another than ourselves provide for Katy
so long as she is ours. And furthermore, Mrs. Ryan's services will
not be needed, so it is not worth her while to make a journey here
for nothing. “By the way, Helen, I heard him tell Wilford that you
had one of the best shaped heads he ever saw, and that
he thought you decidedly good looking. I must tell you
now of the only thing which troubles me in the least, and
I shall get used to that, I suppose. It is so strange Wilford
never told me a word until she came. Think of little
Katy Lennox with a waiting-maid, who jabbers French
half the time, for she speaks that language as well as her
own, having been abroad with the family once before.
That is why they sent her to me; they knew her services
would be invaluable in Paris. Her name is Esther, and
she came the day after we did, and brought me such a
beautiful mantilla from Wilford's mother, and the loveliest
dress. Just the pattern was fifty dollars, she said. “My Dear Sister Helen:—I have just come in from
a little party given by one of Mrs. Harvey's friends, and
I am so tired, for you know I am not accustomed to such
late hours. The party was very pleasant indeed, and
everybody was so kind to me, especially Mr. Ray, who
stood by me all the time, and who somehow seemed to
help me, so that I knew just what to do, and was not
awkward at all. I hope not, at least for Wilford's sake. AFTER German Philosophy and Hamilton's Metaphysics,
it is a great relief to have introduced into
the family an entirely new element — a character
the dissection of which is at once a novelty
and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find
myself returning to my books with increased vigor after
an encounter with that unsophisticated, innocent-minded
creature, our sister-in-law Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such
pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage
who was one day coming to us as Wilford's wife, and of
whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas, how hath
our idol fallen! And still I rather like the little creature,
who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death,
giving her lace streamers a most uncomfortable twitch,
and actually kissing father — a thing I have not done
since I can remember. But then the Camerons are all a
set of icicles, encased in a refrigerator at that. If we were
not, we should thaw out, when Katy leans on us so affectionately
and looks up at us so wistfully, as if pleading
for our love. Wilford does wonders; he used to be so
grave, so dignified and silent, that I never supposed he
would bear having a wife meet him at the door with cooing
and kisses, and climbing into his lap right before us
all. Juno says it makes her sick, while mother is dreadfully
shocked; and even Will sometimes seems annoyed,
gently shoving her aside and telling her he is tired. Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible. “Your child is dying at Silverton. Come at once. Dear Katy:—I have been suddenly called to leave the city on
business, which will probably detain me for three days or more, and
as I must go on the night train, I wish Esther to have my portmanteau
ready with whatever I may need for the journey. As I proposed
this morning, I shall dine with mother, but come home
immediately after dinner. “Will you be sorry when you read this and find that I am gone,
that you are free from the husband you do not love,—whom, perhaps,
you never loved, though I thought you did. I trusted you
once, and now I do not blame you as much as I ought, for you are
young and easily influenced. You are very susceptible to flattery,
as was proven by your career at Saratoga and Newport. I had no
suspicion of you then, but now that I know you better, I see that it
was not all childish simplicity which made you smile so graciously
upon those who sought your favor. You are a coquette, Katy, and
the greater one because of that semblance of artlessness which is the
perfection of art. This, however, I might forgive, if I had not learned
that another man loved you first and wished to make you his wife,
while you, in your secret heart, wish you had known it sooner. Don't
deny it, Katy; I saw it in your face when I first told you of Dr.
Grant's confession, and I heard it in your voice as well as in your
words when you said `A life at Linwood would be perfect rest
compared with this.' That hurt me cruelly, Katy. I did not deserve
it from one for whom I have done and borne so much, and it was the
final cause of my leaving you, for I am going to Washington to enroll
myself in the service of my country. You will be happier without
me for awhile, and perhaps when I return, Linwood will not look
quite the little paradise it does now. “Married—On Christmas Eve, at St. John's Church, Silverton,
Mass., by the Rev. Mr. Kelly, Capt. Mark Ray, of the —th Regiment,
N. Y. S. Vols., to Miss Helen Lennox, of Silverton.” Your husband cannot live long. Come immediately. “I knew how it would end, when you were in Georgetown,” she
wrote, “and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be
happy with Dr. Grant and remember the sad past only as some dream
from which you have awakened. I thank you for your invitation
to visit Linwood, and when my work is over I may come for a few
weeks and rest in your bird's nest of a home. Thank God the war
is ended; but my boys need me yet, and until the last crutch has left
the hospital, I shall stay where duty lies. What my life will henceforth
be I do not know; but I have sometimes thought that with the
funds you so generously bestowed upon me, I shall open a school for
orphan children, taking charge myself, and so doing some good.
Will you be the Lady Patroness, and occasionally enliven us with the
light of your countenance? I have left the hospital but once since
you were here, and then I went to Wilford's grave. I prayed for you
while there, remembering only that you had been his wife. In a little
box where no eyes but mine ever look, there is a bunch of flowers
plucked from Wilford's grave. They are faded and withered, but something
of their sweet perfume lingers still; and I prize them as my
greatest treasure; for, except the lock of hair severed from his head,
they are all that is remaining to me of the past, which now seems so
far away. It is time to make my nightly round of visits, so I must
bid you good-bye. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance
upon you, and be with you forever. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 9 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and Maggie
Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret | | | | 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: | “Write to me, Dora, and tell me of yourself, that I may
judge something of your character. Tell me, too, if you
ever think of the lonesome old man, who, each night of his
life, remembers you in his prayers, asking that if on earth
he may never look on Fannie's child, he may at last meet
and know her in the better land. And now farewell, my
daughter, mine by adoption, if from no other cause. “What does she say?” cried Mrs. Deane and Alice,
crowding around her, while with a rueful face she read that
Dora would be delighted to meet Uncle Nat at Locust Grove,
but could not come quite so soon as they wished to have her. “I cannot possibly come, as I have promised to be present
at the dressing of the bride. “Do you fancy some direful calamity has befallen me,
because I have not written to you for more than a week?
Away with your fears, then, for nothing worse has come
upon me than a badly broken limb, which will probably keep
me a prisoner here for two months or more. Now don't be
frightened, Rosa. I am not crippled for life, and even if I
were, I could love you just the same, while you, I'm sure,
would love me more. “They say 'tis a mighty bad wind which blows no one
any good, and so, though I verily believe I suffer all a man
can suffer with a broken bone, yet, when I look at the fair
face of Maggie Miller, I feel that I would not exchange this
high old bed, to enter which, needs a short ladder, even for
a seat by you on that three-legged stool, behind the old
writing-desk. I never saw anything like her in my life.
Everything she thinks, she says, and as to flattering her, it
can't be done. I've told her a dozen times at least that she
was beautiful, and she didn't mind it any more than Rose
does, when I flatter her. Still, I fancy if I were to talk to
her of love, it might make a difference, and perhaps I shall,
ere I leave the place. “I grant your request,” she said, “and take you for a
sister well beloved. I had a half-sister once, they say, but
she died when a little babe. I never looked upon her face,
and connected with her birth there was too much of sorrow
and humiliation for me to think much of her, save as of one
who, under other circumstances, might have been dear to
me. And yet, as I grow older, I often find myself wishing
she had lived, for my father's blood was in her veins. But
I do not even know where her grave was made, for we only
heard one winter morning, years ago, that she was dead,
with the mother who bore her. Forgive me, Maggie dear,
for saying so much about that little child. Thoughts of
you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who,
had she lived, would have been a young lady now, nearly
your own age. So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I
would have loved, I adopt you, sweet Maggie Miller, my
sister and my friend. May heaven's choicest blessings rest
on you forever, and no shadow come between you and the
one you have chosen for your husband. To my partial eyes
he is worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly
in form though you be, and that you may be happy with
him will be the daily prayer of “If I had known,” she wrote, “I should have sot the
table in the parlor certing, for though I'm plain and homespun,
I know as well as the next one what good manners is,
and do my endeavors to practise it. But do tell a body,”
she continued, “where you was, muster day in Wooster.
I knocked and pounded enough to raise the dead, and
nobody answered. I never noticed you was deaf when you
was here, though Betsey Jane thinks she did. If you be,
I'll send you up a receipt for a kind of intment which Miss
Sam Babbit invented, and which cures everything. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 10 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Edna Browning | | | | 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: | ROBERT, son of Arthur and Anna Leighton, born
April 5th, 18—,” was the record which the old
family Bible bore of our hero's birth, parentage, and
name, but by his mother and those who knew him best, he
was always called Roy, and by that name we introduce him
to our readers on a pleasant morning in May, when, wrapped
in a heavy shawl, he sat in a corner of a car with a tired,
worn look upon his face, and his teeth almost chattering with
the cold. “And now, Roy, I want some money,—there's a good
fellow. You remember you spoke of my marrying Maude
Somerton, and said you'd give me money and stand by me,
too. Do it now, Roy, and when mother goes into hysterics
and calls Edna that creature, and talks as if she had persuaded
me, whereas it was I who persuaded her, say a word
for me, won't you? You will like Edna,—and, Roy, I want
you to ask us to come home, for a spell, anyway. The
fact is, I've romanced a little, and Edna thinks I am heir, or
at least joint heir with you, of Leighton Homestead. She
don't know I haven't a cent in the world but what comes
from you, and I don't want her to. Set me up in business,
Roy, and I'll work like a hero. I will, upon my word,—and
please send me five hundred at once to the care of John
Dana, Chicago. I shall be married and gone before this
reaches you, so there's no use for mother to tear her eyes
out. Tell her not to. I'm sorry to vex her, for she's been
a good mother, and after Edna I love her and you best of
all the world. Send the money, do. “I cannot help feeling that if she had known this fact,
your unfortunate entanglement would have been prevented. “Oh, Roy, my Charlie is dead,—my Charlie is dead!” “Mr. Robert Leighton: Dear Sir,—Please find inclosed
$300 of the $500 you sent to Charlie. “For value received I promise to pay to Robert Leighton,
or bearer, the sum of two hundred dollars, with interest at
seven per cent per annum, from date. “Perhaps you will get a wrong impression if I do not
make some explanation. I did not care one bit for the
money I supposed Charlie had, but maybe if I had known
he had nothing but what you gave him, I should not have
been married so soon. I should have told him to wait till
we were older and had something of our own. I am so
sorry, and I wish Mrs. Churchill had Charlie back and that
I was Edna Browning. I don't want her to hate me, for she
is Charlie's mother, and I did love him so much. MRS. CHURCHILL was better, and Georgie was
talking again of going to Chicago, and had promised
to find Edna and render her any service in her
power. Roy had written to Edna at last, but no answer had
come to him, and he was beginning to wonder at her silence
and to feel a little piqued, when one day early in December
Russell brought him a letter mailed in Canandaigua and directed
to his mother in a bold, angular handwriting, which
stamped the writer as a person of striking originality and
strongly marked character. In his mother's weak state it
would not do to excite her, and so Roy opened the letter
himself and glanced at the signature: “Dear Madam—I've had it on my mind to write to you
ever since that terrible disaster by which you were deprived
of a son, who was taken to eternity without ever the chance
for one last prayer or cry to be saved. Let us hope he had
made his prayers beforehand and had no need for them. He
had been baptized, I suppose, as I hear you are a church
woman, but are you High or Low? Everything to my mind
depends upon that. I hold the Low to be purely Evangelical,
while the High,—well, I will not harrow up your feelings;
what I want to say is, that I do not and never have for
a single moment upheld my niece, or rather my great niece,
Edna, in what she has done. I took her from charity when
her father died, although he was higher than I in his views,
and we used to hold many a controversial argument on apostolic
succession, for he was a clergyman and my sister's son.
His wife, who set up to be a lady and taught music in our
select school, died when Edna was born, and I believe went
to Heaven, though we never agreed as to the age when children
should be confirmed, nor about that word regeneration
in the baptismal service. I hold it's a stumbling block and
ought to be struck out, while she said I did not understand
its import, and confounded it with something else; but that's
neither here nor there. Lucy was a good woman and made
my nephew a good wife, though she would keep a girl, which
I never did. DEAR Sister:—I write in great haste to tell you of
little Annie's accident, and that you must come out
and see her, if only for a few days. It happened
the week after mother died. Her foot must have slipped, or
hit on something, and she fell from the top of the stairs to
tbe bottom, and hurt her back or hip; I hardly think the
doctor knew which, or in fact what to do for her. She cannot
walk a step, and lies all day in bed, or sits in her chair,
with no other company than old Aunt Luna, who is faithful
and kind. But Annie wants you and talks of you all the
time, and last night, when I got home from the store, she
told me she had written to you, and gave me this bit of
paper, which I inclose. “Dear sister Gorgy,” the note began, “mother is dead
and I've hurted my back and have to ly all day stil, and it
do ake so hard, and I'me so streemly lonesome, and want to
see my sweet, pretty sister so much. I ask Jack if you will
come and he don't b'leeve you will, and then I 'members
my mother say, ask Jesus if you want anything, and I does
ask him and tell him my back akes, and mother's gone to live
with him. And I want to see you, and won't he send you to
me for Christ's sake, amen. And I know he will. Come,
Gorgy, pleas, and bring me some choklets. “There has been a railroad accident, and your niece
Edna's husband was killed. They were married yesterday
morning in Buffalo. “Philip Overton:—I dare say you think me as mean
as pussley, and that I kept that money Edna sent for my
own, but I assure you, sir, I didn't. I put every dollar in
the bank for her, and added another hundred besides. “Miss Jerusha Pepper:—Well done, good and faithful
servant. Many daughters have done well, but you excel
them all. Three cheers and a tiger for you. “I'd so much rather you would not,” he wrote; “I do not
need the money, and it pains me to think of my little sister
working so hard, and wearing out her young life, which
should be happy, and free from care. Don't do it, Edna,
please; and I so much wish you would let me know where
you are, so that I might come and see you, and sometime,
perhaps, bring you to Leighton, where your home ought to
be. Write to me, won't you, and tell me more of yourself,
and believe me always, “`Philip Overton, forward the enclosed to Edna, and
oblige, Jerusha Amanda Pepper.' “According to orders, I send this to your Uncle Philip,
and s'pose you'll answer through the same channel and tell
if you'll come home about your business, and teach school
for sixteen dollars a month, and I board you for the chores
you'll do night and morning. “Don't for goodness' sake come here again on that business,
and do let Edna alone. She nor no other woman is
worth the powder you are wasting on her. If she don't
answer your letter, and tell you she's in the seventh heaven
because of your engagement, it's pretty likely she ain't
thrown off her balance with joy by it. She didn't fancy that
woman with a boy's name none too well when she saw her
in Iona, and if I may speak the truth, as I shall, if I speak at
13*
all, it was what she overheard that person say to her brother
about you and your mother's opinion of poor girls like her,
that kept her from going to Leighton with the body, and it's
no ways likely she'll ever go now, so long as the thing with
the boy's name is there as mistress. So just let her alone
and it will work itself out. Anyway, don't bother me with
so many letters, when I've as much as I can do with my
house-cleaning, and making over comforters, and running
sausages. “If you wish to avoid exposure, meet me to-night at
twelve o'clock in the woodbine arbor at the foot of the garden.
I have no desire to harm you, or spoil the fun to-morrow,
but money I must have, so bring whatever you have
about you, or if your purse chances to be empty, bring
jewelry. I saw you with some superb diamonds on one
night at the opera last winter. Don't go into hysterics.
You've nothing to fear from me if you come down generous
and do the fair thing. I reckon you are free from me, as
I've been gone more than seven years. “Don't be a fool, but come. I rather want to see if you
look as bad as I do. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 12 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Ethelyn's mistake | | | | 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: | THERE was a sweet odor of clover blossoms in the
early morning air, and the dew stood in great
drops upon the summer flowers, and dripped
from the foliage of the elm trees which skirted the village
common. There was a cloud of mist upon the meadows,
and the windings of the river could be distinctly traced by
the white fog which curled above it. But the fog and the
mists were rolling away as the warm June sun came over
the eastern hills, and here and there signs of life began to
be visible in the little New England town of Chicopee,
where our story opens. The mechanics who worked in the
large shoe-shop half way down Cottage Row had been up
an hour or more, while the hissing of the steam which carried
the huge manufactory had been heard since the first
robin peeped from its nest in the alders by the running
brook; but higher up, on Bellevue street, where the old
inhabitants lived, everything was quiet, and the loamy
road, moist and damp with the dews of the previous night,
was as yet unbroken by the foot of man or rut of passing
wheel. The people who lived there,—the Mumfords, and
the Beechers, and the Grangers, and the Thorns,—did not
belong to the working class. They held stocks in railroads
and banks, and mortgages on farms, and could afford to
sleep after the shrill whistle from the manufactory had
wakened the echoes of the distant hills and sounded across
the waters of Pordunk Pond. Only one dwelling showed
signs of life, and that the large square building, shaded in
front with elms and ornamented at the side with a luxuriant
queen of the prairie, whose blossoms were turning their
blushing faces to the rising sun. This was the Bigelow
house, the joint property of Mrs. Dr. Van Buren, née
Sophia Bigelow, who lived in Boston, and her sister, Miss
Barbara Bigelow, the quaintest and kindest-hearted woman
who ever bore the sobriquet of an old maid, and was aunt
to everybody. She was awake long before the whistle had
sounded across the river and along the meadow lands; and
just as the robin, whose nest for four summers had been
under the eaves where neither boy nor cat could reach it,
brought the first worm to its clamorous young, she pushed
the fringed curtain from her open window, and with her
broad frilled cap still on her head, stood for a moment looking
out upon the morning as it crept up the eastern sky. “Dear Ethie—I reckon mother is right, after all. She
generally is, you know, so we may as well be resigned,
and believe it wicked for cousins to marry each other.
Of course I can never like Nettie as I have liked you, and
I feel a twinge every time I remember the dear old times.
But what must be must, and there's no use fretting. Do
you remember old Colonel Markham's nephew, from out
West,—the one who wore the short pants and the rusty
crape on his hat when he visited his uncle in Chicopee,
some years ago? I mean the chap who helped you over
the fence the time you stole the colonel's apples. He has
become a member of Congress, and quite a big gun for the
West; so, at least, mother thinks. He called on her to-day
with a message from Mrs. Woodhull, but I did not see
him. He goes up to Chicopee to-morrow, I believe. He
is looking for a wife, they say, and mother thinks it would
be a good match for you, as you could go to Washington
next winter and queen it over them all. But don't, Ethie,
don't, for thunder's sake! It fairly makes me faint to
think of you belonging to another, even though you may
never belong to me.—Yours always, “Darling Ethie:—You must not think strange if I do
not come to you this morning, for I am suffering from one
of my blinding headaches, and can scarcely see to write
you this. I shall be better by night. “It does not matter, as you would only be in the way,
and I have something of a headache too. “You will find my Ethie in some respects a spoiled
child,” she wrote, “but it is more my fault than hers. I
have loved her so much, and petted her so much, that I
doubt if she knows what a harsh word or cross look means.
She has been carefully and delicately brought up, but has
repaid me well for all my pains by her tender love. Please,
dear Mrs. Markham, be very, very kind to her, and you
will greatly oblige, “My own Darling Ethie:—Don't fail to be there
to-night, and if possible leave the `old maid' at home, and
come alone. We shall have so much better time. Your
devoted “Dear cousin,” he wrote, “business for a Boston firm
has brought me to Camden, where they have had debts
standing out. Through the influence of Harry Clifford,
who was a college chum of mine, I have an invitation to
Mrs. Miller's, where I hope to meet yourself and husband.
I should call to-day, but I know just how busy you must be
with your costume, which I suppose you wish to keep incog.,
even from me. I shall know you, though, at once. See
if I do not. Wishing to be remembered to the Judge, I
am, yours truly, RICHARD: I am going away from you forever,
and when you recall the words you spoke to me
last night, and the deep humiliation you put
upon me, you will readily understand that I go because we
cannot live together any longer as man and wife. You
said things to me, Richard, which women find hard to forgive,
and which they never can forget. I did not deserve
that you should treat me so, for, bad as I may have been
in other respects, I am innocent of the worst thing you
alleged against me, and which seemed to excite you so
much. Until I heard it from you, I did not know Frank
Van Buren was within a thousand miles of Camden. The
note from him which I leave with this letter, and which
you will remember was brought to the door by a servant,
who said it had been mislaid and forgotten, will prove that
I tell you truly. The other note which you found, and
which must have fallen from the box where I kept it, was
written years ago, when I was almost a little girl, with no
thought that I ever could be the humbled, wretched creature
I am now. “Dear, darling Andy:—If all the world were as good,
and kind, and true as you, I should not be writing this
letter, with my arrangements made for flight. Richard will
tell you why I go. It would take me too long. I have
been very unhappy here, though none of my wretchedness
has been caused by you. Dear Andy, if I could tell you
how much I love you, and how sorry I am to fall in your
opinion, as I surely shall when you hear what has happened.
Do not hate me, Andy, and sometimes when you
pray, remember Ethie, won't you? She needs your prayers
so much, for she cannot pray herself. I do not want to be
wholly bad,—do not want to be lost forever; and I have
faith that God will hear you. The beautiful consistency of
your everyday life and your simple trust have been powerful
sermons to me, convincing me that there is a reality in
the religion you profess. Go on, Andy, as you have begun,
and may the God whom I am not worthy to name, bless
you, and keep you, and give you every possible good. In
fancy I wind my arms around your neck, and kiss your
dear, kind face, as with tears I write you my good-by. “I do not know whether you found your wife at Mrs.
Amsden's or not; but I take the liberty of telling you that
Frank Van Buren has returned, and solemnly affirms that
if Mrs. Markham was on board the train which left here on
the 17th, he did not know it. Neither did he see her at
all when in Camden. He called on his way to the depot
that night, and was told she was out. Excuse my writing
you this. If your wife has not come back, it will remove
a painful doubt; and if she has, please burn this and forget
it.—Yours, “Dear Andy—I wish I could tell you how much I love
you, and how sorry I am to fall in your good opinion, as I
surely shall when you hear what has happened. Do not
hate me, Andy; and sometimes, when you pray, remember
Ethie, won't you?” “Miss Melinda Jones: Dear Madam—We found the
letters Ethie writ, one to me and one to Dick, and Dick's
was too much for him. He lies like a punk of wood, makin'
a moanin' noise, and talkin' such queer things, that I guess
you or somebody or'to come and see to him. I send to
you because there's no nonsense about you, and you are
made of the right kind of stuff. “My Darling Andy:—I know you have not forgotten
me, and I am superstitious enough to fancy that you are
with me in spirit constantly. I do not know why I am
writing this to you, but something impels me to do it, and
tell you that I am well. I cannot say happy yet, for the
sundering of every earthly relation made too deep a wound
for me not to feel the pain for months and may be years.
I have employment, though,—constant employment,—and
that helps me to bear, and keeps me from dwelling too much
upon the past. “There's a strange woman sick here. Please come home. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 13 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The homestead on the hillside, and other tales | | | | 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: | “Dear Anna—I know you will be provoked; I was,
but I have recovered my equanimity now. George, the
naughty boy, has not come home. He is going to remain
for two years in a German university. I am the
bearer of many letters and presents for you, which you
must come for. Hugh M'Gregor accompanied me home.
You remember I wrote you about him. We met in Paris,
since which time he has clung to me like a brother, and I
don't know whether to like him or not. He is rich and
well educated, but terribly awkward. It would make
you laugh to see him trying to play the agreeable to the
ladies; and then,—shall I tell you the dreadful thing?
he wears a wig, and is ten years older than I am! Now,
you know if I liked him very much, all this would make no
difference, for I would marry anything but a cobbler, if I
loved him, and he were intelligent. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 14 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Hugh Worthington, of [!] | | | | 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 large, old-fashioned, wooden building, with
long, winding piazzas, and low, square porches, where the
summer sunshine held many a fantastic dance, and where
the winter storm piled up its drifts of snow, whistling
merrily as it worked, and shaking the loosened casement,
as it went whirling by. In front was a wide-spreading
grassy lawn with the carriage road winding through
it, over the running brook and onward beneath tall forest
trees until it reached the main highway, a distance of
nearly half a mile. In the rear was a spacious garden,
with bordered walks, climbing roses and creeping vines
showing that some where there was a ruling hand, which,
while neglecting the sombre building and suffering it to
decay, lavished due care upon the grounds, and not on
these alone, but also on the well kept barns, and the
white-washed dwellings of the negroes,— for ours is a Kentucky
scene, and Spring Bank a Kentucky home. “Wanted — by an unfortunate young married woman,
with a child a few months old, a situation in a private family
either as governess, seamstress, or lady's maid. Country
preferred. Address —” “Wanted. — By an invalid lady, whose home is in
the country, a young woman, who will be both useful
and agreeable, either as a companion or waiting-maid.
No objection will be raised if the woman is married, and
unfortunate, or has a child a few months old. “What a little eternity it is since I heard from you, and
how am I to know that you are not all dead and buried.
Were it not that no news is good news, I should sometimes
fancy that Hugh was worse, and feel terribly for not
having gone home when you did. But of course if he
were worse, you would write, and so I settle down upon
that, and quiet my troublesome conscience. “I said, brother was afraid it was improper under the
9*
circumstances for me to go, afraid lest people should talk;
that I preferred going at once to New York. So it was
finally decided, to the doctor's relief, I fancied, that we
come here, and here we are — hotel just like a beehive,
and my room is in the fifth story. “Dear Hugh: — I have at last discovered who you are,
and why I have so often been puzzled with your face.
You are the boy whom I met on the St. Helena, and
who rescued me from drowning. Why have you never
told me this? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 15 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | 'Lena Rivers | | | | 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 many days the storm continued. Highways were
blocked up, while roads less frequented were rendered
wholly impassable. The oldest inhabitants of Oakland had
“never seen the like before,” and they shook their gray
heads ominously as over and adown the New England
mountains the howling wind swept furiously, now shrieking
exultingly as one by one the huge forest trees bent
before its power, and again dying away in a low, sad wail,
as it shook the casement of some low-roofed cottage,
where the blazing fire, “high piled upon the hearth,”
danced merrily to the sound of the storm-wind, and then
whirling in fantastic circles, disappeared up the broad-mouthed
chimney. “Forgive me, darling, that I leave you so abruptly.
Circumstances render it necessary, but be assured, I shall
come back again. In the meantime, you had better return
to your parents, where I will seek you. Enclosed
are five hundred dollars, enough for your present need.
Farewell. “Dear Helleny, mebby you'll wonder when you see a
letter from me, but I'll be hanged if I can help 'ritin', I am
so confounded lonesome now you are gone, that I dun
know nothing what to do with myself. So I set on the
great rock where the saxefax grows, and think, and think,
till it seems 's ef my head would bust open. Wall, how do
you git along down amongst them heathenish Kentucks
& niggers? I s'pose there ain't no great difference between
'em, is there? When I git a little more larnin', I
b'lieve I'll come down there to keep school. O, I forgot
to tell you that our old line back cow has got a calf—the
prettiest little critter—Dad has gin her to me, and I call
her Helleny, I do, I swow! And when she capers round,
she makes me think of the way you danced `High putty
Martin' the time you stuck a sliver in your heel—” “Dear Grandma: When you read this I shall be
gone, for I cannot longer stay where all look upon me as
a wretched, guilty thing. I am innocent, grandma, as innocent
as my angel mother when they dared to slander
her, but you do not believe it, and that is the hardest of
all. I could have borne the rest, but when you, too,
doubted me, it broke my heart, and now I am going away.
Nobody will care—nobody will miss me but you. “My Lost 'Lena: By this title it seems appropriate
for me to call you, for you are more surely lost to me
than you would be were this summer sun shining upon
your grave. And, 'Lena, believe me when I say I would
rather, far rather, see you dead than the guilty thing you
are, for then your memory would be to me as a holy,
blessed influence, leading me on to a better world, where
I could hope to greet you as my spirit bride. But now,
alas! how dark the cloud which shrouds you from my
sight. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 16 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Marian Grey; or, The heiress of Redstone hall | | | | 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 night was dark and the clouds black and heavy
which hung over Redstone Hall, whose massive walls
loomed up through the darkness like some huge sentinel
keeping guard over the spacious grounds by which
it was surrounded. Within the house all was still,
and without there was no sound to break the midnight
silence save the sighing of the autumnal wind
through the cedar trees, or the roar of the river, which,
swollen by the recent heavy rains, went rushing on to
meet its twin sister at a point well known in Kentucky,
where our story opens, as “The Forks of the Elkhorn.”
From one of the lower windows a single light was
shining, and its dim rays fell upon the face of a white-haired
man, who moaned uneasily in his sleep, as if
pursued by some tormenting fear. At last, as the old-fashioned
clock struck off the hour of twelve, he
awoke, and glancing nervously toward the corner,
whence the sound proceeded, he whispered, “Have
you come again, Ralph Lindsey, to tell me of my
sin?” “Dearest Alice—Precious little Alice. If my
heart was not already broken, it would break at leaving
you. Don't mourn for me much, darling. Tell
Dinah and Hetty, and the other blacks, not to cry—
and if I've ever been cross to them, they must forget
it now that I am gone. God bless you all. Good by
—good by.” M. Raymond—I now take my pen in hand to inform
you that A young Woman, calling herself Marian
lindsey has ben staying with me awhile And she said
you was her Husband what she came of and left you
for I don't know and I spose its none of my Biznes all
I have to do is to tell you that she died wun week ago
come sunday with the cankerrash and she made me
Promise to rite and tell you she was ded and that she
forgives you all your Sins and hope you wouldn't wate
long before you marred agen it would of done your
Hart good to hear her taulk like a Sante as she did.
I should of writ soonner only her sicknes hindered me
about gettin reddy for a journey ime goin to take my
only Brother lives in scotland and ime goin out to live
with him i was most reddy when Marian took sick if
she had lived she was coming back to you I bleave
and now that shes ded ime going rite of in the —
which sales tomorrough nite else ide ask you to come
down and see where she died and all about it. i made
her as comfitable as I could and hopin you wouldnt
take it to hard for Deth is the Lot of all i am your
most Humble Servant “I should prefer your wife to be somewhat nearer
your equal in point of family, it is true, but your description
of Marian Grey won my heart entirely, and
you have my consent to offer yourself at once. By so
doing, you will probably deprive Alice of her governess
and me of a pleasant companion, for I had made
an arrangement with Ben to have Miss Grey with us
next year. But no matter for that. Woo and win
her just the same, and Heaven grant you a happier
future than my past has been. “You and I have suffered alke, and in each of our
hearts there is a hidden grave. I saw it in the tears
you shed when talking to me of Marian Grey. Heaven
bless you, Ben Burt, for all you have been to her.
13
She is one of the fairest, best, of God's creation, but
she was not meant for you nor me; and we must learn
to go our way without her. You have done for her
more, perhaps, than either Mr. Raymond or myself
would have done in the same circumstances, and thus
far you are more worthy of her esteem. You will
please accept the inclosed as a token that I appreciate
your self-denying labors for Marian Grey. Use it
for that grocery we talked about, if you choose, or
for any purpose you like. If you have any delicacy
just consider it a loan to be paid when you are a
richer man than I am. You cannot return it, of
course, for when you receive it I shall be gone. “For vally rec. I promise to pay Bill Gordon, or
bearer, the sum of three hundred dollars with use from
date. “Think not that you have displeased me,” he said,
“for this is not why I send you from me. Both of us
cannot stay, and though for Alice's sake I would gladly
keep you here, it must not be. I am going to New
Orleans, to be absent three or four weeks, and shall
not expect to find you here on my return. You will
need money, and I enclose a check for a thousand dollars.
Don't refuse to take it, for I give it willingly,
and conduct is sadly at variance with my
words, you must believe me when I say that in all the
world you have not so true a friend, as “Frederic knows it all, and we are so happy. We
are to have a great party on the 20th, and you must
surely come. Don't fail us, that's a dear, good Ben,
but come as soon as you get this. Then I will tell you
what I can't write now, for Frederic keeps worrying
me with teasing me to kiss him. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 17 | Author: | Jones
J. B.
(John Beauchamp)
1810-1866 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Freaks of fortune, or, The history and adventures of
Ned Lorn | | | | 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 Christmas eve. The snow was descending
rapidly. Gusts of wind howled mournfully through the
streets, and ever and anon they burst from the alleys and
narrow courts in explosions. Many a face was turned
quickly away from the rude blasts of the storm in the
vain endeavor to escape their unfriendly peltings. But
it might not be. Every street had its pedestrians. From
the Delaware to the Schuylkill; from the grimly frowning
Moyamensing prison to the extreme northern limits of the
environs of Philadelphia; human beings might have been
seen passing with unceasing tramp along the pavements.
Some on business; some in quest of pleasure, and others—
poor miserable creatures!—because they were destitute of
homes; unfortunate outcasts, relying upon some chance
occurrence for the means of shelter. And, perhaps, a
majority of these were females, with delicate cheeks and
throbbing hearts; and yet with light and tattered garments;
no sufficient covering to protect their heads from
the howling frost-laden blasts; and no effectual defences
for their feet against the chilling snow. “My dear Ned—I was pained to learn the nature of
your note to Mr. Lonsdale. If I had been acquainted
with the character of its contents, I should not have been
the bearer of it. It was, however, a mere indiscretion on
your part, superinduced by provocations sufficient to have
tempted almost any young man to commit a far greater
extravagance. I have seen and conversed with Lonsdale,
and have undertaken to say that the matter will not be referred
to again on your part. Indeed I have withdrawn
the offensive note, and doubt not the act will be sanctioned
by you, since you have had ample time to meditate deliberately
on the subject. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 19 | Author: | Kirkland
Caroline M.
(Caroline Matilda)
1801-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The evening book, or, Fireside talk on morals and
manners | | | | 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: | What an old-fashioned word! Yes—and it means an old-fashioned
thing too. A “post-coach” of twenty years ago in
comparison with a rail-car of the present day, is as the “household”
of our great-grandfathers to the “menage” or our time. The keep
of a feudal castle would look rather out of place among the conservatories,
artificial waterworks, and Chinese bridges of a modern
garden; perhaps the household, or citadel of home, has as little
claim to a position of honor among the “refinements” of fashionable
society. What need of walls or intrenchments when we live
for the public? Privacy is but another word for ennui; retirement
has but one meaning or value—that of affording opportunity of
preparation for display. If we would shut out the world, it is only
when nature imperiously demands a moment's respite from its glare.
Happy they whose nerves, like iron, grow the tougher by hammering!
They need lose no time. `I hardly dare take the pen to write to you, John, yet it seems
better than leaving you without a word. I shall not try to excuse
myself, but I feel sure I should never have been happy, or have
made you happy, if I had kept to our engagement only for shame's
sake. I did love you at the beginning; I was not deceitful then;
but afterwards I learned to love another better, and for this you are
partly to blame. You are too grave and serious for me: I have
not spirits enough for us both. I always felt down-hearted after we
had been together, although you were always so kind and good.
Do not fret about this; fall in love with somebody else—somebody
that is gay and light-hearted. I know I am running a great risk,
and very likely shall be sorry that I ever left a man so good as you
are for one who is more pleasant, but not any better, not so good,
perhaps. I would have told you sooner, but could not make up my
mind. God bless you and farewell. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 20 | Author: | Landon
Melville D.
(Melville De Lancey)
1839-1910 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Eli Perkins (at large) | | | | 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: | PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.
‘If you get the best of whiskey, Eli, whiskey will get the best of you.”
627EAF. Page 009. In-line Illustration. Image of Uncle Consider with his hand on his chin.
“Shoes are worn high in the neck, flounced with
point aquille lace, cut on the bias. High heels are
common in Saratoga, especially in the hop room. Cotton
hose, open at the top, are very much worn, some
of them having as many as three holes in them. Cotton
plows are not seen. My dear Nevy—Yours received. While your Uncle
Consider was in Afriky your maden Aunt Ruth and I
thot wed get up an expedishun
to New York to do sum Spring
tradin'. The stanza—
“I want to be an angel,”
which you have just
sung will not help
you much unless you
change your course of
life. You must commence dressing more like angels
here in this world if you want to be a real live angel
in the next. You'd make healthy lookin' angels,
wouldn't you? Now, wouldn't you? Angels don't
wear pearl powder, do they? and angels don't wear
false braids. They don't enamel their faces and smell
of Caswell and Hazard's cologne, nor bore holes in
their ears like Injuns and put Tiffany's ear-rings in
them! Angels don't dye their hair, nor wear big diamonds,
and have liveries and footmen, like many of
our “shoddy” people. They— I shall never forget how Donn Pirate, a District
of Columbia brigand, and I fell out and had a big
fight. I shall also long remember the terrible thrashing
he gave me. I knew I had been whipped by Donn
because I saw the marks on Donn's face and also
talked with the doctor who sponged him off and put
liniment on him. But oh, it was a fearful castigation!
I never want to be whipped again. If ever any man
wants to continue to serve humanity—wants to make
a martyr of himself—wants to reduce himself to a
lump of jelly like the boneless man in the circus, by
whipping me, I hope he will read this and reflect. My Darling Julia: First let me tell you all about
myself. I'm just lovely, and having such a time!
Flirting in Saratoga ain't like flirting in New York—
in the horrid box at the opera, or on the atrocious stairs
at a party. We have just the whole back balcony all
to ourselves—and then we walk over to the graveyard,
and pretend to go down to bowl, and stray off into
Congress Spring Park. Then the drives! My lovely
phaeton—and Prancer, she's just too sweet for anything!
Now, the idea of calling a horse sweet! Yes, married Brown's Boys. You will see them in
every large city and at every watering-place—men married
to suffering, neglected wives, but flirting with
scores of young ladies. I will try and see you to-night in the piano corner
of the big parlor—at eight. Manage to be there with
Lizzie and Charley, for they are
spooney and we can “shake” them,
and they will take it as a kindness. “Yours informing me that I am engaged in Pottsville
is received. Very well; if she is young and
wealthy I will keep the engagement. In fact, young
or old I'll keep the engagement at all hazards—or
rather at Pottsville. Have no fears about my being
detained by accidents. I have never yet failed to be
present when I lectured. Everything seems to impel
me to keep this engagement. Everywhere here in
Illinois the people follow me around in great crowds
and enthusiastically invite me to go away. Illinois
railroad presidents say they will cheerfully supply
me with free passage on the trains rather than have
me remain in the State another night; and almost
every railroad president in Ohio and Pennsylvania,
including Mr. Tom Scott, has supplied me with
perpetual free passes—hoping I may be killed on the
trains. Gentlemen: I received your note this morning, inviting
me to go up in the balloon. You say you desire
me to go as the representative of the Daily Bugle—to
be the official historian of the first great aerial voyage
across the Atlantic. You also say: [To the Editor of the Daily Bugle.] | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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