| | 81 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | As good as a comedy, or, The Tennesseean's story  | | | | 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: | Let us start fairly, and not on an empty stomach.
Reader, we begin with a Georgia breakfast. We are
at one of those plain, unpretending, but substantial
farm-houses, which, in the interior of Georgia, and
other Southern States, distinguished more especially
the older inhabitants; those who, from time immemorial,
have appeared pretty much as we find them now.
These all date back beyond the Revolution; the usual
epoch, in our country, at which an ancient family may
be permitted to begin. The region is one of those
lovely spots among the barrens of middle Georgia, in
which, surveyed from the proper point of view, there is
nothing barren. You are not to suppose the settlement
an old one, by any means, for it is not more than twenty
or twenty-five years since all the contiguous territory
within a space of sixty miles was rescued from the
savages. But our family is an old one; inheriting all
the pride, the tastes, and the feelings which belonged
to the old Southern “Continentaler.” This will be
apparent as we proceed; as it is apparent, in fact, to
the eye which contrasts the exterior of its dwelling with
that of the neighboring settlements among which it
harbors. The spot, though undistinguished by surprising
scenery, is a very lovely one, and not unfrequent
in the middle country of the Atlantic Southern
States. It presents a pleasing prospect under a single
glance of the eye, of smooth lawn, and gentle acclivity,
and lofty forest growth. A streamlet, or branch, as it
is here called, winds along, murmuring as it goes, at the
foot of a gentle eminence which is crowned with a luxuriant
wealth of pine and cedar. Looking up from this
spot while your steed drinks, you behold, perched on
another gentle swell of ground, as snug and handsome
an edifice as our forest country usually affords; none
of your overgrown ambitious establishments, but a trim
tidy dwelling, consisting of a single story of wood upon
a brick basement, and surrounded on three sides by a
most glorious piazza. The lawn slopes away, for several
hundred yards, an even and very gradual descent even
to the road; a broad tract, well sprinkled with noble
trees, oaks, oranges, and cedars, with here and there a
clump of towering pines, under which steeds are grazing,
in whose slender and symmetrical forms, clean legs, and
glossy skins, you may discern instant signs of those
superior foreign breeds which the Southern planter so
much affects. The house, neatly painted white, with
green blinds and shutters, is kept in admirable trim; and,
from the agreeable arrangement of trees and shrubbery,
it would seem that the place had been laid out and was
tenanted by those who brought good taste and a becoming
sense of the beautiful to the task. There was
no great exercise of art, it is true. That is not pretended.
But nature was not suffered to have her own
way entirely, was not suffered to overrun the face of
the land with her luxuriance; nor was man so savage
as to strip her utterly of all her graceful decorations—
a crime which we are too frequently called upon to deplore
and to denounce, when we contemplate the habitations
even of the wealthy among our people, particularly
in the South, despoiled, by barbarity, of all their shade-trees,
and denuded of all the grace and softness which
these necessarily confer upon the landscape. Here, the
glance seemed to rest satisfied with what it beheld, and
to want for nothing. There might be bigger houses,
and loftier structures, of more ambitious design and
more commanding proportion; but this was certainly
very neat, and very much in its place. Its white outlines
caught your eye, glinting through openings of the
forest, approaching by the road on either hand, for
some distance before you drew nigh, and with such an
air of peace and sweetness, that you were insensibly
prepared to regard its inmates as very good and well-bred
people. Nor are we wrong in these conjectures.
But of this hereafter. At this moment, you may see
a very splendid iron-gray charger, saddled, and fastened
in the shade, some twenty steps from the dwelling. Lift
your eye to the piazza, and you behold the owner. A
finer-looking fellow lives not in the country. Tall, well
made, and muscular, he treads the piazza like a prince.
The freedom of carriage which belongs to the gentlemen
in our forest country is inimitable, is not to be acquired
by art, and is due to the fact that they suffer from no
laborious occupation, undergo no drudgery, and are
subject to no confinement, which, in childhood, contract
the shoulders into a stoop, depress the spirits, enfeeble
the energies, and wofully impair the freedom and elegance
of the deportment. Constant exercise on foot
and horseback, the fox hunt and the chase; these, with
other sylvan sports, do wonders for the physique, the
grace and the bearing of the country gentleman of the
South. The person before us is one of the noblest specimens
of his class. A frank and handsome countenance,
with a skin clear and inclining to the florid; a bright,
martial blue eye; a full chin; thick, massive locks of
dark brown hair, and lips that express a rare sweetness,
and only do not smile, sufficiently distinguish his peculiarities
of face. His dress is simple, after an ordinary
fashion of the country, but is surprisingly neat and becoming.
A loose blouse, rather more after the Choctaw
than the Parisian pattern, does not lessen the symmetry
of his shape. His trousers are not so loose as to conceal
the fine muscular developments of his lower limbs;
nor does his loose negligée neckcloth, simply folded
about the neck, prevent the display of a column which
admirably sustains the intellectual and massive head
which crowns it, and which we now behold uncovered.
Booted and spurred, he appears ready for a journey,
walks the piazza with something of impatience in his
manner, and frequently stops to shade his eyes from the
glare, as he strains them in exploring the distant highway.
You see that he is young, scarcely twenty-two;
eager in his impulses, restive under restraint, and better
able to endure and struggle with the conflict than to
wait for its slow approaches. Suddenly he starts. He
turns to a call from within, and a matron lady appears
at the entrance of the dwelling, and joins him in the
piazza. He turns to her with respect and fondness. She
is his mother; a stately dame, with features like his
own; a manner at once easy and dignified; an eye
grave, but benevolent; and a voice whose slow, subdued
accents possess a rare sweetness not unmingled with
command. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 82 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | New-England legends | | | | 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 islands about the harbors of all our New
England rivers are so wild, and would seem to
have offered so many advantages, that they
have always been supposed, by the ruder population,
to be the hiding-place of piratical treasures,
and particularly of Captain Kidd's; and
the secretion, among rocks and sands, of chests
of jewels stripped from noble Spanish ladies
who have walked the awful plank, with shotbags
full of diamonds, and ingots of pure gold,
is one of the tenets of the vulgar faith. This
belief has ranged up and down the whole
shore with more freedom than the pirates ever
did, and the legends on the subject are legion
—from the old Frenchman of Passamaquoddy
Bay to the wild stories of the Jersey and Carolina
sandbars too countless for memory, the
Fireship off Newport, the Shrieking Woman of
Marblehead, and the Lynn Mariner who, while
burying his treasure in a cave, was sealed up
alive by a thunderbolt that cleft the rock, and
whom some one, under spiritual inspiration,
spent lately a dozen years in vain endeavor to
unearth. The parties that have equipped themselves
with hazel-rods and spades, and proceeded,
at the dead of night, in search of these
riches, without turning their heads or uttering
the Divine Name, and, digging till they struck
metal, have met with all manner of ghostly appearances,
from the little naked negro sitting
and crying on the edge of the hogshead of
doubloons, to the ball of fire sailing straight up
the creek, till it hangs trembling on the tide
just opposite the excavation into which it
shoots with the speed of lightning, so terrifying
and bewildering the treasure-seekers that
when all is over they fail to find again the place
of their late labor—the parties that have met
with these adventures would, perhaps, cease to
waste much more of their time in such pursuits
in this part of the country if they knew that
Captain Kidd had never landed north of Block
Island until, with fatal temerity, he brought
his vessel into Boston, and that every penny of
his gains was known and was accounted for,
while as to Bradish, Tew, and the rest of that
genry, they wasted everything as they went in
riotous living, and could never have had a dollar
to hide, and no disposition to hide it if they
had; and whatever they did possess they took
with them when, quietly abandoning their ships
to the officers of the law, they went up the
creeks and rivers in boats, and dispersed themselves
throughout the country. “Received of Bishop Fenwick, the sum of
seventy-nine dollars and twenty cents, the same
being taxes assessed by the Assessors of the
town of Charlestown, upon the land and buildings
of the late Convent of Mount Benedict, for
the year 1834, and which were this day demanded
by Solomon Hovey, Jr., Collector,
agreeably to instructions received by him from
the Assessors, to that effect, although said
buildings had been destroyed by a mob in August
last. “Honor Governor my friend You my friend.
I desire your worship and your power, because
I hope you can do some great matters—this
one. I am poor and naked and I have no men
at my place because I afraid allways Mohogs he
will kill me every day and night. If your worship
when please pray help me you no let
Mohogs kill me at my place at Malamake
Rever called Panukkog and Natukkog, I will
submit your worship and your power. — And
now I want pouder and such alminishun, shatt
and guns, because I have forth at my home and
I plant theare. “Now this day I com your house, I want se
you, and I bring my hand at before you I want
shake hand to you if your worship when please
then you receive my hand then shake your
hand and my hand. You my friend because I
remember at old time when live my grant
father and grant mother then Englishmen com
this country, then my grant father and Englishmen
they make a good govenant, they friend
allwayes, my grant father leving at place called
Malamake Rever, other name chef Natukkog
and Panukkog, that one rever great many
names, and I bring you this few skins at this
first time I will give you my friend. This all
Indian hand. “Please your Worship—I will intreat you
matther, you my friend now; this, if my Indian
he do you long, pray you no put your law, because
som my Indians fooll, some men much
love drunk then he no know what he do, maybe
he do mischif when he drunk, if so pray you
must let me know what he done because I will
ponis him what have done, you, you my friend,
if you desire my business then sent me I will
help you if I can. “Mr. Mason — Pray I want speake you a few
words if your worship when please, because I
com parfas. I will speake this governor but
he go away so he say at last night, and so far
I understand this governor his power that your
power now, so he speak his own mouth. Pray if
you take what I want pray come to me because
I want go hom at this day. “Honorable Sir—The Governor and Council
having this day received a letter from Major
Hinchman, of Chelmsford, that some Indians
are come into them, who report that there is a
gathering of Indians in or about Pennacook,
with design of mischief to the English. Among
the said Indians one Hawkins is said to be a
principal designer, and that they have a particular
design against yourself and Mr. Peter
Coffin, which the Council thought it necessary
presently to dispatch advice thereof, to give
you notice, that you take care of your own safeguard,
they intending to endeavor to betray
you on a pretension of trade. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 84 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | | | | 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: | Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two
gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished
dining parlor, in the town of P—, in Kentucky.
There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with
chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some
subject with great earnestness. “Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George
six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very intelligent,
speaks handsomely, can read and write; will probably try to pass
for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has been
branded in his right hand with the letter H. “Executor's Sale, — Negroes! — Agreeably to order of court, will
be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the
town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60;
John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for
the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 85 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | | | | 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: | “Tom, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want to
go,” she said. “I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True,
as you have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the
whites, in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and
that of my wife and family scarce perceptible. Well,
perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth,
I have no wish to. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 86 | Author: | Taylor
Bayard
1825-1878 | Add | | | Title: | John Godfrey's fortunes, related by himself | | | | 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 was sitting at the front window, buried, chin-deep, in
the perusal of “Sandford and Merton,” when I heard the
latch of the gate click. Looking up, I saw that it was only
Neighbor Niles, coming, as usual, in her sun-bonnet, with
her bare arms wrapped in her apron, for a chat with
mother. I therefore resumed my reading, for Neighbor
Niles always burst into the house without knocking, and
mother was sure to know who it was by the manner in
which the door opened. I had gotten as far into the book
as the building of the Robinson-Crusoe hut, and one half
of my mind speculated, as I read, whether a similar hut
might not be constructed in our garden, in the corner
between the snowball-bush and Muley's stable. Bob Simmons
would help me, I was sure; only it was scarcely possible
to finish it before winter, and then we could n't live
in it without a fireplace and a chimney. “My dear Brother, — Yours of the 10th is received.
I am now so accustomed to your sarcastic style, that I always
know what to expect when I open one of your epistles.
I wish you joy of your — well, I must say our new
cousin, though I am sorry you did not let me know of the
discovery before telling him. He must be gauche and unpresentable
in a degree; but then, I suppose, there 's no
likelihood of his ever getting into our set. It is time your
schooling was finished, so that I might have you for awhile as
my chevalier. Between ourselves, I 'm rather tired of going
about with” (here the word “Mamma” had evidently been
written and then blotted out) “Mrs. Penrose. Not but
what she continues to improve, — only, I am never certain
of her not committing some niaiserie, which quite puts me
out. However, she behaves well enough at home, and I
hope you will overcome your prejudice in the end, for my
sake. When you know as much about Society as I do, you
will see that it 's always best to smooth over what 's irrevocable.
People are beginning to forget the scandal, since
that affair of Denbigh has given them something else to
talk about. We were at Mrs. Delane's ball on Wednesday;
I made her put on blue cut velvet, and she did not
look so bad. Mrs. Vane nodded, and of course she was
triumphant. I think Papa gives me the credit for all that
has been done, — I 'm sure I deserve it. It 's a race between
Mrs. P. and myself which shall have the new India
shawl at Stokes's; but I shall get it, because Mrs. P. knows
that I could teach her to blunder awfully as well as to behave
correctly, and would do it, in spite of Papa's swearing,
if she drives me to desperation. By the by, he has just
come into the room, and says, `You are writing to the cub,
as usual, I suppose, Matilda.' So there you have him, to
the life.” “Respected Friend, I recd. your favor in which you informed
me that you was getting on so well and gave the
other as you directed. Thought it best to wait for the
other's answer, though there is no particular news. Sep
Bratton goes to The Buck every day, and there 's high
goings on between him and the squire. Your friend Mr.
Rand was there again. People say the squire is speculating
about Pottsville, and will cut up pretty fat some day, which
is no business of mine, but thought you might like to hear.
We are all well, and mother and Sue says remember me to
him. I guess Ben and her is satisfied with one another,
but you need not say I told you. There is a mistress at
the school this summer, a right smart young woman, her
name is Lavina Wilkins. And hoping these few lines will
find you enjoying good health, I remain, “Dear John,” (there were volumes of withheld confession
for me in that one adjective): — Towards the end of May the important book appeared.
I am sure that no immortal work was ever watched, through
its different processes of incarnation, with such tender
solicitude. I lingered over the first proofs, the revised
proofs, and the printed and folded sheets, with a proud,
luxurious interest, and the final consummation — the little
volume, bound and lettered — was so precious that I could
have kissed the leaves one by one. It seemed incredible
that the “John Godfrey” on the title-page really meant
myself! A book for me had hitherto possessed a sublime,
mystical individuality of its own, and this, which had grown
beneath my hand, by stages of manufacture as distinctly
material as those which go to the formation of a shoe or a
stove, was now to be classed among those silent, eloquent
personalities! It might be placed side by side with “Paradise
Lost” or “Childe Harold,” on book-shelves; who could
tell whither chance or fortune might not carry it, or what
young and burning lips it might not help unseal? “I have judged you unjustly, and treated you rudely,
Mr. Godfrey. If I have not forfeited the right to make
reparation, or you have not lost the desire to receive it,
will you call upon me to-morrow evening, at Mrs. Deering's,
and oblige “I will come. “Respd. Nephew, — I take my Pen in hand to inform
you that Me and your aunt Peggy are injoying good Health
and Those Blessings which the Lord Vouchsafes to us. It
is a long Time since we have heard anything of you, but
suppose you are still ingaged in the same Occupation as at
first, and hence direct accordingly, hoping these few Lines
may come Safely to hand. “The news contained in your letter of the 7th was quite
unexpected, but none the less welcome, for your sake as
well as my own. While I still think that the disposal of
my little property ought to have been left to myself, I
cheerfully acquit you of any intention to do me wrong, and
to show that I not only bear no malice, but am willing to
retract my hasty insinuations against your character, I will
accept your proffered hospitality when I visit Reading.
You may expect me within the next four or five days. “My Dear John, — I know why you have not written
to me. In fact I knew, months ago, (through Deering,)
what was coming, and had conquered whatever soreness
was left in my heart. Fortunately my will is also strong
in a reflective sense, and I am, moreover, no child to lament
over an irretrievable loss. I dare say the future will
make it up to me, in some way, if I wait long enough. At
any rate, you won't object, my dear old fellow, to have me
say — not that I wish you happiness, for you have it, but —
that you deserve your double fortune. The other item I
picked up from a newspaper; you might have written me
that. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 87 | Author: | Thorpe
Thomas Bangs
1815-1878 | Add | | | Title: | The master's house | | | | 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 is not a more charming town in New England, than
Malden, so celebrated, and so widely known for its intelligent
population, its interesting traditions, and its most excellent
seat of learning. Dear Sir,—I understand you desire to purchase some
valuable house servants. I have one or two that I would
part with, if the trade could be made privately, and treated
by you as confidential. I will be at the cross roads, near
the old brick kiln, precisely at five o'clock, where we can
hold conversation unobserved. Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you wish to
purchase a few first class house-servants; I have two that
I would part with, for less than their real value, if you can
manage to get them in your possession, without giving
their owners the pain of going through the separation.
They have been carefully raised, and would not be sold, if
their owners were not conscientiously impressed that their
condition would not be improved, if they were set free. I
shall be at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-day, and shall
proceed at once to your room, to avoid the suspicion among
the neighbors, that I am contemplating selling. You will
consider our communications in honor, and trust they will
be so treated. Sur,—I've got an old negro woman as wants to be sold,
and go to Mobeel, in the State of Mississip'. I wouldn't
sell her, if she didn't want to go down to that South country
to see her children, as is owned by Mister Brownlaw,
who, when he tuck the children, was to buy the old ooman,
but didn't have the money, an hasn't sent for her 'cordin'
to contract. I will sel her for two hundred and fifty, and
I think Brownlaw will give you four hundred on his place,
as her son is a carpenter, and I'm told he thinks a heap
of him, as he can earn five dollars a day, making bridges
on the rale rode. Please say nothing about this, and drop
in at my house in the evening, when nobody is about, on
the Sandy-hill road, f'ur miles from Colesburg, near the
ruins of the old church, with a sign over the door, with
my name painted on it. Dear Sir,—I understood last evening, after church
was out, that you had come on here to obtain a few choice
servants. I have long since been forced to the conclusion,
that slavery is a moral evil, and I have rejoiced that I
have parted with the few I have owned, to humane masters,
which is a great relief to me, in my hours of serious
reflection. I have one girl that has been carefully brought
up, and we are much attached to her, but I am somewhat
advanced in years, as well as her mistress, and we cannot
tell at what time she may, in the course of Providence, be
thrown without a protector, upon the wide, wicked world.
I had determined not to sell her, but seeing you in church
the other day, I have become deeply impressed that you
12*
are a pious man, and as such, would deal justly with the
girl. I have also reflected, that whatever may be my
sense of duty, the excitement at the North has been so
great, that it makes it perfectly impossible for me to carry
out my original intention, of setting the girl free, as I
cannot conceive a more dreadful condition, than for a once
comfortably clothed and well taken care of negro slave, to
be thrown upon the tender mercies of the uncharitable
world, and be left, as are the poor white laborers of the
free States, to starve, and die a miserable death. It
would be difficult to get the girl's consent to be sold, and
therefore this matter must be delicately arranged; she
will no doubt, at first, be much grieved, but we must judge
what is best for her welfare, ourselves, for we know how to
provide for her real good. The girl is nearly nineteen years
of age. Address “Humanity,” through the post-office,
and say where a strictly private interview may be had. Of
course this communication will be considered confidential.
I trust I may sign myself, in the bonds of brotherly love, “Dear Sir: I received your favor, desiring me to state my opinion of the
value of M. Guénon's `Treatise on Milch Cows,' translated from the French....
I immediately commenced the study and application of his method to every cow
that came under my observation. I have examined more than one hundred cows,
and, after carefully marking their escutcheons. I have become satisfied that M.
Guénon's discovery is one of great merit, and can be relied upon as true. I have
no doubt that I can judge very nearly as to the quantity and quality of the milk
any cow will give at the height of her flow, and also the time she will continue
in milk after being with calf. “I have read with great satisfaction M. Guénon's work on Milch Cows, by
which one can judge by certain infallible signs the milking qualities of the animal.
I have compared the marks he gives for his first-grade Flanders cow, and find
they correspond with the escutcheon of my favorite Devon cow `Ellen,' that has
taken the first premium at two cattle-shows of the American Institute. My farmer
has great faith in M. Guénon's work, and so has one of my neighbors, a knowing
Scotch milkman, who keeps fifty cows. He says that, after careful examination,
he places confidence in these marks, and they will govern him in his future
purchases. I shall hereafter make my selection of the calves I will raise from
my choice stocks from the marks given by this author. I think every farmer
should own this work. “Having had experience in raising cows, I was pleased to find a treatise on the
subject by M. Guénon, of Libourne, in France—which I procured and carefully
studied. I think the book more worthy of attention than I believe it has received.
I found that his marks of the particular classes and orders of cows agree with
nearly all I have had an opportunity to examine. It is easy to ascertain, after
studying this book, to which class and order almost every cow belongs, which,
as a guide in purchasing milch cows, or of safely deciding which to keep, before
we have had time or opportunity to test their qualities as milkers, will far more
than repay the price of the book, and the time necessary to a clear understanding
of it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 91 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to | | | | 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: | “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S—
calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What
name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I,
glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding
love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou
art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently
public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest
of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret
I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have
chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and
however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a
thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I
know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal.
Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further
preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high
birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably
given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to
your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is
twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but
she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and
conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am
directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions
are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no
inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without
previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider
the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject,
since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps,
still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as
prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep,
after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent.
It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed
among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth
of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just
breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed
that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the
sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious
little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried
in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted
lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in
the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the
child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to
his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and
looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between
his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought
the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He
knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his
sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers,
poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to
say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on
your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands.
Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will
excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate
choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in
your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess,
tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived—
if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take
my hand when you meet me. That moment will
decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name
another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot
11
explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice
should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has
so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad,
a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my
tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first
month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you
for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you—
lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax
when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your
table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare
you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition
with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you
know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion.
Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank
council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes
in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real
half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived
illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two
stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown
in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of
course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment
of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish
the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon
parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in
your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air
it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then
revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my
tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects
to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are
the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I,
and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged
it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate
the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day.
Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale
troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the
positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine?
Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought
comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude
—in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference
to associating with friends and companions—in writing,
spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly
of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I
divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve
freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own,
only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet
the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the
noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the
world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide
the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer
it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels
from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy
and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost
breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can
understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of
meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance,
but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you
how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our
interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde,
you know me better than those who see me every day. My
most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I,
perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation
of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement
of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child
knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well.
Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my
memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation
may be removed or lessened? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 92 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | St. Elmo | | | | 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: | HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever
lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request
I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely
consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no
leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic
chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid
of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it,
the day would inevitably come when you would regret its
premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence
of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions
of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength
than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public
would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken
is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle
it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your
powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level,
the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme
better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed
MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate
the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write
sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that
you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical
creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic
priests. Remember that women never write histories nor
epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the
centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;'
though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad
that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle,
or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will
hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh
eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism
of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator
Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire
to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any
for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge
in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence
of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg
you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter.
I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect
to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion
and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give
you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my
house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would
I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always,
and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship
mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning,
and I shall know that you are my own dear, little
Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of
the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read
the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached
to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and
the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt
and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then
judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the
mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen
to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings
of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help
me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling!
you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder,
I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty
years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence
your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar
ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the
judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth
we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my
wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can
not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag
mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease
to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you
before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar
circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage
of them and thrust myself into your presence
without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I
felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le
Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility
of meeting me. You, who know something of my
wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine
what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked,
that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not,
shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I
almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a
door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my
life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview!
Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It
is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or
will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again.
Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend
together in this world. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 95 | 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 |
| 99 | 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 |
| 100 | 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 |
|
