| 1 | 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 |
2 | 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 |
3 | 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 |
4 | 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 |
8 | 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 |
9 | 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 |
12 | 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 |
13 | Author: | EDITED BY
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. | Add | | 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 |
14 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Add | | 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 |
15 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Add | | 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 |
16 | Author: | Higginson
Thomas Wentworth
1823-1911 | Add | | 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 |
17 | Author: | Holland
J. G.
(Josiah Gilbert)
1819-1881 | Add | | 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 |
18 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | 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 |
19 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | 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 |
20 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | 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 |
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