| | 21 | Author: | Cooke
John Esten
1830-1886 | Add | | | Title: | Mohun, or, The last days of Lee and his paladins  | | | | 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: | “Tell, you know who, that I have just seen the honorable
Mr. —” (here the writer gave the real name and official position
of Mr. X—), “and have had a long conversation with him.
He is fully convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke
without reserve of matters the most private. He is in high spirits,
and looks on the rebel cause as certain to succeed. I never
saw one more blinded to the real state of things. Richmond is
full of misery, and the people seem in despair, but this high official,
who represents the whole government, is evidently certain
of Lee's success. I found him in a garrulous mood, and he did
not conceal his views. The government has just received heavy
supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad—others are
coming—the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising—and
Lee, he stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five
thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch,
which he read me, from England. This startled me. There
seems no doubt that England is about to recognize the Confederacy.
When he had finished reading this dispatch, on the back
of which I could see the English postmark, he said to me—these
are his words:—`You see, things were never brighter; it is only
a question of time; and by holding out a little longer, we shall
compel the enemy to retire and give up the contest. With the
re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one hundred thousand
men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all General
Grant's assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause
was never more hopeful.' “I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come
and see me. Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting,
in addition to | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 22 | Author: | Cooke
John Esten
1830-1886 | Add | | | Title: | Wearing of the gray | | | | 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: | These “Personal Portraits” were undertaken with the design
of making better known and understood the great actors in the
recent struggle who are the subjects of them. “Dear Sir: My telegram will have informed you that I deem
a change of commanders in your department necessary, but it is
due to your zealous and patriotic services that I should explain
the reasons that prompted my action. The situation of affairs
is such that we can neglect no means calculated to develop the
resources we possess to the greatest extent, and make them as
efficient as possible. To this end it is essential that we should
have the cheerful and hearty support of the people and the full
confidence of the soldiers, without which our efforts would be
embarrassed, and our means of resistance weakened. I have
reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that you cannot command
the united and willing co-operation which is so essential to success.
Your reverses in the Valley, of which the public and the
army judge chiefly by the results, have, I fear, impaired your
influence both with the people and the soldiers, and would add
greatly to the difficulties which will, under any circumstances,
attend our military operations in S. W. Va. While my own
confidence in your ability, zeal, and devotion to the cause, is unimpaired,
I have nevertheless felt that I could not oppose what
seems to be the current of opinion, without injustice to your
reputation and injury to the service. I therefore felt constrained
to endeavour to find a commander who would be more likely to
develop the strength and resources of the country and inspire
the soldiers with confidence, and to accomplish this purpose,
thought it proper to yield my own opinion, and defer to that of
those to whom alone we can look for support. I am sure that
you will understand and appreciate my motives, and that no one
will be more ready than yourself to acquiesce in any measure
which the interests of the country may seem to require, regardless
of all personal considerations. Thanking you for the fidelity
and energy with which you have always supported my efforts,
and for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested in
the service of the country, I am, very respectfully and truly,
your obedient servant, “My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia
admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own,
Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could
not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon
her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate
part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun
by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was
he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a
great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer
of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from.
Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from
our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were
leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of
sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his
cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good. “Know Ye, That reposing special confidence in the patriotism,
fidelity, and ability of Antonia J.—, I, James E. B.
Stuart, by virtue of the power vested in me as Brigadier-General
of the Provisional Army of the Confederate States of America,
do hereby appoint and commission her my honorary Aide-de-Camp,
to rank as such from this date. She will be obeyed,
respected, and admired by all true lovers of a noble nature. “I hereby bind myself, on my word of honour, not to take up
arms against the Confederate States, or in any manner give aid
and comfort to the Federal cause, until I am regularly exchanged. When I left home, my dear boys, I promised to write to you
whenever an opportunity occurred, and give you some of my
views and opinions. When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have
to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home,
I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown)
which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a
melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed
bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to
the delights of camp. The Army of Northern Virginia had surrendered! Strange,
incredible announcement! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 23 | Author: | Cozzens
Frederic S.
(Frederic Swartwout)
1818-1869 | Add | | | Title: | The Sparrowgrass papers, or, Living in the country | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is a good thing to live in the country. To
escape from the prison-walls of the metropolis—
the great brickery we call “the city”—and to live
amid blossoms and leaves, in shadow and sunshine,
in moonlight and starlight, in rain, mist, dew,
hoar-frost, and drouth, out in the open campaign,
and under the blue dome that is bounded by the
horizon only. It is a good thing to have a well
with dripping buckets, a porch with honey-buds,
and sweet-bells, a hive embroidered with nimble
bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to the eaves,
curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers in
your bedroom, a rooster on the roof, and a dog
under the piazza. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 24 | Author: | Cummins
Maria S.
(Maria Susanna)
1827-1866 | Add | | | Title: | The lamplighter | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it
would be light for half an hour or more; but within the close
streets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon the
wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking
house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much
earnestness. The house-door, which was open behind her, was
close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low
that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a
chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made
everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares,
near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served
to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless
than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound
in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the
beautiful snow had lost all its purity. “Dear Gertrude: As there were plenty of Boston folks at
the wedding, I daresay you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's
marriage. He married the widder Holbrook, the same I
wrote you about. She was determined to have him, and she's
got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain.
He likes a quiet life, and he's lost his chance of that,—
poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I
saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havana, but
I guess he thought better of it, and did n't really mean to have
her. When we got to New Orleans, however, she was there;
and the long and short of it is, she carried her point, and married
him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against
it, and always treated the widder as pleasantly as could be; but,
dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many young folks
as there are about all the time now, and so much noise and confusion?
For my part, I an't used to it, and don't pretend that
I think it's agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now
she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as
long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But
I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude,
and will be surprised to find we've got so far as New
York, on our way home,—my way home, I should say, for I'm
the only one that talks of coming at present. The truth is, I
kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there
was so much going on I did n't get a chance; and, after that
horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I was n't good for anything
for a week. But Emily was so anxious to have you written
to that I could n't put it off any longer than until to-day. Poor
Emily is n't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick,
—it's low spirits and nervousness, I suppose, more than anything.
She gets tired and worried very quick, and is easily
startled and disturbed, which did n't use to be the case. I think
likely it's the new wife, and all the nieces, and other disagreeable
things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what
she was pleased to have her father married again; but she has n't
seemed quite happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how
sad she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt
dreadfully not to get any more letters. To come to the principal
thing, however, they are all going to Europe,—Emily and all.
I take it it's the new wife's idea; but, whoever proposed the
thing, it's all settled now. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I
would not hear of such a thing; I would as soon be hung as
venture on the sea again, and I told him so, up and down. So
now he has written for you to go with Emily; and, if you are not
afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be
dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always
needs somebody, on account of her blindness. I do not think she
has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind,
for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife. “I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed
her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought
of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and
fit her for her many trials and labors. The letter written soon
after Mr. Cooper's death, is the last that has reached me, and
I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write
to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father
will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe;
my heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me, but
not if she leave any other duty behind. I trust to you, my love,
to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a
great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness.
Mrs. Graham has two nieces who are with us at the hotel. They
are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very
beautiful girls, especially Belle Clinton, whom you have seen in
Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and
I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted
affection of “Miss Gertrude Flint: I am married, and intend to go
abroad on the 28th of April; my daughter will accompany
us, and, as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I am induced to propose
that you join us in New York, and attend the party, as a companion
to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which
you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would
compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a
spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a
sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in
my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for
her. I thus put it in your power, by complying with our wishes,
to do away from my mind the recollection of your past behavior;
and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain
the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the
month, it is important you should be here in the course of a fortnight;
and, if you will write and name the day, I will myself meet
you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston,
I hope you will come as soon as possible. As you will be obliged
to incur expenses, I enclose a sum of money sufficient to cover
them. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount,
and I will see that all is made right before you leave. Trusting
to your being now come to a sense of your duty, I am ready to
subscribe myself your friend, “My Dear Mrs. Jeremy: As yesterday was the day on which
we expected to sail for Europe, you will be somewhat astonished
to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn
that the foreign tour is now indefinitely postponed. Only two
days since, Mr. Graham was seized with his old complaint, the
gout, and the attack proved so violent as seriously to threaten his
life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his
physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer,
and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable for months to come.
His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as it is possible
for him to bear the journey, we shall all hasten to the house in
D—. I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions
which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did
not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to
your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces,
who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are,
of course, greatly disappointed at the entire change in their plans
for the summer. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her
father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to
meet him in Paris. “My darling Gertrude: My much-loved child,—for such
you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone
wrung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness
that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to
my heart and call you mine. A dozen times before had I been
seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued
and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of
nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the
voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced.
Had I seen you happy, gay and light-hearted, I would not have
asked to share your joy, far less would I have east a shadow on
your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and
your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred,
and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for I am a
wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe. “My dear, dear Father,—If I may dare to believe that you
are so, and, if not that, my best of friends,—how shall I write to
you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery!
Father! blessed word! O, that my noble friend were indeed my
father! Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas! I feel a
sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error.
I never before remember to have heard the name of Philip Amory.
My sweet, pure and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the
world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, I
trust, to my own. Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide
world; never had, or could have. One might as well war with
an angel of Heaven as with a creatures so holy and lovely as she. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 25 | Author: | Cummins
Maria S.
(Maria Susanna)
1827-1866 | Add | | | Title: | Mabel Vaughan | | | | 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 a pleasant midsummer's afternoon, a middle-aged lady,
with a mild and thoughtful face, sat alone in her quiet parlor,
busily engaged in sewing. It was a country home in which
she dwelt, and her low window opened directly into a green
and sloping orchard, now fragrant with new-mown hay, the
sweet breath of which was borne in on every passing breeze.
She was a woman of many cares, and but little leisure, and for
more than an hour had not lifted her eyes from her work,
when, suddenly attracted by the merry voices of children, she
arrested herself in the act of setting a stitch, and, with her
needle still poised between finger and thumb, leaned her elbow
on the window-sill and for several minutes gazed earnestly and
attentively upon a little group collected beneath an opposite
tree. They were too far off for their words to be distinguishable,
but happiness shone in their faces, mirth rang in their
careless shout, and joy danced in all their motions. Whether
chasing the light butterfly, pelting each other with tufts of hay,
or, in the very exuberance of their spirits, scampering without
purpose or rest in the sunshine, they were in every view pictures
of infant glee, cheering and happy sights to a mother's
heart. Though now and then smiling on their sport, however,
the gentle-faced lady at the window was watching them with a
more thoughtful and observant gaze than the occasion seemed
to warrant, for she saw amid their play what a less careful eye
might have failed to discern, and from it she drew a moral. “Dearest May:—After three days and nights of constant
travelling, I arrived at the miserable town from which father
wrote to you, and found him wretchedly accommodated in a
mere barn of a place, every tolerable room in the tavern, and
every spare corner in the few private houses, having been
appropriated to those of the passengers who were more seriously
injured. Father's escape seems almost miraculous, as
he was in the front car, which rolled over twice as it fell down
27*
the embankment. He has suffered considerably from a bruise
on his back, and a sprain in the ancle, which made him quite
helpless for a few days. He has, also, had an uncomfortable
sensation of dizziness in the head, but that is merely the natural
effect of the jar, and has already begun to subside. Do not be
anxious about him, for I flatter myself I make a capital doctor,
nurse, cook, and housekeeper, all of which offices have devolved
upon me. “Dear Miss Mabel,” wrote Lydia, “I'm afraid you don't
know that Mrs. Leroy is very sick at the hotel here in New
York. I hated to frighten you, and didn't know how to tell
you of it without; but mother says you ought to know, for it
wouldn't be like you not to come right away. When she first
took sick, Cecilia sent for us, and we've been here ever since.
Cecilia has gone back to Cape May to wait on another lady.
Mother does the best she can, and I try to be of some use.
The folks in the hotel are very good, and the doctor comes
ever so often; but he can't seem to help her, and she's getting
very bad. Oh, Miss Mabel, we wish you were here, and we
hope you will start as soon as you get this. “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—Your kind New Year's letter,
with all the pleasant reminiscences, affectionate messages, and
loving inquiries from yourself and the dear girls, was a most
welcome proof of the tender interest with which you have
followed me to my new home, and claims a hearty response;
though before I have answered half your questions, I fear
you will weary of my Western experiences. We have now
passed two winters in our new home, and begin to feel ourselves
old settlers;—the more so, as no less than thirty families
have established themselves in the village since our arrival.
As we are a little on the outskirts of the town, however, we
have no near neighbor, except Mr. Gracie, the clergyman,
who lives across the opposite bit of prairie, and who, with his
daughter, are our most intimate and esteemed friends. I have
frequently spoken of Helen in my letters, so her name and many
points of her disposition and character are no doubt familiar to
you. But you cannot imagine the treasure she has been
to me, ever since the first moment of our acquaintance. Next
to yourself, there is no one to whom I am so much indebted
for the ease and pleasure with which I have been enabled to
adapt myself to our new circumstances. Care sits so lightly
on her shoulders, and she knows so well how to combine employment
and recreation, that in her society the most important
duties cease to be burdensome, and little mishaps afford
only new occasion for merriment. The children of the rough
backwoodsmen, who are among her father's parishioners, hear
the sound of her horse's feet, and run to meet her the moment
she is in sight, sure of some trifling gift, a story, or a ride on
the pony, which seems to be common property. If she goes
with her basket of medicines to visit the sick, at a distance,
she comes back so laden with flowers, you would think she
had been a Maying; and an old Canadian Indian woman, to
whom she daily reads a chapter in her French Bible, declares
her voice more musical than running water. I have never
seen father so abstracted with the cares of business that he
has not a pleasant word for his fairy nurse, as he calls her,
and no bribe is so effectual with the boys, or inducement
rather (for I, like you, scorn the use of bribes), as the promise
of an evening visit to Helen. As for Harry—but never
mind about Harry—sisters are so suspicious, you know, where
their brothers are concerned. “Dear Aunt Sabiah:—thus she wrote—I have been
wandering about the house for the last half hour, asking myself
whether the cottage-roofed chamber above can be made
warm in winter, and cool in summer, whether the stairs are
not too steep for any but youthful feet to climb, whether our
parlor is not too contracted for comfort, and the view from its
windows too strange and dreary to ever wear the look of home;
and I have concluded, in spite of all disadvantages, that, with
love on our side, and the earnest wish to make you happy, you
would be far more comfortable here, than in my aunt Ridgway's
spacious and richly-furnished mansion. I never dared
say this before. I never ventured to breathe the hope I have
long had at heart, for I knew your love of old associations, and
your dislike of change. But your last letter has made me
bold. I cannot bear the thought that you are subjected to
such trials, such hardships, and such absolute indignities, as I
plainly perceive you have lately been made to suffer, when
here you would be independent, appreciated, and beloved. It
is true we have not, as we once had, luxuries to offer, but we
have all the necessaries and most of the comforts of life, and
these, too, in abundance; for our Western lands are so lavish
in their produce, that hospitality with us almost ceases to be a
virtue. Then, too, although my father, as you well know, has
sacrificed everything but this Western property for the payment
of his debts, and is unwilling to dispose of any portion of
the estate at present, Harry is gradually bringing a large part
of it under cultivation, and, if his success continues, the rent
which he insists upon paying, will not only furnish us with
every needed supply, but enable us to lay by something for
the children's education. So, even if your poor hands are dis
abled with the rheumatism, you need not fear that your presence
here will be the burden which you say it is to my aunt
Margaret. On the contrary, we shall hail your coming with
delight, and shall rejoice to contribute in every way to your
happiness. I have consulted father, who quite agrees with me
in my view of the matter, and will, I am sure, be rejoiced to
welcome you. The boys are improving very much as they
grow older, and now that they have such an ample play-ground,
you will not suffer at all from their noise. Our village shop-keeper
goes to the eastward every spring for the purchase of
goods, and will be a most excellent escort on the journey. You
see I am quite taking it for granted you will come, but it is
because I feel so truly, dear aunt, that your rightful and
natural place is at our hearth-stone, as well as in our hearts;
and because I know you so well that I venture to believe you
will not disappoint the earnest wishes and hopes of “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—When I look back to the days
of my childhood, there ever arises before me the image of one
dear friend, whose tender love and devoted care made it a
blessed and happy portion of my life, on which memory loves
to dwell. When I consider the years which have since intervened,
I can not fail to be reminded, that at every step I have
been counselled, strengthened and cheered, by the advice, the
warnings, and the lessons of this same dear friend; and now
that I am about to enter upon a new sphere of duty, I feel an
instinctive yearning to still claim a place in her good wishes,
her affection, and her prayers. You have cherished the child,
encouraged the woman—let me bespeak your loving sympathy
for the wife. It does not become me to say much of him to
whom, to-morrow, I expect to stand in this new and near
relation. Some day, I trust, you will see and know Mr.
Percival, and be enabled to judge for yourself. But if genuine
simplicity and true manliness of heart and life entitle a man to
honor, I may well be proud of the station which he holds, both
independently, and in the world's opinion; and if strength of
Christian principle is the surest foundation for confidence and
trust, I may well believe that the sentiments which he now
professes are sincere, and will be lasting. I trust I have not
said too much; but indeed, dear Mrs. Herbert, my only fear is
that I am not worthy to be the object of his choice; and it is
that I may become so, that I chiefly beg an interest in your
prayers. Bayard (for you will wish to know him by his Christian
name also) is the son of Counsellor Percival, as he was
usually called, a lawyer, formerly of high standing in New
York city, but now for some years deceased. His widow is
still living, vigorous and active, although nearly seventy-six
years of age. She, too, is well known in New York and elsewhere,
for the active part she has taken in every philanthropic
and benevolent scheme; nor does she, even at her present
advanced period of life, feel herself excused from exertion, or
unfitted for active duty. You will realize this, when I tell you
that she has recently taken a house in Cambridge, with the
view of furnishing a home for two of her grandsons, now students
at Harvard, and that she has invited Alick and Murray
also to become members of her family. No proposition could
have been more opportune, so far as the boys are concerned;
for Alick hopes to be prepared for admission to the University
at the commencement of the next collegiate year, and Murray
could nowhere pursue, to such advantage, the mathematical
studies which are to fit him for his chosen profession—that
of an engineer. At first, we all opposed the plan, fearing
Madam Percival was assuming too much care; but she over-persuaded
my father and Harry, convinced me that she anticipated
only pleasure from the charge, and finally carried her
point. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 27 | Author: | Curtis
George William
1824-1892 | Add | | | Title: | Trumps | | | | 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: | Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous merchant.
No gentleman on 'Change wore more spotless linen
or blacker broadcloth. His ample white cravat had an air of
absolute wisdom and honesty. It was so very white that his
fellow-merchants could not avoid a vague impression that he
had taken the church on his way down town, and had so purified
himself for business. Indeed a white cravat is strongly
to be recommended as a corrective and sedative of the public
mind. Its advantages have long been familiar to the clergy;
and even, in some desperate cases, politicians have found a resort
to it of signal benefit. There are instructive instances,
also, in banks and insurance offices of the comfort and value
of spotless linen. Combined with highly-polished shoes, it is
of inestimable mercantile advantage. “My dear Abel,—You have now nearly reached the age
at which, by your grandfather's direction, you were to leave
school and enter upon active life. Your grandfather, who
had known and respected Mr. Gray in former years, left you,
as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, upon condition
of your being placed at Mr. Gray's until your nineteenth
birthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth
birthday you will leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best
accounts of you. My plans for you are not quite settled.
What are your own wishes? It is late for you to think of
college; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man, I see
no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin poetry. At
your age I was earning my own living. Your mother and
the family are well. Your affectionate father, “Dear Abel,—I am very glad to hear from Mr. Gray of
your fine progress in study, and your general good character
and deportment. I trust you give some of your leisure to
solid reading. It is very necessary to improve the mind.
I hope you attend to religion. It will help you if you keep a
record of Dr. Peewee's texts, and write abstracts of his sermons.
Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you
are very self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend
Mrs. Beacon was here last week, and she says you bow beautifully!
That is a great deal for her to admit, for her son
Bowdoin is one of the most elegant and presentable young men
I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanly indeed. He and
Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son,
could you not learn to waltz before you come home? It is
considered very bad by some people, because you have to put
your arm round the lady's waist. But I think it is very foolish
for any body to set themselves up against the customs of
society. I think if it is permitted in Paris and London, we
needn't be so very particular about it in New York. Mr.
Dinks and Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very
distingué indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister
Fanny says the Boston young men stick out their elbows
dreadfully when they waltz, and look like owls spinning on invisible
teetotums. She declares, too, that all the Boston girls
are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beacon
and Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance
as well as our young men here. And as for the Boston ladies,
Mr. Dinks tells Fanny that he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne,
who lives in Delafield, who might alter her opinion of the
dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a great heiress,
C
and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know how
idle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Alfred
Dinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and
shakes his head—the truth is, he hasn't much to say for himself.
Bless me! I've got to take another sheet. “Dear Sir,—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a
long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I
thought you would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in
New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you
receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who
will stay at Bunker's. “Dear Aunty,—We're about going away, and we have
been so gay that you would suppose I had had `society'
enough. Do you remember our talk? There have been a
great many people here from every part of the country; and
it has been nothing but bowling, walking, riding, dancing,
dining at the lake, and listening to music in the moonlight, all
the time. Aunt Dinks has been very kind, but although I
have met a great many people I have not made many friends.
I have seen nobody whom I like as much as Amy Waring or
Mr. Lawrence Newt, of whom I wrote you from New York,
and they have neither of them been here. I think of Pinewood
a great deal, but it seems to me long and long ago that
I used to live there. It is strange how much older and different
I feel. But I never forget you, dearest Aunty, and I should
like this very moment to stand by your side at your window
as I used to, and look out at the hills, or, better still, to lie in
your lap or on my bed, and hear you sing one of the dear old
hymns. I thought I had forgotten them until lately. But I
remember them very often now. I think of Pinewood a great
deal, and I love you dearly; and yet somehow I do not feel
as if I cared to go back there to live. Isn't that strange?
Give my love to Grandpa, and tell him I am neither engaged
to a foreign minister, nor a New York merchant, nor a Southern
planter—nor to any body else. But he must keep up
heart, for there's plenty of time yet. Good-by, dear Aunty.
I seem to hear you singing,
`Oh that I now the rest might know!'
Do you know how often you used to sing that? Good-by. “My dear Mr. Newt,—Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather
has had a stroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt
Dinks has, therefore, resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall
go with her. She seems very much affected, indeed, by the
news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor says grandfather
will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes you
could go on with us. I know that you have some kind of
association with Pinewood—you have not told me what. In
this summer weather you will find it very beautiful; and you
know how glad I shall be to have you for my guest. My
guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill I
must be what my mother would have been—mistress of the
house. I shall hardly feel more lonely than I always did when
he was active, for we had but little intercourse. In case of his
death, which I suppose to be very near, I shall not care to live
at the old place. In fact, I do not very clearly see what I am
to do. But there is One who does; and I remember my dear
old nurse's hymn, `On Thee I cast my care.' Come, if you can. “My dear Belch,—B. Newt, Son, & Co. have stopped.
We do not hear of an assignment, so desire you to take steps
at once to secure judgment upon the inclosed account. “My dear Sir,—I have just heard of your misfortunes.
Don't be dismayed. In the shindy of life every body must
have his head broken two or three times, and in our country
'tis a man's duty to fall on his feet. Such men as Abel Newt
are not made to fail. I want to see you immediately. “Fellow-Citizens, — Deeply grateful for the honorable
trust you have so long confided to me, nothing but the imperative
duty of attending to my private affairs, seriously injured
by my public occupations, would induce me to resign it into
your hands. But while his country may demand much of
every patriot, there is a point, which every honest man feels,
at which he may retire. I should be deeply grieved to take
this step did I not know how many abler representatives you
can find in the ranks of that constituency of which any man
may be proud. I leave the halls of legislation at a moment
when our party is consolidated, when its promise for the future
was never more brilliant, and when peace and prosperity
seem to have taken up their permanent abode in our happy
country, whose triumphant experiment of popular institutions
makes every despot shake upon his throne. Gentlemen, in
bidding you farewell I can only say that, should the torch of
the political incendiary ever be applied to the sublime fabric
of our system, and those institutions which were laid in our
father's struggles and cemented with their blood, should totter
and crumble, I, for one, will be found going down with the
ship, and waving the glorious flag of our country above the
smouldering ruins of that moral night. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 28 | Author: | Eggleston
Edward
1837-1902 | Add | | | Title: | The end of the world | | | | 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 DON'T believe that you'd care a cent if she
did marry a Dutchman! She might as well as to
marry some white folks I know.” “If all they say is true, you have quickly changed. I do
not hold you by any promises you wish to break. “To whom it may concern: I have a list of eight men connected
with the riotous mob which broke into the house of Gottlieb Wehle, a
peaceable and unoffending citizen of the United States. The said eight
men proceeded to commit an assault and battery on the person of the
said Gottlieb Wehle, and even endeavored at one time to take his life.
And the said riotous conduct was the result of a conspiracy, and the
said assault with intent to kill was with malice aforethought. The said
eight men, after having committed grievous outrages upon him by
dipping him in the water and by other means, warned the said Wehle
not to return to the State. Now, therefore, I give notice to all
and several of those concerned in these criminal proceedings that
the said Wehle has returned by my advice; and that if so much as a
hair of his head or a splinter of his property is touched I will appear
against said parties and will prosecute them until I secure the infliction
of the severest penalties made and provided for the punishment
of such infamous crimes. I hope I am well enough known here to
render it certain that if I once begin proceedings nothing but success
or my death or the end of the world can stop them. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 29 | Author: | Halpine
Charles G.
(Charles Graham)
1829-1868 | Add | | | Title: | The life and adventures, songs, services, and speeches
of Private Miles O'Reilly [pseud.] (47th regiment, New York volunteers.) | | | | 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: | MY Dear N: Our friend, Major Wright, showed
me one paragraph of your letter to him, in
which you referred, apparently with surprise, to the
fact that the attack on Charleston by the iron-clads
should have been discontinued “when so few casualties
had occurred.” This is so obvious a reflection,
on the first hasty view of the affair, and one so radically
unjust when we look calmly at the facts, that,
in Major Wright's absence (he has gone down the
posts along the Florida coast on a tour of inspection)
I will venture to occupy your time a few moments
on the subject. “Sir:— We take pleasure in inviting you to be
present as a guest, on the occasion of a banquet for
which we have found an excellent excuse in the
person of Private Miles O'Reilly, Forty-seventh
regiment New York Volunteers, late a prisoner on
Morris Island, South Carolina, but released from
durance vile by order of our benevolent and truly
amiable President. All guests must bring with
them an unlimited supply of good appetite and
humor. The napkins, wines and things will be provided
by our accomplished caterer. Have to remain here watching my Cabinet. There
might be a row in the family if I went away. Telegraphing
not a good medium for stories; but have
an anecdote appropriate to O'Reilly's case, which I
send in letter by this day's mail. Gentlemen,—I regret that a sentiment and surroundings
which you can appreciate will not allow
me to join your festive assembly. The Navy is not
forgetful of the tribute paid by Private O'Reilly to
the merit of many of its most deserving officers. In
the manly pathos of his reference to the late Fleet
Captain George W. Rodgers, in that song for which
he suffered imprisonment, he struck strings of the
human heart which must vibrate so long as courage
can enkindle respect, or the death of a hero and
martyr claim the tribute of a tear. Your invitation reaches me just as I am preparing
to move upon the enemy's works. Be assured my
sympathies are with every movement which aims to
acknowledge our indebtedness, as individuals and as
a nation, to the private soldiers—the countless,
nameless, unrewarded, often disregarded heroes of
the musket and bayonet—to whose true patriotism,
patient endurance, and courage in the day of danger
we, who are generals, owe victory, and the country
will yet owe its salvation. Gentlemen,—A recent chill blast from Ohio,
coupled with a cold shiver recently caught in
Pennsylvania,* have laid me up with an indisposition
which confines me to that home in which I am both
prized and appreciated. I look upon your banquet
with a single eye to the public good; and am far
from convinced that it may not soon be even a better
investment to take stock in the national fortunes, than
to embark with my friend Lamar in that blockaderunning
enterprise about which some of my foolish
enemies have lately been making a fuss. Just now
I am so doubled up with rheumatic twinges that my
walk is slantendicular; and I make it my rule never
to appear in public when in this attitude. Very
candidly and sincerely yours. Dear Develin—Am just polishing off and finishing
up Mayor Opdyke. Will be with you in a moment
when I get through. Gentlemen—Your invitation is received, but me
it does not suit to be of your guests invited. I, who
have bearded a Russian Emperor, am not to bow in
homage abject to any of the great asses who are in
this country heroes made. The President (I have
proved it) is a mountebank; Secretary Seward is a
faineant and traitor; General McClellan is a traitor
and ass. Chase is an ass. I have no doubt Gillmore
is an assish asinine ass; as indeed are all the men
whose names we in the newspapers see, or in men's
mouths hear, there being only one exception, who is
with highest consideration, yours, Am worried to death about the New York Police
Commissioners. Sometimes think I will remove
them; sometimes think that I won't. If I can make
up my mind either one way or other, will be with
you. If not, will stay here, and do nothing else but
try. Gentlemen—I regret that the severe studies and
labors in which I am now engaged will not permit
me to be present at your very interesting demonstration.
Having commenced my investigations of
naval science by a close analysis of that most famous
vessel of antiquity in which the second great progenitor
of our race avoided destruction—and of which,
let me add, the so-called models placed in the hands
of our children are even ludicrously erroneous when
examined by the light of antiquarian science—I
have now reached, in my descending studies, the
type of vessels used in the great Spanish armada;
and it is my hope, ere the termination of an existence
already bountifully protracted, to have brought
down my researches to that amazing new starting
point in naval history—the discoveries and successful
experiments of the immortal Fulton! With the
introduction of steam as a motor of vessels, a great
change, all will admit, has been effected in the conditions
of maritime warfare. That change it is my
hope, and shall be my unceasing endeavor to grasp
and appreciate, if not while in official existence, then
in that bright and tranquil period of repose which a
grateful country will not fail to afford to the declining
years of a conscientious and faithful old public
servant. Gentlemen—As you have had the good taste to
invite the members of my staff and the most prominent
officers of my command, as well as myself, I
thank you in their name and in my own. The managers
of the late Russian banquet did differently; but
those managers were members of the Common Council,
which explains, if it does not palliate their offence.
Their neglect in this respect extended to
the Governor of the State, only one member of whose
military family was asked; and to General Dix, who
was invited to appear, so far as I can learn, altogether
unattended, to meet foreign officers, some of
equal, many of inferior, rank—but all attended by
their proper retinue. I thank you again in behalf
of my staff and the senior officers of the First Division,
as also for myself; and beg to assure you that
such of us as feel like it, will, with pleasure, avail
ourselves of your very kind and hospitable invitation. Let to-day be chronicled as a great day for Ireland,
and let it live as the greatest of Thanksgiving Days
in American history! This afternoon took place the
interesting ceremonial of presenting Private Miles
O'Reilly, Forty-seventh Regiment New York Volunteers,
to his Excellency the President of the United
States, by whom, in turn, the young Milesian warrior
and bard of the Tenth army corps was presented to
several members of the Cabinet and foreign diplomatic
corps, who were paying a Thanksgiving Day
call to the President when the cards of General
T. F. Meagher and Father Murphy were handed in
by Colonel Hay—these gentlemen having kindly
consented to act as the chaperons, or social godfathers
and godmothers of Private O'Reilly, who was accompanied
by Major Kavanagh and Captain Breslin, of
the old Sixty-ninth New York, and by Mr. Luke
Clark, of the Fifth Ward of your City, as his own
“special friends.” The details of this interview will
hereafter form an instructive episode in the grand
drama of our national history. It was in a manner
the apotheosis of democratic principles—an acknowledgment
of our indebtedness to the men who carry
muskets in our armies. It had its political significance,
also, and may prove another link between our
soldiers in the field and the present lengthy occupant
of the White House, who is understood to be not
averse to the prospect of a lengthier lease of that
“desirable country residence,” which has none of the
modern improvements. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 30 | Author: | Harte
Bret
1836-1902 | Add | | | Title: | The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches | | | | 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: | Respected Sir, — When you read this, I am run
away. Never to come back. Never, Never, NEVER.
You can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my
Amerika's Pride [a highly colored lithograph from a
tobacco-box] to Sally Flanders. But don't you give
anything to Clytie Morpher. Don't you dare to. Do
you know what my oppinion is of her, it is this, she is
perfekly disgustin. That is all and no more at present
from | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 33 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Add | | | Title: | Septimius Felton, or, The elixir of life | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was a day in early spring; and as that sweet,
genial time of year and atmosphere calls out tender
greenness from the ground, — beautiful flowers, or
leaves that look beautiful because so long unseen
under the snow and decay, — so the pleasant air and
warmth had called out three young people, who sat
on a sunny hillside enjoying the warm day and one
another. For they were all friends: two of them
young men, and playmates from boyhood; the third,
a girl who, two or three years younger than themselves,
had been the object of their boy-love, their
little rustic, childish gallantries, their budding affections;
until, growing all towards manhood and womanhood,
they had ceased to talk about such matters,
perhaps thinking about them the more. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 34 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | Darkness and daylight | | | | 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: | Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve
long years its massive walls of dark grey stone had
frowned in gloomy silence upon the passers-by, the terror
of the superstitious ones, who had peopled its halls with
ghosts and goblins, saying even that the snowy-haired old
man, its owner, had more than once been seen there, moving
restlessly from room to room and muttering of the
darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair
young wife and her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man
was not dead, but for years he had been a stranger to his
former home. “Dear Sir: — A wholly unexpected event makes it
necessary for me to be absent from home for the next few
weeks. During this time my house will be shut up, and
I shall be very glad if in her daily rides Miss Hastings
will occasionally come round this way and see that every
thing is straight. I would like much to give the keys into
her charge, knowing as I do that I can trust her. The books
in my library are at her disposal, as is also the portfolio
of drawings, which I will leave upon the writing table. “Dear Sir, — Miss Hastings accepts the great honor of
looking after your house, and will see that nothing gets
mouldy during your absence. “Darling Miggie: — Nina has been so sick this great
long while, and her head is so full of pain. Why don't
you come to me, Miggie? I sit and wait and listen till
my forehead thumps and thumps, just as a bad nurse
thumped it once down in the Asylum. “Poor blind man! Nina is so sorry for you to-night,
because she knows that what she has to tell you will crush
the strong life all out of your big heart, and leave it as
cold and dead as she will be when Victor reads this to
you. There won't be any Nina then, for Miggie and
Arthur, and a heap more, will have gone with her way
out where both my mothers are lying, and Miggie'll cry,
I reckon, when she hears the gravel stones rattling down
just over my head, but I shall know they cannot hit me,
for the coffin-lid will be between, and Nina'll lie so still.
No more pain; no more buzzing; no more headache; no
more darkness; won't it be grand, the rest I'm going to.
I shan't be crazy in Heaven. Arthur says so, and he
knows. “.... It will be dreadful at first, I know, and may
be all three of the darknesses will close around you for a
14
time, — darkness of the heart, darkness of the brain, and
darkness of the eyes, but it will clear away and the daylight
will break, in which you will be happier than in
calling Miggie your wife, and knowing how she shrinks
from you, suffering your caresses only because she knows
she must, but feeling so sick at her stomach all the time,
and wishing you wouldn't touch her. I know just how it
feels, for when Arthur kissed me, or took my hand, or even
came in my sight, before the buzz got into my head, it
made me so cold and faint and ugly, the way the Yankees
mean, knowing he was my husband when I wanted Charlie
Hudson. Don't subject Miggie to this horrid fate.
Be generous and give her up to Arthur. He may not deserve
her more than you, but she loves him the best and
that makes a heap of difference. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 35 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The pillar of fire, or, Israel in bondage | | | | 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 trust, my dear Sesostris,” he writes, “that you
are passing your time both with pleasure and profit, in
visiting places of interest in the valley of the Lower
Nile, and in studying the manners and usages of the
people. You will find the pyramids an exhaustless
source of attraction. From the priests, who are the
most intelligent and learned class in Egypt, you will
obtain all the information respecting those mysterious
monuments of the past, which is known, besides many
legends. “Your Majesty,—I address my letter to you from
this petty castle, though, albeit, the stronghold of your
kingdom seaward, over which you have made me governor.
For a subject, this would be a post of honor.
For me, the son of your husband's brother, your royal
nephew, it is but an honorable exile from a court where
you fear my presence. Honorable, do I say?—rather,
dishonorable; for am I not a prince of the blood of
the Pharaohs? But let this pass, your majesty. I
do not insist upon any thing based upon mere lineage.
I feel that I was aggrieved by the birth of Remeses. I
see that you turn pale. Do not do so yet. You must
read further before the blood wholly leaves your cheek.
I repeat, I am aggrieved by the `birth of Remeses.'
You see I quote the last three words. Ere you close
this letter, your majesty will know why I mark them
thus. Your husband, the vicegerent of the Thisitic
kingdom of the South, after leaving his capital, Thebes,
at the head of a great army, died like a soldier descended
from a line of a thousand warrior kings, in
combat with the Ethiopian. I was then, for your majesty
was without offspring, the heir to the throne of
Egypt. I was the son of your husband's younger
brother. Though but three years old when your lord
was slain, I had learned the lesson that I was to be king
of Egypt, when I became a man. But to the surprise
of all men, of your council of priests, and your cabinet
of statesmen, lo! you soon afterwards became a mother,
when no evidences of this promise had been apparent!
Nay, do not cast down this letter, O queen! Read it to
the end! It is important you should know all. “Your Majesty,—I write from my pavilion pitched
at the foot of the Libyan mountains. I need not forewarn
you of the subject of this letter, when I assure you
that within the hour I have received intelligence from
Memphis, that you are about to abdicate your throne in
favor of Remeses, your suppositious son. This intelligence
does not surprise me. When I was in Lower
Egypt, I saw through you and your policy. I perceived
that while you feared me, you resolved to defeat my
power over you. This purpose, to surrender the sceptre
of the two Egypts, I can penetrate. You design, thereby,
securely to place Remeses beyond my power to
harm him, for that, being king, if I lift a finger he can
destroy me. I admire your policy, and bow in homage
to your diplomacy. But, O queen, both you and
Remeses are in my power! Nay, do not flash your
imperial eyes at this assertion. Hear me for a few
moments. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 36 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The Prince of the House of David, or, Three years in
the Holy City | | | | 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: | My Dear Father:—My first duty, as it is my highest
pleasure, is to comply with your command to write
you as soon as I arrived at Jerusalem; and this letter,
while it conveys to you intelligence of my arrival, will
confirm to you my filial obedience. “Dearest Ruth:—I fear you have been impatient at
my long silence; but I love you not less, though you do
not often hear from me. Now that I am safe I will write
to you, which I would not do in a state of uncertainty.
Know that after our ship left Cesarea for Crete, we were
caught by a north wind, and in striving to make the east
end of the island, we lost way, and were driven upon
Africa, where we were wrecked, losing all our cargo, and
the lives of many who sailed with us. With others, I was
taken by the barbarians, and carried inland to a country
of rocky mountains, and there became a bondman to one
of the chief men of the nation wherein I was captivated.
At length, inspired by a consciousness of the anguish you
and my beloved mother must suffer, should you never
more hear tidings of me, I resolved to effect my escape.
After great perils, I reached the sea-side, and at the
expiration of many days, by following the coast, I was
taken on board by a small ship of Cyprus, and conveyed
to Alexandria. The vessel was owned by a rich merchant
of my own people, Manassah Benjamin Ben Israel, who,
finding me sick and destitute of all things, just as I
escaped, took me home to his hospitable house, and treated
me as a son till I recovered my health and strength; saying
that he had a daughter far away, in Judea, and he
hoped that if she ever needed the aid of strangers, God
would repay him by making them kind to her.” “The bearer, beloved, is one of the disciples of Jesus.
His name is Bartimeus. He was blind and poor, and
subsisted by begging; and, as you see, his sight is restored,
and he insists now on going from town to town where he
has been known as a blind man, to proclaim what Jesus
has done for him. He takes this to you. I write to say
that I wish thou mayest prosper in all things, and find
the health for which thou and thy cousin sought the air of
Mount Tabor. I have no greater joy than to hear of your
welfare. This letter cometh beseeching thee, lady, that as
we love one another unfeignedly, so may we soon be united
in that holy union which God hath blessed and commanded.
I would have thee bear in remembrance that
thou gavest thy promise hereto when last we met at Nazareth.
But, having much to say hereupon, I will not
commit it to paper and ink; but by to-morrow, or the day
after, I trust to come to you, and speak with you, dearly
beloved, face to face, those things which come now to my
lips. Farewell, lady, and peace be with you, and all in
your house. Greet thy friends in my name, letting them
know that we shall shortly be with you, with Amos, your
father, now our dear brother in the Lord. There are
many things which I have seen and heard touching my
holy Master, Jesus, and his holy mission to the world,
which I will declare unto you when we meet, that you also
may have fellowship with us in those things which we
know and believe concerning him. My Master saluteth
thee and all in your house; Amos, also, greeteth thee with
10*
a kiss. This is the second epistle I have written unto you
from Nazareth.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 39 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | Title: | Margaret | | | | 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: | “Didymus Hart being summoned to this Committee, on
the information of sundry witnesses, that the said Hart on
the 27th day of this month, had violated the laws of the
Continental and Provincial Congress, and done other acts
contrary to the liberties of the country, appeared, and after
due proof being made of said charge, the said Hart was
pleased to make a full confession thereof, and in the most
equivocal and insulting manner attempted to vindicate said
conduct, to wit:— “Whereas I, the subscriber, have from the perverseness
of my wicked heart maliciously and scandalously abused
the character and proceedings of the Continental and Provincial
Congress, Selectmen of this town, and the Committees
of Safety in general, I do hereby declare, that at
the time of my doing it, I knew the said abuses to be the
most scandalous falsehoods, and that I did it for the sole
purpose of abusing those bodies of men, and affronting my
townsmen, and all the friends of liberty throughout the
Continent. Being now fully sensible of my wickedness
and notorious falsehoods, I humbly beg pardon of those
worthy characters I have so scandalously abused, and voluntarily
renouncing my former principles, do promise for
the future to render my conduct unexceptionable to my
countrymen, by strictly adhering to the measures of Congress,
and desire this my confession may be printed in the
Kidderminster Chronicle for three weeks successively. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 40 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | Title: | Margaret | | | | 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: | My dear Anna:—You told me to write you every
thing; but how shall I utter myself? How can I give
shape or definition to what I am? Easy were it for me to
tell you what I am not. Has a volcano burst within me?
Has a tornado prostrated me? If you were to excavate
the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be, would you
find only charred effigies of things, silent fountains of old
emotions, deserted streets of a once busy and harmonious
life, skeletons of hopes stricken down in the act of running
from impending danger? With Rose, I would forget myself,
that to which this writing recalls me. She says I can
endure the prospect better than she. If this be so, it must
be attributed to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am
in ruins, and so are all things about me. Yet in the windfall
some trees are new sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding
the shattered edifice. View me as you will, I
think I am a doit improving. Do I begin existence wholly
anew, or rise I up from the chaos of an earlier condition?
What is the transition—from myself to myself, or from myself
to another? What is the link between Molly Hart and
Margaret Brückmann, can you tell? In which of the climacterics
do I now exist? I am witheringly afflicted.
Chilion is not!
“Te sine, væ misero mihi! lilia nigra videntur,
Palentesque rosæ, nec dulce rubens hyacinthus!”
The vision of those days distracts me, the remembrance of
my brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and
the sun is pale at midday. In Scotland are Caves of Music,
deep pits where unseen water keeps up a sort of midnight
melody. I am such a cave. Chilion flows through
me, a nethermost, mournfullest dirge. Then, too, Ma is so
silent; her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes
and weaves, hour after hour; I fear she will never smile
again. Pa has lost his glow of countenance; he has grown
absolutely pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip
on his leathern apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens
me. Nimrod comes down from the Ledge and does
his best to enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows
not how to be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the
time of Chilion's trial, and hobbles out to Chilion's boat,
where he sits by the hour. Rose is soothing and active,
but she has a load at her own heart, which, in truth, I need
help her bear. Isabel rides up almost every day, full of
sympathy and generous love. Deacon Ramsdill, Master
Elliman, Mrs. Bowker aud others, have made us kind
visits. Sibyl Radney comes and milks the cow, and does
some of my little chores. Yesterday, Rose and Isabel
went with me to the burying-ground. Good old Philip
Davis, the Sexton, so I have been told, had the courage and
the kindness to go one night and cover Chilion's grave
with green sod. It is by itself apart, in one corner of the
grounds. Few persons have been near it, and the tall grass
has grown rank about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved
in weeping. Murmur I could not; an inarticulate,
ungovernable anguish was all I could feel. O my brother!
I knew not I had such a brother; I knew not I loved such
a brother!—We found a dandelion budding on it—when I
was little, he taught me to love dandelions! Rose folded
me in her arms, Isabel prayed for me. I thought of the
blood-sweating agony of Him, the Divine Sufferer; it penetrated
and subdued mine. Mrs. Bowker gave me a lady's
slipper, taken from the plant Chilion sent her. There is a
fancy that flowers die, when those who have tended them
do. Will Chilion's flowers live? There are many of us
who will fulfil his love towards them. I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive
VOL. II. 18
under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I
am externally more calm, my nerves are less susceptable,
I sleep more soundly, and Margaret says there is some
color in my cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric
circles, I can say the three outer ones approximate a
healthy and natural state. But the fourth, the innermost,
the central core, what can I say of that? I dare not look
in there, I dare not reflect upon myself. One thing, I have
no real guilt to harass me; I only call to mind my follies.
My ambition has ever centered upon a solitary acquisition,
and for that alone have the energies of my being been
spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating, tender, great, solemn
sympathy. Beguiled by this desire, I mistook the demonstrations
of a selfish passion for tokens of a noble heart.
Betrayed beyond the bounds of strict propriety, I became
an object of the censure of mankind. Too proud to confess,
or too much confounded to explain my innocence, I
suffered the penalties of positive infamy. It always seemed
ot me that I was placid by nature, and moderate in my sensations.
This opposition created in me a new nature; my
calamities have imparted heat to my temper and acrimony
to my judgment. I became impetuous, vehement, and, as
it were, possessed. A new consciousness was revived, both
of what I was and of what the world was. Up to that time
I had floated on with tolerable serenity, trusting myself and
others, and ever hoping for the best. Then commenced
my contention and despair. I became all at once sensible
of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom literal
coals of fire are put. My heart swelled to enormous proportions;
it became diseased, and dreadfully painful. It
spread itself through my system, tyrannized over my
thought, and fed upon the choicest strength of my being.
My intellect was darkened, I became an atheist. Under
these circumstances, which you already know something
about, after having long kept it hidden, I declared myself
to Margaret. She had sufficient penetration to understand
me and magnanimity to love me; she awed me by her
superior, uniform goodness. I availed myself of a moment
when she was in tears to unfold the cause of my own. I
rejoiced in her weakness, because I thought thereby I could
find entrance to her greatness. The melancholy, to me
most melancholy, events of her brother's death, I need not
recapitulate. The end of my being is accomplished! The prophecy
of my life is fulfilled! My dreams have gone out in realities!
The Cross is erected on Mons Christi!
Yesterday, the Anniversary of our National Independence,
was the event consummated. The sacred emblem was made
by Mr. Palmer, from a superb block, of the purest marble,
out of his quarry, and is twenty feet high. We met near
the Brook Kedron, on the Via Salutaris. There were all the
members of Christ Church, the Masonic Corps, and a multitude
of others. I was to lead the procession, supported
by Mr. Evelyn; they had me seated on a milk-white
horse, dressed in white, with a wreath of twin flower vines
on my head. Then followed the Cross, borne on the shoulders
of twenty-four young men; next came the Bishop and
wife, the Deacons and their wives, Christ Church members,
two-and-two, man and woman; these were succeeded by
the Masons, and the line was closed by the people at large.
On the Head was a band of Christ Church musicians, playing
the Triumphs of Jesus, which we got from Germany.
We came over the Brook Kedron, traversed what we have
made the broad and ornamental Via Salutaris, and entered
the Avenue of the Beautiful. At the foot of the hill I dismounted.
By a winding gravel-walk I went up—with a
trembling, joyous step I went—followed by the Cross-bearers.
Reaching the summit, I wound the arms and
head of the Cross about with evergreens; the young men
raised it in its place, a solid granite plinth. Returning, we
assembled under the Butternut, in the Avenue of the
Beautiful, where Edward made a discourse to the people;
some idea of which I would like to convey to you. “Livingston.—We have long kept silence about the
VOL. II. 26
movements in this place; but the matter has become too
public to excuse any further negligence. Over the Red
Dragon of Infidelity they have drawn the skin of the Papal
Beast, and tricked the Monster with the trappings of Harlotry!
On the ruins of one of our Churches they have
erected a Temple to Human Pride and Carnal Reasoning.
The contamination is spreading far and wide; and unless
something be attempted, the Kingdom of God in our midst
must soon be surrendered to the arts of Satan. It is
understood that the Rev. Mr. L—, of B—, has openly and
repeatedly exchanged pulpits with the man who, having
denied his Lord and Master, they have had the hardihood
to invest with the robes of the Christian Office. Brethren,
shall we sleep, while the enemy is sowing tares in our
midst? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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