| | 44 | 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 |
| 45 | 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 |
| 48 | 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 |
| 52 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Cipher | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Spreading this upon the table before him, Mr. Gillies slowly read—but not
aloud, for, to have afforded gratuitous information upon his affairs even to the
walls and the sea, would have been to do violence to his nature—these words: Pardon the seeming discourtesy of my abrupt departure, and my first signifying it to
Francia. I could not see you again, Neria, I could not write to you of less than the
whole. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 53 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Outpost | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “The last day of October!” said the Sun to himself, —
“the last day of my favorite month, and the birthday of
my little namesake! See if I don't make the most of it!” “Since writing to you last month, I have been going on
with my studies under the Rev. Mr. Brown, as I then mentioned.
I do not find that it hurts me to study in the hot
weather at all; and I have enjoyed my vacation better this
way than if I had been idle. “We shall be at home on Wednesday evening, at six
o'clock, and shall bring some guests. You will please prepare
tea for eight persons; and make up five beds, three of
them single ones. Tell Susan to make the house look as
pretty as she can; and send for any thing she or you need in
the way of preparation. Yours of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your
letters always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the
world and the glory thereof, and find that all is vanity, as
saith the Preacher. Do not imagine that I am studying divinity
instead of medicine; but to-day is Sunday, and I have
been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the minister
besides. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 54 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Add | | | Title: | The shadow of Moloch mountain | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The Brewster Place
454EAF. [Page 005]. In-line image of a house with a straw roof and smoking chimney. In
front of the house is a person holding open a gate.
“My Dear Niece Beatrice: It is a long time
since we heard any thing from you, and I trust that
both you and brother Israel are in good health
and prospered in your undertakings. We are all
in the enjoyment of our usual health, except your
grandmother, who has an attack of rheumatism,
from standing at the porch-door talking to Jacob,
our hired man, about the new calf. This calf is
the daughter of Polly, the red and white heifer
that you liked so well and dressed with a garland
of wild flowers, which she pulled off and eat up.
That was last Independence-day, you remember, and
you got mostly blue flowers, because, you said, she
must be red, blue, and white. The new calf is very
pretty, and we think of raising it; but we shall not
name it until you come home, as you may have a
choice in the matter. Grandfather is very well, considering,
and often speaks of you. He says he wants
to see you very much, and hopes you will not have
grown out of knowledge. He forgets, being old, that
you are grown up already, and will not change outwardly
any more until you begin to grow old, which I
suppose will not be yet. “I know that you will feel remorseful, because, even
without fault of your own, you have done me an injustice
by your suspicions; and, later on, have dealt me a
blow whose wound will endure for years. To natures
ike yours, there is no comfort like reparation and
atonement. I offer you the opportunity for both in
this set of trinkets, brought from India by me for the
unknown lady of my love. If you will take them and
wear them, I shall feel that we are friends once more,
and that you have forgiven yourself and me for the injury
that friendship has sustained. Do not refuse me
this amends; and believe me always while I live, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 55 | Author: | Bagby
George William
1828-1883 | Add | | | Title: | What I did with my fifty millions | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | For twenty years at least I had been in the habit of
putting myself to sleep by imagining what I would do
with the precise sum of fifty millions of dollars. An
excellent hypnotic I found it, with no morphine or
chloral after-effects. It may have unfitted me for the
hard grind of actual life, but no matter now. When it
came I was as tranquil as a May morning. The fact is,
the transfer was not completed until the close of the
month of May, 1876. Negotiations, etc., had been going
on for months beforehand, and it has always been a
matter of inordinate pride to me that I attended to my
regular duties and kept the whole thing a profound secret
from my family, friends, and, indeed, everybody in
America—the money having come from Hindostan. It
required a deal of innocent lying to do this, but secrecy
was indispensable to the surprises I meditated, and a
surprise, you know, is the very cream of the delight as
well of giving as receiving. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 56 | Author: | Baldwin
Joseph G.
(Joseph Glover)
1815-1864 | Add | | | Title: | The flush times of Alabama and Mississippi | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | And what history of that halcyon period, ranging from the
year of Grace, 1835, to 1837; that golden era, when shin-plasters
were the sole currency; when bank-bills were “as
thick as Autumn leaves in Vallambrosa,” and credit was a
franchise,—what history of those times would be complete,
that left out the name of Ovid Bolus? As well write the
biography of Prince Hal, and forbear all mention of Falstaff.
In law phrase, the thing would be a “deed without a
name,” and void; a most unpardonable casus omissus. My Dear Sir,—Having established, at great expense,
and from motives purely patriotic and disinterested, a monthly
periodical for the purpose of supplying a desideratum in
American Literature, namely, the commemoration and perpetuation
of the names, characters, and personal and professional
traits and histories of American lawyers and jurists, I
have taken the liberty of soliciting your consent to be made
the subject of one of the memoirs, which shall adorn the columns
of this Journal. This suggestion is made from my
knowledge, shared by the intelligence of the whole country,
of your distinguished standing and merits in our noble profession;
and it is seconded by the wishes and requests of
many of the most prominent gentlemen in public and private
life, who have the honor of your acquaintance. Dear Sir—I got your letter dated 18 Nov., asking me
to send you my life and karackter for your Journal. Im
obleeged to you for your perlite say so, and so forth. I got
a friend to rite it—my own ritin being mostly perfeshunal.
He done it—but he rites such a cussed bad hand I cant rede
it: I reckon its all korrect tho'. My Dear Sir—The very interesting sketch of your life
requested by us, reached here accompanied by your favor of
the 1st inst., for which please receive our thanks. Dear Mr. Editor—In your p. s. which seems to be the
creem of your correspondents you say I can't get in your
book without paying one hundred and fifty dollars—pretty
tall entrants fee! I suppose though children and niggers
half price—I believe I will pass. I'll enter a nolly prossy
q. O-n-e-h-u-n-d-r-e-d dollars and fifty better! Je-whellikens! We can only give it in our way, and only such parts as
we can remember, leaving out most of the episodes, the casual
explanations and the slang; which is almost the play of
Hamlet with the Prince of Denmark omitted. But, thus
emasculated, and Cave's gas let off, here goes a report about
as faithful as a Congressman's report of his spoken eloquence
when nobody was listening in the House. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 57 | Author: | Longstreet
Augustus Baldwin
1790-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Master William Mitten, or, A youth of brilliant talents, who was ruined by bad luck | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Many years ago there lived in a small village in the State of
Georgia, a pious widow, who was left with an only son and two
daughters. She was in easy circumstances, and managed her temporal
concerns with great prudence; so that her estate increased with
her years. Her son exhibited, at a very early age, great precocity
of genius, and the mother lost no opportunity of letting the world
know it. When he was but six years old, he had committed little
pieces in prose and poetry, which he delivered with remarkable propriety
for his years. He knew as much of the scriptures as any
child of that age probably ever knew; and he had already made
some progress in geography and mental arithmetic. With all this,
he was a very handsome boy. It is not to be wondered at, that his
mother should be bringing him out in some department of science,
upon all ocoasions; of course; she often brought him out upon very
unsuitable occasions, and sometimes kept him out, greatly to the
annoyance of her company. Not to praise his performances, would
have been discouraging to Master William Mitten, and very mortifying
to his mother; accordingly, whether they were well-timed or
ill-timed, everybody praised them. The ladies, all of whom loved
Mrs. Mitten, were not unfrequently thrown into raptures at the
child's exhibitions. They would snatch him up in their arms, kiss
him, pronounce him a perfect prodigy, both in beauty of person and
power of mind; and declare that they would be willing to go beggars
upon the world to have such a child. Others would piously
exhort Mrs. Mitten not to set her heart too much upon the child.
“They never saw the little creature, without commingled emotions
of delight and alarm; so often is it the case that children of such
wonderful gifts die early.” Her brother, Capt. David Thomson, a
candid, plain-dealing excellent man, often reproved Mrs. M. for parading,
as he called it, “her child upon all occasions.” “Having recently understood that you have procured a private
teacher, we have ventured to stop your advertisement, though ordered
to continue it until forbid, under the impression that you have probably
forgotten to have it stopped. If, however, we have been misinformed,
we will promptly resume the publication of it. You will
find our account below; which as we are much in want of funds, you
will oblige us by settling as soon as convenient. Hoping your
teacher is all that you could desire in one, “Dear Sir: On taking leave of me, you requested me to give
you early information of the standing, conduct, and progress of your
nephew; and, as my letter will reach you through the kindness of
Mr. Jones, the bearer, nearly or quite a week sooner than it would
by regular—or rather irregular—course of mail, I avail myself
of the opportunity to comply with your request. William has been
under my instruction just a week to-day; and though I would not
venture confident predictions of him, upon so short an acquaintance,
I will give you my present estimate of him, for what it is worth. If
I am not grossly deceived in him, he is destined to a most brilliant
future. He was a little rusty in the principles of construction at
first—no, in the application of them—for of the principles themselves,
he is master, and he improves in the application of them
with every lesson. His class was a week ahead of him in the Greek
grammar, when he entered it. He has already made up the deficiency,
and now stands fully equal to the best in his class in this
study—indeed, in all their studies. He is moral, orderly, and studious,
and if he will only do half as much for himself as nature has
done for him, he will be the pride of his kindred and the boast of
his country. You will not be much more delighted at receiving this
intelligence, than I am in communicating it. “Dear Mother:—I just write for fear you will feel uneasy if you
get no letter from me by this mail. Tom can tell you all about me.
Delighted with my boarding house—Fare much better than New's.
Health good—Told Mr. Wad'l I wished to go to preach'g with him,
if he went to-day, but he don't go till next Sat'y—Best love to all. “My Dearest Boy: Two days after you left us, your Uncle was
attacked with bilious fever. The attack is very severe, but we hope
not fatal. Last evening he begged that you might be sent for. Come
as quick as you can, in mercy to your horse. The Doctor says there
is no probability of his dying in four or five days; so do not peril the
life of your horse, in your haste to get here. “But the main object of this letter is to offer your son encouragements
to return to school. He left here under great depression of
spirits, and under the impression that his character was irretrievably
lost. No one in this vicinity, in or out of the school, thinks so. Now
that the story of his misfortunes is fully understood, every one attributes
them to a train of untoward circumstances which surrounded
him, on his return hither, rather than to depravity of heart. Indeed,
he has some noble traits of character, which almost entirely
conceal his faults from the eyes of the public and his school-fellows—
I say the public, for though it is a very uncommon thing for the public
to know or notice school-boy delinquencies, yet so wide-spread
was William's reputation from his performances at our last Examination
and Exhibition, that every one who knows him takes an interest
in him, and every one, I believe, regards him with more of sympathy
than censure. All would rejoice, I doubt not, to hear of his
return to the school, and his return to his good habits. Gilbert Hay,
his room-mate and bed-fellow, bids me say that he loves him yet, and
that the half of his bed is still reserved for him; and the feelings of
Gilbert Hay towards him, I believe, are the feelings of nine-tenths
of the school towards him. For myself, I shall give him a cordial
welcome. But you will naturally ask, what will be my dealings
with him, if he return? I answer the question very frankly: I shall
feel myself bound to correct him; though in so doing I shall not
forget the many circumstances of extenuation in his case. Had he
been guilty of but one offence, and that of a veneal nature, I should
freely forgive it, as is my custom, with the first offence. But he has
been guilty of several offences, and though none of them are very
rare in schools, they are, nevertheless, such as I have never allowed to
go unpunished in my school, and which I could not allow to escape
with impunity in this instance, without setting a dangerous precedent,
as well as showing marked partiality. I have reason to believe
that William would cheerfully submit to the punishment of his
faults, even though it were much severer than it will be, if that
would restore him to his lost position; now, I can hardly conceive
of anything better calculated to have that effect, than his volunteering
to take the punishment which he knows awaits him on his return,
when he might perchance avoid it by abandoning the school.
But with or without the punishment, he has only to be, for ten
months, what he has been for nearly as many, to regain the confidence
of everybody. Nothing but the peculiar circumstances of this
case, and the very lively interest which I take in the destiny of your
highly-gifted son, could have induced me to write a letter so liable
to misconstruction, as this is. But brief as is our acquaintance, I
think you will credit me, when I assure you, that my own pecuniary
interest has had no more to do with it, than yours will have in deliberating
upon its contents. Verily, the loss or gain of a scholar is
nothing to “When I think, my dearest mother, of the trouble I have
given you—how I abused your goodness, and disappointed your
reasonable expectations, my conscience smites me, and my cheeks
burn with blushes. How could I have been such an ingrate! How
could I have sent a pang to the bosom of the sweetest, the kindest,
the tenderest, the holiest, the best of mothers! Well, the past is
gone, and with it my childish, boyish follies: they have all been forgiven
long ago, and no more are to be forgiven in future. That I
am to get the first honor in my class is conceded by all the class
except four. These four were considered equal competitors for it
until I entered the class, and they do not despair yet; but they had
as well, for they equal me in nothing but Mathematics, and do not
excel me in that. The funds that you allow me ($500 per annum)
are more than sufficient to meet all my college expenses, and allow
me occasional pleasure rambles during the vacation. What I have
written about my stand in College, you will of course understand as
intended only for a mother's eye. “All your letters have been received. They have given the Principal
of the School great uneasiness, and me great delight. He
knows only whence they come—know you whether they have gone;
into the most hallowed chamber of my heart. Mail your letters
anywhere, but at Princeton; my answers will be returned through a
confidante in Morristown. “I have been tormented by strange reports concerning you which
I cannot, I will not believe, until they receive some confirmation from
your own lips. I will not aggravate your griefs by repeating them
now, farther than just to say, that if true, your last brief epistle from
Princeton was untrue. “Mr. William Mitten—Sir: Your dismissal from College,
and your misrepresentation to me, I could forgive; but I never can
forgive your addresses to me, while you were actually engaged to
Miss Amanda Ward. “Let them follow the heart of the giver. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 59 | Author: | Bennett
Emerson
1822-1905 | Add | | | Title: | The border rover | | | | 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 believe it is customary, when an individual sets
out to write an autobiography, to begin at the beginning—that
is to say, with his first recollection—and
give a detailed account of the passing of his earliest
years. I shall not adopt this plan; because, in the
first place, the earlier years of my existence were not
marked with events of peculiar interest to the reader;
and in the second place, my narrative is intended
merely as a chronicle of the most remarkable scenes
and adventures through which I passed after arriving
at the age of manhood. It may not be improper,
however, to devote a few words to my birth, parentage
and past life, in order to fairly introduce myself
to the reader, with whom it is my design to make a
rather long, and I hope agreeable, journey. “`I shall never cease to remember and pray for the
preserver of my life. God bless, preserve and restore
you. Shall I ever hear from you again? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 60 | Author: | Myers
P. Hamilton
(Peter Hamilton)
1812-1878 | Add | | | Title: | The prisoner of the border | | | | 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: | Within view of those mystic mountains, which were long since
rendered classic soil by the pen of Irving, and on the banks of that
beautiful Hudson, whose charms defy even the power of genius to
depict, was the quiet home of Walter Vrail. Not in the days
when the ghostly Hendrick and his phantom followers made the
rocky halls of the Catskills reverberate with their rumbling balls,
and with the clatter of their falling nine-pins, and when their spectral
flagon-bearer could be dimly seen at twilight, toiling up the
misty ascent to join the shadow revellers, but in these later
days, when the quaint old bowlers in doublet and jerkin, have
retired deep within the bowels of the mountain, to pursue their
endless game undisturbed by the plash of the swift steamboat, or
the roar of the linked cars, plunging through dark passes, trembling
along narrow ledges, and sending up their shrill scream
through all the far recesses of a once holy solitude. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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