| | 61 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days  | | | | 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 district of Orangeburg, in South Carolina, constitutes
one of the second tier (from the seaboard) of the political and
judicial divisions or districts of that state. It is a vast plain,
with a surface almost unbroken, in the southern and western
portions, by elevations of any sort. In this region, it is irrigated
by numerous watercourses, rivers, and creeks, that make
their way through swamps of more or less width and density.
These are all thickly covered with a wild and tangled forest-growth,
skirted with great pines, and dwarf-oaks, to say nothing
of a vast variety of shrub-trees; the foliage of which,
massed together by gadding vines, usually presents, in midsummer,
the appearance of a solid wall, impervious to sight and
footstep. “These, old Sinkeler, are to signify that ef you don't surrender
up our friend and brother officer and sodger, Leftenant Joel
Andrews sometimes called `Hell-fire Dick,' of his royal majesty's
regiment of loyal rangers, third company of foragers,
we'll have your heart's blood out of your body, and thar shant
be stick or stone standing of your big house after we've gone
through it. These is to say to you that you must give him up
to the barrer of dispatches, in hafe an hour after you reads 'em,
or you may expeck the eternal vengeance of all consarned. “If he of H— D— [Holly-Dale] is honest, and will
speak the truth, giving proof as he promises, he shall have the
guaranty which he seeks. I will give him the meeting. See
to the arrangemeuts for it as soon as possible. We have reached
that stage of the game, when the loss of a pawn may be
that of a castle; when the gain, even of a pawn, may enable us
to give check-mate to a king! “Let him of H. D. know that I see no reason to depart from
our arrangement as originally made. “I shall take the liberty, my dear Captain Porgy, of bringing
with me a couple of additional guests, in General Greene
and Colonel Lee, knowing that your provision will not only be
ample, but that the taste which usually presides over your banquets
will give to our friends from Rhode Island and Virginia
such a notion of the tastes of Apicius and Lucullus, as certainly
never yet dawned upon them in their own half-civilized regions.
Your own courtesy will do the rest and will, I trust, sufficiently
justify the confidence with which I have insisted upon their
coming. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 62 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The golden Christmas | | | | 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 during that premature spell of cold weather which we so
unseasonably had this year in October,—anticipating our usual
winter by a full month or more,—cutting off the cotton crop a
fourth, and forcing us into our winter garments long before they
were ordered from the tailor,—when, one morning, as I stood shivering
before the glass, and clumsily striving, with numbed fingers,
to adjust my cravat à la nœud Gordien,—my friend, Ned Bulmer,
burst into my room, looking as perfect an exquisite as Beau
Brummell himself. He was in the gayest clothes and spirits, a
thousand times more exhilarated than usual—and Ned is one of
those fellows upon whom care sits uneasily, whom, indeed, care
seldom sets upon at all! He laughed at my shiverings and
awkwardness, seized the ends of my handkerchief, and, with the
readiest fingers in the world, and in the most perfect taste, adjusted
the folds of the cravat, and looped them up into a rose beneath
my chin, in the twinkling of an eye, and to my own perfect satisfaction. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 63 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Marie de Berniere | | | | 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: | “Start not, dear Marie; nor, if possible, exhibit the
least surprise or emotion as you discover the writing to
be mine, or note the character of its contents. At all
events, make no remark on what you read, and let
your answer be in writing also, and addressed to Madame
de Chateauneuve, though really intended for
myself. There are reasons, believe me, for all these
precautions. In brief, dear Marie, I have come to the
conclusion, after deep study and long reflection, that
you are the victim of a cunning and monstrous imposition,
to combat which, successfully, requires the utmost
vigilance, and a distrust even of the walls of your
chamber. So well am I persuaded of this, that I feel
it unwise to whisper to you here the several processes
of reasoning by which I have reached these suspicions,
or to urge my inquiries farther towards a discovery of
the truths. My purpose, therefore, is to entreat that,
if you really love me, if you really desire my happiness,
as well as your own, and, if you would really revolt
at the idea of being deluded by a most audacious piece
of jugglery, you will contrive to give me a meeting at
my sister's to-morrow morning at 11 o'clock; when I
will unfold to you the whole progress of my conjectures.
In consenting to this arrangement, I must
warn you to suffer no person to know your intentions,
not even your servants. Do not order your carriage,
but wait for that of Madame de Chateauneuve, who
will call for you, a little before this hour. Let me
implore you, dear Marie, to accede to this application.
Your health will now admit—nay, require some such
exercise; exertion, and the fresh pure air of these
pleasant days will exhilarate and strengthen you.
Supposing even that the decree which you have heard
is really the voice of an almighty Providence, His benevolence
will not be offended, nor His sense of authority
outraged, if you resort to all reasonable and proper
means to be assured of its divine origin. Scripture
itself counsels us that the world shall be full of false
prophets and false signs in these latter days—and there
are spirits of evil as well as of good—perhaps a far
greater number, who are still permitted, for purposes
of mischief, to hover around the habitations of earth.
You owe it to me, dear Marie, no less than to yourself
—to my future and my heart as well as your own—
not to yield to a decree which threatens the wreck of
both, until it has been narrowly searched by every
probe and principle which human reason has ever invented
or conceived for the detection of error, and
the discovery of truth. As this revelation appears
to be so entirely miraculous—so far beyond all the
ordinary events of life—it requires that it should be
scrutinized in proportion to its eccentricity, and in
just degree with the vital interests which depend upon
its execution. Yield to this entreaty, dear Marie, even
though you should persist, finally, in the cruel resolution
to hearken to no other from the lips of one whose
every prayer will still eternally be yours. “Sense of duty, &c. Foreclosure of mortgage, &c.
Unavoidable, &c. Very sorry, &c. “Dear Sir: Meeting with the sheriff, and being
in want of a sufficient force for my Cedar Island
plantation, I have ventured to assume your bond,
with interest, being perfectly satisfied to pay the
same price for the negroes at which you bought
them. As I hold them to be amply worth the
amount, I leave it entirely with yourself to retain
them, if you please, paying me at your leisure;
though I should prefer to have them, on my assumption
of your several responsibilities in regard to this
property. Whatever may be your decision, which
you can make at your leisure, it will at least be proper
that they should remain in your keeping until
after the holidays. Very faithfully, and with great
respect, I am, my dear sir, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 64 | Author: | Smith
Seba
1792-1868 | Add | | | Title: | 'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee 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: | The pilgrim fathers of New England, and their
children of the first and second generations, are justly
renowned for their grave character, their moral
uprightness, which sometimes was rather more than
perpendicular, and the vigilant circumspection which
each one exercised over his neighbor as well as himself.
It is true that Connecticut, from an industrious
promulgation of her “Blue Laws,” has acquired more
fame on this score than other portions of the “universal
Yankee nation,” but this negative testimony
against the rest of New England ought not to be
allowed too much weight, for wherever the light of
history does gleam upon portions further “Down East,”
it shows a people not a whit behind Connecticut in
their resolute enforcement of all the decencies of life,
and their stern and watchful regard for the well-being
of society. The justice of this remark will sufficiently
appear by a few brief quotations from their
judicial records. In the name of Captain Kidd, Amen.—On Jewell's
So saying, he opened the paper, which was so much worn at the folds as to drop into several pieces, and read from it as follows:-- PAGE 180.
689EAF. Illustration page. A man sits at a table and reads from a piece of paper. Two other men are looking on listening as he reads the paper. One is stting at the table and the other is standing hunched over the table, leaning forward. There is a woman standing behind the table who is listening in as well.
Island, near the harbor of Falmouth, in the District
of Maine, is buried a large iron pot full of gold, with
an iron cover over it, and also two large iron pots full
of silver dollars and half dollars, with iron covers
over them; and also one other large iron pot, with an
iron cover over it, full of rich jewels, and gold rings
and necklaces, and gold watches of great value. In
this last pot is the paper containing the agreement of
the four persons who buried these treasures, and the
name of each one is signed to it with his own blood.
In that agreement it is stated that this property
belongs equally to the four persons who buried it, and
is not to be dug up or disturbed while the whole four
are living, except they be all present. And in case it
shall not be reclaimed during the lifetime of the four,
it shall belong equally to the survivors, who shall be
bound to each other in the same manner as the four
were bound. And in case this property shall never
be dug up by the four, or any of them, the last survivor
shall have a right to reveal the place where it is
hid, and to make such disposition of it as he may
think proper. And in that same paper, the evil spirit
of darkness is invoked to keep watch over this
money, and to visit with sudden destruction any one
of the four who may violate his agreement. This
property was buried at the hour of midnight, and only
at the hour of midnight can it ever be reclaimed.
And it can be obtained only in the most profound
silence on the part of those who are digging for it.
Not a word or syllable must be uttered from the time
the first spade is struck in the ground, till a handful
of the money is taken out of one of the pots. This
arrangement was entered into with the spirit of darkness,
in order to prevent any unauthorized persons
from obtaining the money. I am the last survivor of
the four. If I shall dispose of this paper to any one
before my death, or leave it to any one after I am
gone, he may obtain possession of this great treasure
by observing the following directions. Go to the
north side of the island, where there is a little cove,
or harbor, and a good landing on a sandy beach.
Take your compass and run by it due south a half a
mile, measuring from high-water mark. Then run
fifty rods east by compass, and there you will find a
blue stone, about two feet long, set endwise into the
ground. From this stone, measure fifteen rods
brandy-way, and there, at the depth of five feet from
the surface of the ground, you will find the pots of
money. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 66 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | Azarian | | | | 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: | Life, which slips us along like beads on a
leash, strung summer after summer on Ruth
Yetton's thread, yet none so bright as that
one where the Azarian had pictured his sunny
face and all his infinite variety of pranksome
ways. Ruth's mother had thrown her
up in despair, as good for nothing under the
sun, but her father always took her on his
knee at twilight, listened to her little idealities,
and dreamed the hour away with her. Yet
without the mother's constructive strength,
all Ruth's inherited visioning would have
availed her ill. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 67 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | Sir Rohan's ghost | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | THERE is a Ghost in all aristocratic families,
and therefore it is not to be presumed that
the great house of Belvidere was destitute. But
though it had dragged on a miserable existence
some three hundred years without one, at last
that distinction was to arrive. Sir Rohan had a
Ghost. Not by any means a common ghost that
appeared at midnight on the striking of a bell,
and trailed its winding-sheet through the upper
halls nearest the roof, but a Ghost that, sleeping
or waking, never left him, a Ghost whose long
hair coiled round and stifled the fair creations
of his dreams, and whose white garments swept
leprously into his sunshine. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 68 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | The thief in the night | | | | 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 garden lay sparkling under the earliest light
of a June morning. A heaven everywhere a
field of rose and azure soared over it; charming
bird-songs trilled from its thickets; a breeze, that
was only living fragrance, rifled its roses, swept
up its avenues, and struck leaf and bough and
blossom into light before it stripped them of their
dewdrops in a shower. The Triton at the lower
end of the little lake sent up a shaft of water-streams
from his horn to catch the sunbeams and
sprinkle them over the surface beneath, and beds
of faintly blue forget-me-nots crept out to meet
the pickerel-weed and lily-pads, — blue flags,
and bluer weed, and waxen-white lilies just unclasping
their petals, with here and there a floating
ball of gold among them, — where the breeze
dipped again in a shining ripple, and weeds and
flags and lilies rocked and swayed before it. On
the one side, the sweet-brier, climbing a pear-tree
to reach the robin's nest, looked back with a
hundred blushing blossoms, and blew a breath of
delight to the damask-rose on the other. The
damask said good-morning to the moss-rose; the
moss-rose to the red; the red would have passed
on the cheerful salutation, but the pale-white
rose, upon its lofty stem, had been awake all
night, had looked into the sick man's chamber,
and learned what the ruddy-cheeked flowers,
which hung their heads and went to sleep with
the birds, were not to know. Nevertheless, a
red-winged blackbird, lighting there and leaving,
shook it so that half its petals fluttered away in
pursuit; a little piece of jewel-work of a humming-bird
darted by to join the frolic; a bluebird
dropped a measure of melody from the
spray where he was tilting, and followed after.
Every thing, in all the bright and blooming
garden, moved and glanced and blushed and
glittered. Every thing spoke of life and joy
and hope and health: nothing spoke of sad
secrets or ill deeds. Every thing told of beauty
and breath, the luxury of living: nothing told
of death, or desolation. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 70 | Author: | Twain
Mark
1835-1910 | Add | | | Title: | Roughing it | | | | 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 brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada
Territory — an office of such majesty that it concentrated
in itself the duties and dignities of Treasurer,
Comptroller, Secretary of State, and Acting Governor in the
Governor's absence. A salary of eighteen hundred dollars a
year and the title of “Mr. Secretary,” gave to the great position
an air of wild and imposing grandeur. I was young and
ignorant, and I envied my brother. I coveted his distinction
and his financial splendor, but particularly and especially the
long, strange journey he was going to make, and the curious
new world he was going to explore. He was going to travel!
I never had been away from home, and that word “travel” had
a seductive charm for me. Pretty soon he would be hundreds
and hundreds of miles away on the great plains and deserts,
and among the mountains of the Far West, and would see buffaloes
and Indians, and prairie dogs, and antelopes, and have
all kinds of adventures, and may be get hanged or scalped, and
have ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all
about it, and be a hero. And he would see the gold mines
and the silver mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon
when his work was done, and pick up two or three pailfuls of
shining slugs, and nuggets of gold and silver on the hillside.
And by and by he would become very rich, and return home by
sea, and be able to talk as calmly about San Francisco and the
ocean, and “the isthmus” as if it was nothing of any consequence
to have seen those marvels face to face. What I
suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot describe.
And so, when he offered me, in cold blood, the sublime position
of private secretary under him, it appeared to me that
ENVIOUS CONTEMPLATIONS.
504EAF. Page 020. In-line image of a man standing in plaid pants and talking
to a man sitting at a desk reading a news paper.
the heavens and the earth passed away, and the firmament
was rolled together as a scroll! I had nothing more to desire.
My contentment was complete. At the end of an hour or
two I was ready for the journey. Not much packing up was
necessary, because we were going in the overland stage from
the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and passengers were only
allowed a small quantity of baggage apiece. There was no
Pacific railroad in those fine times of ten or twelve years ago—
not a single rail of it. “Dear Sir: I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note. It cannot
be possible, Sir, that `turnips restrain passion'—at least the study or contemplation
of turnips cannot—for it is this very employment that has scorched our poor
friend's mind and sapped his bodily strength.—But if they do restrain it, will you
bear with us a little further and explain how they should be prepared? I observe
that you say `causes necessary to state,' but you have omitted to state them. `Potatoes do sometimes make vines; turnips remain passive: cause unnecessary
to state. Inform the poor widow her lad's efforts will be vain. But diet, bathing,
etc. etc., followed uniformly, will wean him from his folly—so fear not. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 71 | 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 |
| 72 | 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 |
| 73 | 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 |
| 74 | 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 |
| 75 | 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 |
| 77 | 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 |
| 78 | 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 |
| 79 | 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 |
| 80 | 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 |
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