| | 201 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Elsie Venner  | | | | 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 nothing in New England corresponding
at all to the feudal aristocracies of the Old
World. Whether it be owing to the stock from
which we were derived, or to the practical working
of our institutions, or to the abrogation of the
technical “law of honor,” which draws a sharp
line between the personally responsible class of
“gentlemen” and the unnamed multitude of
those who are not expected to risk their lives for
an abstraction, — whatever be the cause, we have
no such aristocracy here as that which grew up
out of the military systems of the Middle Ages. “The Committee have great pleasure in recording
their unanimous opinion, that the Institution
was never in so flourishing a condition.... You were kind enough to promise me that you
would assist me in any professional or scientific
investigations in which I might become engaged.
I have of late become deeply interested in a class
of subjects which present peculiar difficulty, and
I must exercise the privilege of questioning you
on some points upon which I desire information
I cannot otherwise obtain. I would not trouble
you, if I could find any person or books competent
to enlighten me on some of these singular
matters which have so excited me. The leading
doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man, but not
versed in the curiosities of medical literature. I do not wonder that you find no answer from
your country friends to the curious questions you
put. They belong to that middle region between
science and poetry which sensible men, as they
are called, are very shy of meddling with. Some
people think that truth and gold are always to be
washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion,
that, unless there are so many grains to the peck
of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not pay
to wash for either, so long as one can find anything
else to do. I don't doubt there is some
truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism,
for instance; but when you ask me to cradle
for it, I tell you that the hysteric girls cheat so,
and the professionals are such a set of pickpockets,
that I can do something better than hunt for
the grains of truth among their tricks and lies.
Do you remember what I used to say in my
lectures? — or were you asleep just then, or cutting
your initials on the rail? (You see I can
ask questions, my young friend.) Leverage is
everything, — was what I used to say; — don't
begin to pry till you have got the long arm on
your side. I have been for some months established in
this place, turning the main crank of the machinery
for the manufactory of accomplishments
superintended by, or rather worked to the profit
of, a certain Mr. Silas Peckham. He is a poor
wretch, with a little thin fishy blood in his body,
lean and flat, long-armed and large-handed, thick-jointed
and thin-muscled, — you know those unwholesome,
weak-eyed, half-fed creatures, that
look not fit to be round among live folks, and
yet not quite dead enough to bury. If you ever
hear of my being in court to answer to a charge
of assault and battery, you may guess that I
have been giving him a thrashing to settle off old
scores; for he is a tyrant, and has come pretty
near killing his principal lady-assistant with overworking
her and keeping her out of all decent
privileges. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 202 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Elsie Venner | | | | 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 two meeting-houses which faced each
other like a pair of fighting-cocks had not flapped
their wings or crowed at each other for a considerable
time. The Reverend Mr. Fairweather had
been dyspeptic and low-spirited of late, and was
too languid for controversy. The Reverend Doctor
Honeywood had been very busy with his benevolent
associations, and had discoursed chiefly
on practical matters, to the neglect of special
doctrinal subjects. His senior deacon ventured
to say to him that some of his people required to
be reminded of the great fundamental doctrine
of the worthlessness of all human efforts and motives.
Some of them were altogether too much
pleased with the success of the Temperance Society
and the Association for the Relief of the
Poor. There was a pestilent heresy about, concerning
the satisfaction to be derived from a good
conscience, — as if anybody ever did anything
which was not to be hated, loathed, despised and
condemned.
Dr.
Cr.
To Salary for quarter
ending Jan. 1st, @
$75 per quarter
$75.00
By Deduction for absence,
1 week 3 days
$10.00
By Board, lodging, etc.,
for 10 days, @ 75
cts. per day
7.50
By Damage to Institution
by absence of
teacher from duties,
say
25.00
By Stationery furnished
43
By Postage-stamp
01
By Balance due Helen
Darley
32.06
$75.00
$75.00 | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 203 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | The guardian angel | | | | 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 Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1859, the “State
Banner and Delphian Oracle,” published weekly at
Oxbow Village, one of the principal centres in a thriving
river-town of New England, contained an advertisement
which involved the story of a young life, and startled the
emotions of a small community. Such faces of dismay,
such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such
halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chirruping
chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had
not been known since the rainy November Friday, when
old Malachi Withers was found hanging in his garret up
there at the lonely house behind the poplars. “My dearest Olive: — Think no evil of me for what
I have done. The fire-hang-bird's nest, as Cyprian called
it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. “A Vision seen by me, Myrtle Hazard, aged fifteen, on
the night of June 15, 1859. Written out at the request
of a friend from my recollections. “My dearest Clement, — You was so good to write
me such a sweet little bit of a letter, — only, dear, you
never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be.
I wish your Susie was with you to cheer you up; but no,
she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you
are so ambitious! I have heard you say so many times
that nobody could be a great artist without passing years
and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking
so hard. You won't grow pale and lean, I hope; for I do
so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have
always had ever since I have known you; and besides, I do
not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something
great, — you have so much genius, and people of
genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. You
remember those beautiful lines out of our newspaper I
sent you? Well, Mr. Hopkins told me he wrote those lines
in one evening without stopping! I wish you could see
Mr. Hopkins, — he is a very talented person. I cut out
this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show
you, — for genius loves genius, — and you would like to
hear him read his own poetry, — he reads it beautifully.
Please send this piece from the paper back, as I want to
put it in my scrap-book, under his autograph: — “My dear Susie, — I have just been reading your
pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you
ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice,
which will do just as well, — won't it, my dear? I was
interested in your account of various things going on at
Oxbow Village. I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins
so agreeable a friend. His poetry is better than some
which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally
unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. I do not believe
he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing
verse does not always improve the character. I think I have
seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited,
sentimental, and frivolous, — perhaps it found them
so already. Don't make too much of his talent, and particularly
don't let him think that because he can write verses
he has nothing else to do in this world. That is for his
benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it. “Reverend Sir, — I shall not come to your study this
day. I do not feel that I have any more need of religious
counsel at this time, and I am told by a friend that there
are others who will be glad to hear you talk on this subject.
I hear that Mrs. Hopkins is interested in religious subjects,
and would have been glad to see you in my company. As
I cannot go with her, perhaps Miss Susan Posey will take
my place. I thank you for all the good things you have
said to me, and that you have given me so much of your
company. I hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven
some time, if we are good enough, but I want to wait for
that awhile, for I do not feel quite ready. I am not going
to see you any more alone, reverend sir. I think this is
best, and I have good advice. I want to see more of young
people of my own age, and I have a friend, Mr. Gridley,
who I think is older than you are, that takes an interest in
me; and as you have many others that you must be interested
in, he can take the place of a father better than you
can do. I return to you the hymn-book, — I read one of
those you marked, and do not care to read any more. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 204 | Author: | Howells
William Dean
1837-1920 | Add | | | Title: | A chance acquaintance | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | ON the forward promenade of the Saguenay
boat which had been advertised to leave
Quebec at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning,
Miss Kitty Ellison sat tranquilly expectant of
the joys which its departure should bring, and tolerantly
patient of its delay; for if all the Saguenay
had not been in promise, she would have
thought it the greatest happiness just to have that
prospect of the St. Lawrence and Quebec. The
sun shone with a warm yellow light on the Upper
Town, with its girdle to gray wall, and on the red
flag that drowsed above the citadel, and was a
friendly lustre on the tinned roofs of the Lower
Town; while away off to the south and east and
west wandered the purple hills and the farmlit
plains in such dewy shadow and effulgence as
would have been enough to make the heaviest
heart glad. Near at hand the river was busy
with every kind of craft, and in the distance
was mysterious with silvery vapors; little breaths
of haze, like an ethereal colorless flame, exhaled
from its surface, and it all glowed with a
lovely inner radiance. In the middle distance a
black ship was heaving anchor and setting sail,
and the voice of the seamen came soft and sad
and yet wildly hopeful to the dreamy ear of the
young girl, whose soul at once went round the
world before the ship, and then made haste back
again to the promenade of the Saguenay boat. She
sat leaning forward a little with her hands fallen
into her lap, letting her unmastered thoughts play
as they would in memories and hopes around the
consciousness that she was the happiest girl in the
world, and blest beyond desire or desert. To have
left home as she had done, equipped for a single
day at Niagara, and then to have come adventurously
on, by grace of her cousin's wardrobe, as it
were, to Montreal and Quebec; to be now going up
the Saguenay, and finally to be destined to return
home by way of Boston and New York; — this
was more than any one human being had a right
to; and, as she had written home to the girls, she
felt that her privileges ought to be divided up
among all the people of Eriecreek. She was very
grateful to Colonel Ellison and Fanny for affording
her these advantages; but they being now out of
sight in pursuit of state-rooms, she was not thinking
of them in relation to her pleasure in the
morning scene, but was rather regretting the absence
of a lady with whom they had travelled
from Niagara, and to whom she imagined she
would that moment like to say something in praise
of the prospect. This lady was a Mrs. Basil March
of Boston; and though it was her wedding journey
and her husband's presence ought to have
absorbed her, she and Miss Kitty had sworn a
sisterhood, and were pledged to see each other
before long at Mrs. March's home in Boston. In
her absence, now, Kitty thought what a very
charming person she was, and wondered if all
Boston people were really like her, so easy and
friendly and hearty. In her letter she had told
the girls to tell her Uncle Jack that he had not
rated Boston people a bit too high, if she were to
judge from Mr. and Mrs. March, and that she was
sure they would help her as far as they could to
carry out his instructions when she got to Boston. DEAR GIRLS: Since the letter I wrote
you a day or two after we got here, we
have been going on very much as you
might have expected. A whole week has passed,
but we still bear our enforced leisure with fortitude;
and, though Boston and New York are both
fading into the improbable (as far as we are concerned),
Quebec continues inexhaustible, and I
don't begrudge a moment of the time we are giving
it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 205 | Author: | Howells
William Dean
1837-1920 | Add | | | Title: | A foregone conclusion | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow
calle or footway leading from the Campo San
Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he peered
anxiously about him: now turning for a backward
look up the calle, where there was no living thing
in sight but a cat on a garden gate; now running
a quick eye along the palace walls that rose vast on
either hand and notched the slender strip of blue
sky visible overhead with the lines of their jutting
balconies, chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing
toward the canal, where he could see the
noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There
was no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and
the harsh scream of a parrot that hung in the sunshine
in one of the loftiest windows; but the note
of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses in the
campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and
he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together
and gossiped, with the canal between them,
at the next gondola station. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 207 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The sunny South, or, The Southerner at home | | | | 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: | Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never
saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their
epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean
any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any
thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for,
if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I
should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors
presume so much, you need to be put down. The bearer is Colonel Peyton, a planter of intelligence
and fortune, who wishes a governess, who will be
charged with the education of his daughter. The position
seems to be a very desirable one, and I would recommend
you to accept it, if he should, after seeing you,
offer it to you. My Dear Sir,—There is probably no purgatory on
earth (for purgatories abound in this world) so effectually
conducive to penitence and repentance as a watering
place. If good cannot come out of evil, nor light out of
darkness, nor laughter out of sorrow, neither can any
thing interesting proceed from a watering place. Nevertheless,
I have to fly to my pen for solace. I have read
till reading is insufferably tiresome—I have walked till
I could walk no longer—I have talked till I am tired
hearing my own voice and the voices of others—I have
jumped the rope till I have blistered the soles of my
feet, and made my hands burn—I have drunk the waters
until I shall never bear to hear water mentioned again—
I have danced under the trees, and looked on in the old
dancing-room, till dancing is worn out—I have yawned
till I have nearly put my jaws out—and I have sat till
I could hardly keep my eyes open, looking at the trees,
the hot walks, the listlessly-wandering-about people, that
look as if they could take laudanum, hang themselves,
or cut their throats, “just as lief do it as not,” if it
were not so impolite and wicked to shock people's nerves
by perpetrating such dreadful things! I have slept till
my eyes won't hold any more sleep, and are swelled and
red like two pink pin-cushions. I have rolled ninepins
till I have nearly broken my arm with the heavy balls;
and it is too hot to sew, to knit, to net, to do any thing
but write! This I can do when all other things fail.
I can write off a headache, write away care, and bury
miserable thoughts in the dark depths of my inkstand.
Therefore, Mr. —, I fly to my escritoire for relief
from the tedium which everywhere surrounds me. The day is past; and as it is our last day at the
Springs, therefore rejoice with me, Mr. —. I am impatient
to be back once more to my dear, familiar room,
with its thousand and one comforts. I want to see my
pet deer, my doves, my squirrel, my flowers, my books,
my own looking-glass, for I don't look like myself
in these at the Springs, which look as if they had been
made while a stiff breeze was rippling across their molter,
surface. To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards
which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed.
The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks
on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare,
in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the
turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote
you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen
for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother
away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious
snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits
the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall
light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial
gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty
dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all. “My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction
and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't
write in return, and that your little heart will dance with
gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print.
You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter
from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that
the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I
have a story to tell you about these same birds. Now, Mr. —, I know a letter to a child is not the
wisest piece of composition that ever was penned, but
Charley is a fine little fellow, and may be an editor himself
one of these days; so, if you will be so good as to
print the letter, I will be very much obliged to you,
and send an extra paper containing it to Charley himself.
The signal to embark is now heard, and I must
end. In my last letter I took you, will you nill you, on a
journey to my forest-emburied home. Landing you
safely upon the pier, at the gate which enters the lawn
of live-oaks, that stretches between the house and the
beautiful expanse of water in front, I gave you a warm
and hospitable welcome. The same welcome I will joyfully
extend to any of your friends, who think enough of
me to turn out of the way of the great Father of Waters,
to seek me out amid the heart of this lovely region of the
South. “Dear Wife:—This epistle is written at `Illewalla,'
or `Lover's Lake,' which is the translation of the soft
Indian name. It is the romantic and charming home of
my old correspondent, `Kate, of the Needles.' I cannot,
with my prosaic pen, begin to present to your mind's eye
the peculiar beauty of this retreat. On my way up from
New Orleans to Louisville, I determined to stop and see
my fair friend, in her own home; and having obtained
the direction, I embarked at New Orleans on board the
steamer `Dr. Beattie,' for Thibodeaux. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 208 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The throne of David | | | | 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: | In obedience to your Majesty's commands, I have
availed myself of my first leisure to record in the leaves
of my tablets the scenery and incidents which have
struck me as worthy of observation, during my journey
from the banks of the Tigris to those of this remote
river. Descriptions of the interesting countries through
which I have passed, with allusions to the manners and
customs of the people, I will not here repeat, as I have
made a careful history of them for your Majesty's perusal
when I shall return from my embassy. I am to-night encamped by the “Well of the Oath,”
in a palm grove opposite the gate of this southern border-city
of Judea. By this well, a thousand years ago,
Abimelec, a king of Gerar, and Abraham, the father of
the Hebrews, made a covenant of amity. Here at this
fountain the ancient Chaldee used to lead to water his
thousands of camels and tens of thousands of sheep. It
is regarded as a sacred place by the Hebrews, who, with
fine feeling, honor every place made historical by association
with their “three great patriarchs.” This unlooked-for and unusual delay, your majesty,
in accepting thy royal nuptial gifts, and in giving me a
final answer, I am at a loss to comprehend, as I am satisfied
by daily audience with this charming princess that
she is deeply interested in you. All my ardent descriptions
of your person, and eulogiums upon your heart and
character, have captivated her imagination; and I never
discourse of you that her eyes do not beam with the
splendors of the torch of love, while her sighs and virgin
emotion betray the impassioned ardor of her attachment
to your majesty. What a prize shall I have the
honor of presenting to you, O Belus! Such personal
beauty as she possesses is seldom met with! Besides,
she is endowed with the most delicate wit, mirth, intelligence,
and wonderful grace of speech and manner. No
woman I have seen, save, with your majesty's permission,
Adora of Isrilid, can compare with her in that nameless
fascination which so often captivates and bewilders the
strongest masculine minds. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 209 | Author: | Jones
J. B.
(John Beauchamp)
1810-1866 | Add | | | Title: | Border war | | | | 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: | Old Maud Clusky, the cook, had repeatedly looked out
from the basement of a stately mansion, in the Federal
City, impatiently awaiting her master's return from the
Capitol. The hour for dinner had struck, and the punctual
Senator Langdon had not taken his seat at the table. And,
that day, of all others, the President's daughter, Alice
Randolph, was to dine with Miss Edith Langdon; and the
day following, Miss Randolph was to be Miss Langdon's
principal bridesmaid. The Honorable Henry Blount—for
he was a member of the House of Representatives, whilst
his venerable father occupied a seat in the Senate—was on
that day to espouse the beautiful Edith in St. John's Holy
Church. And the daughter of the President of the United
States was now with the affianced maiden in her boudoir. “Dear General—I think it probable the Resolutions will
not pass the Convention. Be upon your guard. It may
not be safe to leave your own lines. An attempt has been
made on my life. Be careful, General. I will join you in a
few days, and shall be happy to serve, the second in command,
under the first General and the first man of the
country. These, by my honest and faithful messenger,
Signor Popoli. “Flora:—My only motive, my only desire, in writing
this, and in sending a special messenger, is to save
your life. Ruffleton's career is nearly ended. But it was
not the Usurper—it was the man—you loved. And I respect
him for not abandoning you in the height of his
power. I will save his life if possible. But yours is in the
greatest danger. If you can rely upon Colonel Snare, who,
I am told, commands the regiment at the President's Mansion,
warn him that a conspiracy is in existence to arrest
and drag you to execution. I cannot indicate the authors
of this diabolical scheme—at present. But I declare to you
that I know it exists. Lose not a moment in taking effectual
measures to guarantee your safety. I know, however,
that you cannot remain long in Washington—and I would
advise you to leave the city and sojourn in some place of
security where you may communicate with Ruffleton, who
will soon be—I am certain, Flora—a fugitive. Fly with
him to other lands. And that you may be happy is the
sincere wish of | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 210 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings on Ice | | | | 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: | Having herd mutch sed about skating parks, and
the grate amount ov helth and muscle they woz imparting
tew the present generashun at a slite advanse
from fust cost, i bought a ticket and went within the
fense. Thru the politeness ov Mr. John Smith, i cum in
possession ov yure valuabel letter, at about 9 o'clock
night before last, in which yu offer me 10 dollars
for a poultiss. POULTISS. Ginowine politeness is a nice mixture ov vanity
and good natur, invigerated bi virtue, and chastened
bi policy. I am instructed by our association to inquire ov
you, and solicit a reply, if you could read a discourse
before our lyceum this winter, and if so, at
what time, on what subject, and upon what terms. This day, at 10 o'clock A. M., I cum in contact
with your letter, and was real glad tew hear from
yu. How do you like being Cor. Sek. ov a LyAssoci'?
It is a light, pretty bizziness, and don't
require much capital. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 212 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | | | | 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 getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's
night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered
window of the house which had always been his
home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock,
were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at
ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by
the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing
well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips
whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even
till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells
me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind
me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted
brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend
to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record
my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of
stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to
have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see
that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar
used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am,
as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but
simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor
diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent
catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about
—or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important
for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the
trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see.
It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called
upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit,
I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard
from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote
to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I
think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I
have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to
begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I
feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as
my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying
any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the
“allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of
seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as
to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of
myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle
down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over,
you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I
went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at
least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the
way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful),
and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once—
painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is
to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin.
There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know,
Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little
beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort,
in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the
painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young
masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is
not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and
this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as
you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because
there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery)
that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So,
don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show
our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper
for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if
there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow,
it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only
hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is
liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation
of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very
amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be
throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this
is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling
upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore,
we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly,
may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at
the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow
and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to
trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered
and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made
giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless
and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine
moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes
very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not
merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but
the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success
and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye.
If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither
be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all
undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama—
so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no
sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You
are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying
your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in
Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more
because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened
to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon,
Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration
of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious
Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything
else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very
new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for
excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler
of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at
least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils
and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive
shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing,
and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you
will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist
who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which
shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the
course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted
your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you
into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven.
He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement;
but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double
flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the
artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar
which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love.
The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred
till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a
part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost
claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin
to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding
something to look back and say, which you will first read probably,
when I am already there. It will be written with the
trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from
the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I
trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace,
with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes
may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition
at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray
believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records
of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will
speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for
you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and
associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course,
be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at
home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms
are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul,
a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time,
“a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years,
and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable
by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though
very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized
and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall
thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature
to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the
bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from
a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your
advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help
a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt—
so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman
in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I
must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to
my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from
keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it
was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to
which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your
daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A
false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment,
at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me
also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this
also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple
duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification
of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture,
though I do so by placing myself and the consequences
entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed
between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents.
There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language
of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we
were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard
up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly,
and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me
so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce
necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only,
I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For
my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend
than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much
harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say
I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am
I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me,
however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new
laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have
forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle,
of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell,
and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for
the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to
us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a
farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such
a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted
of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is
it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive
ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across
the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote
you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs.
Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me,
and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have
been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished
for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings
home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under
her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is
by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 213 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | | | | 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 town-clock was on the last stroke of
twelve, the solitary candle measured but two
inches from its socket, and, as the summer
wind rushed through the half-closed shutters,
the melted tallow dripped slowly into the
brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The
flickering light fell upon grim battalions of
figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined
pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the
face of the accountant, as he bent over his
work. In these latter days of physical degeneration,
such athletic frames as his are rarely
seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen
years growth had given him unusual height
and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was
difficult to realize that the stature of manhood
had been attained by a mere boy in years. A
gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather
coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing
to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the
coat was thrown partially off. He wore no
vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered
the snowy white collar to fall away
from the throat and expose its well-turned
outline. The head was large, but faultlessly
proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut
short and clinging to the temples, added to its
massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and
smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching
the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed
nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril,
and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache,
combined to render the face one of uncommon
beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures,
there was nothing prepossessing or winning
in his appearance, for though you could
not carp at the moulding of his features, you
involuntarily shrank from the prematurely
grave, nay, austere expression which seemed
habitual to them. He looked just what he
was, youthful in months and years, but old in
trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who
analyzed his countenance, the conviction was
inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition
unbounded, his intellect wonderfully
acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark
in young faces the absence of that
beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous
heart imparts, and though in this instance
there was nothing dark or sinister, you could
not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res
olution which said so plainly: “I struggle,
and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the
world defy me.” Although he had labored
since dawn, there was no drooping of the
muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save
in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm
as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he
sat and worked on, one hand wielding the
pen, the other holding down the leaves which
fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed
over them. “Electra, come to school Monday. The
enclosed will pay your tuition for two months
longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it, if
you really love “With gratitude beyond all expression for
the favor conferred on my mother and myself,
some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon
the money which I have ever regarded
as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future
will afford me some opportunity of proving
my appreciation of her great kindness, “If you do not feel quite ready for the day
of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the
plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six
developed cases of rank typhus. “Before you leave W—, allow me to
see you for a few moments. If your departure
is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to
me this afternoon, at any hour which may
be most convenient. “Huntingdon was desperately wounded at
three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He
died two hours ago. I was with him. The
body leaves to-morrow for W—. “Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded.
Cyrus will show the way. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 214 | Author: | Holland
J. G.
(Josiah Gilbert)
1819-1881 | Add | | | Title: | Arthur Bonnicastle | | | | 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 looks beautiful from both extremities. Prospect and
retrospect shine alike in a light so divine as to suggest that the
first catches some radiance from the gates, not yet closed, by
which the soul has entered, and that the last is illuminated from
the opening realm into which it is soon to pass. “I should like to see you here next Monday morning, in regard to some
repairs about The Mansion. Come early, and if your little boy Arthur is
well enough you may bring him. “I have lost my ball. I don't know where in the world it can be. It
seemed to get away from me in a curious style. Mr. Bird is very kind,
and I like him very much. I am sorry to say I have lost my Barlow knife
too. Mr. Bird says a Barlow knife is a very good thing. I don't quite
think I have lost the twenty-five cent piece. I have not seen it since yesterday
morning, and I think I shall find it. Henry Hulm, who is my
chum, and a very smart boy, I can tell you, thinks the money will be found.
Mr. Bird says there must be a hole in the top of my pocket. I don't know
what to do. I am afraid Aunt Sanderson will be cross about it. Mr.
Bird thinks I ought to give my knife to the boy that will find the money,
and the money to the boy that will find the knife, but I don't see as I
should make much in that way, do you? I love Mrs. Bird very much.
Miss Butler is the dearest young lady I ever knew. Mrs. Bird kisses us all
when we go to bed, and it seems real good. I have put the testament in
the bottom of my trunk, under all the things. I shall keep that if possible.
If Mrs. Sanderson finds out that I have lost the things, I wish you would
explain it and tell her the testament is safe. Miss Butler has dark eyebrows
and wears a belt. Mr. Bird has killed another woodchuck. I wonder
if you left the key of my trunk. It seems to be gone. We have real
good times, playing ball and taking walks. I have walked out with Miss
Butler. I wish mother could see her hair, and I am your son with ever so
much love to you and mother and all, “Bring home your Attlus. “The Bell is a noble vessel. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 216 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | Juno Clifford | | | | 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: | Juno Clifford stood before the mirror of her richly
furnished breakfast parlor. The cloth had been
spread for a half-hour—the silver coffee service was
prettily arranged, and the delicate cups of Sèvres
porcelain were scattered around the urn. But the
mistress of the mansion had only just arisen. It
was ten o'clock. Men, whose business hours had
commenced, were hurrying to and fro in the street—
the city was teeming with life and turbulent with
noise, but the hum only stole through the heavily-curtained
windows of that lofty house on Mount
Vernon street, with a subdued cadence that was very
pleasant. It was a lounging, indolent attitude, in
which the lady stood. In her whole style of manner
there was a kind of tropical languor, and it was easy
to see that she was seldom roused from her habitual
calmness. And yet there was something in the
curving of her dainty lips, the full sweep of her
arching brows, nay, in every motion of her hand,
which told of a slumbering power; an energy,
resistless in its intensity; a will that might have
subjugated an empire. The indolence was habitual
—the energy, native. “Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write,
but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day,
that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge
of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries.
In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am
writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now.
The dear, blue river glides along so gently between
its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like
summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its
breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending
over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and
all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing
in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will
tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my
eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very
strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the
beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and
it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they
cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to
have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their
two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier.
His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has
grown old among the crash of contending armies, and
the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered,
and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings,
young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her
long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front,
hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender
arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter
I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and
truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all
the world could look upon them as I do, that they
could teach every one the same lesson. “I will call you so this once more. God help us,
for He has separated us. I have no strength to tell
you now how tenderly I have loved you. You know
it but too well. Every glance of your blue eyes,
every thread of your golden hair was dearer to me
than my own life. I would not look upon your face
for worlds, now that it is lost to me for ever. My
mother has tried to soothe the agony of this parting.
She has whispered that a time might come, when I
would be free to marry you, but I have no such hope.
I dare not dwell on it; it would be unjust, cruel. I
cannot ask you to love me, to think of me. Rather
let me pray you to forget me; to seek in some other
love the happiness I can never again taste. May he
who shall win and wear you, be more worthy of your
love; he cannot return it more truly. “There, forgive those words, I could not help
them. When once more, after all this lapse of years,
I wrote your name, I forgot for the time that you had
been another's, that you had refused to be mine. I
saw only the Grace of my love and my dreams, very
young, very fair, and, better still, very loving and
trustful. To me you are the same still. I cannot
come to you to-night. I have received a message that
Mabel, my own fair sister, is ill. She may be dying,
but I will hope to find her better. I shall travel night
and day until I reach New York. Pray for me, Grace.
Think of me as your friend, your brother, if you will
not let me be, as in other days— | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 217 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | Some women's hearts | | | | 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 Niece Elizabeth, — I believe myself to be
about to die. I cannot tell why this belief has taken
hold of me, but I am sure that I am not long for this
world. And, before I go out of it, I have an act of
restitution to perform. When your father, my dead
and gone brother James, died, if you had received
your due, you would have had six thousand dollars.
But the business was embarrassed at the time, and I
thought that to put so much money out of my hands
just then would ruin me. I took the responsibility,
therefore, of deciding not to do it. I managed, by
means that were not strictly legitimate, to keep the
whole in my own possession. I did not mean ill by
you, either. Your memory will bear me witness that I
dealt by you in every way as by my own children; nor
do I think the interest of your six thousand dollars, in
whatever way invested, could possibly have taken care
of you so well as I did. Still, to have it to use in my
business at that critical time, was worth much more
than the cost of your maintenance to me. So, as I look
at matters, you owe me no thanks for your upbringing,
and I owe you no farther compensation for the use of
your money during those years which you passed in
my house. For the five years since then, I owe you
interest; and I have added to your six thousand dollars
two thousand more, to reimburse you for your loss during
that time. “You were right, and I was wrong. I would not
tempt you to be other than you are, — the purest as the
fairest woman, in my eyes, whom God ever made.
I am running away, because I have not just now the
strength to stay here. You will not see me again for two
weeks. When I come back, I will be able to meet you
as I ought, and to prove myself worthy to be your
friend. “Your child was born the 28th of June. I did not
know of this which was to come when I left the shelter
of your roof, or I should not have gone. The little one
is very ill; and, feeling that she may not live, I think
it right to give you the opportunity of seeing her, if you
wish to, before she dies. Come, if you choose, to No.
50, Rue Jacob, and you will find her. “My Dear Husband, — Andrew, our little boy, is
very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought
that you would wish to see him. Your presence would
be the greatest comfort. “Mr. Thorndike, — I have hesitated long before
writing you this note. I should not venture to do so
now were it not that I am emboldened by the license
accorded to leap-year. To a different man I would not
write it for worlds, but I am sure your character is of
too high a tone for you to pursue a correspondence
merely for amusement or adventure. If you think I
am indelicate in addressing you at all, — if you do not
desire my friendship, you will let the matter drop here,
— you will never reply to me, or bestow a second
thought on one who will, in that case, strive to think
no more of you. But should you really value the
regard of a girl who is fearless enough thus to disobey
the recognized laws of society; honest enough to show
you her heart as it is; good enough, at least, to feel
your goodness in her inmost soul, — then you will
write. Then, perhaps, we shall know each other better,
and the friendship thus unconventionally begun may
brighten both our lives. Remember I trust to your
honor not to answer this letter if you disapprove of my
course in sending it, — if by so doing I have forfeited
your respect. Should you reply, let it be within three
days, and address, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 218 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | This, that and the other | | | | 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: | “Lionel: When your hand touches this sheet, I shall be
far away. It is two hours since you left me, and I have been
sitting here all the while, in a kind of stupor. I have loved you
very fondly, Lionel, and there is no blame for you in my heart
now, only sorrow, bitter, crushing sorrow. I will believe that
you love me — that you did not mean to deceive me! I will
even try to think that the fault, the misunderstanding, was all
mine. My soul shall send back only prayers for you — my heart
shall breathe only blessings. I love you, Lionel — O, how I
love you! If I could coin my life-blood into a flood of blessing,
and pour it on your head, I would do so gladly; if I might die
for you, my soul would be blessed as the angels. I even have
thought, — may God forgive me! — that I could give my soul to
perdition for your sake; but I have no right to bring sorrow, and
shame, and suffering, upon another. The lips that my little sister
presses must be pure; the life consecrated by a dying mother's
blessing must be unstained. “Blanche Leslie, — For something tells me you are Blanche
Leslie yet — I have found you at last, after these weary years.
Listen, and hear if it be not destiny. When you left me, Blanche,
I was a heart-broken, miserable man. You did not know me, little
darling, or you never would have gone. I did not know myself.
I did not know how strong was the love I had for you. Blanche,
believe me, for I swear it before heaven, I never would have asked
you to make one sacrifice for my sake. You should have done
nothing, been nothing, your own heart did not sanction. When
I read your note, I awoke to the knowledge of my own soul.
Then I knew that, without you, wealth, and fame, and honor,
were worse than vanity, hollower than the apples of Sodom. I
would have laid down everything I possessed on earth, to have
called you wife. My soul cried out for you `with groanings
that could not be uttered.' “No, no! Come not near me, Lionel Hunter! Disturb not
the holy calm to which it has been the work of years to attain.
I have wept much, suffered much, but I am stronger now. Talk
no more to me of earthly love, now that my heart has grown old,
and the beauty you used to praise has faded. Leave me, leave
me! It is my prayer; it is all I ask. Over my night of sorrow
dews have fallen, and stars have arisen; let me walk in their
light! Only in heaven will I rest, if it may be so, my head
upon your breast. Then, when the angels shall name me by a
new name, I will steal to your side, and, looking back to earth,
over the bastions of the celestial city, you shall call me “`Heaven forgive and pity me, life of my life, that I should
be writing you, the night before our bridal, only to say farewell.
Our bridal; yes, it shall be so. To-morrow my soul shall marry
your soul, though I am far away. I have been mad, for two
weeks past, Maud! The ashes of the bottomless pit have been
upon my head, and its hot breath has scorched my cheek. I
would not tell you, my beloved, because I wished not to drag
you down with me to perdition. O, Maud, my darling! Maud,
my beloved! Can it be, I never more must draw your head
to my heart — never more must look into your blue eyes,
or watch the blushes stealing over your cheek? But I am
raving. “Can it be that only one sun has set and risen since Stanley
Grayson called me his, — since another and a dearer life grew into
mine, with the knowledge that I was beloved? O, joy! great,
unutterable joy, whose seeds were sown in grief, and watered by
the hot tears which made the flowers grow upon my mother's
grave! Who shall say, if I had not been thus desolate, I could
have felt so deeply this wondrous bliss of love? “A week has passed — a long, sunny week of happiness! Stanley
says we must be married in September — his birth-day, September
fifth. Papa, dear, good papa, has given me carte blanche as
to money. He says I never did cost him anything yet, and have
only been a help to him, all my life; and now, when he 's going
to lose me, he will give me all he can. Poor papa! I fear,
though he likes Stanley, he is hardly reconciled to the idea of
my leaving home; for, when he spoke of my going away, the
tears came to his eyes, and he looked so regretfully at his easy-chair,
and the little ottoman where I always sit beside him! It
seemed so selfish in me to go and leave him, — him who has always
been so kind to me, — and for one, too, whom I had never seen,
a few short months ago! The tears came to my eyes, and for
the moment I was half resolved to send Stanley away without
me; but, O, I know that already my soul is married to his soul,
and I cannot give him up. Lizzie will come home in July, and
she can stay with papa. Do I love Stanley better than papa?
Why do I not say Lizzie will do for Stanley? And why would
she not — she, so good, so young, so very beautiful? “O, how dear, how much dearer than ever, my future husband
is every day becoming to my heart! How long a time
since I 've written here before! but then I 'm so busy, and so
happy! “O, how it rains! — Such a perfect wail as the wind makes,
hurrying by, as if its viewless feet were `swift to do evil!' Poor
Lizzie! she is inside the stage, I suppose; she will have a
long, uncomfortable ride! I don't know why it is, but my soul
seems to go out toward her to-night more than ever. I have
thought of Stanley so much lately, that I 've not had so much
time to think of my poor child, and now my heart is reproaching
me. Sweet Lizzie! She and Stanley have never met. How
proud I am of them both! I am sure they must be pleased
with each other. Stanley is in his room now. I sent him up to
put on his black coat, and that new vest in which he looks so
well. “Yes, it was dear Lizzie. Stanley heard the horn too, and hurried
down stairs. I bade him go and meet Lizzie; for it was
raining, and papa was n't half awake. I followed him to the
door, and he received Lizzie in his arms. She thought it was
papa, for, what with the night and the rain, it was quite dark;
and she pressed her lips to his face again and again. But when he
brought her into the pleasant, brightly-lighted parlor, and set her
down, she pushed from her white shoulders her heavy cloak,
and glanced around; that is, as soon as she could, for at first I held
her to my heart so closely she could see nothing. When papa
took her in his arms, and welcomed her, and bade God bless her,
she glanced at his slippers and dressing-gown, and then at Stanley,
who was looking at her with a shade of amusement at her
perplexity, and yet with the most vivid admiration I ever saw
portrayed on his fine features. At last he laughed out, merrily. “I am a little lonely, I 'm left so much alone now. The long
rides over the hills continue, and of course I stay at home, for
there is no horse for me to ride. Stanley comes and kisses me
just before he goes off, and says, `You are always so busy,
Katie!' but he says nothing of late about the reason I am so
busy — nothing about our marriage. “Two days, and I am writing here again; but O, how
changed! I have been struck by a thunderbolt. I have had
a struggle, brief, but very fierce; and it is past. I was sailing
in a fair ship, upon calm waters; there were only a few clouds
in the sky. Sunlight rested on the waves, and in the distance I
could see a floating pleasure-island, green and calm, made
beautiful with tropic flowers, where gorgeous birds rested, and
sang love-songs all the day. Merrily the bark dashed onward.
Loved forms were by my side, and one dearer than all
was at the helm; but from the clear sky a tempest-blast swept
suddenly. It had sobbed no warning of the doom it was
bringing us. “A month has passed since I wrote here last; I hardly know
why, myself. It has been a long summer month. Days are so
long in summer, and they have seemed like centuries of late.
What a beautiful day it is! The sunshine smiles so pleasantly
on the fields, and the bright-winged birds sing, and the insects
hum lazily, or go to sleep upon the flowers. It seems to me I
never saw such a scene of calm, quiet beauty; — as if Nature
had on her holiday garments, decked newly for the sun, her
lover. “Lizzie is married, and they have gone; surely no bride ever
before looked so beautiful! Her long curls floated over her
white robe like sunshine over snow; and her cheeks were fairer
than ever, shaded so faintly by her rich veil. She trembled
during the ceremony, and I could feel how firm and strong was
the lover-like pressure with which Stanley clasped her waist.
When we knelt in prayer, his arm was around her still; and I
seemed quite to forget my own existence, so intently was I occupied
in watching them, so fervent were my prayers for their
happiness. It was the hardest when Stanley came back to me,
after Lizzie had said good-by, and he had put her in the carriage.
He took both my hands in his, and, looking into my eyes,
whispered, Never mind Peepy, Mrs. Jellyby! Let the child cry, — let
him fall down stairs, and break his nose. What are a thousand
Peepies now present, to the mighty schemes of our modern
Borioboola-Gha, which will affect the destinies of myriads of
Peepies yet to come? Can you fritter away your attention on
one man, and his little troop of children, when that new lawgiver
— that Moses — that Stephen Pearl Andrews — has told us,
woman's chief duty is to be “true to herself, and not true to any
man”? Thanks, Mr. Andrews! We, little girl that we are,
did n't know our duty before. We 've found out, now. Never
mind if there were tears in his eyes, when he whispered, “I can't
live, if you change!” We know our duty now, and it 's not
much matter what he suffers in so good a cause. “Miss Adams: Perhaps it may give you some satisfaction
to learn that, in compliment to you, I returned from New York
last night, instead of this morning, as I at first intended. I went
over to Oakwood, and, in the natural indulgence of a lover's
curiosity, was a witness of the pleasant scene in your favorite
bower. I presume it will be an occasion of heartfelt rejoicing
to you to know that you are quite free from all the ties which
have bound you to No, no, nothing but that! She has never derived any additional
importance from linking her name with yours, imperial
man! — never grown angelized by a wife's thrice-drugged potion
of care and sorrow. She lives alone, in a little, lonely house, —
alone, with her black cat, and her memories of the past! “Edward Gray: Ellen Adair is ill — dying. She will die
to-night. I do not say if you ever loved her, for I know you
did, but, if you love her now, come to us directly. “`I am surprised, Mr. Harding, at the acuteness which enables
you to divine my wishes so readily. I trust the attachment
which can so easily relinquish its object will not be difficult to
overcome. For your kindness in procuring me this casket, I am
infinitely obliged; but you must, of necessity, excuse my accepting
it, as it is a present of too great value for a lady to receive
from any but her lover. Enclosed you will find your miniature
and letters, and a certain emerald ring, the pledge of a tie now
broken. You will excuse me from coming down, as I have a
head-ache this morning. I wish you God-speed on your journey,
long life and happiness, and remain your friend, “Many months have passed since last we met. Summers and
winters have been braided into years, and still on my heart is
your name written; not one hieroglyph that you traced there
has been obliterated. Heart and soul I am, what I always have
been, yours! I married Clara the day succeeding our last meeting,
and I love her very much. Can you reconcile this with what I
have just written? I am yours, as I said; you, even you, my
Agnes, are more to me than all the rest of earth; but it is much
to feel we can make another human being entirely happy. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 219 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Eutaw | | | | 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 surely an early hour for the whip-poor-will to begin
her monotonous plainings, sitting on her accustomed hawthorn,
just on the edge of the swamp. The sun has hardly dropped
from sight behind the great pine-thickets. His crimson and
orange robes still flaunt and flicker in the western heavens;
gleams from his great red eyes still purple the tree-tops; and
you may still see a cheerful light hanging in the brave, free
atmosphere; while gray shapes, like so many half-hooded friars,
glide away through the long pine-avenues, inviting you, as it
would seem, to follow, while they steal away slowly from pursuit
into the deeper thickets of the swamp. “My child, my dear Bertha: To you alone can I look for
the rescue of your brother and myself. We are in the power of
an enemy, who requires your hand in marriage for the safety of
my own and my son's life. We have forfeited the security of
British law. My own offences are such that, delivered to the
commandant of Charleston, as I am threatened, my death — an
ignominious death — must follow. Your brother is a captive
also, charged with murdering the king's soldiers without a warrant.
He is suffering in health by his unavoidable confinement.
He can not long live in the condition in which he is kept; and
his release and mine are made to depend entirely on you. Let
me implore you, my child, to come to our succor, and to save us.
Become the wife of Captain Inglehardt, and suffer us once more
to see the light of heaven, and enjoy the freedom of earth.
Come, my beloved child, to our rescue; and, in making the
sacrifice of your choice, to my own, receive the blessings of
your fond, but fettered father. [P. S.] You will readily conceive
our exigency, when I tell you that my wrists and feet are
even now in manacles of iron, and have been so from the first
day of my captivity. For a time, indeed, your brother Henry
was held in similar fetters.” “Sorry, my dear colonel, to cut short your roving commission;
doubly sorry that it has not yet resulted as you could
wish. But we can spare you from the main action of the drama
no longer. We are now, I think, approaching the denouément,
and require all our heroes on the stage. Stewart is in rapid
march downward — a little too strong for us yet, particularly
with the reinforcements which he will get from the lower posts.
We hear of these in motion from several quarters, as many as a
thousand or twelve hundred men. These, in addition to his
estimated strength at present of twenty-three hundred, will give
heavy odds against us, unless our mounted men come out much
more numerously than usual. Greene is on the march, somewhat
recruited, but very little strengthened. Congress has done
nothing — can or will do nothing — not even give us arms and
ammunition! Three hundred of our people are still without
serviceable weapons of any kind, and seven hundred without
jackets or breeches. It is really lucky that we have hot
weather. We must make up in zeal what we lack in men and
munitions, and only fight the harder from having but little
means with which to fight at all! That, my dear Sinclair, is a
new philosophy for the management of armies, but it is one
that will not seem altogether silly in the estimation of the true
patriot. At all events, it is about the best that I can give to
you, who know how to fight so well on short commons; and it
affords the only hope upon which I have fed (very like fasting)
for a long season! Once more, then, my dear Sinclair, let me
regret the necessity which requires that you rejoin your brigade,
and defer, for a brief season, the painfully interesting personal
enterprises upon which you are engaged. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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