| | 221 | Author: | Jones
J. B.
(John Beauchamp)
1810-1866 | Requires cookie* | | | 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 |
| 222 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Requires cookie* | | | 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 |
| 224 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | 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 |
| 225 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Requires cookie* | | | 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 |
| 228 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Francis Berrian, or, The Mexican patriot | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | 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 the autumn of this year I set out from Massachusetts
for the remote regions of the southwest on the
Spanish frontier, where I reside. When I entered the
steam-boat from Philadelphia to Baltimore, having taken
a general survey of the motley group, which is usually
seen in such places, my eye finally rested on a young
gentleman, apparently between twenty-five and thirty,
remarkable for his beauty of face, the symmetry of his
fine form, and for that uncommon union of interest,
benevolence, modesty, and manly thought, which are
so seldom seen united in a male countenance of great
beauty. The idea of animal magnetism, I know, is
exploded. I, however, retain my secret belief in the
invisible communication between minds, of something
like animal magnetism and repulsion. I admit that this
electric attraction of kindred minds at first sight, and
antecedent to acquaintance, is inexplicable. The world
may laugh at the impression, if it pleases. I have,
through life, found myself attracted, or repelled at first
sight, and oftentimes without being able to find in the
objects of these feelings any assignable reason, either
for the one or the other. I have experienced, too,
that, on after acquaintance, I have very seldom had
occasion to find these first impressions deceptive. It is
of no use to inquire, if these likes and dislikes be the
result of blind and unreasonable prejudice. I feel that
they are like to follow me through my course. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 229 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Shoshonee Valley | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | At Length the south breeze began once more to
whisper along the valley, bringing bland airs, spring
birds, sea fowls, the deep trembling roar of unchained
mountain streams, a clear blue sky, magpies and orioles,
cutting the ethereal space, as they sped with
their peculiar business note, on the great instinct errand
of their Creator to the budding groves. The
snipe whistled. The pheasant drummed on the fallen
trunks in the deep forest. The thrasher and the
robin sang; and every thing, wild and tame, that had
life, felt the renovating power, and rejoiced in the retraced
footsteps of the great Parent of nature. The
inmates of William Weldon's dwelling once more
walked forth, in the brightness of a spring morning,
choosing their path where the returning warmth had
already dried the ground on the south slopes of the
hills. The blue and the white violet had already
raised their fair faces under the shelter of the fallen
tree, or beneath the covert of rocks. The red bud
and the cornel decked the wilderness in blossoms; and
in the meadows, from which the ice had scarcely disappeared,
the cowslips threw up their yellow cups
from the water. As they remarked upon the beauty
of the day, the cheering notes of the birds, the deep
hum of a hundred mountain water-falls, and the exhilarating
influence of the renovation of spring, William
Weldon observed in a voice, that showed awakened
remembrances—`dear friends, you have, perhaps,
none of you such associations with this season,
as now press upon my thoughts, in remembrances
partly of joy and sadness. Hear you those million
mingled sounds of the undescribed dwellers in the
spring-formed waters? How keenly they call up the
fresh recollections of the spring of my youth, and my
own country! The winter there, too, is long and severe.
What a train of remembrances press upon me!
I have walked abroad in the first days of spring.—
When yet a child, I was sent to gather the earliest
cowslips. I remember my thoughts, when I first dipped
my feet in the water, and heard these numberless
peeps, croaks, and cries; and thought of the countless
millions of living things in the water, which seemed
to have been germinated by spring; and which appeared
to be emulating each other in the chatter of
their ceaseless song. How ye return upon my
thoughts, ye bright morning visions! What a fairy
creation was life, in such a spring prospect! How
changed is the picture, and the hue of the dark brown
years, as my eye now traces them in retrospect.—
These mingled sounds, this beautiful morning, these
starting cowslips, the whole present scene brings back
1*
the entire past. Ah! there must be happier worlds
beyond the grave, where it is always spring, or the
thoughts, that now spring in my bosom, had not been
planted there.' Minister of Jesus—A wretch in agony implores you
by Him, who suffered for mankind, to have mercy
upon him. He extenuates nothing. The vilest outrage
and abandonment were his purpose. He confesses,
that he deserves the worst. His only plea is,
that he was ruined by the doting indulgence of his
parents. Luxury and pleasure have enervated him,
and he has not the courage to bear pain. Death is
horror to him, and Oh, God! Oh, God!—the terrible
death of a slow fire. Christ pitied his tormentors.
Oh! let Jessy pity me. The agony is greater, than
human nature can bear. Oh! Elder Wood, come,
and pray with, and for `They have unbound my hands, and furnished me
with the means of writing this. They are dancing
round the pile, on which I am to suffer by fire. My
oath, that I would possess thee, at the expense of
death and hell, rings in my ears, as a knell, that would
awaken the dead. Oh God! have mercy. Every
thing whirls before my eyes, and I can only pray, that
you may forget, if you cannot forgive | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 238 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The American lounger, or, Tales, sketches, and legends, gathered in sundry journeyings | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | 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 am a bachelor, dear reader! This I deem necessary
to premise, lest, peradventure, regarding me as
one of that class whose fate is sealed,
— “As if the genius of their stars had writ it,”
you should deem me traitor to my sworn alliance.
For what has a Benedict to do with things out of the
window, when his gentle wife—(what sweet phraseology
this last! How prettily it looks printed!) his
“gentle wife” with her quiet eye, her sewing and
rocking chair on one side, and his duplicates or triplicates,
in the shape of a round chunk of a baby, fat as
a butter-ball; two or three roguish urchins with tops
and wooden horses, and a fawn-like, pretty daughter
of some nine years, with her tresses adown her neck,
and a volume of Miss Edgworth's “Harry and Lucy”
in her hand, which she is reading by the fading
twilight—demand and invite his attention on the
other. “How I yearn to be once more folded in your sisterly
embrace, to lean my aching head upon your bosom,
and pour my heart into yours. It is near midnight.
Edward has gone out to seek some means of earning
the pittance which is now our daily support. Poor
Edward! How he exists under such an accumulation
of misery, I know not. His trials have nearly broken
his proud and sensitive spirit. Since his cruel arrest,
his heart is crushed. He will never hold up his head
again. He sits with me all day long, gloomy and desponding,
and never speaks. Oh how thankful I feel
that he has never yet been tempted to embrace the
dreadful alternative to which young men in his circumstances
too often fly! May he never fly to the
oblivious wine cup to fly from himself. In this, dear
Isabel, God has been, indeed, merciful to me. Last
night Edward came home, after offering himself even
as a day laborer, and yet no man would hire him, and
threw himself upon the floor and wept long and bitterly.
When he became calmer, he spoke of my sufferings
and his own, in the most hopeless manner, and
prayed that he might be taken from the world, for Pa
would then forgive me. But this will never be. One
grave will hold us both. I have not a great while to
live, Isabel! But I do not fear to die! Edward! 'tis
for Edward my heart is wrung. Alas his heart is hardened
to every religious impression—the Bible he
never opens, family prayers are neglected, and affliction
has so changed him altogether, that you can no
longer recognise the handsome, agreeable and fascinating
Edward you once knew. Oh, if pa would relent,
how happy we might all be again. If dear Edward's
debts were paid, and they do not amount to
nine hundred dollars altogether, accumulated during
the three years of our marriage, he might become an
ornament to society, which none are better fitted to
adorn. Do, dearest Isabel, use your influence with pa,
for we are really very wretched, and Edward has been
so often defeated in the most mortifying efforts to obtain
employment—for no one would assist him because
he is in debt—(the very reason why they should) that
he has not the resolution to subject himself again to
refusals, not unfrequently accompanied with insult,
and always with contempt. My situation at this time,
dearest sister, is one also of peculiar delicacy, and I
need your sisterly support and sympathy. Come and
see me, if only for one day. Do not refuse me this,
perhaps the last request I shall ever make of you.
Plead eloquently with pa, perhaps he will not persevere
longer in his cruel system of severity. Edward
is not guilty—he is unfortunate. But alas, in this
world, there is little distinction between guilt and misery!
Come, dearest Isabel—I cannot be said “No.”
I hear Edward's footstep on the stair. God bless and
make you happier than your wretched sister, “I have learned the extremity of your anger against
Edward. Your vindictive cruelty has cast him friendless
upon the world, and I fly to share his fortune. I
must ask your forgiveness for the step I am about to
take. I am betrothed to Edward by vows that are
registered in Heaven.—Alas! it is his poverty alone that
renders him so hateful to you—for once you thought
there was no one like Edward. God bless you, my
dear father, and make you happy here and hereafter. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 239 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Morris Græme, or, The cruise of the Sea-Slipper | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | 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 the original intention of the author of the “Dancing Feather”
to have extended that work to fifty chapters, or the usual length of a novel
of two volumes. But the editor of the paper to whom it was communicated
in weekly numbers, requested, after six chapters had been published,
that it should be limited to ten chapters. This desire of the publisher the
author complied with, though with injury both to the plot and the harmonious
construction of the Romance. The favorable reception of “The
Dancing Feather,” even in this abridged character, induced its publisher to
reprint and re-issue it in a cheap octavo form. Its unlooked for popularity
in this shape, and the frequent calls for it even now, has induced the writer
to carry out, in some degree, his first intention, and to present the public
with a Sequel, commencing with the night of the mysterious departure
from her anchoring ground of the schooner “The Dancing Feather”—to
the story with which title the reader is referred. I am now near my end—but, as I believe death to be an
everlasting sleep, I feel no alarm. The grave is rest. I envy the
clod and the rock which are dead and feel not; and rejoice that
I shall soon be their fellow! But I would say a word to you before
I am annihilated. I wish you to know what you are ignorant of
respecting me. I am an Englishman descended of a noble family.
My grand-father was an Earl, my mother a Countess. A step-mother
made my parental roof a hell, and at the age of sixteen I fled
from it. I shipped as a common seaman; and having a naturedly
vicious turn, (I conceal nothing now) I soon contracted the worst
vices. In my twentieth year, enraged by a blow inflicted by the
Captain, Iconspired, and heading a mutiny took possession of the
brig, killing the Captain with my own hands and so wiping out the
foul stain he had blackened me with. We steered for the coast
of Africa; and, tempted by the great wealth realized by slave-stealing,
we engaged in the traffic and took a cargo to the West Indies.
The immense returns by the way of profit, with the absence of all
principle, led me to engage in it for a long period, till at length,
after several years, my name was known throughout the West Indies
and inspired terror all along the African coast. The wealth
I accumulated was enormous; and the guilt with which it was obtained
was equally vast. But what is guilt but a name? The
grave hides alike evil and good: at least this is my belief, and at
this hour it is a consoling one. If there were a God I know
there would be a hell for me. But my conscience is calm and
gives me no warning of a hereafter; and so I die without fear. A
peaceful state, my son! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 240 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Caroline Archer, or, The miliner's apprentice | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | CAROLINE ARCHER Was the most beautiful
milliner's apprentice that tripped along
the streets of Philadelphia. She was just
seventeen; with the softest brown hair, that
would burst into a thousand ringlets over the
neck and shoulders, all she could do to teach
it to lay demurely on her cheek, as a milliner's
apprentice should do. Her eyes were of
the deepest blue of the June sky after a fine
shower, not that showers often visited her
brilliant orbs, for she was as happy-hearted
as a child, and to sing all day long was as
natural to her as to the robin red-breast—at
least it was until she became a milliner's apprentice,
when she was forbid to sing by her
austere mistress, as if a maiden's fingers
would not move as nimbly with a cheerful
carol on her tongue. Her smile was like
light, it was so beaming; and then it was so
full of sweetness, and gentle-heartedness!
It was delightful to watch her fine face with
a smile mantling its classical features, and
her coral lips just parted showing the most
beautiful teeth in the world. One could not
but fall in love with her outright at sight—
yet there was a certain elevated purity and
dignity about her that checked lightness or
thought of evil in relation to her. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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