| | 81 | Author: | Roe
Edward Payson
1838-1888 | Add | | | Title: | From jest to earnest  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | ON a cloudy December morning, a gentleman,
two ladies, and a boy, stepped down from the
express train at a station just above the Highlands
on the Hudson. A double sleigh, overflowing with
luxurious robes, stood near, and a portly coachman
with difficulty restrained his spirited horses while
the little party arranged themselves for a winter
ride. Both the ladies were young, and the gentleman's
anxious and almost tender solicitude for one
of them seemed hardly warranted by her blooming
cheeks and sprightly movements. A close observer
might soon suspect that his assiduous attentions
were caused by a malady of his own rather than
indisposition on her part. IT is a common impression that impending disasters
cast their shadows before; and especially in
the realm of fiction do we find that much is made
of presentiments, which are usually fulfilled in a
very dramatic way. But the close observer of real
life, to a large degree, loses faith in these bodings
of ill. He learns that sombre impressions result
more often from a defective digestion and
disquieted conscience than any other cause; and
that, after the gloomiest forebodings, the days pass
in unusual sereneness. Not that this is always
true, but it would almost seem the rule. Perhaps
more distress is caused by those troubles which
never come, but which are feared and worried over,
than by those which do come, teaching us, often,
patience and faith. “Mr. Hemstead, I sincerely ask your forgiveness
for my folly, which you cannot condemn as
severely as I do. Though unworthy, indeed, of your
friendship and esteem, can you believe that I am
not now the weak, wicked creature that I was when
we first met? But I have not the courage to plead
my own cause. I know that both facts and appearances
are against me. I can only ask you,
Who told His disciples to forgive each other,
`seventy times seven'? “My Friend: “I am in receipt of your splendid book. It is full of valuable information,
not only to beginners but to those of the ripest experience. In fact, it is the most elegant in
its illustrations and execution, comprehensive in its investigations, and judicious in its
teachings, of any work on the same subject ever published in our country. More than
this, it is a fine illustration of what industry, intelligence, and devotion can accomplish.
I give it a hearty welcome. Success to `Success with Small Fruits.' | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 83 | Author: | Roe
Edward Payson
1838-1888 | Add | | | Title: | What can she do? | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | IT was a very cold blustering day in early January,
and even brilliant thronged Broadway felt
the influence of winter's harshest frown. There
had been a heavy fall of snow which, though in
the main cleared from the sidewalks, lay in the
streets comparatively unsullied and unpacked.
Fitful gusts of the passing gale caught it up and
whirled it in every direction. From roof, ledges,
and window sills, miniature avalanches suddenly
descended on the startled pedestrians, and the air
was here and there loaded with falling flakes from
wild hurrying masses of clouds, the rear guard of
the storm that the biting northwest wind was
driving seaward. “In your request and reproaches, I see the influence
of another mind. Left to yourself you
would not doubt me. And yet such is my love for
you, I would comply with your request were it not
for what passed that fatal evening. My feelings
and honor as a man forbid my ever meeting your
sister again till she has apologized. She never
liked me, and always wronged me with doubts.
Elliot acted like a fool and a villain, and I have
nothing more to do with him. But your sister, in
her anger and excitement, classed me with him.
When you have been my loved and trusted wife
for some length of time, I hope your family will do
me justice. When you are here with me you will
soon see why our marriage must be private for the
present. You have known me since you were a
child. I will be true to my word and will do
exactly as I agreed. I will meet you any evening
you wish on the down boat. Awaiting your reply
with an anxiety which only the deepest love can
inspire, I remain “I am going, Edith, to meet Mr. Van Dam, as he
told me. I cannot—I will not believe that he will
prove false to me. I leave his letter, which I received
to-day. Perhaps you never will forgive me
at home; but whatever becomes of poor little Zell,
she will not cease to love you all. I would only be
a burden if I stayed. There will be one less to
provide for, and I may be able to help you far more
by going than staying. Don't follow me. I've
made my venture, and chosen my lot. “Mother, Edith, farewell! When you read these
sad words I shall be dead. I fear death—I cannot
tell you how I fear it, but I fear that dreadful gulf
which daily grows nearer more. I must die. There
is no other resource for a poor, weak woman like
16
me. If I were only strong—if I had only been
taught something—but I am helpless. Do not be
too hard upon poor little Zell. Her eyes were
blinded by a false love; she did not see the black
gulf as I see it. If God cares for what such poor
forlorn creatures as I do, may He forgive. I have
thought till my brain reels. I have tried to pray,
but hardly knew what I was praying to. I don't
understand God—He is far off. The world scorns
us. There is none to help. There is no other
remedy save the drug at my side, which will soon
bring sleep which I hope will be dreamless. Farewell! “Miss Edith Allen: You need not fear that I
shall offend again by either writing or speaking
such rash words as those which so deeply pained
you this morning. They would not have been
spoken then, perhaps never, had I not been startled
out of my self-control—had I not seen that you
suspected me of evil. I was very unwise, and I sincerely
ask your pardon. But I meant no wrong,
and as you referred to my sister, I can say, before
God, that I would shield you as I would shield
her. “Guilliam:—You cannot know where I am.
You cannot know what has happened. You could
not be such a fiend as to cast me off and send me
here to die—and die I shall. The edge of the grave
seems crumbling under me as I write. If you have
a spark of love for me, come and see me before I
die. Oh, Guilliam, Guilliam! what a heaven of a
home I would have made you, if you had only married
me. It would have been my whole life to make
you happy. I said bitter words to you—forgive
them. We both have sinned—can God forgive us?
I will not believe you know what has happened.
You are grieving for me—looking for me. They
took me away while you were gone. Come and see
me before I die. Good-bye. I'm writing in the dark
—I'm dying in the dark—my soul is in the dark—
I'm going away in the dark—where, O God, where? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 84 | Author: | Sargent
Epes
1813-1880 | Add | | | Title: | Peculiar | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | IT is a small and somewhat faded room in an unpretending
brick house in one of the streets that intersect Broadway,
somewhere between Canal Street and the Park. A woman
sits at a writing-table, with the fingers of her left hand thrust
through her hair and supporting her forehead, while in her
right hand she holds a pen with which she listlessly draws
figures, crosses, circles and triangles, faces and trees, on the
blotting-paper that partly covers a letter which she has been
inditing. DEAR HENRY: You kindly left word for me to write
you. I have little of a cheering nature to say in regard
to myself. We have moved from the house in Fourteenth
Street into a smaller one nearer to the Park and to Mr. Charlton's
business. His complaints of his disappointment in regard
to my means have lately grown more bitter. Your allowance,
liberal as it is, seems to be lightly esteemed. The other day
he twitted me with setting a snare for him by pretending to be
a rich widow. O Henry, what an aggravation of insult! I
knew nothing, and of course said nothing, as to the extent of
your father's wealth. I supposed, as every one else did, that
he left a large property. His affairs proved to be in such a
state that they could not be disentangled by his executors till
two years after his death. Before that time I was married to
Mr. Charlton. “To Carberry Ratcliff, Esq.: — Sir: By the time this letter
reaches you I shall be out of your power, and with my freedom
assured. Still I desire to be at liberty to return to New
Orleans, if I should so elect, and therefore I request you to name
the sum in consideration of which you will give me free papers.
A friend will negotiate with you. Let that friend have your
answer, if you please, in the form of an advertisement in the
Picayune, addressed to “To Estelle: For fifty dollars, I will give you the papers
you desire. “What shall I call thee? Dearest? But that word implies
a comparative; and whom shall I compare with thee? Most
precious and most beloved? O, that is not a tithe of it! Idol?
Darling? Sweet? Pretty words, but insufficient. Ah! life
of my life, there are no superlatives in language that can interpret
to thee the unspeakable affection which swells in my
heart and moistens my eyes as I commence this letter! Can
we by words give an idea of a melody? No more can I put on
paper what my heart would be whispering to thine. Forgive
the effort and the failure. “Judge Onslow, late of Mississippi, and his son saved themselves
by swimming. Among the bodies they identified was
that of Mrs. Berwick of New York, wounded in the head.
From the nature of the wound, her death must have been instantaneous.
Her husband was badly scalded, and, on recognizing
the body of his wife, and learning that his child was
among the drowned, he became deeply agitated. He lingered
till the next day at noon. The child had been in the keeping
of a mulatto nurse. Mr. Burgess of St. Louis, who was saved,
saw them both go overboard. It appears, however, that the
nurse, with her charge in her arms, was seen holding on to a
life-preserving stool; but they were both drowned, though
every effort was made by Colonel Hyde, aided by Mr. Quattles
of South Carolina, to save them. “To Perdita: I shall not be able to see you again to-day.
Content yourself as well as you can in the company of
Mozart and Beethoven, Bellini and Donizetti, Irving and Dickens,
Tennyson and Longfellow. The company is not large, but
you will find it select. Unless some very serious engagement
should prevent, I will see you to-morrow. “Dear Brother: I have called, as you requested, on
Mr. Charlton in regard to his real estate in New Orleans.
Let me give you some account of this man. He is taxed for
upwards of a million. He inherited a good part of this sum
from his wife, and she inherited it from a nephew, the late Mr.
Berwick, who inherited it from his infant daughter, and this
last from her mother. Mother, child, and father — the whole
Berwick family — were killed by a steamboat explosion on the
Mississippi some fifteen or sixteen years ago. “Will you come and dine with me at five to-day without
ceremony? Please reply by the bearer. “I thank you for all the hospitality I have received at your
hands. Enclosed you will find my hotel bill receipted, also
five dollars for the use of such dresses as I have worn. With
best wishes for your mother's restoration to health and for your
own welfare, I bid you good by. “Stricken down by a death-wound, I write this. When it
reaches you, my son, you will be the last survivor of your
family. The faithful negro who bears this letter will tell you
all. You may rely on what he says. This crafty, this Satanic
Slave Power has — I can use the pen no longer. But I
can dictate. The negro must be my amanuensis.” “This Slave Power, which, for many weeks past, has been
hunting down and hanging Union men, has at last laid its
14 * U
bloody hand on our innocent household. Should you meet
Colonel A. J. Hamilton,*
* Late member of Congress from Texas. In his speech in New York
(1862) he said: “I know that the loyalists of Texas have died deaths not
heard of since the dark ages until now; not only hunted and shot, murdered
upon their own thresholds, but tied up and scalded to death with boiling
water; torn asunder by wild horses fastened to their feet; whole neighborhoods
of men exterminated, and their wives and children driven away.”
It is estimated by a writer in the New Orleans Crescent (June, 1863), that
at least twenty-five hundred persons had been hung in Texas during the preceding
two years for fidelity to the Union.
The San Antonio (Texas) Herald, a Rebel sheet of November 13th, 1862,
taunted the Unionists with the havoc that had been made among them! It
says: “They (Union men) are known and will be remembered. Their numbers
were small at first, and they are becoming every day less. In the
mountains near Fort Clark and along the Rio Grande their bones are bleaching
in the sun, and in the counties of Wire and Denton their bodies are
suspended by scores from black-jacks.”
Such are the shameless butchers and hangmen that Slavery spawns!
he will tell you something of what
the pro-slavery butchers have been doing. “The scoundrels have cut the telegraph wires, and we can't
communicate with the forts. I leave here at once to engage a
boat for the pursuit. Shall go in her myself. You must do
this one thing for me without fail: Take up your abode at
once, this very night, in my house, and stay there till I come
back. Use every possible precaution to prevent another escape
of that young person of whom I spoke to you. Do not
let her move a step out of doors without you or your agents
know precisely where she is. I shall hold you responsible for
her security. I may not be back for a day or two, in which
case you must have my wife's interment properly attended to. “Dear Mr. Vance: On leaving you at the Levee I drove
straight for the stable where my horses belonged. I passed
the night with my friend Antoine, the coachman. The next
day I went to your house, where I have stayed with those kind
people, the Bernards, ever since. “Do not think me fanciful, Mr. Vance, but the moment I
set eyes on this young woman the conviction struck me, She
is the lost Clara for whom we are seeking. The coincidence
of age and the fact that I have had the search of her on my
mind, may fully explain the impression. May. But you know
I believe in the phenomena of Spiritualism. Belief is not the
right word. Knowledge would be nearer the truth. “My dear little Granddaughter: This comes to you
from one to whom you seem nearer than any other she leaves
behind. She wishes she could make you wise through her
experience. Since her heart is full of it, let her speak it. In
that event, so important to your happiness, your marriage, may
you be warned by her example, and neither let your affections
blind your reason, nor your reason underrate the value of the
affections. Be sure not only that you love, but that you are
loved. Choose cautiously, my dear child, if you choose at all;
and may your choice be so felicitous that it will serve for the
next world as well as this. “Poor Peek, — rather let me say fortunate Peek! He fell
nobly, as he always desired to fall, in the cause of freedom and
humanity. His son, Sterling, is now with me; a bright, brave
little fellow, who is already a great comfort and help.” “My dear Cousin: I received last night your letter from
Meade's headquarters. 'T was a comfort to be assured you
escaped unharmed amid your many exposures. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 86 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The cassique of Kiawah | | | | 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: | Suppose the day to be a fine one — calm, placid, and without
a cloud — even such a day as frequently comes to cheer us in
the benign and bud-compelling month of April; — suppose the
seas to be smooth; at rest, and slumbering without emotion; with
a fair bosom gently heaving, and sending up only happy murmurs,
like an infant's after a late passion of tears; suppose the hour
to be a little after the turn of noon, when, in April, the sun, only
gently soliciting, forbears all ardency; sweetly smiles and softly
embraces; and, though loving enough for comfort, is not so oppressive
in his attachments as to prompt the prayer for an iceberg
upon which to couch ourselves for his future communion; supposing
all these supposes, dear reader, then the voyager, running
close in for the land — whose fortune it is to traverse that portion
of the Atlantic which breaks along the shores of Georgia and the
Carolinas — beholds a scene of beauty in repose, such as will be
very apt to make him forgetful of all the dangers he has passed! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 87 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Charlemont, or, The pride of the village | | | | 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 stormy and rugged winds of March were overblown
— the first fresh smiling days of April had come at last —
the days of sunshine and shower, of fitful breezes, the breath
of blossoms, and the newly-awakened song of birds. Spring
was there in all the green and glory of her youth, and the
bosom of Kentucky heaved with the prolific burden of the
season. She had come, and her messengers were everywhere,
and everywhere busy. The birds bore her gladsome
tidings to
“Alley green,
Dingle or bushy dell of each wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side—”
nor were the lately-trodden and seared grasses of the forests
left unnoted; and the humbled flower of the wayside
sprang up at her summons. Like some loyal and devoted
people, gathered to hail the approach of a long-exiled and
well-beloved sovereign, they crowded upon the path over
which she came, and yielded themselves with gladness at
her feet. The mingled songs and sounds of their rejoicing
might be heard, and far-off murmurs of gratulation, rising
from the distant hollows, or coming faintly over the hilltops,
in accents not the less pleasing because they were the
less distinct. That lovely presence which makes every
land blossom, and every living thing rejoice, met, in the
happy region in which we meet her now, a double tribute
of honor and rejoicing. “Dear Barnabas: The strangest adventure — positively
the very strangest — that ever happened to a son of Murkey's,
will keep me from the embraces of the brethren a few weeks
longer. I am benighted, bewildered, taken with art-magic,
transmuted, transmogrified, not myself nor yet another, but,
as they say in Mississippi, `a sort of betweenity.' Fancy
me suddenly become a convert to the bluest presbyterianism,
as our late excellent brother Woodford became, when
he found that he could not get Moll Parkinson on any other
terms — and your guess will not be very far from the true
one. I am suddenly touched with conviction. I have seen
a light on my way from Tarsus. The scales have fallen
from my eyes. I have seen the wickedness of my ways,
and yours too, you dog; and, having resolved on my own
repentance, I am taking lessons which shall enable me to
effect yours. Precious deal of salt will it need for that!
Salt river will fall, while its value rises. But the glory of
the thing — think of that, my boy! What a triumph it will
be to revolutionize Murkey's! — to turn out the drinkers,
and smokers, and money-changers; to say, `Hem! my
brethren, let us pay no more taxes to sin in this place!'
There shall be no more cakes and ale. Ginger shall have
no heat i' the mouth there; and, in place of smoking meats
and tobacco, give you nothing but smoking methodism!
Won't that be a sight and a triumph which shall stir the
dry bones in our valley — ay, and bones not so dry? There
shall be a quaking of the flesh in sundry places. Flam will
perish in the first fit of consternation; and if Joe Burke's
sides do not run into sop and jelly, through the mere humor
of the thing, then prophecy is out of its element quite. “Sir: If I understood your last assurance on leaving
you this day, I am to believe that the stroke of my whip has
made its proper impression on your soul — that you are
willing to use the ordinary means of ordinary persons, to
avenge an indignity which was not confined to your cloth.
If so, meet me at the lake with whatever weapons you choose
to bring. I will be there, provided with pistols for both, at
any hour from three to six. I shall proceed to the spot as
soon as I receive your answer. “I will meet you as soon as I can steal off without provoking
suspicion. I have pistols which I will bring with
me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 88 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The district of Orangeburg, in South Carolina, constitutes
one of the second tier (from the seaboard) of the political and
judicial divisions or districts of that state. It is a vast plain,
with a surface almost unbroken, in the southern and western
portions, by elevations of any sort. In this region, it is irrigated
by numerous watercourses, rivers, and creeks, that make
their way through swamps of more or less width and density.
These are all thickly covered with a wild and tangled forest-growth,
skirted with great pines, and dwarf-oaks, to say nothing
of a vast variety of shrub-trees; the foliage of which,
massed together by gadding vines, usually presents, in midsummer,
the appearance of a solid wall, impervious to sight and
footstep. “These, old Sinkeler, are to signify that ef you don't surrender
up our friend and brother officer and sodger, Leftenant Joel
Andrews sometimes called `Hell-fire Dick,' of his royal majesty's
regiment of loyal rangers, third company of foragers,
we'll have your heart's blood out of your body, and thar shant
be stick or stone standing of your big house after we've gone
through it. These is to say to you that you must give him up
to the barrer of dispatches, in hafe an hour after you reads 'em,
or you may expeck the eternal vengeance of all consarned. “If he of H— D— [Holly-Dale] is honest, and will
speak the truth, giving proof as he promises, he shall have the
guaranty which he seeks. I will give him the meeting. See
to the arrangemeuts for it as soon as possible. We have reached
that stage of the game, when the loss of a pawn may be
that of a castle; when the gain, even of a pawn, may enable us
to give check-mate to a king! “Let him of H. D. know that I see no reason to depart from
our arrangement as originally made. “I shall take the liberty, my dear Captain Porgy, of bringing
with me a couple of additional guests, in General Greene
and Colonel Lee, knowing that your provision will not only be
ample, but that the taste which usually presides over your banquets
will give to our friends from Rhode Island and Virginia
such a notion of the tastes of Apicius and Lucullus, as certainly
never yet dawned upon them in their own half-civilized regions.
Your own courtesy will do the rest and will, I trust, sufficiently
justify the confidence with which I have insisted upon their
coming. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 89 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The golden Christmas | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was during that premature spell of cold weather which we so
unseasonably had this year in October,—anticipating our usual
winter by a full month or more,—cutting off the cotton crop a
fourth, and forcing us into our winter garments long before they
were ordered from the tailor,—when, one morning, as I stood shivering
before the glass, and clumsily striving, with numbed fingers,
to adjust my cravat à la nœud Gordien,—my friend, Ned Bulmer,
burst into my room, looking as perfect an exquisite as Beau
Brummell himself. He was in the gayest clothes and spirits, a
thousand times more exhilarated than usual—and Ned is one of
those fellows upon whom care sits uneasily, whom, indeed, care
seldom sets upon at all! He laughed at my shiverings and
awkwardness, seized the ends of my handkerchief, and, with the
readiest fingers in the world, and in the most perfect taste, adjusted
the folds of the cravat, and looped them up into a rose beneath
my chin, in the twinkling of an eye, and to my own perfect satisfaction. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 90 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Marie de Berniere | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Start not, dear Marie; nor, if possible, exhibit the
least surprise or emotion as you discover the writing to
be mine, or note the character of its contents. At all
events, make no remark on what you read, and let
your answer be in writing also, and addressed to Madame
de Chateauneuve, though really intended for
myself. There are reasons, believe me, for all these
precautions. In brief, dear Marie, I have come to the
conclusion, after deep study and long reflection, that
you are the victim of a cunning and monstrous imposition,
to combat which, successfully, requires the utmost
vigilance, and a distrust even of the walls of your
chamber. So well am I persuaded of this, that I feel
it unwise to whisper to you here the several processes
of reasoning by which I have reached these suspicions,
or to urge my inquiries farther towards a discovery of
the truths. My purpose, therefore, is to entreat that,
if you really love me, if you really desire my happiness,
as well as your own, and, if you would really revolt
at the idea of being deluded by a most audacious piece
of jugglery, you will contrive to give me a meeting at
my sister's to-morrow morning at 11 o'clock; when I
will unfold to you the whole progress of my conjectures.
In consenting to this arrangement, I must
warn you to suffer no person to know your intentions,
not even your servants. Do not order your carriage,
but wait for that of Madame de Chateauneuve, who
will call for you, a little before this hour. Let me
implore you, dear Marie, to accede to this application.
Your health will now admit—nay, require some such
exercise; exertion, and the fresh pure air of these
pleasant days will exhilarate and strengthen you.
Supposing even that the decree which you have heard
is really the voice of an almighty Providence, His benevolence
will not be offended, nor His sense of authority
outraged, if you resort to all reasonable and proper
means to be assured of its divine origin. Scripture
itself counsels us that the world shall be full of false
prophets and false signs in these latter days—and there
are spirits of evil as well as of good—perhaps a far
greater number, who are still permitted, for purposes
of mischief, to hover around the habitations of earth.
You owe it to me, dear Marie, no less than to yourself
—to my future and my heart as well as your own—
not to yield to a decree which threatens the wreck of
both, until it has been narrowly searched by every
probe and principle which human reason has ever invented
or conceived for the detection of error, and
the discovery of truth. As this revelation appears
to be so entirely miraculous—so far beyond all the
ordinary events of life—it requires that it should be
scrutinized in proportion to its eccentricity, and in
just degree with the vital interests which depend upon
its execution. Yield to this entreaty, dear Marie, even
though you should persist, finally, in the cruel resolution
to hearken to no other from the lips of one whose
every prayer will still eternally be yours. “Sense of duty, &c. Foreclosure of mortgage, &c.
Unavoidable, &c. Very sorry, &c. “Dear Sir: Meeting with the sheriff, and being
in want of a sufficient force for my Cedar Island
plantation, I have ventured to assume your bond,
with interest, being perfectly satisfied to pay the
same price for the negroes at which you bought
them. As I hold them to be amply worth the
amount, I leave it entirely with yourself to retain
them, if you please, paying me at your leisure;
though I should prefer to have them, on my assumption
of your several responsibilities in regard to this
property. Whatever may be your decision, which
you can make at your leisure, it will at least be proper
that they should remain in your keeping until
after the holidays. Very faithfully, and with great
respect, I am, my dear sir, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 91 | Author: | Smith
Seba
1792-1868 | Add | | | Title: | 'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee life | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The pilgrim fathers of New England, and their
children of the first and second generations, are justly
renowned for their grave character, their moral
uprightness, which sometimes was rather more than
perpendicular, and the vigilant circumspection which
each one exercised over his neighbor as well as himself.
It is true that Connecticut, from an industrious
promulgation of her “Blue Laws,” has acquired more
fame on this score than other portions of the “universal
Yankee nation,” but this negative testimony
against the rest of New England ought not to be
allowed too much weight, for wherever the light of
history does gleam upon portions further “Down East,”
it shows a people not a whit behind Connecticut in
their resolute enforcement of all the decencies of life,
and their stern and watchful regard for the well-being
of society. The justice of this remark will sufficiently
appear by a few brief quotations from their
judicial records. In the name of Captain Kidd, Amen.—On Jewell's
So saying, he opened the paper, which was so much worn at the folds as to drop into several pieces, and read from it as follows:-- PAGE 180.
689EAF. Illustration page. A man sits at a table and reads from a piece of paper. Two other men are looking on listening as he reads the paper. One is stting at the table and the other is standing hunched over the table, leaning forward. There is a woman standing behind the table who is listening in as well.
Island, near the harbor of Falmouth, in the District
of Maine, is buried a large iron pot full of gold, with
an iron cover over it, and also two large iron pots full
of silver dollars and half dollars, with iron covers
over them; and also one other large iron pot, with an
iron cover over it, full of rich jewels, and gold rings
and necklaces, and gold watches of great value. In
this last pot is the paper containing the agreement of
the four persons who buried these treasures, and the
name of each one is signed to it with his own blood.
In that agreement it is stated that this property
belongs equally to the four persons who buried it, and
is not to be dug up or disturbed while the whole four
are living, except they be all present. And in case it
shall not be reclaimed during the lifetime of the four,
it shall belong equally to the survivors, who shall be
bound to each other in the same manner as the four
were bound. And in case this property shall never
be dug up by the four, or any of them, the last survivor
shall have a right to reveal the place where it is
hid, and to make such disposition of it as he may
think proper. And in that same paper, the evil spirit
of darkness is invoked to keep watch over this
money, and to visit with sudden destruction any one
of the four who may violate his agreement. This
property was buried at the hour of midnight, and only
at the hour of midnight can it ever be reclaimed.
And it can be obtained only in the most profound
silence on the part of those who are digging for it.
Not a word or syllable must be uttered from the time
the first spade is struck in the ground, till a handful
of the money is taken out of one of the pots. This
arrangement was entered into with the spirit of darkness,
in order to prevent any unauthorized persons
from obtaining the money. I am the last survivor of
the four. If I shall dispose of this paper to any one
before my death, or leave it to any one after I am
gone, he may obtain possession of this great treasure
by observing the following directions. Go to the
north side of the island, where there is a little cove,
or harbor, and a good landing on a sandy beach.
Take your compass and run by it due south a half a
mile, measuring from high-water mark. Then run
fifty rods east by compass, and there you will find a
blue stone, about two feet long, set endwise into the
ground. From this stone, measure fifteen rods
brandy-way, and there, at the depth of five feet from
the surface of the ground, you will find the pots of
money. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 93 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | Azarian | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Life, which slips us along like beads on a
leash, strung summer after summer on Ruth
Yetton's thread, yet none so bright as that
one where the Azarian had pictured his sunny
face and all his infinite variety of pranksome
ways. Ruth's mother had thrown her
up in despair, as good for nothing under the
sun, but her father always took her on his
knee at twilight, listened to her little idealities,
and dreamed the hour away with her. Yet
without the mother's constructive strength,
all Ruth's inherited visioning would have
availed her ill. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 94 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | Sir Rohan's ghost | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | THERE is a Ghost in all aristocratic families,
and therefore it is not to be presumed that
the great house of Belvidere was destitute. But
though it had dragged on a miserable existence
some three hundred years without one, at last
that distinction was to arrive. Sir Rohan had a
Ghost. Not by any means a common ghost that
appeared at midnight on the striking of a bell,
and trailed its winding-sheet through the upper
halls nearest the roof, but a Ghost that, sleeping
or waking, never left him, a Ghost whose long
hair coiled round and stifled the fair creations
of his dreams, and whose white garments swept
leprously into his sunshine. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 95 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | The thief in the night | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The garden lay sparkling under the earliest light
of a June morning. A heaven everywhere a
field of rose and azure soared over it; charming
bird-songs trilled from its thickets; a breeze, that
was only living fragrance, rifled its roses, swept
up its avenues, and struck leaf and bough and
blossom into light before it stripped them of their
dewdrops in a shower. The Triton at the lower
end of the little lake sent up a shaft of water-streams
from his horn to catch the sunbeams and
sprinkle them over the surface beneath, and beds
of faintly blue forget-me-nots crept out to meet
the pickerel-weed and lily-pads, — blue flags,
and bluer weed, and waxen-white lilies just unclasping
their petals, with here and there a floating
ball of gold among them, — where the breeze
dipped again in a shining ripple, and weeds and
flags and lilies rocked and swayed before it. On
the one side, the sweet-brier, climbing a pear-tree
to reach the robin's nest, looked back with a
hundred blushing blossoms, and blew a breath of
delight to the damask-rose on the other. The
damask said good-morning to the moss-rose; the
moss-rose to the red; the red would have passed
on the cheerful salutation, but the pale-white
rose, upon its lofty stem, had been awake all
night, had looked into the sick man's chamber,
and learned what the ruddy-cheeked flowers,
which hung their heads and went to sleep with
the birds, were not to know. Nevertheless, a
red-winged blackbird, lighting there and leaving,
shook it so that half its petals fluttered away in
pursuit; a little piece of jewel-work of a humming-bird
darted by to join the frolic; a bluebird
dropped a measure of melody from the
spray where he was tilting, and followed after.
Every thing, in all the bright and blooming
garden, moved and glanced and blushed and
glittered. Every thing spoke of life and joy
and hope and health: nothing spoke of sad
secrets or ill deeds. Every thing told of beauty
and breath, the luxury of living: nothing told
of death, or desolation. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 96 | 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 |
| 98 | 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 |
| 99 | 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 |
| 100 | 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 |
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