| | 64 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S—
calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What
name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I,
glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding
love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou
art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently
public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest
of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret
I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have
chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and
however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a
thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I
know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal.
Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further
preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high
birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably
given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to
your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is
twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but
she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and
conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am
directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions
are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no
inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without
previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider
the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject,
since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps,
still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as
prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep,
after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent.
It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed
among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth
of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just
breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed
that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the
sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious
little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried
in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted
lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in
the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the
child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to
his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and
looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between
his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought
the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He
knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his
sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers,
poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to
say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on
your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands.
Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will
excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate
choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in
your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess,
tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived—
if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take
my hand when you meet me. That moment will
decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name
another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot
11
explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice
should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has
so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad,
a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my
tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first
month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you
for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you—
lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax
when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your
table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare
you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition
with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you
know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion.
Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank
council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes
in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real
half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived
illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two
stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown
in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of
course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment
of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish
the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon
parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in
your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air
it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then
revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my
tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects
to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are
the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I,
and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged
it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate
the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day.
Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale
troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the
positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine?
Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought
comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude
—in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference
to associating with friends and companions—in writing,
spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly
of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I
divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve
freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own,
only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet
the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the
noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the
world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide
the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer
it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels
from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy
and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost
breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can
understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of
meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance,
but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you
how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our
interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde,
you know me better than those who see me every day. My
most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I,
perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation
of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement
of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child
knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well.
Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my
memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation
may be removed or lessened? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 65 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | St. Elmo | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever
lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request
I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely
consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no
leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic
chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid
of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it,
the day would inevitably come when you would regret its
premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence
of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions
of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength
than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public
would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken
is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle
it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your
powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level,
the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme
better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed
MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate
the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write
sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that
you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical
creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic
priests. Remember that women never write histories nor
epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the
centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;'
though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad
that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle,
or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will
hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh
eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism
of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator
Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire
to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any
for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge
in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence
of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg
you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter.
I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect
to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion
and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give
you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my
house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would
I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always,
and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship
mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning,
and I shall know that you are my own dear, little
Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of
the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read
the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached
to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and
the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt
and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then
judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the
mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen
to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings
of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help
me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling!
you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder,
I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty
years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence
your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar
ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the
judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth
we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my
wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can
not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag
mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease
to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you
before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar
circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage
of them and thrust myself into your presence
without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I
felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le
Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility
of meeting me. You, who know something of my
wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine
what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked,
that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not,
shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I
almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a
door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my
life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview!
Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It
is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or
will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again.
Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend
together in this world. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 66 | 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 |
| 68 | 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 |
| 69 | 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 |
| 70 | 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 |
| 71 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Eutaw | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is surely an early hour for the whip-poor-will to begin
her monotonous plainings, sitting on her accustomed hawthorn,
just on the edge of the swamp. The sun has hardly dropped
from sight behind the great pine-thickets. His crimson and
orange robes still flaunt and flicker in the western heavens;
gleams from his great red eyes still purple the tree-tops; and
you may still see a cheerful light hanging in the brave, free
atmosphere; while gray shapes, like so many half-hooded friars,
glide away through the long pine-avenues, inviting you, as it
would seem, to follow, while they steal away slowly from pursuit
into the deeper thickets of the swamp. “My child, my dear Bertha: To you alone can I look for
the rescue of your brother and myself. We are in the power of
an enemy, who requires your hand in marriage for the safety of
my own and my son's life. We have forfeited the security of
British law. My own offences are such that, delivered to the
commandant of Charleston, as I am threatened, my death — an
ignominious death — must follow. Your brother is a captive
also, charged with murdering the king's soldiers without a warrant.
He is suffering in health by his unavoidable confinement.
He can not long live in the condition in which he is kept; and
his release and mine are made to depend entirely on you. Let
me implore you, my child, to come to our succor, and to save us.
Become the wife of Captain Inglehardt, and suffer us once more
to see the light of heaven, and enjoy the freedom of earth.
Come, my beloved child, to our rescue; and, in making the
sacrifice of your choice, to my own, receive the blessings of
your fond, but fettered father. [P. S.] You will readily conceive
our exigency, when I tell you that my wrists and feet are
even now in manacles of iron, and have been so from the first
day of my captivity. For a time, indeed, your brother Henry
was held in similar fetters.” “Sorry, my dear colonel, to cut short your roving commission;
doubly sorry that it has not yet resulted as you could
wish. But we can spare you from the main action of the drama
no longer. We are now, I think, approaching the denouément,
and require all our heroes on the stage. Stewart is in rapid
march downward — a little too strong for us yet, particularly
with the reinforcements which he will get from the lower posts.
We hear of these in motion from several quarters, as many as a
thousand or twelve hundred men. These, in addition to his
estimated strength at present of twenty-three hundred, will give
heavy odds against us, unless our mounted men come out much
more numerously than usual. Greene is on the march, somewhat
recruited, but very little strengthened. Congress has done
nothing — can or will do nothing — not even give us arms and
ammunition! Three hundred of our people are still without
serviceable weapons of any kind, and seven hundred without
jackets or breeches. It is really lucky that we have hot
weather. We must make up in zeal what we lack in men and
munitions, and only fight the harder from having but little
means with which to fight at all! That, my dear Sinclair, is a
new philosophy for the management of armies, but it is one
that will not seem altogether silly in the estimation of the true
patriot. At all events, it is about the best that I can give to
you, who know how to fight so well on short commons; and it
affords the only hope upon which I have fed (very like fasting)
for a long season! Once more, then, my dear Sinclair, let me
regret the necessity which requires that you rejoin your brigade,
and defer, for a brief season, the painfully interesting personal
enterprises upon which you are engaged. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 73 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Vasconselos | | | | 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 the province of romance, even more decidedly than history,
to recall the deeds and adventures of the past. It is to fiction
that we must chiefly look for those living and breathing creations
which history quite too unfrequently deigns to summon to her
service. The warm atmosphere of present emotions, and present
purposes, belongs to the dramatis personœ of art; and she
is never so well satisfied in showing us human performances, as
when she betrays the passions and affections by which they were
dictated and endured. It is in spells and possessions of this
character, that she so commonly supersedes the sterner muse
whose province she so frequently invades; and her offices are
not the less legitimate, as regards the truthfulness of things in
general, than are those of history, because she supplies those details
which the latter, unwisely as we think, but too commonly,
holds beneath her regard. In the work before us, however, it is
our purpose to slight neither agency. We shall defer to each of
them, in turn, as they may be made to serve a common purpose.
They both appeal to our assistance, and equally spread their possessions
beneath our eyes. We shall employ, without violating,
the material resources of the Historian, while seeking to endow
them with a vitality which fiction only can confer. It is in pursuit
of this object that we entreat the reader to suppose the backward
curtain withdrawn, unveiling, if only for a moment, the
aspects of a period not so remote as to lie wholly beyond our
sympathies. We propose to look back to that dawn of the sixteenth
century; at all events, to such a portion of the historical
landscape of that period, as to show us some of the first sunny
gleams of European light upon the savage dominions of the
Western Continent. To review this epoch is, in fact, to survey
the small but impressive beginnings of a wondrous drama in
which we, ourselves, are still living actors. The scene is almost
within our grasp. The names of the persons of our narrative
have not yet ceased from sounding in our ears; and the theatre
of performance is one, the boards of which, even at this moment,
are echoing beneath their mighty footsteps. Our curiosity and
interest may well be awakened for awhile, to an action, the fruits
of which, in some degree, are inuring to our present benefit. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 75 | Author: | Stoddard
Elizabeth
1823-1902 | Add | | | Title: | Temple House | | | | 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: | Early one autumn morning, on his forty-first birthday,
Argus Gates walked down the old turfy lawn, and
felt immortal in his human powers. The elms above
him dropped warning leaves, the silver cobwebs in the
grass vanished beneath his tread, and the sere grass
rose not again; but Aurora was in the sky. The
stalwart, willing earth dipped beneath her chariot
wheels, to lave in the rays flooding from those eyes
fixed in
“The ever silent spaces of the East,”
and Argus was one with the earth. “Dear Mother: You never saw such work; we lost the small
trunk, which was not marked. Have you seen Virginia? Her
society will make amends for my absence. I wish I was at home,
but I like travelling. I saw somebody yesterday that looked exactly
like Mary Sutcliffe. I had half a mind to ask her if the
cat's kittens had yellow patches, or if they were black and white:
Mary said the cat would have kittens by the time I got back.
You can't think how fish seems to be prized at these hotels, while
we care nothing for it. We stopped in Boston, and John bought
me an Indian scarf. In New York he bought me a dark blue
silk; he is very attentive, but he has a cold. I had it made, and
it is trimmed with black lace. Mother, the lace was three dollars
a yard. We are in Chicago now. The air has a flat taste to
me; it is different from Kent air. Of course, Uncle Argus has
worried about me; oh yes, I think he is pining away. There are
no good preserves at any hotel; the noise at these great houses,
would drive you wild, mother; you would never again wink your
eyes at my slamming doors, could you stay in one awhile. Have
those Drakes been to see you? I do not care for them; do you,
mother? I shall visit them but very little. John asked me if I
would go to housekeeping in warm weather. I said, “Er, em,
em,” which ment “yes” to him; to me, “nary housekeeping.”
Why should I wash dishes for him, and dust furniture, and learn
not to suit him in cooking—let me see, four times a day. He is
too particular about his food. Mother, I had rather eat your dry
bread; I hate to see people imagining they would like to have
this, and that, to eat. I shall be gone some weeks yet. I'll help
you knit when I return. John has snatched this from the table,
and I am mad, for he laughs loud at it, and says—“Give me a
kiss?” but I won't. It is eleven o'clock; there is no lamp burning
in Temple House; you are asleep. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 76 | Author: | Stoddard
Elizabeth
1823-1902 | Add | | | Title: | Two men | | | | 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: | When Jason Auster married Sarah Parke he was
twenty years old, and a house-carpenter. As he was
not of age, he made some agreement with a hard father
by which liberty was gained, and a year's wages lost.
He left his native village filled with no adventurous
spirit, but with a simple confidence that he should find
the place where he could earn a living by his trade, and
put in practice certain theories concerning the rights of
men and property which had already made him a pest
at home. The stage-coach which conveyed him thence,
traversed a line of towns that made no impression from
his point of view—the coach window; but when it stopped
to change horses at Crest, a lively maritime town,
and he alighted to stretch his cramped legs, he saluted
Destiny. Its aspect, that spring day, pleased him; he
heard the rain of blows from broad-axes in the ship-yards
by the water's edge, and saw new roofs and
chimneys rising along the irregular streets among the
rows of ancient houses, and concluded to stay. He unstrapped
a small trunk from the stage-rack, carried it
into the tavern entry, and looked about him for some
one to address. A man who had been eying the trunk
advanced towards him with a resolutely closed mouth,
and hands concealed in his pockets. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 78 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Dred | | | | 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: | Our readers will perhaps feel an interest to turn back
with us, and follow the singular wanderings of the mysterious
personage, whose wild denunciations had so disturbed
the minds of the worshippers at the camp-meeting. My dear Brother: I told you how comfortably we
were living on our place — I and my children. Since then,
everything has been changed. Mr. Tom Gordon came here
and put in a suit for the estate, and attached me and my
children as slaves. He is a dreadful man. The case has
been tried and gone against us. The judge said that both
deeds of emancipation — both the one executed in Ohio,
and the one here — were of no effect; that my boy was a
slave, and could no more hold property than a mule before
a plough. I had some good friends here, and people pitied
me very much; but nobody could help me. Tom Gordon
is a bad man — a very bad man. I cannot tell you all that
he said to me. I only tell you that I will kill myself and
my children before we will be his slaves. Harry, I have
been free, and I know what liberty is. My children have
been brought up free, and if I can help it they never shall
know what slavery is. I have got away, and am hiding
with a colored family here in Natchez. I hope to get to
Cincinnati, where I have friends. “It seems to me that I have felt a greater change in me
within the last two months than in my whole life before.
When I look back at what I was in New York, three
months ago, actually I hardly know myself. It seems to
me in those old days that life was only a frolic to me, as
it is to the kitten. I don't really think that there was much
harm in me, only the want of good. In those days, sometimes
I used to have a sort of dim longing to be better,
particularly when Livy Ray was at school. It seemed as
if she woke up something that had been asleep in me; but
she went away, and I fell asleep again, and life went on
like a dream. Then I became acquainted with you, and
you began to rouse me again, and for some time I thought
I did n't like to wake; it was just as it is when one lies
asleep in the morning — it 's so pleasant to sleep and dream,
that one resists any one who tries to bring them back to
life. I used to feel quite pettish when I first knew you, and
sometimes wished you 'd let me alone, because I saw that
you belonged to a different kind of sphere from what I 'd
been living in. And I had a presentiment that, if I let you
go on, life would have to be something more than a joke
with me. But you would, like a very indiscreet man as you
are, you would insist on being in sober earnest. “If I was so happy, my dearest one, as to be able to
awaken that deeper and higher nature which I always knew
was in you, I thank God. But, if I ever was in any respect
your teacher, you have passed beyond my teachings
now. Your childlike simplicity of nature makes you a
better scholar than I in that school where the first step is
to forget all our worldly wisdom, and become a little child.
We men have much more to contend with, in the pride of
our nature, in our habits of worldly reasoning. It takes us
long to learn the lesson that faith is the highest wisdom.
Don't trouble your head, dear Nina, with Aunt Nesbit or
Mr. Titmarsh. What you feel is faith. They define it, and
you feel it. And there 's all the difference between the definition
and the feeling, that there is between the husk and
the corn. “You say you may to-day be called to do something
which you think right, but which will lose you many friends;
which will destroy your popularity, which may alter all
your prospects in life; and you ask if I can love you yet.
I say, in answer, that it was not your friends that I loved,
nor your popularity, nor your prospects, but you. I can
love and honor a man who is not afraid nor ashamed to do
what he thinks to be right; and therefore I hope ever to
remain yours, “We are all in affliction here, my dear friend. Poor
Uncle John died this morning of the cholera. I had been
to E— to see a doctor and provide medicines. When I
came back I thought I would call a few moments at the
house, and I found a perfect scene of horror. Poor uncle
died, and there are a great many sick on the place now;
and while I was thinking that I would stay and help aunt,
a messenger came in all haste, saying that the disease had
broken out on our place at home. “Mr. Clayton: I am now an outcast. I cannot show
my face in the world, I cannot go abroad by daylight; for
no crime, as I can see, except resisting oppression. Mr.
Clayton, if it were proper for your fathers to fight and shed
blood for the oppression that came upon them, why is n't it
right for us? They had not half the provocation that we
have. Their wives and families were never touched. They
were not bought, and sold, and traded, like cattle in the
market, as we are. In fact, when I was reading that history,
I could hardly understand what provocation they did
have. They had everything easy and comfortable about
them. They were able to support their families, even in
luxury. And yet they were willing to plunge into war, and
shed blood. I have studied the Declaration of Independence.
The things mentioned there were bad and uncomfortable,
to be sure; but, after all, look at the laws which
are put over us! Now, if they had forbidden them to
teach their children to read, — if they had divided them all
out among masters, and declared them incapable of holding
property as the mule before the plough, — there would have
been some sense in that revolution. “I have received your letter. I need not say that I am
sorry for all that has taken place — sorry for your sake,
and for the sake of one very dear both to me and to you.
Harry, I freely admit that you live in a state of society
which exercises a great injustice. I admit your right, and
that of all men, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
I admit the right of an oppressed people to change their
form of government, if they can. I admit that your people
suffer under greater oppression than ever our fathers suffered.
And, if I believed that they were capable of obtaining
and supporting a government, I should believe in their
right to take the same means to gain it. But I do not, at
present; and I think, if you will reflect on the subject,
you will agree with me. I do not think that, should they
make an effort, they would succeed. They would only
embitter the white race against them, and destroy that
sympathy which many are beginning to feel for their oppressed
condition. I know it seems a very unfeeling thing
for a man who is at ease to tell one, who is oppressed and
suffering, to be patient; and yet I must even say it. It is
my place, and our place, to seek repeal of the unjust laws
which oppress you. I see no reason why the relation of
master and servants may not be continued through our
states, and the servants yet be free men. I am satisfied
that it would be for the best interests of master as well as
slave. If this is the truth, time will make it apparent, and
the change will come. With regard to you, the best counsel
I can give is, that you try to escape to some of the
northern states; and I will furnish you with means to begin
life there under better auspices. I am very sorry that I
have to tell you something very painful about your sister.
She was sold to a trading-house in Alexandria, and, in desperation,
has killed both her children! For this she is now
in prison, awaiting her trial! I have been to see her, and
offered every assistance in my power. She declines all.
She does not wish to live, and has already avowed the
fact; making no defence, and wishing none to be made for
her. Another of the bitter fruits of this most unrighteous
system! She desired her love and kind wishes to you.
Whatever more is to be known, I will tell you at some
future time. “Whereas, complaint upon oath hath this day been made
to us, two of the Justices of the Peace for the said county
and state aforesaid, by Thomas Gordon, that a certain male
slave belonging to him, named Harry, a carpenter by trade,
about thirty-five years old, five feet four inches high, or
thereabouts; dark complexion, stout built, blue eyes, deep
sunk in his head, forehead very square, tolerably loud
voice; hath absented himself from his master's service, and
is supposed to be lurking about in the swamp, committing
acts of felony or other misdeeds. These are, therefore, in
the name of the state aforesaid, to command said slave
forthwith to surrender himself, and return home to his said
master. And we do hereby, by virtue of the act of assembly,
in such case made and provided, intimate and declare
that, if the said slave Harry doth not surrender himself,
and return home immediately after the publication of these
presents, that any person or persons may kill and destroy
the said slave by such means as he or they may think fit,
without accusation or impeachment of any crime or offence
for so doing, and without incurring any penalty or forfeiture
thereby. Given under our hands and seal, “I, James Rochelle, Clerk of the County Court of Southampton, in the
State of Virginia, do hereby certify, that Jeremiah Cobb, Thomas Pretlow,
James W. Parker, Carr Bowers, Samuel B. Hines, and Orris A. Browne,
Esqrs., are acting justices of the peace in and for the county aforesaid;
and were members of the court which convened at Jerusalem, on Saturday,
the fifth day of November, 1831, for the trial of Nat, alias Nat Turner, a
negro slave, late the property of Putnam Moore, deceased, who was tried
II. 29*
and convicted, as an insurgent in the late insurrection in the County of
Southampton aforesaid, and that full faith and credit are due and ought
to be given to their acts as justices of the peace aforesaid. “`I see that Castleman, who lately had a trial for whipping a slave to
death in Virginia, was “triumphantly acquitted,” — as many expected.
There are three persons in this city, with whom I am acquainted, who staid
at Castleman's the same night in which this awful tragedy was enacted.
They heard the dreadful lashing, and the heartrending screams and
entreaties of the sufferer. They implored the only white man they could
find on the premises, not engaged in the bloody work, to interpose, but for
a long time he refused, on the ground that he was a dependant, and was
afraid to give offence; and that, moreover, they had been drinking, and he
was in fear for his own life, should he say a word that would be displeasing
to them. He did, however, venture, and returned and reported the cruel
manner in which the slaves were chained, and lashed, and secured in a
blacksmith's vice. In the morning, when they ascertained that one of the
slaves was dead, they were so shocked and indignant that they refused to
eat in the house, and reproached Castleman with his cruelty. He expressed
his regret that the slave had died, and especially as he had ascertained that
he was innocent of the accusation for which he had suffered. The idea was
that he had fainted from exhaustion; and, the chain being round his neck,
he was strangled. The persons I refer to are themselves slaveholders;
but their feelings were so harrowed and lacerated that they could not sleep
(two of them are ladies), and for many nights afterwards their rest was
disturbed, and their dreams made frightful, by the appalling recollection. “`State of North Carolina, Lenoir County. — Whereas complaint
hath been this day made to us, two of the justices of the peace for the said
county, by William D. Cobb, of Jones County, that two negro slaves
belonging to him, named Ben (commonly known by the name of Ben Fox)
and Rigdon, have absented themselves from their said master's service, and
are lurking about in the Counties of Lenoir and Jones, committing acts of
felony; these are, in the name of the state, to command the said slaves
forthwith to surrender themselves, and turn home to their said master.
And we do hereby also require the sheriff of said County of Lenoir to make
diligent search and pursuit after the above-mentioned slaves.... And
we do hereby, by virtue of an act of assembly of this state concerning
servants and slaves, intimate and declare, if the said slaves do not surrender
themselves and return home to their master immediately after the
publication of these presents, that any person may kill or destroy said slaves
by such means as he or they think fit, without accusation or impeachment
of any crime or offence for so doing, or without incurring any penalty of
forfeiture thereby. “`$200 Reward. — Ran away from the subscriber, about three years
ago, a certain negro man, named Ben, commonly known by the name of
Ben Fox; also one other negro, by the name of Rigdon, who ran away on
the eighth of this month. “`State of North Carolina, New Hanover County. — Whereas
complaint, upon oath, hath this day been made to us, two of the justices
of the peace for the said state and county aforesaid, by Guilford Horn, of
Edgecombe County, that a certain male slave belonging to him, named
Harry, a carpenter by trade, about forty years old, five feet five inches
high, or thereabouts; yellow complexion; stout built; with a scar on his
left leg (from the cut of an axe); has very thick lips; eyes deep sunk in
his head; forehead very square; tolerably loud voice; has lost one or two
of his upper teeth; and has a very dark spot on his jaw, supposed to be a
mark, — hath absented himself from his master's service, and is supposed
to be lurking about in this county, committing acts of felony or other misdeeds;
these are, therefore, in the name of state aforesaid, to command
the said slave forthwith to surrender himself and return home to his said
master; and we do hereby, by virtue of the act of assembly in such cases
made and provided, intimate and declare that if the said slave Harry doth
not surrender himself and return home immediately after the publication
of these presents, that any person or persons may KILL and DESTROY the
said slave by such means as he or they may think fit, without accusation
or impeachment of any crime or offence in so doing, and without incurring
any penalty or forfeiture thereby. “`One Hundred and Twenty-five Dollars Reward will be paid for
the delivery of the said Harry to me at Tosnott Depot, Edgecombe County,
or for his confinement in any jail in the state, so that I can get him; or
One Hundred and Fifty Dollars will be given for his head. “If the plan of separation gives us the pastoral care of you, it remains
to inquire whether we have done anything, as a conference, or as men, to
forfeit your confidence and affection. We are not advised that even in the
great excitement which has distressed you for some months past, any one
has impeached our moral conduct, or charged us with unsoundness in doctrine,
or corruption or tyranny in the administration of discipline. But we
learn that the simple cause of the unhappy excitement among you is, that
some suspect us, or affect to suspect us, of being abolitionists. Yet no particular
act of the Conference, or any particular member thereof, is adduced
as the ground of the erroneous and injurious suspicion. We would ask you,
brethren, whether the conduct of our ministry among you for sixty years
past ought not to be sufficient to protect us from this charge. Whether the
question we have been accustomed, for a few years past, to put to candidates
for admission among us, namely, Are you an abolitionist? and, without
each one answered in the negative, he was not received, ought not to protect
us from the charge. Whether the action of the last Conference on this
particular matter ought not to satisfy any fair and candid mind that we are
not, and do not desire to be, abolitionists. * * * * We cannot see
how we can be regarded as abolitionists, without the ministers of the Methodist
Episcopal Church South being considered in the same light. * * * | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 79 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | House and home papers | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “MY dear, it 's so cheap!” “`Most Excellent Mr. Crowfield, — Your
thoughts have lighted into our family-circle, and
echoed from our fireside. We all feel the force of
them, and are delighted with the felicity of your treatment
of the topic you have chosen. You have taken
hold of a subject that lies deep in our hearts, in a
genial, temperate, and convincing spirit. All must
acknowledge the power of your sentiments upon their
imaginations; — if they could only trust to them in
actual life! There is the rub. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 80 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | The minister's wooing | | | | 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: | Mrs. Katy Scudder had invited Mrs. Brown, and
Mrs. Jones, and Deacon Twitchel's wife to take tea
with her on the afternoon of June second, A. D. 17 —. “I cannot leave you so. I have about two hundred
things to say to you, and it's a shame I could
not have had longer to see you; but blessed be ink
and paper! I am writing and seeing to fifty things
besides; so you mustn't wonder if my letter has
rather a confused appearance. “As to the business, it gets on rather slowly
L— and S— are away, and the coalition
cannot be formed without them; they set out a
week ago from Philadelphia, and are yet on the
road. “My dear, — We are still in Newport, conjugating
the verb s'ennuyer, which I, for one, have
put through all the moods and tenses. Pour
passer le temps, however, I have la belle Fran
çaise and my sweet little Puritan. I visited there
this morning. She lives with her mother, a little
walk out toward the seaside, in a cottage quite
prettily sequestered among blossoming apple-trees,
and the great hierarch of modern theology, Dr.
Hopkins, keeps guard over them. No chance here
for any indiscretions, you see. “My dear, honored friend, — How can I sufficiently
thank you for your faithfulness with me?
All you say to me seems true and excellent; and
yet, my dear Sir, permit me to try to express to
you some of the many thoughts to which our conversation
this evening has given rise. To love
God because He is good to me you seem to think
is not a right kind of love; and yet every moment
of my life I have experienced His goodness.
When recollection brings back the past, where can
I look that I see not His goodness? What moment
of my life presents not instances of merciful
kindness to me, as well as to every creature, more
and greater than I can express, than my mind is
able to take in? How, then, can I help loving
God because He is good to me? Were I not an
object of God's mercy and goodness, I cannot
have any conception what would be my feeling.
Imagination never yet placed me in a situation not
to experience the goodness of God in some way or
other; and if I do love Him, how can it be but because
He is good, and to me good? Do not God's
children love Him because He first loved them? “I am longing to see you once more, and before
long I shall be in Newport. Dear little Mary,
I am sad, very sad; — the days seem all of them
too long; and every morning I look out of my
window and wonder why I was born. I am not
so happy as I used to be, when I cared for nothing
but to sing and smooth my feathers like the
birds. That is the best kind of life for us women;
— if we love anything better than our clothes, it
is sure to bring us great sorrow. For all that, I
can't help thinking it is very noble and beautiful
to love; — love is very beautiful, but very, very sad.
My poor dear little white cat, I should like to hold
you a little while to my heart; — it is so cold all
the time, and aches so, I wish I were dead; but
then I am not good enough to die. The Abbé
says, we must offer up our sorrow to God as a
satisfaction for our sins. I have a good deal to
offer, because my nature is strong and I can feel
a great deal. “Dear —. Nous voici — once more in Philadelphia.
Our schemes in Ohio prosper. Frontignac
remains there to superintend. He answers
our purpose passablement. On the whole, I don't
see that we could do better than retain him; he
is, besides, a gentlemanly, agreeable person, and
wholly devoted to me, — a point certainly not to
be overlooked. “You behold me, my charming Gabrielle, quite
pastoral, recruiting from the dissipations of my
Philadelphia life in a quiet cottage, with most
worthy, excellent people, whom I have learned to
love very much. They are good and true, as pious
as the saints themselves, although they do not belong
to the Church, — a thing which I am sorry
for; but then let us hope, that, if the world is
wide, heaven is wider, and that all worthy people
will find room at last. This is Virginie's own
little, pet, private heresy; and when I tell it to the
Abbé, he only smiles, and so I think, somehow,
that it is not so very bad as it might be. “I have lived through many wonderful scenes
since I saw you last. My life has been so adventurous,
that I scarcely know myself when I
think of it. But it is not of that I am going
now to write. I have written all that to mother,
and she will show it to you. But since I parted
from you, there has been another history going on
within me; and that is what I wish to make you
understand, if I can. “You wonder, I s'pose, why I haven't written
you; but the fact is, I've been run just off my
feet, and worked till the flesh aches so it seems
as if it would drop off my bones, with this wedding
of Mary Scudder's. And, after all, you'll be
astonished to hear that she ha'n't married the
Doctor, but that Jim Marvyn that I told you
about. You see, he came home a week before
the wedding was to be, and Mary, she was so
conscientious she thought 'twa'n't right to break
off with the Doctor, and so she was for going
right on with it; and Mrs. Scudder, she was for
going on more yet; and the poor young man, he
couldn't get a word in edgeways, and there
wouldn't anybody tell the Doctor a word about it,
and there 'twas drifting along, and both on 'em
feeling dreadful, and so I thought to myself, `I'll
just take my life in my hand, like Queen Esther,
and go in and tell the Doctor all about it.' And
so I did. I'm scared to death always when I
think of it. But that dear blessed man, he took
it like a saint. He just gave her up as serene
and calm as a psalm-book, and called Jim in and
told him to take her. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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