| | 181 | 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 |
| 182 | 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 |
| 183 | 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 |
| 184 | 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 |
| 186 | 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 |
| 188 | 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 |
| 189 | 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 |
| 191 | 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 |
| 192 | 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 |
| 193 | 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 |
| 194 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories | | | | 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: | COME, Sam, tell us a
story,” said I, as Harry
and I crept to his
knees, in the glow
of the bright evening
firelight; while Aunt
Lois was busily rattling
the tea-things,
and grandmamma, at
the other end of the fireplace, was quietly setting the
heel of a blue-mixed yarn stocking. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 195 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Oldtown folks | | | | 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 has always been a favorite idea of mine, that there is so much
of the human in every man, that the life of any one individual,
however obscure, if really and vividly perceived in all its aspirations,
struggles, failures, and successes, would command the
interest of all others. This is my only apology for offering my
life as an open page to the reading of the public. MY dear Brother: — Since I wrote you last, so strange
a change has taken place in my life that even now I
walk about as in a dream, and hardly know myself. The events
of a few hours have made everything in the world seem to me
as different from what it ever seemed before as death is from
life. My dear Sister: — I have read your letter. Answer it
justly and truly how can I? How little we know of each other
in outside intimacy! but when we put our key into the door of
the secret chamber, who does not tremble and draw back? —
that is the true haunted chamber! “My dear Sister: — I am a Puritan, — the son, the grandson,
the great-grandson of Puritans, — and I say to you, Plant
the footsteps of your child on the ground of the old Cambridge
Platform, and teach her as Winthrop and Dudley and the
Mathers taught their children, — that she `is already a member
in the Church of Christ, — that she is in covenant with God, and
hath the seal thereof upon her, to wit, baptism; and so, if not
regenerate, is yet in a more hopeful way of attaining regeneration
and all spiritual blessings, both of the covenant and seal.'*
* Cambridge Platform. Mather's Magnalia, page 227, article 7.
By teaching the child this, you will place her mind in natural and
healthful relations with God and religion. She will feel in her
Father's house, and under her Father's care, and the long and
weary years of a sense of disinheritance with which you struggled
will be spared to her. “MY DEAR Brother: — I am in a complete embarras what
to do with Tina. She is the very light of my eyes, — the
sweetest, gayest, brightest, and best-meaning little mortal that
ever was made; but somehow or other I fear I am not the one
that ought to have undertaken to bring her up. “Sister Mehitable: — The thing has happened that I
have foreseen. Send her up here; she shall board in the minister's
family; and his daughter Esther, who is wisest, virtuousest,
discreetest, best, shall help keep her in order. “Here we are, dear Aunty, up in the skies, in the most beautiful
place that you can possibly conceive of. We had such a
good time coming! you 've no idea of the fun we had. You
know I am going to be very sober, but I did n't think it was
necessary to begin while we were travelling, and we kept Uncle
Jacob laughing so that I really think he must have been tired. “I have had a dozen minds to write to you before now, having
had good accounts of you from Mr. Davenport; but, to say
truth, have been ashamed to write. I did not do right by your
mother, nor by you and your sister, as I am now free to acknowledge.
She was not of a family equal to ours, but she was too
good for me. I left her in America, like a brute as I was, and
God has judged me for it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 196 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | The pearl of Orr's Island | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | On the road to the Kennebec, below the town of Bath,
in the State of Maine, might have been seen, on a certain
autumnal afternoon, a one-horse wagon, in which two
persons were sitting. One is an old man, with the peculiarly
hard but expressive physiognomy which characterizes
the seafaring population of the New England shores. The next day Senor Don Guzman de Cardona arrived,
and the whole house was in a commotion of excitement.
There was to be no school, and everything was
bustle and confusion. I passed my time in my own room
in reflecting severely upon myself for the imprudent words
by which I had thrown one more difficulty in the way of
this poor harassed child. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 197 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Pink and white tyranny | | | | 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: | Dear Jo, or Miss Alcott, — We have all been reading “Little Women,” and
we liked it so much I could not help wanting to write to you. We think you are
perfectly splendid; I like you better every time I read it. We were all so disappointed
about your not marrying Laurie; I cried over that part, — I could not help
it. We all liked Laurie ever so much, and almost killed ourselves laughing over
the funny things you and he said. Dear Miss Alcott, — We have just finished “Little Men,” and like it so
much that we thought we would write and ask you to write another book sequel to
“Little Men,” and have more about Laurie and Amy, as we like them the best.
We are the Literary Club, and we got the idea from “Little Women.” We have
a paper two sheets of foolscap and a half. There are four of us, two cousins and
my sister and myself Our assumed names are: Horace Greeley, President; Susan
B Anthony, Editor; Harriet B Stowe, Vice-President; and myself, Anna C.
Ritchie, Secretary. We call our paper the “Saturday Night,” and we all write
stories and have reports of sermons and of our meetings, and write about the
queens of England. We did not know but you would like to hear this, as the
idea sprang from your book; and we thought we would write, as we liked your
book so much. And now, if it is not too much to ask of you, I wish you would
answer this, as we are very impatient to know if you will write another book; and
please answer soon, as Miss Anthony is going away, and she wishes very much to
hear from you before she does. If you write, please direct to — Street, Brooklyn,
N.Y.
706EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Image of a girl in a pretty dress. She is carrying a parasol and her long hair is loose and wavy.
“It is not her beauty merely that drew me to her,
though she is the most beautiful human being I ever
saw: it is the exquisite feminine softness and delicacy
of her character, that sympathetic pliability by which
she adapts herself to every varying feeling of the heart.
You, my dear sister, are the noblest of women, and
your place in my heart is still what it always was; but
I feel that this dear little creature, while she fills a
place no other has ever entered, will yet be a new bond
to unite us. She will love us both; she will gradually
come into all our ways and opinions, and be insensibly
formed by us into a noble womanhood. Her extreme
beauty, and the great admiration that has always followed
her, have exposed her to many temptations, and
caused most ungenerous things to be said of her. “Dear Grace, — You must pardon me this beginning,
— in the old style of other days; for though many
years have passed, in which I have been trying to walk
in your ways, and keep all your commandments, I have
never yet been able to do as you directed, and forget
you: and here I am, beginning `Dear Grace,' — just
where I left off on a certain evening long, long ago. I
wonder if you remember it as plainly as I do. I am
just the same fellow that I was then and there. If
you remember, you admitted that, were it not for
other duties, you might have considered my humble
supplication. I gathered that it would not have been
impossible per se, as metaphysicians say, to look with
favor on your humble servant. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 199 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Uncle Sam's emancipation | | | | 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: | BY AN ALABAMA MAN. Dear Sam—I am just on the eve of my departure
for Pittsburg; I may not see you again
for a long time, possibly never, and I leave this
letter with your friends, Messrs. A. and B., for
you, and herewith bid you an affectionate farewell.
Let me give you some advice, which is,
now that you are a free man, in a free State, be
obedient as you were when a slave; perform all
the duties that are required of you, and do all
you can for your own future welfare and respectability.
Let me assure you that I have the same
good feeling towards you that you know I always
had; and let me tell you further, that if ever you
want a friend, call or write to me, and I will be
that friend. Should you be sick, and not able to
work, and want money to a small amount at different
times, write to me, and I will always let you
have it. I have not with me at present much
money, though I will leave with my agent here,
the Messrs. W., five dollars for you; you must
give them a receipt for it. On my return from
Pittsburg, I will call and see you if I have time;
fail not to write to my father, for he made you a
good master, and you should always treat him
with respect, and cherish his memory so long as
you live. Be good, industrious, and honourable,
and if unfortunate in your undertakings, never
forget that you have a friend in me. Farewell,
and believe me your affectionate young master
and friend. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 200 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | We and our neighbors, or, The records of an
unfashionable street | | | | 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: | “WHO can have taken the Ferguses' house, sister?”
said a brisk little old lady, peeping through
the window blinds. “It's taken! Just come here and
look! There's a cart at the door.” MY Dear Belle: Well, here we are, Harry and I,
all settled down to housekeeping quite like old
folks. All is about done but the last things,—those little
touches, and improvements, and alterations that go off into
airy perspective. I believe it was Carlyle that talked
about an “infinite shoe-black” whom all the world could
not quite satisfy so but that there would always be a
next thing in the distance. Well, perhaps it 's going to be
so in housekeeping, and I shall turn out an infinite housekeeper;
for I find this little, low-studded, unfashionable
home of ours, far off in a tabooed street, has kept all my
energies brisk and busy for a month past, and still there
are more worlds to conquer. Visions of certain brackets
and lambrequins that are to adorn my spare chamber
visit my pillow nightly, while Harry is placidly sleeping
the sleep of the just. I have been unable to attain to
them because I have been so busy with my parlor ivies
and my Ward's case of ferns, and some perfectly seraphic
hanging baskets, gorgeous with flowering nasturtiums
that are now blooming in my windows. There is a
dear little Quaker dove of a woman living in the next
house to ours who is a perfect witch at gardening—a
good kind of witch, you understand, one who could
make a broomstick bud and blossom if she undertook it
—and she has been my teacher and exemplar in these
matters. Her parlor is a perfect bower, a drab dove's
nest wreathed round with vines and all a-bloom with geraniums;
and mine is coming on to look just like it. So
you see all this has kept me ever so busy. MY Dear Mother: Harry says I must do all the
writing to you and keep you advised of all our
affairs, because he is so driven with his editing and proof-reading
that letter-writing is often the most fatiguing
thing he can do. It is like trying to run after one has
become quite out of breath. “You were right, my dear Eva, in saying, in our last
interview, that it did not seem to you that I had the kind
of character that was adapted to the profession I have
chosen. I don't think I have. I am more certain of it
from comparing myself from day to day with Ida, who
certainly is born and made for it, if ever a woman was.
My choice of it has been simply and only for the reason
that I must choose something as a means of self-support,
and more than that, as a refuge from morbid distresses
of mind which made the still monotony of my New England
country life intolerable to me. This course presented
itself to me as something feasible. I thought it,
too, a good and worthy career—one in which one might
do one's share of good for the world. But, Eva, I can
feel that there is one essential difference between Ida and
myself: she is peculiarly self-sustained and sufficient to
herself, and I am just the reverse. I am full of vague
unrest; I am chased by seasons of high excitement, alternating
with deadly languor. Ida has hard work to
know what to do with me. You were right in supposing,
as you intimate in your letter, that a certain common
friend has something to do with this unrest, but you cannot,
unless you know my whole history, know how much.
There was a time when he and I were all the world to
each other—when shall I ever forget that time! I was
but seventeen; a young girl, so ignorant of life! I never
had seen one like him; he was a whole new revelation to
me; he woke up everything there was in me, never to go
to sleep again; and then to think of having all this tide
and current of feeling checked—frozen. My father overwhelmed
him with accusations; every baseness was laid
to his charge. I was woman enough to have stood for
him against the world if he had come to me. I would
have left all and gone to the ends of the earth with him
if he had asked me, but he did not. There was only
one farewell, self-accusing letter, and even that fell into
my father's hands and never came to me till after his
death. For years I thought myself wantonly trifled with
by a man of whose attentions I ought to be ashamed. I
was indignant at myself for the love that might have been
my glory, for it is my solemn belief that if we had been
let alone he would have been saved all those wretched
falls, those blind struggles that have marred a life whose
purpose is yet so noble. CONGRATULATE us, dear mother; we have had
a success! Our first evening was all one could
hope! Everybody came that we wanted, and, what is
quite as good in such cases, everybody staid away that
we didn't want. You know how it is; when you
intend to produce real acquaintance, that shall ripen
into intimacy, it is necessary that there should be no
non-conductors to break the circle. There are people
that shed around them coldness and constraint, as if they
were made of ice, and it is a mercy when such people
don't come to your parties. As it is, I have had the
happiness to see our godly rector on most conversable
terms with our heretic doctor, and each thinking better
of the other. Oh! and, what was a greater triumph yet,
I managed to introduce a Quaker preacheress to Mr. St.
John, and had the satisfaction to see that he was completely
charmed by her, as well he may be. The way it
came about, you must know, is this:— I HAD not thought to obtrude myself needlessly on
you ever again. Oppressed with the remembrance
that I have been a blight on a life that might otherwise
have been happy, I thought my only expiation was
silence. But it had not then occurred to me that possibly
you could feel and be pained by that silence. But
of late I have been very intimate with Mrs. Henderson,
whose mind is like those crystalline lakes we read of—
a pebble upon the bottom is evident. She loves you so
warmly and feels for you so sympathetically that, almost
unconsciously, when you pour your feelings into her
heart, they are revealed to me through the transparent
medium of her nature. I confess that I am still so selfish
as to feel a pleasure in the thought that you cannot
forget me. I cannot forget you. I never have forgotten
you, I believe, for a waking conscious hour since that
time when your father shut the door of his house between
you and me. I have demonstrated in my own
experience that there may be a double consciousness all
the while going on, in which the presence of one person
should seem to pervade every scene of life. You have
been with me, even in those mad fatal seasons when I
have been swept from reason and conscience and hope
—it has added bitterness to my humiliation in my weak
hours; but it has been motive and courage to rise up
again and again and renew the fight—the fight that must
last as long as life lasts; for, Caroline, this is so. In
some constitutions, with some hereditary predispositions,
the indiscretions and ignorances of youth leave a
fatal irremediable injury. Though the sin be in the
first place one of inexperience and ignorance, it is one
that nature never forgives. The evil once done can
never be undone; no prayers, no entreaties, no resolutions,
can change the consequences of violated law.
The brain and nerve force, once vitiated by poisonous
stimulants, become thereafter subtle tempters and traitors,
forever lying in wait to deceive and urging to ruin;
and he who is saved, is saved so as by fire. Since it is
your unhappy fate to care so much for me, I owe to you
the utmost frankness. I must tell you plainly that I am
an unsafe man. I am like a ship with powder on board
and a smouldering fire in the hold. I must warn my
friends off, lest at any moment I carry ruin to them,
and they be drawn down in my vortex. We can be
friends, dear friends; but let me beg you, think as little
of me as you can. Be a friend in a certain degree, after
the manner of the world, rationally, and with a wise
regard to your own best interests—you who are worth
five hundred times what I am—you who have beauty,
talent, energy—who have a career opening before you,
and a most noble and true friend in Miss Ida; do not
let your sympathies for a very worthless individual lead
you to defraud yourself of all that you should gain in
the opportunities now open to you. Command my services
for you in the literary line when ever they may be
of the slightest use. Remember that nothing in the
world makes me so happy as an opportunity to serve
you. Treat me as you would a loyal serf, whose only
thought is to live and die for you; as the princess of
the middle ages treated the knight of low degree, who
devoted himself to her service. There is nothing you
could ask me to do for you that would not be to me a
pleasure; and all the more so, if it involved any labor
or difficulty. In return, be assured, that merely by being
the woman you are, merely by the love which you have
given and still give to one so unworthy, you are a constant
strength to me, an encouragement never to faint
in a struggle which must last as long as this life lasts.
For although we must not forget that life, in the best
sense of the word, lasts forever, yet this first mortal
phase of it is, thank God, but short. There is another
and a higher life for those whose life has been a failure
here. Those who die fighting—even though they fall,
many times trodden under the hoof of the enemy—will
find themselves there made more than conquerors
through One who hath loved them. My Dear Friend: How can I thank you for the confidence
you have shown me in your letter? You were
K
not mistaken in thinking that this long silence has been
cruel to me. It is more cruel to a woman than it can
possibly be to a man, because if to him silence be a pain,
he yet is conscious all the time that he has the power to
break it; he has the right to speak at any time, but a
woman must die silent. Every fiber of her being says
this. She cannot speak, she must suffer as the dumb
animals suffer. MY Dear Mother: When I wrote you last we were
quite prosperous, having just come through with
our first evening as a great success; and everybody since
has been saying most agreeable things to us about it.
Last Thursday, we had our second, and it was even
pleasanter than the last, because people had got acquainted,
so that they really wanted to see each other again.
There was a most charming atmosphere of ease and
sociability. Bolton and Mr. St. John are getting quite
intimate. Mr. St. John, too, develops quite a fine social
talent, and has come out wonderfully. The side of a
man that one sees in the church and the pulpit is after
all only one side, as we have discovered. I find that he
has quite a gift in conversation, when you fairly get him
at it. Then, his voice for singing comes into play, and
he and Angie and Dr. Campbell and Alice make up a
quartette quite magnificent for non-professionals. Angie
has a fine soprano, and Alice takes the contralto, and the
Doctor, with his great broad shoulders and deep chest,
makes a splendid bass. Mr. St. John's tenor is really
very beautiful. It is one of those penetrating, sympathetic
voices that indicate both feeling and refinement,
and they are all of them surprised and delighted
to find how well they go together. Thursday evening
they went on from thing to thing, and found that they
could sing this and that and the other, till the evening
took a good deal the form of a musical. But never
mind, it brought them acquainted with each other and
made them look forward to the next reunion as something
agreeable. Ever since, the doctor goes round
humming tunes, and says he wants St. John to try the
tenor of this and that, and really has quite lost sight of
his being anything else but a musical brother. So here
is the common ground I wanted to find between them. “Dear Mrs. Henderson: You have tried hard to save me; but
it's no use. I am only a trouble to mother, and I disgrace you. So
I am going, and don't try to find me. May God bless you and
mother. “Dear Little Wifie: I have caught Selby, and we can have him
at dinner to-night; and as I know there's nothing like you for
emergencies, I secured him, and took the liberty of calling in on
Alice and Angie, and telling them to come. I shall ask St. John,
and Jim, and Bolton, and Campbell—you know, the more the merrier,
and, when you are about it, it's no more trouble to have six or
seven than one; and now you have Maggie, one may as well spread
a little. DEAR Mother: I have kept you well informed of
all our prosperities in undertaking and doing: how
everything we have set our hand to has turned out beautifully;
how “our evenings” have been a triumphant
success; and how we and our neighbors are all coming
into the spirit of love and unity, getting acquainted, mingling
and melting into each other's sympathy and knowledge.
I have had the most delightful run of compliments
about my house, as so bright, so cheerful, so
social and cosy, and about my skill in managing to
always have every thing so nice, and in entertaining with
so little parade and trouble, that I really began to plume
myself on something very uncommon in the way of what
Aunt Prissy Diamond calls “faculty.” Well, you know,
next in course after the Palace Beautiful comes the Valley
of Humiliation—whence my letter is dated—where I
am at this present writing. Honest old John Bunyan
says that, although people do not descend into this place
with a very good grace, but with many a sore bruise and
tumble, yet the air thereof is mild and refreshing, and
many sweet flowers grow here that are not found in more
exalted regions. MY Dear Mother: I sit down to write to you with
a heart full of the strangest feelings and expeririences.
I feel as if I had been out in some other
world and been brought back again; and now I hardly
know myself or where I am. You know I wrote you all
about Maggie, and her leaving us, and poor Mary's
trouble about her, and how she had been since seen in a
very bad neighborhood: I promised Mary faithfully that
I would go after her; and so, after all our Christmas
labors were over, Harry and I went on a midnight excursion
with Mr. James, the Methodist minister, who has
started the mission there. “My Dear Sir: Ever since that most sad evening when I went
with you in your work of mercy to those unhappy people, I have
been thinking of what I saw, and wishing I could do something to
help you. You say that you do not solicit aid except from the dear
Father who is ever near to those that are trying to do such work
as this; yet, as long as he is ever near to Christian hearts, he will
inspire them with desires to help in a cause so wholly Christ-like. I
send you this ornament, which was bought in days when I thought
little of its sacred meaning. Sell it, and let the avails go towards
enlarging your Home for those poor people who find no place for
repentance in the world. I would rather you would tell nobody
from whom it comes. It is something wholly my own; it is a relief
to offer it, to help a little in so good a work, and I certainly shall not
forget to pray for your success. DEAR Mother: You've no idea how things have
gone on within a short time. I have been so excited
and so busy, and kept in such a state of constant
consultation, for this past week, that I have had no time
to keep up my bulletins to you. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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