| | 401 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Add | | | Title: | Wager of battle  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In the latter part of the twelfth century—when, in the reign
of Henry II., fourth successor of the Conqueror, and grandson
of the first prince of that name, known as Beauclerc, the
condition of the vanquished Saxons had begun in some sort to
amend, though no fusion of the races had as yet commenced,
and tranquillity was partially restored to England—the greater
part of the northern counties, from the Trent to the mouths
of Tyne and Solway, was little better than an unbroken chase
or forest, with the exception of the fiefs of a few great barons,
or the territories of a few cities and free borough towns; and
thence, northward to the Scottish frontier, all was a rude and
pathless desert of morasses, moors, and mountains, untrodden
save by the foot of the persecuted Saxon outlaw. “King Henry II. to the Sheriff of Lancaster and Westmoreland,
greeting—Kenric, the son of Werewulf, of Kentmere, in
Westmoreland, has showed to us, that whereas he is a free
man, and ready to prove his liberty, Sir Foulke d'Oilly, knight
and baron of Waltheofstow and Fenton in the Forest of Sherwood,
in Yorkshire, claiming him to be his nief, unjustly vexes
him; and therefore we command you, that if the aforesaid
Kenric shall make you secure touching the proving of his
liberty, then put that plea before our justices, at the first assizes,
when they shall come into those parts, to wit, in our
good city of Lancaster, on the first day of December next ensuing,
because proof of this kind belongeth not to you to
take; and in the mean time cause the said Kenric to have
peace thereupon, and tell the aforesaid Sir Foulke d'Oilly that
he may be there, if he will, to prosecute thereof, against the
aforesaid Kenric. And have there this writ. “In the case of Kenric surnamed the Dark, accused of
deer-slaying, against the forest statute, and of murder, or
homicide, both alleged to have been done and committed
in the forest of Sherwood, on the 13th day of September
last passed, the grand inquest, now in session, do find that
there is no bill, nor any cause of process. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 402 | Author: | Holland
J. G.
(Josiah Gilbert)
1819-1881 | Add | | | Title: | The bay-path | | | | 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 snowed incessantly. Far up in the fathomless grey the
shooting flakes mingled in dim confusion, or crossed each
other's lines in momentary angles, or came calmly down for
a brief space, and then fled traceless into the tempest; and
all, as they met the breath of the blast, became its burden,
and were swept in blinding and spiteful clouds to the earth.
All around, the storm was vocal. The pines hissed like
serpents, and the old oak, catching the wild roar of his
children in the far north-east, as it came on and on, over
writhing and bowing forests, took up the same strong
strain, and, struggling like a giant, sent it off triumphantly
to the south-western hills. “To John Searles, constable of Springfield. These are
in his majesty's name to require you presently uppon the
recite hereof that you attach the body of John Woodcock
uppon an execution granted to Mr George Moxon by the
Jury against the said John Woodcock for an action of
slander: and that you keepe his body in prison of irons until
he shall take some course to satisfie the said George
Moxon: or else if he neglect or refuse to take a ready
course to satisfie the said execution of £6 13s 4d granted
by the jury that then you use what means you can to put
him out to service and labor till he make satisfaction to the
said Mr George Moxon for the said £6 13s 4d, and also to
satisfie yourself for such charges as you shall be at for the
keeping of his person: And when Mr Moxon and yourself
are satisfied, then you are to discharge his person out of
prison. Fail not at your peril.*
* Copied from the Record of the original Document. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 403 | Author: | Holland
J. G.
(Josiah Gilbert)
1819-1881 | Add | | | Title: | Miss Gilbert's career | | | | 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: | Dr. Theophilus Gilbert was in a hurry. He had
been in a hurry all night. He had been in a hurry all
the morning. While the village of Crampton was
asleep, he had amputated the limb of a young man ten
miles distant, attended a child in convulsions on his way
home, and assisted in introducing into existence an infant
at the house of his next-door neighbor—how sad
an existence—how terrible a life—neither he nor the
poor mother, widowed but a month, could imagine. “Gentlemen:—Will you allow me to call your attention
to a novel, just completed by my daughter,
Miss Fanny Gilbert, entitled, `Tristram Trevanion,
or, The Hounds of the Whippoorwill Hills, by Everard
Everest, Gent.?' I am not, perhaps, a reliable judge
of its merits. Paternal partiality and exclusive devotion
to scientific and business pursits may, in a degree,
unfit me to decide upon the position in the world of art
and the world of popular favor it is calculated to
achieve. In fact, I have not relied upon my own judgment
at all. The book has been read to competent literary
friends, and their voice is unanimous and most
enthusiastic in its favor. The impression is that it cannot
fail to be a great success. With your practical eyes,
you will recognize, I doubt not, in the title of the book,
the characteristic poetic instincts of the writer, and her
power to clothe her conceptions in choicest language.
We have concluded to offer this book to your celebrated
house for publication. It is our desire that it
may come before the public under the most favorable
auspices—such, in fact, as your imprint alone would
give it. I think I can promise you the undivided support
of the local press, as I certainly will pledge all
the personal efforts on behalf of the volume which my
relations to the writer will permit me to make. I
may say to you, in this connection, that I have a large
medical practice, extending throughout the region, and
that I know nearly every family in the county. Please
reply at once, and oblige, &c., &c. “Dr. Sir—Yours about book Tristram, &c., rec'd.
Novels except by well-known writers not in our line,
and we must decline. “My Dear Sir—Your favor, relating to the manuscript
novel of your daughter, is at hand, and has been
carefully considered. The title of the book seems to us to
be exceedingly attractive, and, in a favorable condition of
the market, could not fail of itself to sell an entire edition.
Unfortunately, the market for novels is very dull
now, and, still more unfortunately for us, our engagements
are already so numerous, that were the market
the best, we should not feel at liberty to undertake
your book. We could not possibly make room for it
and do it justice. Thanking you for your kind preference
of our house, we remain, “Dear Sir—I have carefully read your daughter's
manuscript novel, `Tristram Trevanion,' and find
it quite interesting, though I doubt whether it can
ever achieve much success. I should say that it is a
very young novel—written by one who has seen little
of life, and much of books. The invention manifested
in the incidents is quite extraordinary, and displays
genius, though the characters are extravagant. But I
do not write to criticize the book. Worse books have
found many buyers. I accept it on the terms upon
which we settled, as it is; but there are one or two
points touching which I wish to make some suggestions.
The hero, Tristram Trevanion, does not marry Grace
Beaumont, as he ought to do. I think I understand the
public mind when I say that it will demand that this
marriage take place. It could be done by altering a
few pages. Again, I think that the public will demand
that the Jewish dwarf, Levi, be made in some way to
suffer a violent death at the hand of Trevanion. One
word about the title. I confess to its music, but it
seems to me to be so smooth as to present no points to
catch the popular attention. Besides, I find that the
`Hounds of the Whippoorwill Hills' make their appearance
but once in the story, and have no claim upon
the prominence given them on the title-page. Your
daughter will think it very strange, no doubt; but I believe
that the sale of the book would be increased by
making the title rougher—more startling. How does
this look to you—`Tristram Trevanion, or Butter
and Cheese and All;' or this—`Tristram Trevanion, or
The Dwarf with the Flaxen Forelock'? There is another
course which is probably preferable to this, viz.: that of
making a title which means nothing, and will puzzle
people—a title that defines and explains nothing—bestowed
in a whim, as we sometimes give a child a name.
What would your daughter think of `Rhododendron,'
or `Shucks'? “This night I take one of the most important steps
of my life. My father and I have had a long conversation
about you, in which he has endeavored, by promises
and threats, to make me renounce you, and break my
pledge to you. I have reasoned with him, besought him,
on my knees begged of him to relent, but all to no purpose.
He forbids you the house, and commands me to
renounce you forever, or to renounce him. He was very
angry, and is implacable. I have taken the alternative he
offers me. I shall leave New York to-night. I leave
without seeing you, because I fear that an interview would
shake my determination; but I am yours—yours now,
and yours forever. I shall go where you will not find
me, and, if you love me—ah! Frank, I know you do—
you will make no search for me. I shall not write to
you, because money will buy the interception and miscarriage
of letters, but I shall think of you, and pray
for you every day, nay, all the time. “Come! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 404 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward | | | | 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: | EVERY window and shutter at Millbank was closed.
Knots of crape were streaming from the bell-knobs,
and all around the house there was that deep hush which
only the presence of death can inspire. Indoors there was a
kind of twilight gloom pervading the rooms, and the servants
spoke in whispers whenever they came near the chamber where
the old squire lay in his handsome coffin, waiting the arrival of
Roger, who had been in St. Louis when his father died, and
who was expected home on the night when our story opens.
Squire Irving had died suddenly in the act of writing to his
boy Roger, and when found by old Aleck, his hand was grasping
the pen, and his head was resting on the letter he would
never finish. “Heart disease” was the verdict of the inquest,
and then the electric wires carried the news of his decease to
Roger, and to the widow of the squire's eldest son, who lived
on Lexington avenue, New York, and who always called herself
Mrs. Walter Scott Irving, fancying that in some way the
united names of two so illustrious authors as Irving and Scott
shed a kind of literary halo upon one who bore them. “My Dear Boy — For many days I have had a presentiment
that I had not much longer to live, and, as death begins
to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward you, my dear
Roger —.” “My Dear Boy, — For many days I have been haunted
with a presentiment that I have not much longer to live. My
heart is badly diseased, and I may drop away any minute, and
as death begins to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward
you, the boy whom I have been so proud of and loved so much.
You don't remember your mother, Roger, and you don't know
how I loved her, she was so beautiful and artless, and seemed
so innocent, with her blue eyes and golden hair. Her home
was among the New Hampshire hills, a quarter of a mile or so
from the little rural town of Schodick, whose delightful scenery
and pure mountain air years ago attracted visitors there during
the summer months. Her father was poor and old and infirm,
and his farm was mortgaged for more than it was worth, and
the mortgage was about to be foreclosed, when, by chance, I
became an inmate for a few weeks of the farmhouse. I was
stopping in Schodick, the hotel was full, and I boarded with
Jessie's father. He had taken boarders before, — one a young
man, Arthur Grey, a fast, fashionable, fascinating man, who
made love to Jessie, a mere child of sixteen. Her letter,
which I inclose, will tell you the particulars of her acquaintance
with him, so it is not needful that I go over with them.
I knew nothing of Arthur Grey at the time I was at the farm-house,
except that I sometimes heard him mentioned as a
reckless, dashing young man. I was there during the months
of August and September. I had an attack of heart disease,
and Jessie nursed me through it, her soft hands and gentle
ways and deep blue eyes weaving around me a spell I could
not break. She was poor, but a lady every whit, and I loved
her better than I had ever loved a human being before, and I
wanted her for my wife. As I have said, her father was old
and poor, and the farm was mortgaged to a remorseless creditor.
They would be homeless when it was sold, and so I
bought Jessie, and her father kept his home. I know now
that it was a great mistake; know why Jessie fainted when the
plan was first proposed to her, but I did not suspect it then.
Her father said she was in the habit of fainting, and tried to
make light of it. He was anxious for the match, and shut his
eyes to his daughter's aversion to it. “My husband: — It would be mockery for me to put the
word dear before your honored name. You would not believe
I meant it when I have sinned against you so deeply and
wounded your pride so sorely. But oh, if you knew all which
led me to what I am, you would pity me even if you condemned,
for you were always kind, too kind by far to a wicked girl
like me. But I am not so bad as you imagine. I have left
you, I know, and left my darling baby, and he is here with me,
but by no consent of mine. I am not going to Europe. I am
going to Charleston, where Lucy is, and shall mail this letter
from there. Every word I write will be true, and you must believe
it and teach Roger to believe it, too, for I have not sinned
as you suppose, and Roger need not blush for his mother
except that she deserted him. I am writing this quite as much
for him as for you, for I want him to know something of his
mother as she was years ago, when she lived among the Schodick
hills, in the dear old house which I have dreamed about so
often, and which even here on the sea comes up so vividly
before me, with the orchard where the mountain shadows fell so
early in the afternoon, and the meadows where the buttercups
and clover-blossoms grew. Oh, I grow sick, and faint, and
dizzy when I think of those happy days and contrast myself as
I was then with myself as I am now. I was so happy, though
I knew what poverty meant; but that did not matter. Children,
if surrounded by loving friends, do not mind being poor, and I
did not mind it either until I grew old enough to see how it
troubled my father. My mother, as you know, died before I
could remember her, and my aunt Mary, my father's only
sister, and cousin Lucy's mother, took her place and cared for
me. “Squire Irving — Dear Sir — It becomes my painful duty
to inform you that not long after the inclosed letter from your
wife was finished, a fire broke out and spread so fast that all
hope of escape except by the life-boats was cut off. Your
wife felt from the first a presentiment that she should be
drowned, and brought the letter to me, asking that if I escaped,
and she did not, I would forward it at once to Millbank. I
took the letter and I tried to save her, when the sea ingulfed us
both, but a tremendous wave carried her beyond my reach, and
I saw her golden hair rise once above the water and then go
down forever. I, with a few others, was saved as by a miracle,
— picked up by a vessel bound for New York, which place I
reached yesterday. I have read Jessie's letter. She told me
to do so, and to add my testimony to the truth of what she had
written. Even if it were not true, it would be wrong to refuse
the request of one so lovely and dear to me as Jessie was, and
I accordingly do as she bade me, and say to you that she has
written you the truth. “Mrs. Irving tells me you were very kind to me,” she wrote,
“and though I have no recollection that you or any one but
Celine came near me, I am grateful all the same, and shall
always remember your kindness to me both then and when I
was a child, and such a care to you; I am deeply grateful to
all who have done so much for me, and I wish them to know
it, and remember me kindly as I do them. I am going away
soon, and I want to take with me all I brought to Millbank.
I have the locket, but the little dress I cannot find. Mrs.
Irving thinks you took it in the chest. Did you, and if so, will
you please send it to me at once by express, and oblige, “Mr. Irving: Can you forgive me when you hear who I
am, and will you try to think of me as you did in the days
which now seem so very far in the past. I have been your
ruin, Roger. I have brought to you almost every trouble you
ever knew, and now to all the rest I must add this, that I am
the child of your worst enemy, Arthur Grey. Don't hate me
for it, will you? Alice, who is much better than I, would say
it was God's way of letting you return good for evil. I wish
you would think so, too, and I wish I could tell you all I feel,
and how grateful I am to you for what you have done for me.
If I could I would repay it, but I am only a girl, and the debt
is too great ever to be cancelled by me. May Heaven reward
you as you deserve. ROGER had written to Frank, congratulating him upon
his approaching marriage, but declining to be present
at the wedding. He wished to know as little as possible
of the affairs at Millbank, and tried to dissuade Hester
from her visit to Mrs. Slocum. But Hester would go, and
three days before the great event came off she was installed in
Mrs. Slocum's best chamber, and had presented that worthy
woman with six bottles of canned fruit, ten yards of calico, and
an old coat of Aleck's, which, she said, would cut over nicely
for Johnny, Mrs. Slocum's youngest boy. After these presents,
Hester felt that she was not “spunging,” as she called it, and
settled herself quietly to visit, and to reconnoitre, and watch
the proceedings at Millbank. And there was enough to occupy
her time and keep her in a state of great excitement. “Magdalen has been very anxious for you to come to
Beechwood, and I should now extend an invitation for you to
do so, were it not that we have decided to leave at once for
Europe. We sail in the `Persia' next week, immediately after
my daughter's marriage, which will be a very quiet affair.
Hoping to see and know you at some future time, I am | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 405 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | Rose Mather | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The long disputed point as to whether the South
was in earnest or not was settled, and through
the Northern States the tidings flew that Sumter
had fallen and the war had commenced. With the first
gun which boomed across the waters of Charleston bay,
it was ushered in, and they who had cried, “Peace!
peace!” found at last “there was no peace.” Then, and
not till then, did the nation rise from its lethargic slumber
and shake off the delusion with which it had so long
been bound. Political differences were forgotten. Republicans
and Democrats struck the friendly hand, pulse
beat to pulse, heart throbbed to heart, and the watchword
everywhere was, “The Union forever.” Throughout
the length and breadth of the land were true, loyal
hearts, and as at Rhoderic Dhu's command the Highlanders
sprang to view from every clump of heather on
the wild moors of Scotland, so when the war-cry came
up from Sumter our own Highlanders arose, a mighty
host, responsive to the call; some from New England's
templed hills, with hands inured to toil, and hearts as
strong and true as flint; some from the Empire, some
the Keystone State, and others from the prairies of
the distant West. It mattered not what place had given
them birth; it mattered little whether the Green Mountains
of Vermont, the granite hills of New Hampshire, or
the shadowy forests of Wisconsin had sheltered their
childhood's home; united in one cause they rallied round
the Stars and Stripes, and went forth to meet, not a
foreign foe, but alas, to raise a brother's arm against
another brother's arm in that most dreadful of all anarchies,
a national civil war. “Dear Mother: Pray don't think you've seen a ghost when you
recognize my writing. You thought me dead, I suppose, but there's
no such good news as that. I'm bullet-proof, I reckon, or I should
have died in New Orleans last summer when the yellow fever and I
had such a squabble. I was dreadfully sick then, and half wished I
had not run away, for I knew you would feel badly when you heard
how I died with nobody to care for me, and was tumbled into the
ground, head sticking out as likely as any way. I used to talk about
you, old Martha said, and about Rose, too. Dear little Rose. I
actually laid down my pen just now, and laughed aloud as I thought
how she looked when I treated her to those worms; telling her I had
a necklace for her! Didn't she dance and didn't Tom thrash me,
too, till I saw stars! Well, he never struck me a blow amiss, though
I used to think he did. I was a sorry scamp, mother,—the biggest
rascal in Boston. But I've reformed. I have, upon my word, and
you ought to see how the people here smile upon and flatter me, telling
me what a nice chap I am, and all that sort of thing. “My dear Mrs. Mather—I am sure you will pardon the liberty I
am taking. My apology is that I feel so deeply for you, for I understand
just what you are suffering,—understand how wearily the
hours drag on, knowing as you do that with the waning daylight his
step will not be heard just by the door, making in your heart little
throbs of joy, such as no other step can make. I am so sorry for you,
and I had hoped you at least might be spared, but God in his wisdom
has seen fit to order it otherwise, and we know that what He
does is right. Still it is hard to bear,—harder for you than for me,
perhaps, and when this morning I heard the car signal given, I knelt
just where I did when my own husband went away, and asked our
Heavenly Father to bring your Willie back in safety, and, Mrs. Mather,
I am sure He will, for I felt, even then, an answer to my prayer,
—something which said, `It shall be as you ask.' “My dear Mr. Captin Carleton:—I can't help puttin' dear before
your name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind you
was to him. I'm nothin' but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd
years old, but I've got a mother's heart big enough to take you in
with my other boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, but
whether you're a good one, as I call good, I don't know, though bein'
you come from Boston I'm afraid you're a Unitarian, and I'll never
quit prayin' for you till I know. That's about all I can do, for I'm
poor a'most as Job's turkey; but if there's any shirts or trouses, or the
like o' that wants makin', let me know, for I don't believe your
mother or sister is great at sewin'. Mrs. Marthers ain't, I know,
though as nice a little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife is
dead, too, they say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how
that feels, for my man died eighteen years ago last October, a few
weeks before Isaac was born. “Dear Mother: We've met the rascals, and been as genteelly
licked as ever a pack of fools could ask to be. How it happened nobody
knows. I was fitin' like a tiger, when all on a sudden I found
us a-runnin' like a flock of sheep; and what is the queerest of all, is
that while we were takin' to our heels one way the Rebels were goin'
it t'other, and for what I know, we should of been runnin' from
each other till now if they hadn't found out the game, and so turned
upon us. My dear, dear, darling Annie:—It will be days, perhaps, before
you see this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told
you that your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you
read this? Do the tears fall upon the words, `poor George is dead?'
Don't cry, my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how
you will sorrow and I not there to comfort you. It's hard to die
away from home, but not so hard as it would once have been, for I
hope I am a different man from the one who bade you good-bye a few
short months ago; and, darling, it must comfort you to know that
your prayers, your sweet influence have led the wanderer home to
God. We shall meet again in Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings
are unknown. It may be many years, perhaps, and the grass upon
my grave may blossom many times ere you will sleep the sleep which
knows no waking but at the last you'll come where I am waiting you.
I know I shall be there, Annie. All the harassing doubts and fears
are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour's promise has taken them away,
and left me perfect peace. God bless you, Annie darling, and grant
that as you have guided me, so you may guide others to that home
above, where I am going so fast. You have made me very happy
since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It makes my
death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever passed
between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not
good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself.
You should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than
I, a poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps,
and have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways.
had I lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining
influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it is
so. As you grew older you might have felt there was a lack in me, a
something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature,
and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen
that we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way,
but I am not a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself,
and I've often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you
did, and again I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as
the one I spent with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking
forward to many such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and
what he does we know is right. I shall never see you again! and
though they will bring me back to you, I shall not feel your tears
upon my face, or see you bending over my coffin-bed! Still I know
you will do this, and that makes it necessary for me to tell what, perhaps,
has been too long withheld, because I would spare you if possible. “I am not all bad,” he said; “and on that quiet morning, when
beneath the cover of the Virginia woods I lay, watching the Union
soldiers coming so bravely on, there was a dizziness in my brain, and
a strange, womanly feeling at my heart, while a sensation I cannot
describe thrilled every nerve when I saw in the distance the Stars and
Stripes waving in the summer wind. How I wanted to warn them of
their danger, to bid them turn back from the snare so cunningly devised,
and how proud I felt of the Federal soldiers when contrasting
them with ours. I fancied I could tell which were the Boston boys,
and there came a mist before my eyes, as I thought how your dear
hands and those of little Rose had possibly helped to make some portion
of the dress they wore. “Will was badly wounded,—lay on the field all night;—Jimmie
missing,—supposed to be a prisoner. I am well. “Army of Potomac, and about as licked out an army as you ever
seen. To all it may concern, and 'specially Miss Anny Graam. I
send you my regrets greetin', and hopin' this will find you enjoyin'
the same great blessin'. Burnside has made the thunderinest blunder,
and more'n a million of our boys is dead before Fredericksburgh.
Mr. Mathers was about riddled through, I guess, and the Corporal,
—wall, may as well take it easy,—I fit for him like a tiger, till they
nocked me endways, and I played dead to save my life. But the
Corporal's a goner,—took prisoner with an awful cut on his neck;
and now what I'm going to tell you is this: the night before the battle
I came upon him prayin' like a priest, kneelin' in an awful mud-puddle,
and what he said was somethin' about Heaven, and Anny,
whitch, beggin' your pardon, I think means you, and so I ast him in
case of bad luck, if I should write and tell you. I don't think he
could have ben in a vary sperritual frame of mind, for he told me to
mind my bisiness, but I don't lay it up agin him, and when them too
tall, lantern-jawed sons of Balam grabbed him as he was tryin' to
skedaddle with the blood a spirtin' from his neck, I pitched inter
'em, and give 'em hale columby for a spell, till they nocked me flat
and I made bleeve dead as I was tellin' you. Don't feel bad, Miss
Graam. Trust luck and keep your powder dry, and mabby he'll
come back sometime. “I mistrusted he was there,” Bill wrote; “and so when me
and and some other fellow-travellers was safely landed in purgatory,
I went on an explorin' tower to find him. But you bet it
want so easy gettin through that crowd. Why, the camp-meetin'
they had in the Fair Grounds in Rockland, when Marm Freeman
bust her biler hollerin,' was nothin' to the piles of ragged, dirty, hungry-lookin'
dogs; some standin' up, some lyin' down, and all lookin'
as if they was on their last legs. Right on a little sand-bank, and so
near the dead line that I wonder he didn't get shot, I found the Corp'ral,
with his trouses tore to tatters, and lookin' like the old gal's
rag-bag that hangs in the suller-way. Didn't he cry, though, when
I hit him a kelp on the back, and want there some tall cryin' done by
both of us as we sat there flat on the sand, with the hot sun pourin'
down on us, and the sweat and the tears runnin' down his face, as
he told me all he'd suffered. It made my blood bile. I've had a
little taste of Libby, and Bell Isle, too; but they can't hold a candle
to this place. Miss Graam, you are the good sort, kinder pius like;
but I'll be hanged if I don't bleeve you'll justify me in the thumpin'
lies I told the Corp'ral that day, to keep his spirits up. Says he,
`Have you ever ben to Rockland since Fredericksburg?' and then
I tho't in a minute of that nite in the woods when he prayed about
Anny; and ses I to myself, `The piusest lie you ever told will be
that you have been home, and seen Miss Graam, with any other
triflin' additions you may think best;' so I told him I had ben hum
on a furbelow, as the old gal (meanin' my mother) calls it. And I
seen her, too, says I, Miss Graam, and she talked an awful sight
about you, I said, when you orto have seen him shiver all over as he
got up closer to me, and asked, `What did she say?' Then I went
on romancin', and told him how you spent a whole evenin' at the ole
hut, talkin' about him, and how sorry you was for him, and couldn't
git your natural sleep for thinkin' of him, and how, when I came
away, you said to me on the sly, `William, if you ever happen to
meet Mr. Carleton, give him Anny Graam's love, and tell him she
means it.' Great Peter! I could almost see the flesh come back to
his bones, and his eyes had the old look in 'em, as he liked to of
hugged me to death. I'd done him a world of good, he said, and for
some days he seemed as chipper as you please; but nobody can stan'
a diet of raw meal and the nastiest watter that ever run; and ses I
to myself, Corp'ral will die as sure as thunder if somethin' don't
turn up; and so, when I got the hang of things a little, and seen
how the macheen was worked, sez I, `I'll turn Secesh, though I hate
'em as I do pizen.' They was glad enuff to have me, bein' I'm a
kind of carpenter and jiner, and they let me out, and I went to work
for the Corp'ral. I'll bet I told a hundred hes, fust and last, if I did
one. I said he was at heart Secesh; that he was in the rebel army,
and I took him prisoner at Manassas, which, you know was true.
Then I said his sweetheart, meanin' you, begging your pardon, got
up a row, and made him jine the Federals, and promise never to go
agin the flag, and that's how he come to be nabbed up at Fredericksburg.
I said 'twan't no use to try to make him swear, for he thought
more of his gal's good opinion than he did of liberty, and I set you
up till I swan if I bleeve you'd a knowed yourself, and every one of
them fellers was ready to stan' by you, and two of 'em drinked your
helth with the wust whisky I ever tasted. One of 'em asked me if I
was a fair specimen of the Northern Army, and I'll be darned if I
didn't tell him no, for I was ashamed to have 'em think the Federals
was all like me. I guess, though, they liked me some; anyway, they
let me carry something to the Corp'ral every now and then, and I
bleeve he'd die if I didn't. I've smuggled him in some paper and a
pencil, and he is going to wright to you, and I shall send it, no matter
how. The rebs won't see it, and I guess it's pretty sure to go
safe. I must stop now, and wright to the old woman. “My dear Annie,” he wrote, “I do not know that this letter will
ever reach you. I have but little hope that it will. Still it is worth
trying for, and so here in this terrible place, whose horrors no pen
or tongue can adequately describe, I am writing to you, who I know
think sometimes of the poor wretch starving and dying by inches in
Andersonville. Oh, Annie, you can never know what I have suffered
from hunger and thirst, and exposure and filth, which makes my
very blood curdle and creep, and from that weary homesickness
which more than aught else kills the poor boys around me. When
I first came here I thought I could not endure it, and though I knew
I was not prepared, I used to wish that I might die; but a little
drummer boy from Michigan, who took to me from the first, said his
prayers one night beside me, and the listening to him carried me
back to you, who, I felt sure, prayed for me each day. And so hope
came back again, with a desire to live and see your dear face once
more. Mylittle drummer boy, Johnny, was all the world to me, and
when he grew too sick to sit or stand, I held his poor head in my lap,
and gave up my rations to him, for he was almost famished, and ate
eagerly whatever was brought to us. We used to say the Lord's
Prayer together every night, when a certain star appeared, which he
playfully called his `mother,' saying it was her eye watching over
him. It was a childish fancy, but we grow childish here, and I, too,
have given that star a name. I call it `Annie,' and I watch its coming
as eagerly as did the little boy, who died just as the star reached
the zenith and was shining down upon him. His head was in my
lap, and all there was left of my coat I made into a pillow for him,
and held him till he died. His mother's address is —, Michigan.
Write to her, Annie, and tell her how Johnny died in the firm
hope of meeting her again in heaven. Tell her he did not suffer
much pain,—only a weakness, which wasted his life away. Tell her
the keepers were kind to him, and brought him ice-water several
times. Tell her, too, of the star at which he gazed so long as he had
strength. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 406 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | Tempest and sunshine | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was the afternoon of a bright October day. The old town
clock had just tolled the hour of four, when the Lexington
and Frankfort daily stage was heard rattling over the stony
pavement in the small town of V—, Ky. In a few
moments the four panting steeds were reined up before the
door of the Eagle, the principal hotel in the place. “Mine
host,” a middle-aged, pleasant-looking man, came bustling
out to inspect the new comers, and calculate how many
would do justice to his beefsteaks, strong coffee, sweet potatoes,
and corn cakes, which were being prepared in the
kitchen by Aunt Esther.*
* Pronounced “Easter.”
“Sir—“Upon further reflection, I think it proper to decline
your polite invitation for to-night. “Sir:—When I became engaged to you I was very
young, and am still so; consequently, you will hardly be
surprised, when you learn that I have changed my mind, and
wish to have our engagement dissolved. “—Can it be that you are sick? I do not wish to
think so; and yet what else can prevent your writing? I
have not a thought that you are forgetful of me, for you are
too pure, too innocent, to play me false. And yet I am
sometimes haunted by a vague fear that all is not right, for
a dark shadow seems resting over me. One line from you,
dearest Fanny, will fill my heart with sunshine again—” “I hardly know how to write what I wish
to tell you. If I knew exactly your opinion concerning me,
I might feel differently. As it is, I ardently hope that your
extreme youth prevented my foolish, but then sincere attentions,
from making any very lasting impression on you. But
why not come to the point at once? Fanny, you must try
and forget that you ever knew one so wholly unworthy of
you as I am. It gives me great pain to write it, but I am
about to engage myself to another. “Sir:—Have you, during some weeks past, ever
wondered why I did not write to you? And in enumerating
to yourself the many reasons which could prevent my writting,
has it ever occurred to you, that possibly I might be
false? Can you forgive me, Dr. Lacey, when I tell you that
the love I once fancied I bore you, has wholly subsided, and
I now feel for you a friendship, which I trust will be more
lasting than my transient, girlish love. “Why, in the name of all the Woodburns
and Camerous that ever were or ever will be, didn't
you tell me what kind of mussy, fussy, twisted up things both
Mrs. Cameron Senior, and Mrs. Cameron Senior's daughter,
are. Why, the very first evening of our arrival, Mrs. Senior
met me on the steps, and hugged me so hard that I really
thought she was opposed to the match, and meant to kill
me at once. In her zeal she actually kissed off both veil
and bonnet, and as the latter disappeared, and she got a
view of my face, on which the dust and cinders were an inch
thick, she exclaimed, `Oh, bootiful, bootiful! Why, Frank,
half hasn't been told me.' | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 407 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's | | | | 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: | AT last, dear old book, repository of all my secret
thoughts and feelings, I am free to come to you
once more, and talk to you as I can talk to no
one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle
than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion
that to-morrow night some other voice than mine
would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the darling, cried
himself to sleep because I was going away, while the
other children manifested in various ways their sorrow
at my projected departure. Bless them all, how I do
love children, and hope if I am ever married, I may
have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me
twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—
as peevish as Margaret's six have made her, I should
rather be excused. But what nonsense to be written by
me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged twenty-eight,—the
Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went
home with me from the sewing society. But they were
mistaken, for if the family Bible is to be trusted, I was
only twenty-five last Christmas, and I don't believe I
look as old as that.” HOW beautiful it is this summer night, and how
softly the moonlight falls upon the quiet street
through the maple-trees! On such a night as
this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden
must have been ere the trail of the serpent was there. I
have often wished it had been Adam who first transgressed
instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a
man than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon
our race. And yet, when I remember that by woman
came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given the highest
honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much
faith in woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that
was good and pure and lovely. And have I been mistaken
in her? Once, yes. But that is past. Anna is
dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for
her as for a sister. How long it took to crush out my
love,—to overcome the terrible pain which would waken
me from the dream that I held her again in my arms,
that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden
curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do
not like curls now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell,
with all her whims and vanity, would be tolerably
agreeable to me were it not for that forest of hair dangling
about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and
braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She
is no more to me than a friend, and possibly not that.
Sometimes I fancy she avoids and even dislikes me. I've
suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she urged me
to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought
me avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at
least among the fast young men; but my heavenly Father
knows, and some time maybe Dora will. I like to
call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit
more like Anna, I never could have liked her as I do,—
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. “`Mother's toock ravin' with one of her headaches,
cause auntie's gone, and there's nobody to tend to the
young ones. Gawly, how they've cut up, and she wants
you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours,
with regret, “It seems to me you've been gone a hundred
million billion years, and you've no idea what a
forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, nor how
the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest
row—Auntie. I didn't mean to use that word, and
I'll scratch it right out, but when you are away, I'll be
dar—There I was going to say it agen. I'm a perfectly
Dredful Boy, ain't I? But I do love you, Auntie, and
last night,—now don't you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody,
—last night after I went to bed, I cried and cried and
crammed the sheet in my mouth to keep Jim from hearing
me till I most vomited. I WAS too tired last night to open my trunk,
and so have a double duty to perform, that
of recording the events of the last two days.
Can it be that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left
Beechwood and all its cares, which, now that I am away
from them, do seem burdensome? What a delicious
feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if
you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that
for a time at least I can rest; and I begin to think I need
it, for how else can I account for the languid, weary sensation
which prompts me to sit so still in the great, soft,
motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, and which
stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look
out upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville? “`Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the
bearer of this little package, which I should have brought
to you myself had Mrs. Randall known where to find
you. “A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but
I have enjoyed the quiet so much. It seems as if I never
should get rested, and I am surprised to find how tired I
am, and how selfish I am growing. I was wicked enough
to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came,
bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit.
She is very sociable, and asks numberless questions about
Beechwood and its inhabitants. I wonder why I told her
of everybody but Dr. West, for I did, but of him I could
not talk, and did not. “A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I
cannot find it in my heart to scold him on paper for his
dreadful language. I will talk to him on my return, and
tell him he must be more choice of words and must make
an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural
to the Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they
miss me at home, and I cried over the letter till I was almost
sick. I am sure they want me there, and I wonder
what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, and
Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until
September, Mattie and Bell saying they will then go
with me to Beechwood. Just think of those two fine
ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as expensively
furnished as either Mattie's or Bell Verner's, and we
keep as many servants; but the children, the confusion!
What would they do? No, I must not stay, though I should
enjoy it vastly. I like Bell Verner, as I know her better.
There is a depth of character about her for which I did
not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys
me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes
no secret of it either. She's old enough, too,—twenty-eight,
as she told me of her own accord, just as she is
given to telling everything about herself. Secretly, I
think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above
him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell
him that story about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad
Johnnie set him right. I would not have Lieutenant Reed
for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, good-natured,
vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I
think I'll turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how
her black eyes would flash upon him. “`I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing
me that package, and did I go out at all, except to
church, I would thank you in person. If you can, will
you come and see me before you return to Beechwood? I
should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one
interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship. “Your package of money and little note, sent
by Miss Dora Freeman, was brought to me with
a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall's colored servant
Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so
much, and I wish you had kept a part for yourself.
Surely, if the commandment with promise means anything,—and
we know it does,—you, my son, will be
blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as
well as your unselfish devotion to those who have been,
one the innocent, the other the guilty, cause of so much
suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as I sometimes
fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have
sent us word ere this. I have given him up, asking God
to pardon his sin, which was great. “Dear Mother:—Your letters do me so much good,
and make me strong to bear, though really I have perhaps
as little to trouble me as do most men of my years.
If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,—
if we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd,
and if we knew that Robert, whether dead or alive,
had repented of his sin, I should be very happy. * * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of
asking to stay longer. It's right shabby in you to leave
me so long, when you know how much I suffer. The
children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted real
cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You
cannot love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think
it's downright ungrateful after all I've done for you since
father died. If you care for me at all, you'll come in just
one week from to-day. I have about decided to go to
Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and
come.” “Dear Mrs. Russell: — Excuse the liberty I am
taking, but really if you and your husband knew how
much Dora has improved since leaving home, and how
much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her
coming home so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner
all think it too bad, and I for one veto her leaving us.” “Mrs. Russell.—Madam:—Both myself and Mrs.
Randall are exceedingly loth to part with our young
guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will do
us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add
I think it your duty so to do.” “Dear Auntie:—The house is still a as mouse, and
seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy,
Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me
with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into
mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and
twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all
then, but now that she is gone, I'll be—I guess I'll skip
the hard words, and say that every time I rem'ber
what I said to her, there's a thumpin' great lump comes
in my throat, and I wish I hadn't said it. I've begun
six letters to tell her I am sorry, and she only been gone
two days, but I've tore 'em all up, and now when you see
her you tell her I'm sorry,—'cause I am, and I keep
thinkin of when I was a little shaver in pettycoats, how
she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a
preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She says I'm
the pest of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor
lets me kiss her 'cause she says I slawber and wet her
face, and muss her hair and dress. But she's mother,
and I wish I hadn't sed them nasty things to her and
maid her cry. “Miss Freeman:—You probably do not expect me to
write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this letter.
The fact is I want permission to go to that little
library, which, until this morning, I did not know was
yours. There are some books I would like to read, but
will not do so without leave from the owner. “Dr. West.—Dear Sir:—You really were over-nice
about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not
that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did
not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book
you like. “I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest
doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die.
It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common,
I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in
to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am
sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had
not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great
deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of
it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him
again! There is something wrong, and I've no faith in
anybody. I DID not see Dora after all, and I had thought
so much about it, feeling, I am afraid, more
than willing that Robin should be sick, and so
give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving
that little note from Dora, I have frequently
dared to build castles of what might some day be, for
something in that message led me to hope that I am not
indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my
informal letter asking the loan of a book would prove it
so, so I sit and think and wonder what the future has in
store for me, until my patients are in danger of being neglected. “`Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly
live. “My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to
some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out
my grief. Margaret is dead; and all around, the gay
world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No.— there were no rigid form, no pale
Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping
over her,—no motherless little children left alone so
early. “Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow,
on the evening train.” “The governor is O. K. He'll wait and so will I;
and if you must say no, he won't raise hob, but I will.
I tell you now I'll raise the very roof! Don't say no,
Auntie, don't! DO I believe it now, after the first stunning effect
is over, and I sit here alone thinking calmly of
what came to me in Jessie Verner's letter? Do
I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering
as I do the expression of her face when she
sat by the two graves and I told her of Anna? Can
there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not,
and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie.
Oh, was I deceived, and did her coldness and ill-nature
mean more than I was willing to admit? It is very hard
to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows best
what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He
took her away, and now He will take my Dora. It is
sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I cannot help feeling
that I would rather she were lying by Anna's side than
to see her Squire Russell's wife. It is a most unnatural
match, for there is no bond of sympathy in their natures.
Dora must be unhappy after the novelty is gone. Darling
Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus of her now, as there
is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which, nevertheless,
has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that
whether she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me.
She does not care for me. She never did, else why does
she grow so cross and crisp when my name is mentioned?
Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and
built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share
with me. I am afraid to record on paper how dear she
is to me, or how constantly she has been in my mind since
I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for some
reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the
arrival of every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer
Jessie so soon, and send that message to Dora? I am
confident now that it was not a right spirit which prompted
me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken
faith with me,—that she should have waited at least the
year,—that in some way she was injuring me, and so vindictive
pride dictated the words I sent her. May I be
forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the
bride of her sister's husband, may she be happy with him,
and never know one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage
will bring to me. “Are you going anywhere this summer? Of course
not, for so long as there is an unbaptized child, or a bedridden
old woman in the parish, you must stay at home,
even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden's
coat before we boys made him a present of a new one.
I say, Arthur, there was a capital fellow spoiled when
you took to the ministry, with your splendid talents,
and rare gift for making people like and believe in you. “Mr. Leighton.—Dear Sir:—Cousin Fanny is to
have a picnic down in the west woods to-morrow afternoon,
and she requests the pleasure of your presence.
Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do
come. “My Dear Mr. Leighton:—It is my niece's wish
that I answer the letter you were so kind as to enclose
in the book left for her last Saturday. She desires me
to say that though she has a very great regard for you as
her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and
she regrets exceedingly if she has in any way led you to
construe the interest she has always manifested in you
into a deeper feeling. “Dear Thorne:—I am suffering from one of those
horrid headaches which used to make me as weak and
helpless as a woman, but I will write just enough to say
that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free
to press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a
noble girl, worthy even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings,
and if I cannot have her, I would rather give her to you
than any one I know. Only don't ask me to perform the
ceremony. “Dear Thornton,” Arthur wrote, “you will be surprised,
no doubt, to hear that your old college chum is at
last engaged; but not to one of the fifty lambs about
whom you once jocosely wrote. The shepherd has wandered
from his flock, and is about to take into his bosom
a little stray ewe-lamb,—Lucy Harcourt by name—” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 408 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Elsie Venner | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | There is nothing in New England corresponding
at all to the feudal aristocracies of the Old
World. Whether it be owing to the stock from
which we were derived, or to the practical working
of our institutions, or to the abrogation of the
technical “law of honor,” which draws a sharp
line between the personally responsible class of
“gentlemen” and the unnamed multitude of
those who are not expected to risk their lives for
an abstraction, — whatever be the cause, we have
no such aristocracy here as that which grew up
out of the military systems of the Middle Ages. “The Committee have great pleasure in recording
their unanimous opinion, that the Institution
was never in so flourishing a condition.... You were kind enough to promise me that you
would assist me in any professional or scientific
investigations in which I might become engaged.
I have of late become deeply interested in a class
of subjects which present peculiar difficulty, and
I must exercise the privilege of questioning you
on some points upon which I desire information
I cannot otherwise obtain. I would not trouble
you, if I could find any person or books competent
to enlighten me on some of these singular
matters which have so excited me. The leading
doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man, but not
versed in the curiosities of medical literature. I do not wonder that you find no answer from
your country friends to the curious questions you
put. They belong to that middle region between
science and poetry which sensible men, as they
are called, are very shy of meddling with. Some
people think that truth and gold are always to be
washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion,
that, unless there are so many grains to the peck
of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not pay
to wash for either, so long as one can find anything
else to do. I don't doubt there is some
truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism,
for instance; but when you ask me to cradle
for it, I tell you that the hysteric girls cheat so,
and the professionals are such a set of pickpockets,
that I can do something better than hunt for
the grains of truth among their tricks and lies.
Do you remember what I used to say in my
lectures? — or were you asleep just then, or cutting
your initials on the rail? (You see I can
ask questions, my young friend.) Leverage is
everything, — was what I used to say; — don't
begin to pry till you have got the long arm on
your side. I have been for some months established in
this place, turning the main crank of the machinery
for the manufactory of accomplishments
superintended by, or rather worked to the profit
of, a certain Mr. Silas Peckham. He is a poor
wretch, with a little thin fishy blood in his body,
lean and flat, long-armed and large-handed, thick-jointed
and thin-muscled, — you know those unwholesome,
weak-eyed, half-fed creatures, that
look not fit to be round among live folks, and
yet not quite dead enough to bury. If you ever
hear of my being in court to answer to a charge
of assault and battery, you may guess that I
have been giving him a thrashing to settle off old
scores; for he is a tyrant, and has come pretty
near killing his principal lady-assistant with overworking
her and keeping her out of all decent
privileges. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 409 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | Elsie Venner | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The two meeting-houses which faced each
other like a pair of fighting-cocks had not flapped
their wings or crowed at each other for a considerable
time. The Reverend Mr. Fairweather had
been dyspeptic and low-spirited of late, and was
too languid for controversy. The Reverend Doctor
Honeywood had been very busy with his benevolent
associations, and had discoursed chiefly
on practical matters, to the neglect of special
doctrinal subjects. His senior deacon ventured
to say to him that some of his people required to
be reminded of the great fundamental doctrine
of the worthlessness of all human efforts and motives.
Some of them were altogether too much
pleased with the success of the Temperance Society
and the Association for the Relief of the
Poor. There was a pestilent heresy about, concerning
the satisfaction to be derived from a good
conscience, — as if anybody ever did anything
which was not to be hated, loathed, despised and
condemned.
Dr.
Cr.
To Salary for quarter
ending Jan. 1st, @
$75 per quarter
$75.00
By Deduction for absence,
1 week 3 days
$10.00
By Board, lodging, etc.,
for 10 days, @ 75
cts. per day
7.50
By Damage to Institution
by absence of
teacher from duties,
say
25.00
By Stationery furnished
43
By Postage-stamp
01
By Balance due Helen
Darley
32.06
$75.00
$75.00 | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 410 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | The guardian angel | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | ON Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1859, the “State
Banner and Delphian Oracle,” published weekly at
Oxbow Village, one of the principal centres in a thriving
river-town of New England, contained an advertisement
which involved the story of a young life, and startled the
emotions of a small community. Such faces of dismay,
such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such
halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chirruping
chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had
not been known since the rainy November Friday, when
old Malachi Withers was found hanging in his garret up
there at the lonely house behind the poplars. “My dearest Olive: — Think no evil of me for what
I have done. The fire-hang-bird's nest, as Cyprian called
it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. “A Vision seen by me, Myrtle Hazard, aged fifteen, on
the night of June 15, 1859. Written out at the request
of a friend from my recollections. “My dearest Clement, — You was so good to write
me such a sweet little bit of a letter, — only, dear, you
never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be.
I wish your Susie was with you to cheer you up; but no,
she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you
are so ambitious! I have heard you say so many times
that nobody could be a great artist without passing years
and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking
so hard. You won't grow pale and lean, I hope; for I do
so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have
always had ever since I have known you; and besides, I do
not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something
great, — you have so much genius, and people of
genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. You
remember those beautiful lines out of our newspaper I
sent you? Well, Mr. Hopkins told me he wrote those lines
in one evening without stopping! I wish you could see
Mr. Hopkins, — he is a very talented person. I cut out
this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show
you, — for genius loves genius, — and you would like to
hear him read his own poetry, — he reads it beautifully.
Please send this piece from the paper back, as I want to
put it in my scrap-book, under his autograph: — “My dear Susie, — I have just been reading your
pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you
ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice,
which will do just as well, — won't it, my dear? I was
interested in your account of various things going on at
Oxbow Village. I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins
so agreeable a friend. His poetry is better than some
which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally
unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. I do not believe
he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing
verse does not always improve the character. I think I have
seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited,
sentimental, and frivolous, — perhaps it found them
so already. Don't make too much of his talent, and particularly
don't let him think that because he can write verses
he has nothing else to do in this world. That is for his
benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it. “Reverend Sir, — I shall not come to your study this
day. I do not feel that I have any more need of religious
counsel at this time, and I am told by a friend that there
are others who will be glad to hear you talk on this subject.
I hear that Mrs. Hopkins is interested in religious subjects,
and would have been glad to see you in my company. As
I cannot go with her, perhaps Miss Susan Posey will take
my place. I thank you for all the good things you have
said to me, and that you have given me so much of your
company. I hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven
some time, if we are good enough, but I want to wait for
that awhile, for I do not feel quite ready. I am not going
to see you any more alone, reverend sir. I think this is
best, and I have good advice. I want to see more of young
people of my own age, and I have a friend, Mr. Gridley,
who I think is older than you are, that takes an interest in
me; and as you have many others that you must be interested
in, he can take the place of a father better than you
can do. I return to you the hymn-book, — I read one of
those you marked, and do not care to read any more. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 411 | Author: | Howells
William Dean
1837-1920 | Add | | | Title: | A chance acquaintance | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | ON the forward promenade of the Saguenay
boat which had been advertised to leave
Quebec at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning,
Miss Kitty Ellison sat tranquilly expectant of
the joys which its departure should bring, and tolerantly
patient of its delay; for if all the Saguenay
had not been in promise, she would have
thought it the greatest happiness just to have that
prospect of the St. Lawrence and Quebec. The
sun shone with a warm yellow light on the Upper
Town, with its girdle to gray wall, and on the red
flag that drowsed above the citadel, and was a
friendly lustre on the tinned roofs of the Lower
Town; while away off to the south and east and
west wandered the purple hills and the farmlit
plains in such dewy shadow and effulgence as
would have been enough to make the heaviest
heart glad. Near at hand the river was busy
with every kind of craft, and in the distance
was mysterious with silvery vapors; little breaths
of haze, like an ethereal colorless flame, exhaled
from its surface, and it all glowed with a
lovely inner radiance. In the middle distance a
black ship was heaving anchor and setting sail,
and the voice of the seamen came soft and sad
and yet wildly hopeful to the dreamy ear of the
young girl, whose soul at once went round the
world before the ship, and then made haste back
again to the promenade of the Saguenay boat. She
sat leaning forward a little with her hands fallen
into her lap, letting her unmastered thoughts play
as they would in memories and hopes around the
consciousness that she was the happiest girl in the
world, and blest beyond desire or desert. To have
left home as she had done, equipped for a single
day at Niagara, and then to have come adventurously
on, by grace of her cousin's wardrobe, as it
were, to Montreal and Quebec; to be now going up
the Saguenay, and finally to be destined to return
home by way of Boston and New York; — this
was more than any one human being had a right
to; and, as she had written home to the girls, she
felt that her privileges ought to be divided up
among all the people of Eriecreek. She was very
grateful to Colonel Ellison and Fanny for affording
her these advantages; but they being now out of
sight in pursuit of state-rooms, she was not thinking
of them in relation to her pleasure in the
morning scene, but was rather regretting the absence
of a lady with whom they had travelled
from Niagara, and to whom she imagined she
would that moment like to say something in praise
of the prospect. This lady was a Mrs. Basil March
of Boston; and though it was her wedding journey
and her husband's presence ought to have
absorbed her, she and Miss Kitty had sworn a
sisterhood, and were pledged to see each other
before long at Mrs. March's home in Boston. In
her absence, now, Kitty thought what a very
charming person she was, and wondered if all
Boston people were really like her, so easy and
friendly and hearty. In her letter she had told
the girls to tell her Uncle Jack that he had not
rated Boston people a bit too high, if she were to
judge from Mr. and Mrs. March, and that she was
sure they would help her as far as they could to
carry out his instructions when she got to Boston. DEAR GIRLS: Since the letter I wrote
you a day or two after we got here, we
have been going on very much as you
might have expected. A whole week has passed,
but we still bear our enforced leisure with fortitude;
and, though Boston and New York are both
fading into the improbable (as far as we are concerned),
Quebec continues inexhaustible, and I
don't begrudge a moment of the time we are giving
it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 412 | Author: | Howells
William Dean
1837-1920 | Add | | | Title: | A foregone conclusion | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow
calle or footway leading from the Campo San
Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he peered
anxiously about him: now turning for a backward
look up the calle, where there was no living thing
in sight but a cat on a garden gate; now running
a quick eye along the palace walls that rose vast on
either hand and notched the slender strip of blue
sky visible overhead with the lines of their jutting
balconies, chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing
toward the canal, where he could see the
noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There
was no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and
the harsh scream of a parrot that hung in the sunshine
in one of the loftiest windows; but the note
of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses in the
campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and
he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together
and gossiped, with the canal between them,
at the next gondola station. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 414 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The sunny South, or, The Southerner at home | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never
saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their
epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean
any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any
thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for,
if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I
should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors
presume so much, you need to be put down. The bearer is Colonel Peyton, a planter of intelligence
and fortune, who wishes a governess, who will be
charged with the education of his daughter. The position
seems to be a very desirable one, and I would recommend
you to accept it, if he should, after seeing you,
offer it to you. My Dear Sir,—There is probably no purgatory on
earth (for purgatories abound in this world) so effectually
conducive to penitence and repentance as a watering
place. If good cannot come out of evil, nor light out of
darkness, nor laughter out of sorrow, neither can any
thing interesting proceed from a watering place. Nevertheless,
I have to fly to my pen for solace. I have read
till reading is insufferably tiresome—I have walked till
I could walk no longer—I have talked till I am tired
hearing my own voice and the voices of others—I have
jumped the rope till I have blistered the soles of my
feet, and made my hands burn—I have drunk the waters
until I shall never bear to hear water mentioned again—
I have danced under the trees, and looked on in the old
dancing-room, till dancing is worn out—I have yawned
till I have nearly put my jaws out—and I have sat till
I could hardly keep my eyes open, looking at the trees,
the hot walks, the listlessly-wandering-about people, that
look as if they could take laudanum, hang themselves,
or cut their throats, “just as lief do it as not,” if it
were not so impolite and wicked to shock people's nerves
by perpetrating such dreadful things! I have slept till
my eyes won't hold any more sleep, and are swelled and
red like two pink pin-cushions. I have rolled ninepins
till I have nearly broken my arm with the heavy balls;
and it is too hot to sew, to knit, to net, to do any thing
but write! This I can do when all other things fail.
I can write off a headache, write away care, and bury
miserable thoughts in the dark depths of my inkstand.
Therefore, Mr. —, I fly to my escritoire for relief
from the tedium which everywhere surrounds me. The day is past; and as it is our last day at the
Springs, therefore rejoice with me, Mr. —. I am impatient
to be back once more to my dear, familiar room,
with its thousand and one comforts. I want to see my
pet deer, my doves, my squirrel, my flowers, my books,
my own looking-glass, for I don't look like myself
in these at the Springs, which look as if they had been
made while a stiff breeze was rippling across their molter,
surface. To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards
which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed.
The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks
on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare,
in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the
turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote
you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen
for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother
away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious
snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits
the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall
light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial
gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty
dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all. “My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction
and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't
write in return, and that your little heart will dance with
gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print.
You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter
from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that
the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I
have a story to tell you about these same birds. Now, Mr. —, I know a letter to a child is not the
wisest piece of composition that ever was penned, but
Charley is a fine little fellow, and may be an editor himself
one of these days; so, if you will be so good as to
print the letter, I will be very much obliged to you,
and send an extra paper containing it to Charley himself.
The signal to embark is now heard, and I must
end. In my last letter I took you, will you nill you, on a
journey to my forest-emburied home. Landing you
safely upon the pier, at the gate which enters the lawn
of live-oaks, that stretches between the house and the
beautiful expanse of water in front, I gave you a warm
and hospitable welcome. The same welcome I will joyfully
extend to any of your friends, who think enough of
me to turn out of the way of the great Father of Waters,
to seek me out amid the heart of this lovely region of the
South. “Dear Wife:—This epistle is written at `Illewalla,'
or `Lover's Lake,' which is the translation of the soft
Indian name. It is the romantic and charming home of
my old correspondent, `Kate, of the Needles.' I cannot,
with my prosaic pen, begin to present to your mind's eye
the peculiar beauty of this retreat. On my way up from
New Orleans to Louisville, I determined to stop and see
my fair friend, in her own home; and having obtained
the direction, I embarked at New Orleans on board the
steamer `Dr. Beattie,' for Thibodeaux. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 415 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The throne of David | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In obedience to your Majesty's commands, I have
availed myself of my first leisure to record in the leaves
of my tablets the scenery and incidents which have
struck me as worthy of observation, during my journey
from the banks of the Tigris to those of this remote
river. Descriptions of the interesting countries through
which I have passed, with allusions to the manners and
customs of the people, I will not here repeat, as I have
made a careful history of them for your Majesty's perusal
when I shall return from my embassy. I am to-night encamped by the “Well of the Oath,”
in a palm grove opposite the gate of this southern border-city
of Judea. By this well, a thousand years ago,
Abimelec, a king of Gerar, and Abraham, the father of
the Hebrews, made a covenant of amity. Here at this
fountain the ancient Chaldee used to lead to water his
thousands of camels and tens of thousands of sheep. It
is regarded as a sacred place by the Hebrews, who, with
fine feeling, honor every place made historical by association
with their “three great patriarchs.” This unlooked-for and unusual delay, your majesty,
in accepting thy royal nuptial gifts, and in giving me a
final answer, I am at a loss to comprehend, as I am satisfied
by daily audience with this charming princess that
she is deeply interested in you. All my ardent descriptions
of your person, and eulogiums upon your heart and
character, have captivated her imagination; and I never
discourse of you that her eyes do not beam with the
splendors of the torch of love, while her sighs and virgin
emotion betray the impassioned ardor of her attachment
to your majesty. What a prize shall I have the
honor of presenting to you, O Belus! Such personal
beauty as she possesses is seldom met with! Besides,
she is endowed with the most delicate wit, mirth, intelligence,
and wonderful grace of speech and manner. No
woman I have seen, save, with your majesty's permission,
Adora of Isrilid, can compare with her in that nameless
fascination which so often captivates and bewilders the
strongest masculine minds. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 416 | Author: | Jones
J. B.
(John Beauchamp)
1810-1866 | Add | | | Title: | Border war | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Old Maud Clusky, the cook, had repeatedly looked out
from the basement of a stately mansion, in the Federal
City, impatiently awaiting her master's return from the
Capitol. The hour for dinner had struck, and the punctual
Senator Langdon had not taken his seat at the table. And,
that day, of all others, the President's daughter, Alice
Randolph, was to dine with Miss Edith Langdon; and the
day following, Miss Randolph was to be Miss Langdon's
principal bridesmaid. The Honorable Henry Blount—for
he was a member of the House of Representatives, whilst
his venerable father occupied a seat in the Senate—was on
that day to espouse the beautiful Edith in St. John's Holy
Church. And the daughter of the President of the United
States was now with the affianced maiden in her boudoir. “Dear General—I think it probable the Resolutions will
not pass the Convention. Be upon your guard. It may
not be safe to leave your own lines. An attempt has been
made on my life. Be careful, General. I will join you in a
few days, and shall be happy to serve, the second in command,
under the first General and the first man of the
country. These, by my honest and faithful messenger,
Signor Popoli. “Flora:—My only motive, my only desire, in writing
this, and in sending a special messenger, is to save
your life. Ruffleton's career is nearly ended. But it was
not the Usurper—it was the man—you loved. And I respect
him for not abandoning you in the height of his
power. I will save his life if possible. But yours is in the
greatest danger. If you can rely upon Colonel Snare, who,
I am told, commands the regiment at the President's Mansion,
warn him that a conspiracy is in existence to arrest
and drag you to execution. I cannot indicate the authors
of this diabolical scheme—at present. But I declare to you
that I know it exists. Lose not a moment in taking effectual
measures to guarantee your safety. I know, however,
that you cannot remain long in Washington—and I would
advise you to leave the city and sojourn in some place of
security where you may communicate with Ruffleton, who
will soon be—I am certain, Flora—a fugitive. Fly with
him to other lands. And that you may be happy is the
sincere wish of | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 417 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings on Ice | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Having herd mutch sed about skating parks, and
the grate amount ov helth and muscle they woz imparting
tew the present generashun at a slite advanse
from fust cost, i bought a ticket and went within the
fense. Thru the politeness ov Mr. John Smith, i cum in
possession ov yure valuabel letter, at about 9 o'clock
night before last, in which yu offer me 10 dollars
for a poultiss. POULTISS. Ginowine politeness is a nice mixture ov vanity
and good natur, invigerated bi virtue, and chastened
bi policy. I am instructed by our association to inquire ov
you, and solicit a reply, if you could read a discourse
before our lyceum this winter, and if so, at
what time, on what subject, and upon what terms. This day, at 10 o'clock A. M., I cum in contact
with your letter, and was real glad tew hear from
yu. How do you like being Cor. Sek. ov a LyAssoci'?
It is a light, pretty bizziness, and don't
require much capital. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 419 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's
night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered
window of the house which had always been his
home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock,
were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at
ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by
the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing
well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips
whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even
till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells
me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind
me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted
brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend
to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record
my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of
stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to
have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see
that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar
used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am,
as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but
simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor
diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent
catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about
—or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important
for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the
trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see.
It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called
upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit,
I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard
from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote
to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I
think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I
have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to
begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I
feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as
my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying
any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the
“allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of
seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as
to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of
myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle
down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over,
you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I
went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at
least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the
way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful),
and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once—
painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is
to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin.
There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know,
Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little
beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort,
in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the
painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young
masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is
not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and
this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as
you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because
there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery)
that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So,
don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show
our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper
for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if
there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow,
it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only
hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is
liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation
of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very
amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be
throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this
is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling
upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore,
we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly,
may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at
the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow
and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to
trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered
and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made
giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless
and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine
moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes
very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not
merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but
the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success
and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye.
If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither
be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all
undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama—
so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no
sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You
are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying
your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in
Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more
because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened
to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon,
Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration
of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious
Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything
else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very
new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for
excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler
of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at
least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils
and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive
shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing,
and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you
will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist
who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which
shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the
course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted
your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you
into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven.
He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement;
but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double
flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the
artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar
which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love.
The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred
till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a
part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost
claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin
to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding
something to look back and say, which you will first read probably,
when I am already there. It will be written with the
trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from
the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I
trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace,
with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes
may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition
at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray
believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records
of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will
speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for
you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and
associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course,
be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at
home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms
are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul,
a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time,
“a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years,
and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable
by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though
very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized
and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall
thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature
to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the
bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from
a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your
advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help
a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt—
so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman
in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I
must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to
my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from
keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it
was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to
which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your
daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A
false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment,
at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me
also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this
also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple
duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification
of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture,
though I do so by placing myself and the consequences
entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed
between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents.
There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language
of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we
were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard
up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly,
and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me
so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce
necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only,
I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For
my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend
than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much
harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say
I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am
I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me,
however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new
laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have
forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle,
of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell,
and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for
the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to
us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a
farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such
a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted
of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is
it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive
ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across
the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote
you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs.
Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me,
and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have
been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished
for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings
home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under
her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is
by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 420 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The town-clock was on the last stroke of
twelve, the solitary candle measured but two
inches from its socket, and, as the summer
wind rushed through the half-closed shutters,
the melted tallow dripped slowly into the
brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The
flickering light fell upon grim battalions of
figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined
pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the
face of the accountant, as he bent over his
work. In these latter days of physical degeneration,
such athletic frames as his are rarely
seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen
years growth had given him unusual height
and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was
difficult to realize that the stature of manhood
had been attained by a mere boy in years. A
gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather
coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing
to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the
coat was thrown partially off. He wore no
vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered
the snowy white collar to fall away
from the throat and expose its well-turned
outline. The head was large, but faultlessly
proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut
short and clinging to the temples, added to its
massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and
smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching
the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed
nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril,
and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache,
combined to render the face one of uncommon
beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures,
there was nothing prepossessing or winning
in his appearance, for though you could
not carp at the moulding of his features, you
involuntarily shrank from the prematurely
grave, nay, austere expression which seemed
habitual to them. He looked just what he
was, youthful in months and years, but old in
trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who
analyzed his countenance, the conviction was
inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition
unbounded, his intellect wonderfully
acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark
in young faces the absence of that
beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous
heart imparts, and though in this instance
there was nothing dark or sinister, you could
not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res
olution which said so plainly: “I struggle,
and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the
world defy me.” Although he had labored
since dawn, there was no drooping of the
muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save
in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm
as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he
sat and worked on, one hand wielding the
pen, the other holding down the leaves which
fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed
over them. “Electra, come to school Monday. The
enclosed will pay your tuition for two months
longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it, if
you really love “With gratitude beyond all expression for
the favor conferred on my mother and myself,
some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon
the money which I have ever regarded
as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future
will afford me some opportunity of proving
my appreciation of her great kindness, “If you do not feel quite ready for the day
of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the
plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six
developed cases of rank typhus. “Before you leave W—, allow me to
see you for a few moments. If your departure
is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to
me this afternoon, at any hour which may
be most convenient. “Huntingdon was desperately wounded at
three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He
died two hours ago. I was with him. The
body leaves to-morrow for W—. “Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded.
Cyrus will show the way. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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