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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875[X]
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1Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  Married or single?  
 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: Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter, she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications, or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation, followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is through their intervention that he has failed of his election to the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother. I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up —but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began: `I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,' she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred another selection. Your dear father in his life-time tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam, she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne— and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued, `when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances are still quivering. They shall not turn against me. I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit, when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still, have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or, I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty, fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But, my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men, perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday, I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances. This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady, but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember, that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia; you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow, you will very much oblige me. As it is but one day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead. God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis' maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said, `it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out; she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath, and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating, and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis. Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit, though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch, her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me. I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none. I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution, Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom, and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of. I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy. Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child! she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh— did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never, never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And what was more important, she seemed comforted by my presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was not that what you said? My head has been so confused— it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never known, and resources upon which you had never drawn; how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands realities, while it hungers after the good and the true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky, and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr. Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other. `I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.' Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek, saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter, girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother, I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room; you might have told me, mother, when I asked you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing. It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited, May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.' Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess, that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree. His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting, in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain, the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations. L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'” etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked, every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.)
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