| 121 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | Title: | Francis Berrian, or, The Mexican patriot | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | The first night after the junction, I passed in the tent
of my classmate, of whom I have spoken. He gave me
a succinct, but most interesting narrative of his fortunes
since we had separated from each other in the halls of
our alma mater. As the materials, the character, and the
fate of that interesting body of young men, who were now
united with the Mexican patriots, and many of whom at
this moment fill the first offices in Louisiana, have never
yet been given to the public, and as they are henceforward
identified in the same cause with myself, I shall take
leave to digress from the thread of my narrative, to give
you a very brief outline of the rise and progress of this
expedition on Texas, as my classmate gave it to me. “I have wept over the ruin of the amiable family,
with whom you fled to the mountains, victims of a
sympathy, for which the subjects of it do not thank you.
I have a kind of right in what remains of the family, for
Wilhelmine has been my companion, and my fixed friend, and
she was very amiable and good. Now, that her father and
sisters are dead, I feel it to be a duty due to her, to claim,
that you now either marry her, or send the poor forlorn
girl to me. However you may have thought before, you
must surely feel now, that she can no longer reside with
you, as formerly. I will receive, cherish, and comfort her,
will ask no questions, and will answer for her safety. You
cannot mistake your duty, nor my right to this kind of
interference. Present her my love and condolence, and
show her this.” “I informed you in my last, of my arrival here from
Durango. My father was in a continual fret of impatience,
lest we should not arrive in season, to anticipate
the decree of confiscation. That terrible word confiscation!
There is nothing on earth I hate like Don Pedro,
and the worst name I can call him, is Confiscation. I am
wholly unable to conceive how, or why old men should
become so intensely fond of money, about the time that
they cease to be able to make any use of it. I believe,
he loves me, as the next best thing to money, and the
power he has lost, As to my dear, good mother, he may
have loved her once; but that is a thing quite gone by.
Do you begin to love your husband less, than you did at
first, Jacinta? More than once, on the way, he looked
sufficiently sternly upon me, reminding me frequently,
that if I had not been a perverse and disobedient child, I
should have been, at this time, lady of the minister of war,
and he, perhaps, prime minister! All would have been
safe, and I in a fair way to ascend the topmost round in the
ladder of eminence. I have found the advantage of
keeping up the fair ascendency that I have won, when
this hated subject is discussed. So I told him, that he
must have singular notions of the power of the said minister,
to communicate honor, for that he well knew, that he
was a coward, a liar, and an assassin; and I know not, if
I added other epithets; but I had plenty more in my
thoughts, and told him, that if it would comfort him to
have me die, I was ready to gratify him, but not in that
way. Upon the word, I had to encounter a long and bitter
philippic, by way of comfortable even ng domestic confabulation.
He rung upon the old changes, the folly and
idle romanticity of foolish girls, and the absolute necessity
of wealth, to any thing like comfortable, or respectable
existence, and that one week's endurance of real poverty,
genuine love, and a cottage, would restore my brain to
VOL. II. 16
common sense, and bring me to beg, as a boon, the favor,
which I was now, in the wildness of folly, casting
from me. Then it was easy to digress to that dear
young man, and to say, that since that ruinous acquaintance,
all other men were liars, assassins, and all that
My mother, good woman, as the conversation grew
sometimes a little warm, put in a kind of neutral interpolation,
partaking equally of assent and dissent, attempting
to smooth down my father's brow, and remind me of
the rights of paternity. Between apprehensions from
Indians, patriots, robbers and Royalists, for we seem to
be equally obnoxious to all, and this last and most
horrid evil of all, confiscation, I had but an uncomfortable
time to the city. I had travelled the same journey
before, and had seen and felt the grand and beautiful
scenery. At this time, my heart was too heavy, and too
painfully occupied for me to have any eyes for nature. Our Lady of the Pillar preserve us! I have seen him
again, and my heart beats even now so loud, that it disturbs
my thoughts, and my pen. I never needed a second
look to assure me that it was the very man. I had
been driven to the alameda, with our old duena, who
was ill, and in company with my daily tormentor. The
carriage windows were drawn up on account of the air.
He was walking in the streets, and an Irishman, formerly
a servant of my father's, was walking behind him.
How well I remember the calm and lofty port, the
countenance so animated, benevolent, and mild! I gave
a half shriek, before I recollected myself; and then it
was too late, for my countenance told the tale of what I
had seen. His prying and malignant eye soon discovered
in the group the person that had arrested mine.
He expressed ironical regret at the cause of my alarm,
and muttered something implying that he would
not have such terrible objects in the way, to annoy me.
I gave him a look that I trust he understood, and told
him that to filial regard to my father, he must be sensible
he owed all my endurance of his presence. “I know,” I
cried, “that you are equally cowardly and vindictive.
But, venture to touch a hair of his head, and I will move
heaven and earth, until an avenger of his cause shall be
found. Not that I have or expect ever to have any personal
interest in his preservation beyond the common interest,
which all ought to have in preserving the virtuous
and the good. In this country of distraction and crime,
we ought to preserve at least one good person. If you
really wish endurance from me, much more, if you
expect kindness, expect it only from using moderation
and forbearance towards him. Make no use of your bad
power towards him, and in the same proportion, you
will be sure of my taking a less active part in his favour.
If you would promise me with a pledge, on which I
might rely, that you would avail yourself of your influence
to protect him, I should be willing to promise in my
turn, never to see him again.” The standard of the Patriots is again unfurled, I am
told, and directly in view of your castle, in the city of
Vera Cruz. With how little ceremony they treat emperors,
and kings, and great men in these evil days, upon
which we are fallen. I suppose the royal cavalier, so
dear to you, sees with an equal eye the fighting of Patriots
and Imperialists. Both are alike hostile to him
and when these parties have mutually worried and
weakened each other, he, the third person, can with so
much the more ease fall upon the victor and destroy him.
To him all this fighting may be matter of indifferent regard.
Not so to me. A man dearer to me than liberty,
or country, or home, or all the world, except my
dearer parents, and, the Virgin forgive me! except my
mother, dearer than even they, is going to join himself
VOL. II. 17
to the Patriot standard. I sometimes flatter myself
that I am a Patriot by instinct. Since I have been acquainted
with this man I have learned to read English;
I have been deeply engaged in the American history.
What a great country! What a noble people! Compare
their faces and persons with those of the people
here, and what a difference! There is something independent
and severe in the appearance and person of
these people. There is not a book in my father's library
that treats of them, or their history, but what I have
thoroughly conned. But to my story; I am extremely
cautious how I indulge in the society of this man. If he
learned the half of my impatience to enjoy his society,
I fear he would hold me cheap. For they say, at least
my mother says, that men will not love too much love,
or value any thing that comes cheap. In fact I dare
not treat myself too much, or too often with that high
and intoxicating enjoyment, and I economize every
moment of it, and feel as though I had acquired
a title to enjoy it by forbearance before the
treat. I affect a distance and reserve in his presence,
that appears to give him pain, as I know it does me. It
is true, he has not complained in words. But there is
often a modest remonstrance in his manner which taxes
me with cruelty, more painfully than any words he
could utter. We had a long walk together yesterday.
To give us countenance, and to screen our purpose, Laura
started with us, and as soon as we were beyond view,
she kindly left us to ourselves. How deeply this child
has read the chapter of the heart! And what was the
fruit of this solitary ramble? the very anticipation of
which was sufficient to rouse my pulses to fever quickness!
Why, we walked side by side most lovingly indeed,
but as silent as stock doves. He sighed, poor
fellow, and I sighed. He said Yea—and I said Amen.
He looked at San Puebla, which is now casting up ruddy
flames amidst its pillars of smoke, and his eye kindled
for a moment, but he soon returned to his sighs
again. Once he met me, as I well remember, with a kind
of saucy recklessness. But now, when he steals a
glance at me, his eye quails, and when to assist me in
passing, he takes my hand, his absolutely trembles.
My heart thanks him, for I feel that these are the tremors
of a subdued heart. He came out at last with the
principal secret, and told me that he was about leaving
this city for Vera Cruz. It was now my turn to show
emotion; and it was at first too great for words. As soon
as I became collected from the first surprise, I told him
that those who wished him best, wished him nothing
better than to stay where he was, and that it was a conduct
that militated against his professions to me, to leave
a place where he could visit me at his choice. He then
informed me, that the Patriot flag was unfurled at Vera
Cruz; that his principles, his predilections, and he added,
as his cheek reddened, his detestation of Iturbide
and his minions forbade him to remain in an inglorious
pursuit here, although he could at any moment look at
the town of the Mansion of Martha, where honorable
men his compatriots were rushing to the tented field.
He added, that his determination had been approved
by the Conde de Serrea; that he expected appointment
and rank in the Patriot army; that there was but one
vista through the darkness of his prospects to the only
hope of his heart, and that he saw no way for him, but
to cut his path through it with his good sword. I know
not if I give them rightly, but at the time I thought them
pretty words, and I understood the meaning to be that,
he had no hope of gaining me, but by gaining distinction
and power at the same time. I saw that his heart sunk
at the prospect of leaving me; and as he looked dejected
and on the minor key, I believe that I threw as much
encouragement as I well could into my manner. I am
afraid that he thought me too fond, for I think that I
pressed his hand and gave him well and fully to know
that, in me he had a tried and sure friend in the garrison.
Indeed more soft things were said than there is
any use in writing. I conjured him to take care of himself
and not be rash. I cautioned him against the assassin-dagger
of Don Pedro, who is to command the imperial
forces against the Patriots; and then I placed before
him the dangers of that sultry and sickly climate.
I conjured up so many horrors in prospect that my eyes
actually filled with tears, and I was obliged to turn
away to prevent his seeing them. He had harped on the
right string, and I became talkative. I said a thousand
things, and some of them I suppose more tender than
I should have said. I am sure that he discovered that
I was a traitor, for I expressed a decided wish that the
Patriots might prevail, and that he might acquire consideration
and glory; and if they established a new government,
above all things, that he might acquire influence
enough to save my father's estate from confiscation.
He clearly understood me to mean that, whenever this
should be the case, he would be the favored man of
my father, as he was now of me. And here, the man
habitually so guarded in the expression of his feelings,
fell into a most amiable fit of raptures, and made a great
many protestations of love and respect and all that, and
he talked so fast, and so fervently, and withal managed
the thing so well, that I was obliged to let him run on.
At seven in the evening I was obliged to tear myself
away from him and see my persecutor. I told him so;
and told him moreover that when he saw with how
much patience I bore this torture, I wished him to
copy it. I envy you, for you are daily near him, who occupies
all my thoughts. And yet such are the horrible barriers
of party and opinion, your noble minds must be at
variance, and you cannot meet him, for he is a Patriot
and you are a Royalist. So once was I, and I think fiercer
than you. See this man, and but for your husband you
would be a Patriot too. But you are married, and for
your loyalty to your husband and your king you had
best not see him. We have had a large pacquet from
the Patriots, that is, the Conde has had one, and they
have had a battle, the Patriots and Imperialists, and the
latter had the advantage. Heaven be praised, my beloved
is safe, and Sant' Anna writes that, he behaved
gloriously. He was every where in the thickest of he
fight, hunting, I dare say, for his Excellency, my admirer.
They have appointed him a Colonel, and he has gained
influence and respect far beyond his nominal command.
Every despatch is full of his conduct and his praises.
I rejoice in his glory with trembling. Angels and the
blessed Virgin preserve him, and bring him back in safety
with his glory! To be admired and promoted in a
cause which the Conde espouses, must be real glory.
Then I read his own letter to the Conde written in Spanish.
The purity of the language and style, would have
done credit to the Royal Academy. Of himself he writes
with the perfect modesty and simplicity of a great man.
There was a chasm in the letter, and there, thought I,
had he dared, would have been love for me. I kissed
the white interval at the thought. He says, that Sant'
Anna is full of courage, that the Patriots are no ways
disheartened, and that the people are every day flocking
to their standard. Indeed the emperor himself looks
in doubt, and his eternal simper was this evening exchanged
for a look of anxiety, and he appeared the better
for it. He had a great deal to say about his Excellency,
and his being the firmest prop of his throne, and how
impatient I must be to hear from the army, and how
anxious for his return! This man of the muddy head
has not yet been admitted to the secret of my likes and
dislikes; and he is too destitute of penetration to see
what is most palpably passing immediately under his
eye. And then, having praised his Excellency, thick
and three fold, he began to anoint me in the same way.
There are certain little liberties which he thinks it a
great honor to bestow upon his favorites. He seemed
disposed to take them with me. I repelled them, and
in a manner, which could not be mistaken. I will aver,
that the man is not wholly destitute of good feeling; for
he blushed even to his red whiskers. You have made my heart glad with your letter. You
say, that you espouse no cause, that blinds your understanding,
or takes away the power of discriminating
truth from error, pretension from reality. That is like
you. You have taken interest enough in him from his
being dear to me, to inquire him out. You delight me
by saying, that his deportment has won all praise, triumphed
over envy, and even gained the applauses of
your husband. Every generous heart ought to feel the
difference between an unprincipled adventurer, and the
partizan, whose private life and deportment show, that
his heart and his principles are in the cause he espouses;
and who in private pities, relieves, and spares those
men for whose cause he professes to have taken up
arms. It is only necessary to look at him, to see that
the motives that have carried him to the field are neither
interest nor to take side with the strongest. There
is something that speaks out when the heart is in earnest.
I have never seen a man whose manner so strongly
evinces that every thing he does, is matter of conscience
and principle. I have this day received a package of your letters at
once. I do not wonder at your astonishment that you
have had no news of me for a long time. It is a miracle
that you should ever hear of me again as an inhabitant
of this earth. Oh! what have I not suffered? I have
lived fifty years in a month, and I have performed, Oh!
such a penance for my sins. Surely, I must have sinned
deeply. But I hope my trials have not been without
their use. I am sure that I am more sober; that I have
acquired some practical philosophy, and that my pulses
will never beat so tumultuously again. But you shall
have the sad story of my sufferings. The evening after
my mother had at last come out with that decided preference
for Mr. Berrian, that I mentioned to you; too
happy to sit still, and in a frame of mind to muse in the
moon-light and inhale the delicious evening breeze, and
think upon that man, I bade the dueña walk with me
and I took the direction of the lake, for we live near that
extremity of the city. It was very imprudent I grant
you, in these times of distraction and misrule. But I
felt so happy and in such a delightful frame of mind to
enjoy the evening! and I felt too as if I was strong in the
strength of his protecting arm. We had cleared the
city and were approaching the lake before we remarked
that a carriage with servants wearing the Imperial livery
followed us. An apprehensive suspicion flashed across
my mind, but was instantly driven out by a pleasanter
train of thought. We continued to walk on for nearly
half a league, and the dueña remarked to me that the
carriage followed at the same pace and kept the same
distance. Ashivering terror of some unknown danger pervaded
my mind, as I perceived that she remarked rightly.
We immediately turned on our steps for the city. The
carriage stopped in a notch of the causeway. Petrified
with terror, I stopped too; but not long, for a man muffled
in a cloak and followed by two servants made towards
me. I shrieked and ran as fast as the unwiedly
dueña could follow me. I was overtaken in a moment.
The stranger grasped me in his arms, and the servants
at the same moment caught the screaming and struggling
dueña Indignation and the spirit of my father returned
upon me. I sternly asked him what he wanted, for
that if it was my money and jewels they were at his
service. He replied that he was aware that I had not
so mistaken his object; that I could not but have conjectured
by whom, and for what purpose he was employed.
Lest I should still doubt, he told me that he was
ordered to convey me safely and respectfully, if I would
allow him, to Xalapa, there to meet my affianced husband;
that he was instructed to explain so much of his
object in order to allay any unfounded apprehensions,
and to set my mind at ease as to my destination. That
for the rest, he hoped I would enter the carriage that
waited for me, cheerfully, when I knew his purpose;
for in that case he was charged to use his best and most
respectful exertions to render the journey pleasant.
But that his commands were positive, and his business
urgent, admitting neither hesitation nor delay; and that
his instructions were to bring me to his Excellency at
Xalapa, respectfully, if I would, or forcibly if he must;
and he begged me to fix upon the alternative. I am too happy to write to any being but you, and I
begin to credit the old saw, which asserts that happiness
makes us selfish. I left myself at the close of my last,
along with my general, at Xalapa. Instead of two
hours which he promised me, he staid until late at night.
Before he left me, he arranged the terms by a message,
on which I might stay at the Carmelite convent in that
city, as long as he occupied it with his troops. Protestant
and heretic as they held him, he has present power,
and, I fear me, that is the divinity most devoutly worshipped
here, as elsewhere. He promises the sisterhood
protection. He stations a guard without the walls, and
is to be admitted within them at any hour that he
chooses. They are to afford the shelter of their sanctuary
to me, until he carries me back in triumph to Mexico.
The convent is a sweet place, the exact retirement
for a mind and a heart like mine. It is in valley,
like a sweet isle sheltered in a sea of mountains. Here
are fine oaks, the sure indications of health. It has
orange groves, and the delicious fruits and flowers of
every clime. Amidst its bowers run a number of beautiful
and limpid brooks, chafing over pebbles. Hither I
was removed, escorted by the youthful general and a
select body of troops. At midnight he retired and left
me to the notes of the pealing organ, the midnight
prayers of the sisters, and to communion with my own
thoughts. He returned next day in safety to Xalapa. Don
Pedro was too far in advance of him, to be overtaken.
He immediately selected a garrison and appointed a
commander for this city. He has had news from Sant'
Anna, who has captured Queretaro. Having settled his
arrangements for leaving this city, he spent the greater
part of the day alone with me, in the charming gardens
and groves of the convent, and such a day! A
year of such days would be too much for a state of trial.
The next morning he started with his whole force,
except the garrison, for Mexico. It was a cheering, and
heart-stirring sight, the ceremonial of our leaving,
and I think, intended as a kind of fête for me. The troops
appeared to be in their gayest attire and in high spirits
They filed off in front of the convent gate. The piazza
of the convent was filled with all the gaiety and beauty
of the city. My general rode a spirited white charger,
and many an encomium did the ladies pass upon him
little knowing how my heart concurred in all their
praises. They all admitted he was the finest looking
man they had ever seen. This with ladies is no small
praise. As he came up in front and doffed his military
cap and waved his plumes, there was a corresponding
waving of handkerchiefs, and fair hands, and a general
shout of Viva la Republica, and Viva el Capitan Liberador.
He dismounted and came up to the gate, which
was thrown open for the occasion, kissed the hand of
the prioress and other religious sisters, and asked their
prayers for the success of his cause. The prioress presented
him with a consecrated handkerchief. which
received with a respectful address, and what surpris
them most, was not his uncommon beauty of form and
person, nor his gallant and dignified bearing as an officer,
but that he bowed like a king, spoke the true Castilian,
and kissed the hand of the prioress, like a devout
catholic. I confess, that a little pride mixed with the
love in my heart, when he came to me in the presence
of such a concourse, and begged the honor of escorting
me to Mexico, and to my mother. Some in my case, and feeling as I do, would odiously
affect indifference and tranquillity and all that. But I
confess I am impatient with the tedious progress of these
miserable negotiations. The cities and the provinces
are all leaving the standard of the Emperor, and my
father's countenance brightens daily, for he too, has become
a Patriot; and it is quite amusing to hear one of
the most ancient grandees of the Spanish monarchy,
talking about liberty and the rights of man, as if a thing
of very recent discovery. The Emperor has made the
Patriot general proposals, and the papers are all brought
to my future husband. I tremble even now, as I read
the hated name of the minister of war, signed at the bottom.
How everlastingly tedious are these miserable
politicians; and they will spin out the simplest trifle to a
volume. I have the satisfaction, however, to perceive
that the good man is as impatient and as much vexed at
this delay, as I am. He says nothing about it, and sturdily
continues the air of self-control and the affectation
of philosophy. But I see by his manner that he will be
glad when all this business is settled. I am glad that it
vexes him. We love to see that others have no more
philosophy than ourselves. Why should I complain
we constantly pass the day together, and we chat like
old acquaintances. Instead of fighting the enemy with
guns and swords, we fight with proclamations and long
speeches. It is a hard thing to keep these stupid gen
erals from quarrelling among themselves. My general
is constantly throwing water on their fire. Sant' Ann
confessed to my father to-day, that but for the North
American general, they would all fall together by the
ears, and the cause would fail. This evening is to see me no longer Doña de Alvaro.
My hand trembles, and if the characters which I trace
are a little flurried, I hope you will pardon me, for you
have passed through the same ordeal. Let me tell you
something about these important arrangements. I well
remember and can produce your account of this same
business to me in three whole sheets. I will have more
conscience with you. First then, the Bishop of Mexico
is to solemnize the wedding. He is a venerable man,
dignified and unblameable in the discharge of his holy
functions, and has retained the confidence and respect
of all parties. He could never be prevailed on to take
any part in the usurpation of the Emperor. He has always
been a friend of my father's, and is known to incline
in his feelings towards the Patriots. Secondly, we
are to be publicly married in the church of `Nuestra
Senora de Guadaloupe,' my patroness, and Laura is to
be bridemaid. Poor little thing, her bosom beats almost
as mine! The day, too, is my birth-day! What a singular
coincidence! Thirdly, my father being president
of the provincial junta, there is to be a general illumination.
Fourthly, immediately after my return to my father's
house, Bryan is to be married to a pretty Irish
girl, whom he has found here in the city. Lastly, the
first and last wish of my duena's heart is to be gratified
in her being immediately after married to Matteo
Tonato, the stoutest man in my father's establishment,
and the bridegroom and the bride have charged
themselves with the expense of a shanty for the one
and a casa for the other. The whole is to conclude
with a splendid tertulia and fandango. I shall wish
all this matter in the Red sea. It is all over. I will give you the details in their order.
Just as the sun was setting, my mother and Laura,
and two other distinguished young ladies of the city,
were assisted by the bridegroom into the state coach.
Thirty coaches of invited guests followed. The whole
was escorted by a select body of troops, lately under
the command of my husband. At the head of the procession
was my father accompanied by the Conde de
Serra and the first officers of the Junta. Military
music, firing of cannon, and ringing of bells marked the
commencement of the procession. At the door of the
magnificent church we were received by the Bishop
and the priesthood of the city, all in their most solemn
robes of office. The church, was full to overflowing,
and adorned with evergreens, and covered quite to the
centre of its vaulted dome with that profusion of splendid
flowers in which our city abounds. We walked on
flowers up to the altar. The bridegroom conducted himself
with his usual dignity and calmness, and, after all, the
ceremony was so imposing, and the duties assumed of a
character so formidable, that I felt myself trembling and
faint, and should have conducted myself foolishly but for
the sustaining manner and countenance of my husband.
Amidst clouds of incense, the pious minister, dressed in
robes of the purest white, performed the solemn services
of this Sacrament, and we both pronounced our vows in
a firm and decided voice, after the manner of those who
had meditated the duties of this relation, and resolved to
be faithful to them. The moment the vows were pronounced,
we were literally covered with flowers, and
saluted with vivas from every quarter of the church.
My mother and father embraced and kissed me; and
my husband, you know, had now acquired the right to do
so. Laura too, kissed me, and whispered me, when
returned from the States, to bring her just such a husband,
as mine. The Bishop led me back through the
aisle of the church, and gave me his benediction at the
door. The organ was pealing its grand symphonies, a
I was assisted into my carriage. The city, as we drove
back, was one dazzling mass of illumination. On all
sides was the gaiety of fête, and I much fear of drunk
enness. To my great relief after a night of so much fête and
gaiety, we were entirely en famille in the morning. I
dreaded to see company, and could have chosen to spend
the day alone with my husband. But immediately after
breakfast drove up the Conde's coach. A card was
handed me from Laura, requesting the pleasure of a
drive with me. I sent her for word, that, unless she was
disposed to give a place to my husband, she must positively
excuse me. The message back was, that if he
chose to accompany me back, so much the better. He
consented to accompany me, and the drive was a pleasant
one, except that occasionally when my husband
looked another way, Laura gave me looks so wickedly
and impertinently inquisitive, that I was obliged to assume
matronly airs, look grave, and show her all the
difference in deportment, between a wife and a spinster.
But she is really a most forward child, and answered me
by looks of such merry defiance back again, that I see
nothing will cure her but to be able to put on the same
official dignity herself. I have received your kind letter and the beautiful
rosary accompanying it. I thank you a thousand times
for your kind wishes. I have no apprehension on the
score on which you warn me. I have no terrors of the
weather getting duller after honey moon, as you call it,
VOL. II. 22 *
I only fear that this more intimate view of things will
inspire an idolatry too blind, and that I shall only be
too much tempted to surrender my judgment and my reason
to the keeping of another. When I loved him at a
distance, I knew but the half of his deserts. You must
see the manner, and the motive, that he carries with him
to the sanctuary of our privacy; you must walk and
ride with him, as I do; you must catch his eye as we
scramble together up the mountains, or listen to his conversation
as we sail together on these sweet lakes; in
short you must find him, as I do most full, and rich, and
delightful in that “dear spot, our home,” to do full justice
to his character. Let the Stoics preach that this
life never does, or can yield any thing, but satiety and
disappointment. I know better on experience. I could
live happily on the treasured recollection of the few days
we have had together, for a whole year. If I ever hear
foolish girls affecting to be witty again, as I have so often
heard them before, in declaiming against the wedded
life—by the way, you and I know, with how much
sincerity they do it—I will say to them, “Foolish girls, this
talk is all stuff.” Be married to worthy men as soon as
possible. I have experienced more enjoyment in a day
since marriage, than in a year before. Indeed my
duena seems another sort of person, she is so happy; and
Bryan too, in his strange way, eulogizes matrimony,
and his red-cheeked and yellow-haired spouse blushes
her consent. I am so much the more delighted with the regularity
of your correspondence, as I know you have so many
important occupations. You still express curiosity to
hear from me, though I have passed that dread bourne
where all curiosity and interest generally cease. But I
feel that the energies of my affections, so far from having
become paralyzed by having passed this bourne, have
become more unchanging and more powerful. My conscience
tells me it is a duty to write to you so long as
you feel any desire to hear from me. | | Similar Items: | Find |
122 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | Title: | The life and adventures of Arthur Clenning, in two volumes | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | Having obtained the ensuing adventures for
publication, as the reader will see, a circumstance,
which I am about to relate, gave me serious alarm,
lest this volume should be classed with the common
novels and made up stories of the day. It would
give me pain to have it lose the little interest which
might appertain to it, as a recital of plain and
simple matters of fact. My apprehension that such
might be its fate, was excited by hearing, the very
evening after I had completed this compilation
from the notes of Mr. Clenning, a critical dialogue
between two old, spectacled, female, novel-reading,
tea-drinking cronies, as they discussed the merits
of a recently published novel over their evening tea.
I seemed to them to be absorbed in reading the
newspapers; but in truth my ears drank every word.
The incidents of the story upon which they sat in
judgment, were as nearly like this biography of
mine as fiction may approach to fact. I considered
their opinions a kind of forestalling of my doom.
The sprites of the lower country did not pitchfork
the fictitious Don Quixotte with more hearty good
will to the burning depths, as the real Don Quixotte
related their management, than did these excellent
old ladies dispose of this book. “The wretch!”
said the first; “he has removed the landmarks
between history and fable.” “The fool!” said the
other; “he does not know how to keep up the appearance
of probability.” “My husband inquired
on the spot,” said the first, “and the people had
never even heard of such a man.” “The block-head!”
said the second; “he should have laid the
scene just four hundred years back.” “He caricatures
nature horribly,” said the first. “He is
wholly deficient in art and polish,” said the second.
“It is a poor affair from the beginning,” said the
first. “The author is only fit to write for the newspapers,”
said the second. “He has been an exact
and humble copyist of Sir Walter Scott, though
he is just a thousand leagues behind him,” said the
first. “He is nine hundred miles behind Mr. Cooper,
dear man,” said the second. | | Similar Items: | Find |
123 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | Title: | George Mason, the young backwoodsman, or, 'Don't give up the ship" | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | Widow, who weepest sore in the night, and whose
tears are on thy cheeks, because thy young children are
fatherless, and the husband of thy bosom and thy youth
in the dust, dry thy tears. Remember Him, who hath
promised to be the husband of the widow, and take
courage. Orphan, who hast seen thy venerated father
taken from thee by the rude hand of death, and whose
thought is, that in the wide world, there is none to love,
pity, or protect thee, forget not the gracious Being, who
has promised to be a father to the orphan, and remember,
that thy business in life is, not to give up to weak
and enervating despondence, and waste thy strength in
sorrow and tears. Life is neither an anthem nor a
funeral hymn, but an assigned task of discipline and
struggle, and thou hast to gird thyself, and go to thy
duty in the strength of God. I write for the young,
the poor, and the desolate; and the moral and the maxim
which I wish to inculcate is, that we ought never to
despond, either in our religious or our temporal trials.
To parents I would say, inculcate the spirit, the duties,
and the hopes of religion upon your children in the
morning and the evening, in the house and by the way.
Instil decision and moral courage into their young bosoms.
Teach them incessantly the grand maxim—self-respect.
It will go farther to gain them respect, and
render them deserving of it, than the bequeathed stores
of hoarded coffers. A child, deeply imbued with self-respect,
will never disgrace his parents. The inculcation
of this single point includes, in my view, the best
scope of education. If my powers corresponded to my
wishes, I would impress these thoughts in the following
brief and unpretending story. The reader will see, if
he knows the country, where it is laid, as I do, that it
is true to nature. He will comprehend my motive for
not being more explicit on many points; and he will not
turn away with indifference from the short and simple
annals of the poor, for he will remember, that nine in
ten of our brethren of the human race are of that class.
He will not dare to despise the lowly tenants of the valley,
where the Almighty, in his wisdom, has seen fit to
place the great mass of our race. It has been for ages
the wicked, and unfeeling, and stupid habit of writers,
in selecting their scenery and their examples, to act as
if they supposed that the rich, the titled, and the distinguished,
who dwell in mansions, and fare sumptuously
every day, were the only persons, who could display
noble thinking and acting; that they were the only characters,
whose loves, hopes, fortunes, sufferings, and
deeds had any thing in them, worthy of interest, or
sympathy. Who, in reading about these favorites of
fortune, remembers that they constitute but one in ten
thousand of the species? Even those of humble name
and fortunes have finally caught the debasing and enslaving
prejudice themselves, and exult in the actions,
and shed tears of sympathy over the sorrows of the
titled and the great, which, had they been recorded of
1*
those in their own walk of life, would have been viewed
either with indifference or disgust. I well know that
the poor can act as nobly, and suffer as bitterly and
keenly as the rich. There is as much strength and
force and truth of affection in cottages as in palaces.
I am a man, and as such, am affected with the noble
actions, the joys and sorrows, the love and death of the
obscure, as much as of the great. If there be any difference,
the deeds, affections, fortunes, and sufferings of
the former have more interest; for they are unprompted
by vanity, unblazoned by fame, unobscured by affectation,
unalloyed by pride and avarice. The actings of
the heart are sincere, simple, single. God alone has
touched the pendulum with his finger, and the vibrations
are invariably true to the purpose of Him who
made the movement. If, therefore, reader, you feel
with me, you will not turn away with indifference from
this, my tale, because you are forewarned, that none of
the personages are rich or distinguished. You will believe,
that a noble heart can swell in a bosom clad in
the meanest habiliments. You will admit the truth as
well as the beauty of the poet's declaration, respecting
the gems of the sea, and the roses that “waste their
sweetness on the desert air;” and you will believe,
that incidents, full of tender and solemn interest, have
occurred in a log cabin in the forests of the Mississippi. | | Similar Items: | Find |
124 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | Title: | The Shoshonee Valley | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | The Shoshonee are a numerous and powerful
tribe of Indians, who dwell in a long and narrow vale
of unparalleled wildness and beauty of scenery, between
the two last western ridges of the Rocky Mountains,
on the south side of the Oregon, or as the inhabitants
of the United States choose to call it, the Columbia.
They are a tall, finely formed, and comparatively
fair haired race, more mild in manners, more
polished and advanced in civilization, and more conversant
with the arts of municipal life, than the contiguous
northern tribes. Vague accounts of them by
wandering savages, hunters, and coureurs du bois, have
been the sources, most probably, whence have been
formed the western fables, touching the existence of
a nation in this region, descended from the Welsh.
In fact many of the females, unexposed by their condition
to the sun and inclemencies of the seasons, are
almost as fair, as the whites. The contributions,
which the nation has often levied from their neighbors
the Spaniards, have introduced money and factitious
wants, and a consequent impulse to build after the
fashions, to dress in the clothes, and to live after the
modes of civilized people, among them. From them
they have obtained either by barter or war, cattle,
horses, mules, and the other domestic animals, in abundance.
Maize, squashes, melons and beans they supposed
they had received as direct gifts from the Wah-condah,
or Master of Life. The cultivation of these,
and their various exotic exuberant vegetables, they
had acquired from surveying the modes of Spanish
industry and subsistence. Other approximations to
civilization they had unconsciously adopted from numerous
Spanish captives, residing among them, in a
relation peculiar to the red people, and intermediate
between citizenship and slavery. But the creole
Spanish, from whom they had these incipient
germs of civilized life, were themselves a simple and
pastoral people, a century behind the Anglo Americans
in modern advancement. The Shoshonee were,
therefore, in a most interesting stage of existence, just
emerging from their own comparative advancements
to a new condition, modelled to the fashion of their
Spanish neighbors. | | Similar Items: | Find |
125 | Author: | Foster
Hannah Webster
1759-1840 | Add | | Title: | The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | An unusual sensation possesses my
breast; a sensation, which I once thought
could never pervade it on any occasion whatever.
It is pleasure; pleasure, my dear Lucy,
on leaving my paternal roof! Could you have
believed that the darling child of an indulgent
and dearly beloved mother would feel a gleam
of joy at leaving her? but so it is. The melancholy,
the gloom, the condolence, which surrounded
me for a month after the death of
Mr. Haly, had depressed my spirits, and palled
every enjoyment of life. Mr. Haly was a man
of worth; a man of real and substantial merit.
He is therefore deeply, and justly regreted by
his friends; he was chosen to be a future guardian,
and companion for me, and was, therefore,
beloved by mine. As their choice; as a good
man, and a faithful friend, I esteemed him. But
no one acquainted with the disparity of our
tempers and dispositions, our views and designs,
can suppose my heart much engaged in
the alliance. Both nature and education had
instilled into my mind an implicit obedience to
the will and desires of my parents. To them,
of course, I sacrificed my fancy in this affair;
determined that my reason should coucur with
theirs; and on that to risk my future happiness.
I was the more encouraged, as I saw, from our
first acquaintance, his declining health; and
expected, that the event would prove as it has.
Think not, however, that I rejoice in his death.
No; far be it from me; for though I believe
that I never felt the passion of love for Mr.
Haly; yet a habit of conversing with him,
of hearing daily the most virtuous, tender,
and affectionate sentiments from his lips, inspired
emotions of the sincerest friendship, and
esteem. | | Similar Items: | Find |
126 | Author: | Hale
Sarah Josepha Buell
1788-1879 | Add | | Title: | Keeping house and house keeping | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | “My dear,” said Mrs. Harley to her husband
one morning, “I have been thinking we
had better make a change in our domestic department.
Nancy, I find, is getting quite impertinent;
she wants to go out one afternoon
every week, and that, in addition to her nightly
meetings, is quite too much. Shall I settle
with her to-day and dismiss her?” “My dear William—Your earthly treasures
(that is, little John and myself) are running
wild in these Elysian fields. Escaped
from the din and tumult of the ctiy, it is so reviving
to breathe the pure air of this healthful
region, that the principal part of my conversation
is to tell all the kind people whom I see
here how delighted I am with the change, and
how happy they must be who enjoy it all the
time; to which Aunt Ruth generally replies,
`Those who make the change are the people
who are alive to its benefits; while those who
always live amid such beauty become indifferent
spectators.' “Dear Husband—When I last wrote, the
full tide of happiness seemed flowing in upon
me on every side; but alas! the change. Johnny,
the day after I wrote you, was taken ill,
and has continued so ever since. His disease
the doctor pronounces to be the scarlet fever.
To-day he is a little better; and while he is
sleeping, I have taken my writing-desk to his
bedside, that I may be ready to note any alteration. “Afternoon “Dear Aunt—You very good-naturedly
ask me how I like the change from my former
mode of living. I will frankly tell you, that it
scarcely admits a comparison. I blush to recall
my former imbecility, and often wonder
at the long suffering of my friends, and of
William in particular—that he should chide so
little when he felt so much! | | Similar Items: | Find |
127 | Author: | Hale
Sarah Josepha Buell
1788-1879 | Add | | Title: | "Boarding out" | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | “What ails you, my dear?” inquired Robert
Barclay of his wife, as she sat thoughtfully,
twirling her tea-cup. “You seem, of late, very
uninterested in my conversation. Has any
thing gone wrong with you to-day?” “Our plans are all arranged. Little did I
think, when we conversed together upon the
subject of my giving up housekeeping, I should
so soon carry into effect your plan. I call it
yours, for you first suggested to me the expedient
of ridding myself of domestic trials. Mr.
Barclay was at first wholly averse to hearing
a word about it; but, dear Fanny, I talked
hours, yes! days, until he yielded! Was he
not a kind husband? I never suggested to him
that you were prime mover, lest in future time,
if things should not turn out well, you might
be reproached. But, cousin, I am wholly unacquainted
with the process of `breaking up
housekeeping.' I thought we should never get
furnished when we moved here; and now I
feel as if we never should get things in order
for the sale, unless you come immediately and
help me. You will therefore stand by me for
at least three or four weeks; help me look out
a boarding-house, &c. Come in the four o'clock
omnibus this afternoon. Truly, “I was just at my writing-desk, dictating a
note to be sent to you, as your kind one arrived.
Do not think me, Cousin Hepsy, a
maniac, ranting in an untrue style, when I tell
you I had accepted an invitation to stand as
bridemaid to Madam Shortt the very day the
announcement of her marriage was made to
you! My partner (for I will tell the whole)
is Rev. Mr. Milnor, our former clergyman, now
of your city, who knew Colonel Bumblefoot
many years in England, and many since in
America; and, at his urgent request, has consented
to stand nearest him during the ceremony!
But your exclamations are not over
yet. I suppose, at no very distant day, your
cousin, Fanny Jones, may sign her name as
`Fanny Milnor!' You will please communicate
this to your good husband; and if I can
be of any service to you again in a chase for
a boarding-house, you are welcome to my services. | | Similar Items: | Find |
128 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Add | | Title: | Dermot O'brien; Or, the Taking of Tredagh | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | The bright, warm sunshine of a July morning was pouring
its full stream of vivifying lustre over a wide expanse of wild,
open country, in one of the south-eastern counties of Ireland.
For miles and miles over which the eye extended, not a sign
of a human habitation, or of man's handiwork, was visible;
unless these were to be found in the existence of a long range
of young oak woodland, which lay to the north-east, stretching
for several miles continuously along the low horizon in that
quarter, with something that might have been either a mist-wreath,
or a column of blue smoke floating lazily in the pure
atmosphere above it. The foreground of this desolate, but
lovely landscape, was formed by a wide, brawling stream,
which almost merited the name of a river, and which here
issuing from an abrupt, rocky cleft or chasm, in the round-headed
moorland hills, spread itself out over a broader bed,
flowing rapidly in bright whirls and eddies upon a bottom of
glittering pebbles, with here and there a great boulder heaving
its dark, mossy head above the surface, and hundreds of silver-sided,
yellow-finned trouts, flashing up like meteors from
the depths, and breaking the smooth ripples in pursuit of
their insect prey. | | Similar Items: | Find |
130 | Author: | Smith
Seba
1792-1868 | Add | | Title: | John Smith's Letters, with 'picters' to Match | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | Dear Father—I take my pen in hand to let you
know that I'm as hearty as a bear, and hope these few lines will find you, and
mother, and grandfather, and cousin Debby, and
all the children, enjoying
the same blessing. We stood our march remarkable
well, and are all alive, and safe, and
sound as a whistle. And Sargent Johnson makes
a most capital officer. He's jest sich a man as is wanted down
here—there's no skeering him, I can tell you. He'd fight against
bears, and wild-cats, and the British, and thunder and lightnin', and any
thing else, that should set out to meddle with our disputed territory. And he's
taken a master-liking
to me, too, and says if he has any hard fighting
to do, although I'm the youngest in the company,
he shall always choose me first for his right-hand
man. He says I had more pluck at the drafting than any one in the whole
company, and he should rather have me by his side in battle, than any
three of the rest of'em. But maybe you'd like to hear something about our march
down here, and so on. Dear Father—Tell mother I ain't shot yet,
though we've had one pretty considerable of a brush, and expect every day to
have some more. Colonel Jarvis has took quite a liking to our little
Smithville detachment. He says we are the
smartest troops he's got, and as long as we stick by him, it isn't Sir John
Harvey, nor all New-Brumzick, nor even Queen
Victory herself can ever drive him off of Fitzherbert's farm. Perhaps you
mayn't remember much about this Fitzherbert's
farm, where we are. It is the very place where the British nabbed our Land
Agent, Mr. McIntire, when he was abed, and asleep, and couldn't help
himself, and carried him off to Frederiction
jail. Let 'em come and try to nab us, if they dare; if they wouldn't wish
their cake was dough again, I'm mistaken. We've got up pretty considerable
of a little kind of a fort here, and we keep it manned day and
night—we don't more than half of us sleep to once, and are determined
the British shall never ketch us with both eyes shet. Dear Father—We stick by here yet, takin' care
of our disputed territory and the logs; and while we stay here the British will
have to walk as
straight as a hair, you may depend. We ain't had
much fighting to do since my last letter; and some how or other, things
seem to be getting cooler down here a little, so that I'm afraid we ain't agoing
to have the real scratch, after all, that I wanted to have. A day or two
arter we took the logging camp and brought the men and oxen off here prisoners
of war, we was setting in the fort after dinner
and talking matters over, and Sargent Johnson
was a wondering what a plague was the reason
the British didn't come up to the scratch as they talked on. He said he
guessed they wasn't sich mighty fairce fellers for war as they pretended
to be, arter all. | | Similar Items: | Find |
131 | Author: | Bird
Robert Montgomery
1806-1854 | Add | | Title: | The Hawks of Hawk-hollow | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | America is especially the land of change. From
the moment of discovery, its history has been a
record of convulsions, such as necessarily attend
a transition from barbarism to civilization; and to
the end of time, it will witness those revolutions in
society, which arise in a community unshackled
by the restraints of prerogative. As no law of
primogeniture can ever entail the distinctions meritoriously
won, or the wealth painfully amassed, by
a single individual, upon a line of descendants, the
mutations in the condition of families will be perpetual.
The Dives of to-day will be the Diogenes
of to-morrow; and the `man of the tub' will often
live to see his children change place with those of
the palace-builder. As it has been, so will it be,—
“Now up, now doun, as boket in a well;”
and the honoured and admired of one generation
will be forgotten among the moth-lived luminaries
of the next. | | Similar Items: | Find |
134 | Author: | Brainard
John G. C.
(John Gardiner Calkins)
1796-1828 | Add | | Title: | Letters Found in the Ruins of Fort Braddock, Including an Interesting American Tale | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | IT is now spring—the buds are bursting
through all the wilderness about me; but the cold
rains which are constantly descending, make my
condition so cheerless, that I write to you merely
to pass the time. Why I was doomed to spend my
winter here so solitary, or when I shall have the
good luck to shift my quarters, for any other spot,
is past my skill to divine. Any other spot—the
Arkansas, the Rio Colorada, the Council Bluffs,
the Yellow Stone, any place but this. Was I dangerous
to government, that they should have contrived
for one poor subaltern, this Siberian banishment,
where I am ingeniously confined, not by
a guard placed over me, but by having the command
of about five and twenty men, that the spring
discovers in a uniform of rags. | | Similar Items: | Find |
135 | Author: | Briggs
Charles F.
(Charles Frederick)
1804-1877 | Add | | Title: | The Adventures of Harry Franco | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | It is a generally received opinion in some parts
of the world, that a man must of necessity have
had ancestors; but, in our truly independent
country, we contrive to get along very well without
them. That strange race, called Aristocrats,
it is said, consider every body as nobody, unless
they can boast of at least a dozen ancestors. These
lofty people would have scorned an alliance with
a parvenu like Adam, of course. What a fortunate
circumstance for their high mightinesses, that
they were not born in the early ages. No antediluvian
family would have been entitled to the
slightest consideration from them. When the
world was only two thousand years old, it is
melancholy to reflect, its surface was covered with
nobodies; men of yesterday, without an ancestry
worth speaking of. It is not to be wondered at,
that such a set of upstarts should have caused the
flood; nothing less would have washed away their
vulgarity, to say nothing of their sins. Augustus de Satinett was a jobber; a choicer
spirit the region of Hanover square boasted not.
Pearl street and Maiden Lane may have known
his equal, his superior never. He had risen from
junior clerk to junior partner, in one of the oldest
firms. The best blood of the revolution flowed in
his veins; his mother was a Van Buster, his father
a de Satinett; a more remote ancestry, or a more
noble, it were vain to desire. Augustus had a noble
soul, it was a seven quarter full; his virtues
were all his own, and they were dyed in the wool;
his vices were those of his age—they were dyed
in the cloth. | | Similar Items: | Find |
136 | Author: | Briggs
Charles F.
(Charles Frederick)
1804-1877 | Add | | Title: | The Adventures of Harry Franco | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | It was a broiling hot day, and as I toiled along
through the dusty streets of Brooklyn towards
the ferry, I almost wished myself back again upon
the blue sea. Dear Sir—This is to inform you as I
have entered in Uncle Sam's service, and have
took three month's advance. I have kept money
enough to have a good drunk, and the rest I send
to you. Keep it and spend it for my sake. I wanted
to of given you more, but that young woman,
blast her—but never say die. So no more at present
till death, and don't forget your old shipmate, Is it true that my dear boy is alive and
well! O, Harry, I have read your letter over and
over; and your poor sister has read it, and cried
over it, and prayed over it. I put it under my
pillow when I lay down at night, that I may be
able to press it to my lips when I wake in the
morning. Your father tells me it is weak in me
to do so, but it is a weakness caused by the
strength of my love for you. O, Harry, my dear
boy, I have had such dreams about you! but
they were only dreams, and I will not distress you
by relating them. Let us give thanks to our
heavenly Father for all his mercies. When we
received your letter, it was my wish to return
thanks publicly through Doctor Slospoken; but
your father would not give his consent. What
the neighbors all thought, I cannot say. But my
dear Harry, why did you not come home? to
your own home? Do not think, my dear child,
that you will be more welcome to your home and
your mother's heart, if you bring the wealth of
the Indies with you. If you be covered with
jewels your mother will not see them, and if you
be clothed in rags, she will only see her child. Your letter has made us all happy; how
happy I cannot express; for we had mourned for
you as one that was dead. I cannot, in a letter,
relate to you all that has been said and done since
we heard from you; but may be assured we
have been almost beside ourselves with joy, and
all our talk has been, Harry, Harry, Harry. “My conscience upbraids me with having
broken the golden rule, in my intercourse with
you, and I cannot allow you to leave me, under a
false impression of my feelings. I am afraid I
have not been sufficiently plain, when you have
spoken to me on the subject, in giving you to understand
that my mind is unalterably fixed, never
to unite myself to one, whose heart has not been
bowed under the conscious burden of his sins;
for my promise has been passed, mentally only,
I own, but I cannot break it. It is registered
above. Had I known you before the vow was
made, perhaps it never would have been; but it
is, and I am bound by it. Our hands, dear Harry,
may never be united, but our hearts may be.
I cannot dissimulate, I do love you; how well I
love you, let this confession witness. If it be sinful
in me, I trust that He, in whom is all my trust,
will pardon me, and deliver me from my bondage.
And my constant prayer to Him is, that he will
bring you to the foot of that Cross, where alone I
can meet you. “Immediately on the receipt of this, you
will destroy all the blank acceptances of Marisett
and Co., which may remain in your hands.
Make no farther contracts of any description,
for account of our house, but hold yourself in
readiness to return to New York. “Since our last, of the 28th ult., we have
come to the determination of stopping payment.
It may be necessary for us to make an assignment;
if so, we will advise you farther, and remain, “We are without any of your valued favors
since we acknowledged yours of the 14th.
You have already been informed of the stoppage
of our house; and I have now to inform you, that
in consequence of our Mr. Garvey having used
the name of the firm to a very great extent, in
his private land operations, our liabilities are
found greatly to exceed our assets. Our senior
partner, I am concerned to add, is completely
prostrated by this event, and unable to afford me
the aid which I require in adjusting the affairs of
the concern. All the circumstances considered, I
think it will be advisable for you to return to
New York as soon as you can bring matters to a
close at New Orleans. | | Similar Items: | Find |
137 | Author: | Child
Lydia Maria Francis
1802-1880 | Add | | Title: | Hobomok | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | I NEVER view the thriving villages of New England,
which speak so forcibly to the heart, of happiness
and prosperity, without feeling a glow of national
pride, as I say, “this is my own, my native
land.” A long train of associations are connected
with her picturesque rivers, as they repose in their
peaceful loveliness, the broad and sparkling mirror of
the heavens,—and with the cultivated environs of her
busy cities, which seem every where blushing into a
perfect Eden of fruit and flowers. The remembrance
of what we have been, comes rushing on the heart in
powerful and happy contrast. In most nations the
path of antiquity is shrouded in darkness, rendered
more visible by the wild, fantastic light of fable;
but with us, the vista of time is luminous to its remotest
point. Each succeeding year has left its footsteps
distinct upon the soil, and the cold dew of our chilling
dawn is still visible beneath the mid-day sun. Two
centuries only have elapsed, since our most beautiful
villages reposed in the undisturbed grandeur of nature;—when
the scenes now rendered classic by literary
associations, or resounding with the din of commerce,
echoed nought but the song of the hunter, or
the fleet tread of the wild deer. God was here in his
holy temple, and the whole earth kept silence before
him! But the voice of prayer was soon to be heard in
the desert. The sun, which for ages beyond the memory
of man had gazed on the strange, fearful worship
of the Great Spirit of the wilderness, was soon to
shed its splendor upon the altars of the living God.
That light, which had arisen amid the darkness of
Europe, stretched its long, luminous track across the
Atlantic, till the summits of the western world became
tinged with its brightness. During many long,
long ages of gloom and corruption, it seemed as if the
pure flame of religion was every where quenched in
blood;—but the watchful vestal had kept the sacred
flame still burning deeply and fervently. Men, stern
and unyielding, brought it hither in their own bosom,
and amid desolation and poverty they kindled it on the
shrine of Jevovah. In this enlightened and liberal
age, it is perhaps too fashionable to look back upon
those early sufferers in the cause of the Reformation,
as a band of dark, discontented bigots. Without
doubt, there were many broad, deep shadows in their
characters, but there was likewise bold and powerful
light. The peculiarities of their situation occasioned
most of their faults, and atoned for them. They were
struck off from a learned, opulent, and powerful nation,
under circumstances which goaded and lacerated
them almost to ferocity;—and it is no wonder that
men who fled from oppression in their own country, to
all the hardships of a remote and dreary province,
should have exhibited a deep mixture of exclusive,
bitter, and morose passions. To us indeed, most of
the points for which they so strenuously contended,
must appear exceedingly absurd and trifling; and we
cannot forbear a smile that vigorous and cultivated
minds should have looked upon the signing of the
cross with so much horror and detestation. But the
heart pays involuntary tribute to conscientious, persevering
fortitude, in what cause soever it may be displayed.
At this impartial period we view the sound
policy and unwearied zeal with which the Jesuits endeavored
to rebuild their decaying church, with almost
as much admiration as we do the noble spirit of
reaction which it produced. Whatever merit may be
attached to the cause of our forefathers, the mighty
effort which they made for its support is truly wonderful;
and whatever might have been their defects,
they certainly possessed excellencies, which peculiarly
fitted them for a van-guard in the proud and rapid
march of freedom. The bold outlines of their character
alone remain to us. The varying tints of domestic
detail are already concealed by the ivy which
clusters around the tablets of our recent history.
Some of these have lately been unfolded in an old,
worn-out manuscript, which accidentally came in my
way. It was written by one of my ancestors who fled
with the persecuted nonconformists from the Isle of
Wight, and about the middle of June, 1629, arrived at
Naumkeak on the eastern shore of Massachusetts.
Every one acquainted with our early history remembers
the wretched state in which they found the
scanty remnant of their brethren at that place. I
shall, therefore, pass over the young man's dreary account
of sickness and distress, and shall likewise take
the liberty of substituting my own expressions for his
antiquated and almost unintelligible style. “This comes to reminde you of one you sometime
knew at Plimouth. One to whome the remembrance
of your comely face and gratious behaviour, hath
proved a very sweete savour. Many times I have
thought to write to you, and straightnesse of time only
hath prevented. There is much to doe at this seasone,
and wee have reason to rejoyce, though with fier
and trembling, that we have wherewithal to worke. “Wheras Mr. Collier hathe beene supposed to
blame concerning some businesse he hath of late endeavoured
to transacte for Mr. Hopkins, this cometh
to certifie that he did faithfully performe his dutie,
and moreover that his great modestie did prevente his
understanding many hints, until I spoke even as he
hath represented. Wherefore, if there be oughte unseemly
in this, it lieth on my shoulders. “I againe take up my penn to write upon the same
paper you gave me when I left you, and tolde me
thereupon to write my thoughts in the deserte. Alas,
what few I have, are sad ones. I remember you once
saide that Shakspeare would have beene the same
greate poet if he had been nurtured in a Puritan wildernesse.
But indeed it is harde for incense to rise
in a colde, heavy atmosphere, or for the buds of fancie
to put forth, where the heartes of men are as harde
and sterile as their unploughed soile. You will wonder
to hear me complain, who have heretofore beene
so proud of my cheerfulnesse. Alas, howe often is
pride the cause of things whereunto we give a better
name. Perhaps I have trusted too muche to my owne
strengthe in this matter, and Heaven is nowe pleased
to send a more bitter dispensation, wherewithal to
convince me of my weakness. I woulde tell you
more, venerable parente, but Mr. Brown will conveye
this to your hande, and he will saye much, that I cannot
finde hearte or roome for. The settlement of this
Western Worlde seemeth to goe on fast now that soe
many men of greate wisdome and antient blood are
employed therein. They saye much concerning our
holie church being the Babylone of olde, and that
vials of fierce wrath are readie to be poured out upon
her. If the prophecies of these mistaken men are to
be fulfilled, God grante I be not on earthe to witnesse
it. My dear mother is wasting awaye, though I hope
she will long live to comforte me. She hath often
spoken of you lately. A fewe dayes agone, she said
she shoulde die happier if her grey-haired father
coulde shed a tear upon her grave. I well know that
when that daye does come, we shall both shed many
bitter tears. I must leave some space in this paper
for her feeble hande to fill. The Lord have you in
His holie keeping till your dutifull grandchilde is
againe blessed with the sighte of your countenance. “I knowe nott wherewithal to address you, for my
hearte is full, and my hande trembleth with weaknesse.
My kinde Mary is mistaken in thinking I shall
long sojourne upon Earthe. I see the grave opening
before me, but I feel that I cannot descend thereunto
till I have humbly on my knees asked the forgiveness
of my offended father. He who hath made man's
hearte to suffer, alone knoweth the wretchedness of
mine when I have thought of your solitary old age.
Pardon, I beseech you, my youthfull follie and disobedience,
and doe not take offence if I write that the
husbande for whose sake I have suffered much, hath
been through life a kinde and tender helpe-meete; for
I knowe it will comforte you to think upon this, when
I am dead and gone. I would saye much more, but
though my soule is strong in affection for you, my
body is weake. God Almighty bless you, is the
prayer of “Manie thoughts crowde into my hearte, when I
take upp my pen to write to you. Straightwaye my
deare wife, long in her grave, cometh before me, and
bringeth the remembrance of your owne babie face,
as you sometime lay suckling in her arms. The
bloode of anciente men floweth slow, and the edge of
feeling groweth blunte: but heavie thoughts will rise
on the surface of the colde streame, and memorie will
probe the wounded hearte with her sharpe lancett.
There hath been much wronge betweene us, my deare
childe, and I feel that I trode too harshlie on your
young hearte: but it maye nott be mended. I have
had many kinde thoughts of you, though I have locked
them up with the keye of pride. The visit of Mr.
Brown was very grievious unto me, inasmuch as he
tolde me more certainly than I had known before.
that you were going downe to the grave. Well, my
childe, `it is a bourne from whence no traveller returns.'
My hande trembleth while I write this, and I
feel that I too am hastening thither. Maye we meete
in eternitie. The tears dropp on the paper when I
think we shall meete no more in time. Give my fervente
love to Mary. She is too sweete a blossom to
bloome in the deserte. Mr. Brown tolde me much
that grieved me to hear. He is a man of porte and
parts, and peradventure she maye see the time when
her dutie and inclination will meete together. The
greye hairs of her olde Grandefather maye be laide
in the duste before that time; but she will finde he
hath nott forgotten her sweete countenance and gratious
behaviour. I am gladd you have founde a kinde
helpe-meete in Mr. Conant. May God prosper him
according as he hath dealte affectionately with my
childe. Forgive your olde father as freelie as he forgiveth
you. And nowe, God in his mercie bless you,
dere childe of my youthe. Farewell. “This doth certifie that the witche hazel sticks,
which were givene to the witnesses of my marriage
are all burnte by my requeste: therefore by Indian
laws, Hobomok and Mary Conant are divorced. And
this I doe, that Mary may be happie. The same will
be testified by my kinsmen Powexis, Mawhalissis, and
Mackawalaw. The deere and foxes are for my goode
Mary, and my boy. Maye the Englishmen's God
bless them all. | | Similar Items: | Find |
139 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Add | | Title: | Precaution | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | Although the affections of Jane had sustained
a heavy blow, her pride had received
a greater, and no persuasions of her mother
or sister, could induce her to leave her room;
she talked but little, but once or twice she
yielded to the affectionate attentions of Emily,
and poured out her sorrows into the bosom
of her sister; at such moments, she
would declare her intention of never appearing
in the world again. One of these paroxysms
of sorrow was witnessed by her mother,
and, for the first time, self-reproach mingled
in the grief of the matron; had she
trusted less to appearances, and the opinions
of indifferent and ill-judging acquaintances,
her daughter might have been apprised in
season, of the character of the man who had
stolen her affections. To the direct exhibition
of misery, Lady Moseley was always
sympathetic, and for the moment, alive to its
causes and consequences; but a timely and
judicious safeguard against future moral evils,
was a forecast neither her inactivity of mind
or abilities were equal to. | | Similar Items: | Find |
140 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Add | | Title: | The Spy | | | Published: | 1997 | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | Description: | The officer to whose keeping Dunwoodie had
committed the pedlar, transferred his charge to
the custody of the regular sergeant of the guard.
The gift of Captain Wharton had not been lost on
the youthful lieutenant, and a certain dancing motion
that had unaccountably taken possession of
objects before his eyes, gave him warning of the
necessity of recruiting nature by sleep. After
admonishing the non-commissioned guardian of
Harvey to omit no watchfulness in securing the
prisoner, the youth wrapped himself in his cloak,
and, stretched on a bench before a fire, sought,
and soon found, the repose he needed. A rude
shed extended the whole length of the rear of the
building, and from off one of its ends had been
partitioned a small apartment, that was intended
as a repository for many of the lesser implements
of husbandry. The lawless times had, however,
occasoned its being stript of every thing of any
value, and the searching eyes of Betty Flannagan
selected this spot, on her arrival, as the store house
for her moveables, and a withdrawing-room for
her person. The spare arms and baggage of the
corps had also been deposited here; and the united
treasures were placed under the eye of the
sentinel who paraded the shed as guardian to the
rear of the head quarters. A second warrior,
who was stationed near the house to protect the
horses of the officers, could command a view of
the outside of the apartment, and as it was without
window, or outlet of any kind excepting its
door, the considerate sergeant thought this the
most befitting place in which to deposite his charge,
until the moment of his execution. There were
several inducements that urged Sergeant Hollister
to this determination, among which was the absence
of the washerwoman, who lay before the
kitchen fire, dreaming that the corps were attacking
a party of the enemy, and mistaking the noise
which proceeded from her own nose for the bugles
of the Virginians sounding the charge. Another
was the peculiar opinions that the veteran
entertained of life and death, and by which he
was distinguished in the corps as a man of most
exemplary piety and holiness of life. The sergeant
was more than fifty years of age, and for
half that period had borne arms as a profession.
The constant recurrence of sudden deaths before
his eyes had produced an effect on him differing
greatly from that, which was the usual moral consequence
of such scenes, and he had become not
only the most steady, but the most trust-worthy
soldier in his troop.—Captain Lawton had rewarded
his fidelity by making him its orderly. | | Similar Items: | Find |
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