| | 181 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Live and Let Live, Or, Domestic Service Illustrated  | | | | 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 one of the coldest days felt in New-York,
during the winter of 182-, that a baker's cart made
its accustomed halt before a door in Church-street.
It was driven by Charles Lovett, the baker's son,
whose ruddy cheeks, quick movement, and beaming
eye bespoke health, industry, and a happy
temper. This latter attribute seemed somewhat
too severely tested by the tardiness of his customer,
for in vain had he whistled, clapped his
hands, stamped, and repeated his usual cry of
“Hurry! hurry!” He at last leaped from his cart
on to the broken step of the wretched dwelling,
when the upper half of the door was slowly opened,
and a thinly-clad girl appeared, who, in answer to
his prepared question, “Why, what ails you? are
you all asleep?” replied, “Mother does not wish
any bread this morning.” “After deliberating and advising with Mrs. Hyde,
who has been like the kindest of mothers to us,
we have come to a decision which only waits for
your approbation. The bakery is sold to Mr.
Werner, a German, who, when a stranger and quite
destitute, came to the Lovetts, as it seemed, accidentally.
Werner was honest and industrious; he
understood the business thoroughly, and introduced
some improvements. For the last two years he
has been a partner, and now he has bought out
Charles. His two sisters and their old parents
arrived a few weeks since, and a happier family
I never saw. How strange that such a train of
consequences should come from Werner just coming
in to breakfast with us one morning at Mr.
Lovett's. This is what Mrs. Hyde says we should
call providential. Our Father in heaven provides
the opportunity for doing good, and his faithful
children improve it. But to our own affairs: it is
not five years since Mr. Lovett went to Ohio, and
there are already four thousand inhabitants in the
village. The people, he says, are very anxious to
have the bakery going; the bakehouse is built on
the lot Mr. Lovett set off to Charles for his services
when he was apprentice to him. Our house
is nearly done, and large enough for us all. The
ladies in the village will have plenty of work for
the girls' millinery and dressmaking establishment,
and dear Jemmie will keep Charles's books, and
all of us will be in a way to earn an honourable
living; all but you, dear mother; the remainder of
your life must be rest. You shall be our queen-bee,
and we will be your workers. Mrs. Hyde wishes
you to consent to the wedding being here; she
says it will save time (as we must return here on
our way to Pittsburgh) and save the expense of
a journey to Massachusetts. Charles likes this
plan, and I want you to know our family before I
leave it. Mrs. Hyde says she will provide lodgings
for you all at a boarding-house near to us. Is
not this most kind? Oh, mother, you will like her so
much! She has such beautiful manners, not only
in the drawing-room and to ladies, but to all, down to
the man that sweeps off the flagging, and the poor
that beg at her door. She truly seems to see the
image of God in every human creature; it makes
people civil to speak to her; her manners inspire
them with self-respect. She never lowers herself,
but raises them. If some people looked as differently
as they act to those above and those below
them, they would sometimes appear like the “loathly
ladie” in the ballad. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 182 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Boy of Mount Rhigi | | | | 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: | There is a certain portion of the Tahconnick range
of mountains, in the western part of Massachusetts,
called Rhigi, said to have been thus named by
Swiss emigrants who settled there, and who probably
came from the neighborhood of Mount Rhigi, in Switzerland,
one of the beautiful resorts of that most beautiful
land.[1]
[1]There are other similar traces of Swiss settlement in this
neighborhood. Bash Bish, the lovely fall now becoming known
and celebrated, is a corruption of a very common Swiss name of
their minor falls. The love of the father-land is expressed by
the names the emigrant gives to the land of his adoption. The
Pilgrim bestowed on the New England settlements the names
of his old England home — Norfolk, Suffolk, Boston, Northampton,
Stockbridge, &c., and the New Englander repeats
them in his new home in the far west.
“Firstly, I enclose the two dollars
you gave me for travelling expenses. I met
Mr. Lyman on board the steamboat, and he gave me
five dollars, which he said he owed me for my aid in
the drawings he made for the New York architect.
Fine! After the wet time of parting was over, I was
in luck. Mr. Porter would not take any thing for
bringing me to the boat, — thirty good miles, — because
I helped him pick up apples one day after Jesse Porter
broke his arm. I was pretty hungry; but hearing they
charged half a dollar for supper, I bought some
crackers and cheese before I went on board. So I
came to the city for fifty cents. Such bustle and
confusion as there was on the wharf where we landed!
I made my way through it as well as I could, and
inquired the way to Chambers Street, not far, No. —,
where Mrs. Dawson lives. I saw the windows were
all closed, and so I sat my box of clothes down, and
sat on it. I began to feel both lonesome and hungry;
nothing seemed like morning — the fresh, beautiful
morning of the country. The sun shining on
chimneys and brick walls, instead of hill-tops and
sparkling waters; not a solitary bird singing; not
even a cock crowing. After a while, milkmen began
to appear. There was a different one for almost every
house, and each made a horrid outcry; and, after
a while, a woman came out of a cellar, and took a
measure of milk. Though they live in great houses,
this seems poverty to me. By and by, there came a
lively little driver with baskets full of bread. I remembered
Dr. Franklin's account of his buying a loaf
of bread and eating it as he walked through the
streets of Philadelphia, when first he went there;
and, though I do not expect to eat bread in kings'
houses, as he afterwards did, I thought there would
be no harm in following his example; so I bought a
sixpenny loaf of bread, and, with a draught of milk
from a milkman, I made a good breakfast. You see,
mother, I am determined to make my money last, if
possible, till I can earn more, and not call on you or
trouble our kind friend Mrs. Dawson. As soon as
her blinds were opened, I rung. The man who opened
the door smiled when I asked for Mrs. Dawson, and
said she would rise in about two hours. How long
those two hours were! But when they were over,
and I was summoned to her, she was as kind as ever.
She told me she had procured for me an excellent
place in a retail shop in Broadway, where, if I did as
well as my employer expected from her account of
me, I should receive enough, even the first year, to
pay my board. Before going there, she advised me to
secure a boarding-place; she had made inquiries for
this, and gave me references, and off I set. I went
from one to another. At one there was a multitude
of clerks, and a coarse, slatternly housekeeper; at
another there was a set of low traders. I went in
while they were at dinner, and a very slight observation
13
of their vulgar manners and conversation convinced
me they were not associates that I should
relish or you would approve. The next was full,
and the last was too filthy for any thing. As I
came off the steps quite discouraged, there was a
little fat lady walking before me in a gray silk
gown, and a white shawl, looking as neat as a new
pin. Two dirty shavers of boys had filled a squirt-gun
in the gutter, and had taken aim at the lady's
nice gown. I sprang upon them just in time,
wrenched the squirt-gun from their hands, and sent
it off out of sight. They began kicking and bawling;
and she, turning round, learned the mischief
they had intended. She was very thankful to me,
very good natured, and talkative. She told me the
gown was new, just come home, and she had put it
on for a wedding-visit, — a visit to her niece's husband's
first cousin; it was her best gown, too; she
had heard of the boys playing such tricks; boys
would be boys, &c., &c. O, mother dear! her
tongue goes by machinery. (Not father's!) She had
such a friendly way, and did not seem a very great
lady, and asked me so many questions, — my name,
where I came from, &c., — that I thought I would tell
her what I was in search of. This silenced her
for a moment; then she said, “Come home with me,
and we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to Plenty,
— Plenty is my sister, — and perhaps — but I won't
raise expectations yet. We live in Mercer Street,
retired and central too.” “It seems to me, dear mother, that I have lived a
year in the last fortnight. On the very Monday that
I sent you an account of the upshot at Holson's, Mr.
Nevis obtained the promise of an excellent situation
for me with Messrs. James Bent & Co., where his
son, my friend, already is. Mr. Bent is respected as
a man of strict integrity, and every part of his establishment
is well conducted; and I am to have a salary
of $150. Only imagine how rich I shall be! `It
never rains, but it pours!' Coming out of Mr. Bent's,
who should I meet but Mr. Lyman! He has more
work on hand than he can do, — making plans and
drawings for the first architect in the city, — and he
wanted me to help him. Never was any thing more
opportune. The place I am to have at Mr. Bent's
will not be vacant till next month, and now I can be
earning something; and, to tell the truth, mother, I do
need a little fitting up for summer.” “Your present, my dear son, was very acceptable,
as a proof of your abiding and ever-thoughtful love;
but do not send me any thing more at present.
Keep your earnings for your summer's outfit. We
want for nothing. Thanks to a kind Providence, my
health is good, and Annie's. There is never lack
of work for willing hands; and our wants, except
for your afflicted father, are small. His cough is
severe, and he declines daily, so that the doctor says
he should not be surprised if he dropped away at
any minute. His appetite continues remarkably. I
might find it difficult to satisfy it, but our kind
neighbors send in daily of their best. We have
plenty of fresh. To-day, dear old Mrs. Allen sent a
quarter of a roaster, and your father ate nearly the
whole of it. You know he was always remarkably
fond of pig. Our neighbors never let him be out of
custards, pies, and preserves. You know, Harry, I
never liked to call on my neighbors for watchers in
sickness, and think that, in most cases, it's much
better doing without them; but father feels different.
He likes company, he says, when he is awake, and I
am no talker. He is able yet to engage his own
watchers. He borrows the sheriff's old horse, and
jogs round after them. I don't oppose, though I
sometimes fear he will die on the road; but it serves
to divert him. “My dear cousin, — I am proud to call you so, —
Harry Davis, your visit to me has done me, as I
humbly hope, great good. I had lived here ten years,
within a stone's throw of this jail, and never seen
the inside of it. I call myself a Christian. I am
a professor. I pray daily in my family for those
who are in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity,
and yet I have never, till you came here, lifted
one of my fingers to loosen these bonds. I pray that
missionaries, preaching the good news of salvation,
may be sent to the whole human family. I subscribe
to charitable societies, — and so I should, as God has
prospered me, — and yet I have not done the duty
nearest to me. If I had, or if my Christian neighbors
had, the scenes of filth, idleness, and iniquity in that
jail would never have existed to witness against us.
I have taken measures to have that rascally jailer
removed. They talk of a disinfecting fluid. There
should be a moral disinfection in the character of the
man who has the care of the tenants of a jail — morally
diseased creatures. It is now three months since
I have been with Mr. Bent; and, excepting
my poor father's death, life has been all smooth sailing
with me. You have been getting on so nicely!
Clapham Hale giving such complete satisfaction to
Mr. Norton, and you and Annie — as appears by
your last letter — surprised with his improved appearance
and manly bearing. Does he not seem like one
of us? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 183 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Martin Faber | | | | 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: | “This is a fearful precipice, but I dare
look upon it. What, indeed, may I not
dare—what have I not dared! I look before
me, and the prospect, to most men full
of terrors, has few or none for me. Without
adopting too greatly the spirit of cant
which makes it a familiar phrase in the
mouths of the many, death to me will prove
a release from many strifes and terrors. I do
not fear death. I look behind me, and though
I may regret my crimes, they give me no
compunctious apprehensions. They were
among the occurrences known to, and a necessary
sequence in the progress of time and
the world's circumstance. They might have
been committed by another as well as by myself.
They must have been committed! I
was but an instrument in the hands of a power
with which I could not contend. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 186 | Author: | Kirkland
Caroline M.
(Caroline Matilda)
1801-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Forest Life | | | | 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: | If any body may be excused for writing a book,
it is the dweller in the wilderness; and this must, I
think, be evident to all who give the matter a moment's
reflection. My neighbor, Mrs. Rower, says,
indeed, that there are books enough in the world,
and one too many; but it will never do to consult
the neighbors, since what is said of a prophet is
doubly true of an author. Indeed, it is of very
little use to consult any body. What is written
from impulse is generally the most readable, and
this fact is an encouragement to those who are conscious
of no particular qualification beyond a desire
to write. People write because they cannot help
it. The heart longs for sympathy, and when it
cannot be found close at hand, will seek it the
world over. We never tell our thoughts but with
the hope of an echo in the thoughts of others.
We set forth in the most attractive guise the treasures
of our fancy, because we hope to warm into
life imaginations like our own. If the desire for
sympathy could lie dormant for a time, there would
be no more new books, and we should find leisure
to read those already written. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 187 | Author: | Kirkland
Caroline M.
(Caroline Matilda)
1801-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Forest Life | | | | 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: | A year and a half had elapsed since the abstraction
of the grapes, and the skin had grown over
Seymour's knuckles, and also the bark over certain
letters which he had carved in very high places on
some of Mr. Hay's forest-trees; and, sympathetically
perhaps, a suitable covering over the wounds
made in his heart by the scornful eyes of the unconscious
Caroline. His figure had changed its
proportions, as if by a wire-drawing process, since
what it had gained in length was evidently subtracted
from its breadth. The potato redness of
his cheeks had subsided into a more presentable
complexion, and his teeth were whiter than ever,
while the yawns which used to exhibit them unseasonably
had given place to a tolerable flow of
conversation, scarcely tinctured by mauvaise honte.
In short, considering that he was endowed with a
good share of common sense, he was really a handsome
young man. Not but some moss was still
discoverable. It takes a good while to rub off
inborn rusticity, especially when there is much
force of character. The soft are more easily
moulded. Is it possible, my dear Williamson, that after your
experience of the world's utter hollowness—its
laborious pleasures and its heart-wringing disappointments—you
can still be surprised at my preference
of a country life? you, who have sounded to its
core the heart of fashionable society in the old
world and the new, tested the value of its friendship,
and found it less than nothing; sifted its
pretensions of every kind, and expressed a thousand
times your disgust at their falseness—you think it
absurd in me to venture upon so desperate a plan
as retirement? You consider me as a man who has
taken his last, worst step; and who will soon deserve
to be set aside by his friends as an irreclaimable
enthusiast. Perhaps you are right as to the folly
of the thing, but that remains to be proved; and
I shall at least take care that my error, if it be one,
shall not be irrevocable. * * * Since my last we have taken up our
abode in the wilderness in good earnest,—not in
“sober sadness,” as you think the phrase ought to
be shaped. There is, to be sure, an insignificant
village within two or three miles of us, but our
house is the only dwelling on our little clearing—
the immense trunks of trees, seemingly as old as
the creation, walling us in on every side. There
is an indescribable charm in this sort of solitary
possession. In Alexander Selkirk's case, I grant
that the idea of being “monarch of all I survey,”
with an impassable ocean around my narrow empire,
might suggest some inconvenient ideas. The
knowledge that the breathing and sentient world
is within a few minutes' walk, forms, it must be
owned, no unpleasant difference between our lot
and his. But with this knowledge, snugly in the
background, not obtrusive, but ready for use, comparative
solitude has charms, believe me. The
constant sighing of the wind through the forest
leaves; the wild and various noises of which we
have not yet learned to distinguish one from the
other—distinct yet softly mingled—clearly audible,
yet only loud enough to make us remark
more frequently the silence which they seem scarcely
to disturb, such masses of deep shade that even
in the sunny spots the light seems tinged with
green—these things fill the mind with images of
repose, of leisure, of freedom, of tranquil happiness,
untrammelled by pride and ceremony;—of unbounded
opportunity for reflection, with the richest
materials for the cultivation of our better nature. Why have I not written you a dozen letters
before this time? I can give you no decent or
rational apology. Perhaps, because I have had
too much leisure—perhaps too many things to
say. Something of this sort it certainly must be,
for I have none of the ordinary excuses to offer
for neglect of my dear correspondent. Think
any thing but that I love you less. This is the
very place in which to cherish loving memories.
But as to writing, this wild seclusion has so many
charms for me, this delicious summer weather so
many seductions, that my days glide away imperceptibly,
leaving scarcely a trace of any thing accomplished
during their flight. I rise in the morning
determined upon the most strenuous industry. I hoped to have been before this time so
deeply engaged with studs and siding, casings and
cornice, that letter-writing would have been out of
the question. But my lumber is at the saw-mill, and
all the horses in the neighborhood are too busy to
be spared for my service. I must have, of course,
horses of my own, but it is necessary first to build
a stable, so that I am at present dependent on
hiring them when necessary. This, I begin to
perceive, will cause unpleasant delays, since each
man keeps no more horses than he needs for his
own purposes. Here is a difficulty which recurs
at every turn, in the country. There is nothing like
a division of labor or capital. Every body tills the
ground, and, consequently, each must provide a
complete equipment of whatever is necessary for
his business, or lose the seasons when business
may be done to best advantage. At this season,
in particular, this difficulty is increased, because
the most important business of the year is crowded
into the space of a few months. Those who hire
extra help at no other period, now employ as much
as they are able to pay, which increases much the
usual scarcity of laborers. It is the time of year,
too, when people in new countries are apt to be attacked
by the train of ills arising from marsh miasmata,
and this again diminishes the supply of able
hands. I studied your last in the cool morning
hour which I often devote to a ramble over the
wooded hills which rise near our little cottage. I
seated myself on a fallen tree, in a spot where I might
have mused all day without seeing a human face,
or hearing any sound more suggestive of civilization
than the pretty tinkling of the numerous bells
which help to find our wandering cattle. What a
place in which to read a letter that seemed as if it
might have been written after a stupid party, or in
the agonies which attend a “spent ball.” (Vide T.
Hood.) Those are not your real sentiments, my
dear Kate; you do not believe life to be the scene
of ennui, suffering, or mere endurance, which you
persuaded yourself to think it just then. If I
thought you did, I should desire nothing so much
as to have your hand in mine for just such a ramble
and just such a lounge as gave me the opportunity
for reflecting on your letter; I am sure I could
make you own that life has its hours of calm and
unexciting, but high enjoyment. With your capabilities,
think whether there must not be something
amiss in a plan or habit of being that subjects
you to these seasons of depression and disgust.
Is that tone of chilling, I might say killing
ridicule, which prevails in certain circles, towards
every thing which does not approach a particular
arbitrary standard, a wholesome one for our
mental condition? I believe not; for I have never
known one who adopted it fully, who had not at
times a most uneasy consciousness that no one could
possibly be entirely secure from its stings. Then
there is a restless emulation, felt in a greater or less
degree by all who have thrown themselves on the
arena of fashionable life, which is, in my sober
view, the enemy of repose. I am not now attempting
to assign a cause for that particular fit of
the blues which gave such a dark coloring to the
beginning of your letter. I am only like the physician
who recalls to his patient's mind the atmospheric
influence that may have had an unfavorable
effect upon his symptoms. You will conclude I
must have determined to retort upon you in some
degree the scorn which you cannot help feeling for
the stupidity of a country life, by taking the first
opportunity to hint that there are some evils from
which the dweller in the wilds is exempt. On the
other hand, I admit that in solitude we are apt to
become mere theorists, or dreamers, if you will.
Ideal excellence is very cheap; theory and sentiment
may be wrought up to great accuracy and perfection;
and it is an easy error to content ourselves
with these, without seeking to ascertain whether we
are capable of the action and sacrifice which must
prove that we are in earnest. You are right, certainly,
in thinking that in society we have occasion
for more strenuous and energetic virtues; but yet,
even here, there is no day which does not offer its
opportunities for effort and self-denial, and in a very
humble and unenticing form too. But we shall
never settle this question, for the simple reason that
virtue is at home every where alike; so I will
spare you further lecture. Next to seeing yourself, my dear Williamson,
I can scarcely think of any thing that would have
afforded me more pleasure than the sight of a friend
of yours bearing credentials under your hand and
seal. And over and above this title to my esteem,
Mr. Ellis brings with him an open letter of recommendation
in that very handsome and pleasing
countenance of his, and a frank and hearty manner
which put us quite at ease with him directly, notwithstanding
a certain awkward consciousness of
the narrowness of our present accommodations,
which might have made a visit from any other
stranger rather embarrassing. His willingness to be
pleased, his relish for the amusing points of the
half-savage state, and the good-humor with which
he laughed off sundry rather vexatious contre-temps
really endeared him to us all. Half a dozen
men of his turn of mind for neighbors, with wives
of “kindred strain,” would create a paradise in
these woods, if there could be one on earth. A letter is certainly your due, my dear Catharine;
but yours of some fortnight since,—all kind,
and lively, and sympathizing, and conceding, as it
is,—deserves a better reply than this dripping sky
will help me to indite. Why is it that I, who ever
loved so dearly a rainy day in town, find it suggestive
of—not melancholy—for melancholy and
I are strangers—but of stupid things, in the country?
To account for the difference drives me into
the region of small philosophies. In the one case
there is the quiet that bustle has made precious,
the leisure which in visiting weather one is apt to
see slip from one's grasp unimproved; a contrast
like that which we feel on turning from the dusty
pathway into the cool shade—a protected shade,
as of a garden, where one locks the gate and looks
up with satisfaction at high walls, impassable by
foot unprivileged. In the other—the contrary
case—we have leisure in sunshine as well as leisure
in the rain; we have abundance of quiet at all
seasons, and no company at any, so that when the
rain comes it can but deprive us of our accustomed
liberty of foot. The pattering sound so famed for
its lulling powers is but too effectual when it falls
on roofs not much above our heads; and the disconsolate
looking cattle, the poor shivering fowls
huddled together under every sheltering covert, and
the continuous snore of cat and dog as they doze
on the mats—all tend towards our infectious
drowsiness, that is much more apt to hint the
dreamy sweetness of a canto or two of the Faery
Queene, than the duteous and spirited exercise of
the pen, even in such service as yours. Yet I have
broken the spell of
“Sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin.”
by the magic aid of a third reading of your letter.
And now I defy even the
“Ever drizling raine upon the lofte,
Mixt with a murmuring winde.”
* * * Ought a letter to be a transcript of
one's better mind, or only of one's present and
temporary humor? If the former, I must throw
away the pen, I fear, for some time to come. If
the latter, I have only to scrawl the single word
AGUE a thousand times on the face of my paper,
or write it once in letters which would cover the
whole surface. I have no other thought, I can
no longer say,
“My mind my kingdom is.”
Didn't I say something, in one of my late
letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet
seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid
coloring of those days has been toned down by
some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended
into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of
the delicious period here called “Indian summer,”
Florella and I have done little else but wander
about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could
share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves.
If the Indians named this season, it must
have been from a conviction that such a sky and
such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging
sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven,
where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested.
If you can imagine a view in which the
magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened
to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this
seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you
may form some notion of our November landscape. I have grown very lazy of late,—so much so,
that even letter-writing has become quite a task.
Perhaps it is only that I so much prefer flying over
this fine, hard, smooth snow in a sleigh, that I feel a
chill of impatience at in-door employment. I make
a point of duty of Charlotte's daily lessons, but beyond
that I am but idle just now. The weather
has been so excessively cold for some days that we
have had much ado to keep comfortably warm, even
with the aid of great stoves in the hall and kitchen,
and bountiful wood fires elsewhere. These wood
fires are the very image of abundance, and they are
so enlivening that I am becoming quite fond of
them, though they require much more attention than
coal, and will, occasionally, snap terribly, even to the
further side of the room, though the rug is generally
the sufferer. An infant of one of our neighbors was
badly burned, a day or two since, by a coal which
flew into the cradle at a great distance from the
fire. I marvel daily that destructive fires are not
more frequent, when I see beds surrounded with
light cotton curtains so near the immense fires
which are kept in log-houses. How much more
rational would be worsted hangings! Once more, with pen in hand, dearest Catharine;
and oh, how glad and how thankful to find
myself so well and so happy! I could have written
you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed
a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked
up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving
me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other
important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken
off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I
shall not have said forth half my say before I shall
be reduced to my dormouse condition again. I have examined the sheets you put into my hands, and am happy to say, that I
think your work will be found, both by teachers and pupils a valuable auxiliary
in the acquisition of the French language. The manner in which you have
obviated the principal difficulties in the first lessons, and the general plan of the
work, make it a very useful first book for those who are old enough to study with
some degree of judgment and discrimination. I have examined the sheets of the New Practical Translator, and believe that
the work will be very useful as an introduction to the translating French into
English, as it affords an easy explanation of most of the difficulties that are apt to
embarrass beginners. I have long felt the want of a “First Book” for beginners in the French Language,
upon the progressive principles which you have adopted, and shall show
how sincere I am in this recommendation of your undertaking, by the immediate
introduction of the “New Practical Translator” into my school. I have looked over the sheets of your “New Practical Translator,” and am
much pleased both with the plan of the work, and with the style of its execution.
It must form a valuable accession to the means already within the reach of the
young for acquiring a knowledge of the French Language; and, if it finds with
the public that measure of favour which it merits, I am satisfied that you will
have no cause to complain that your labours, in this department of instruction,
have not been well received or well rewarded. I have examined attentively the plan of your “New Practical Translator,” and,
to some extent, the mode in which the plan has been executed. The work appears
to me to be well adapted to promote the improvement of those who are commencing
the study of the French Language. The real difficulties, in the progress of
the student, he is furnished with the means of overcoming, while such as will
yield to moderate industry, he is judiciously left to surmount by his own efforts. I have examined, with care, “The New Practical Translator,” by Mr. Bugard.
The plan and execution of the author appear to me judicious, and I am acquainted
with no elementary work, so well adapted for communicating a knowledge of the
French language. I have examined with much pleasure the sheets of the French Practical Translator,
which you were kind enough to send me. As far as I am able to judge, I
should think it would be found a very useful auxiliary to the French instructer. I
concur fully in the opinion of the work, expressed by Mr. T. B. Hayward. —It gives me much pleasure to express the high opinion I entertain of the
“New French Practical Translator,” as an introduction to the study of the French
language. The plan of it is very judicious. While those difficulties are removed
which perplex and discourage young learners, it demands sufficient exercise of the
pupil's own powers to keep alive the interest arising from the consciousness of
successful effort. I should be happy if I could from my own knowledge give you a recommendation
of your book, the Practical Translator. But, from my own little knowledge
and from the most thorough information I can obtain, I am satisfied that we have
no so valuable book of its kind for the study of the French language, and have
therefore introduced it into my school. I have examined with much pleasure the new French Practical Translator,
which you were so kind as to send me. I consider it a very valuable book for beginners,
as it removes many difficulties, which have heretofore embarrassed them.
I shall immediately introduce it into my school. —It gives me great pleasure to add my testimonial in favour of your
“New Practical Translator,” to the many you have already received. I have
used the work with a great many pupils in this institution, and find it a very excellent
and interesting manual. It is of great service in removing the difficulties
which beginners encounter at the commencement of their French Studies. I wish
you much success in introducing it into our Schools and Academies. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 188 | Author: | Hall
James
1793-1868 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The wilderness and the war path | | | | 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 | Wiley and Putnam's library of American books | wiley and putnams library of american books | | | | Description: | The life of the American Indian is not so destitute of the interest
created by variety of incident, as might be supposed by a
casual observation of the habits of this singular race. It is true
that the simple structure of their communities, and the sameness
of their occupations, limit the Savage within a narrow sphere of
thought and action. Without commerce, agriculture, learning, or
the arts, and confined to the employments of war and hunting,
the general tenour of his life must be monotonous. His journies
through the unpeopled wilderness, furnish him with no information
as to the modes of existence of other nations, nor any subjects
for reflection, but those which nature supplies, and with
which he has been familiar from childhood. Beyond his own
tribe, his intercourse extends only to savages as ignorant as himself,
and to traders but little elevated above his own moral standard. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 189 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Last of the Mohicans | | | | 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 | Leather-stocking tales | leather stocking tales | | | | Description: | It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of
North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness
were to be encountered, before the adverse
hosts could meet in murderous contact. A wide,
and, apparently, an impervious boundary of forests,
severed the possessions of the hostile provinces of
France and England. The hardy colonist, and the
trained European who fought at his side, frequently
expended months in struggling against the rapids of
the streams, or in effecting the rugged passes of the
mountains, in quest of an opportunity to exhibit
their courage in a more martial conflict. But, emulating
the patience and self-denial of the practised
native warriors, they learned to overcome every difficulty;
and it would seem, that in time, there was
no recess of the woods so dark, nor any secret place
so lovely, that it might claim exemption from the inroads
of those who had pledged their blood to satiate
their vengeance, or to uphold the cold and selfish
policy of the distant monarchs of Europe. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 190 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Last of the Mohicans | | | | 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 | Leather-stocking tales | leather stocking tales | | | | Description: | The bloody and inhuman scene which we have
rather incidentally mentioned than described, in the
close of the preceding volume, is conspicuous in the
pages of colonial history, by the merited title of
“The massacre of William Henry.” It so far deepened
the stain which a previous and very similar
event had left upon the reputation of the French
commander, that it was not entirely erased by his
early and glorious death. It is now becoming obscured
by time; and thousands, who know that Montcalm
died like a hero on the plains of Abraham, have
yet to learn how much he was deficient in that moral
courage, without which no man can be truly great.
Pages might be written to prove, from this illustrious
example, the defects of human excellence; to
show how easy it is for generous sentiments, high
courtesy, and chivalrous courage, to lose their influence
beneath the chilling ascendency of mistaken
selfishness, and to exhibit to the world a man who
was great in all the minor attributes of character,
but who was found wanting, when it became necessary
to prove how much principle is superior to policy.
But the task would exceed our fanciful prerogatives;
and, as history, like love, is so apt to surround
her heroes with an atmosphere of imaginary
brightness, it is probable that Louis de Saint Véran
will be viewed by posterity only as the gallant defender
of his country, while his cruel apathy on the
shores of the Oswego and of the Horican, will be
forgotten. Deeply regretting this weakness on the
part of our sister muse, we shall at once retire from
her sacred precincts, within the proper limits of our
own humbler vocation. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 191 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Mosses from an Old Manse | | | | 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 | Wiley and Putnam's library of American books | wiley and putnams library of american books | | | | Description: | In the latter part of the last century, there lived a man of science—
an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy—who,
not long before our story opens, had made experience of a spiritual:
affinity, more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his,
laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance
from the furnace-smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers,
and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those
days, when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity, and
other kindred mysteries of nature, seemed to open paths into the
region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival
the love of woman, in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher
intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart, might all-find
their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their
ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful
intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand
on the secret of creative force, and perhaps make new worlds for
himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of
faith in man's ultimate control over nature. He had devoted himself,
however, too unreservedly to scientific studies, ever to be weaned
from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife
might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by
intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength
of the latter to its own. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 192 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Mosses from an Old Manse | | | | 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 | Wiley and Putnam's library of American books | wiley and putnams library of american books | | | | Description: | We, who are born into the world's artificial system, can never
adequately know how little in our present state and circumstances
is natural, and how much is merely the interpolation of the perverted
mind and heart of man. Art has become a second and
stronger Nature; she is a step-mother, whose crafty tenderness
has taught us to despise the bountiful and wholesome ministrations
of our true parent. It is only through the medium of the
imagination that we can lessen those iron fetters, which we call
truth and reality, and make ourselves even partially sensible what
prisoners we are. For instance, let us conceive good Father
Miller's interpretation of the prophecies to have proved true. The
Day of Doom has burst upon the globe, and swept away the whole
rece of men. From cities and fields, sea-shore, and mid-land
mountain region, vast continents, and even the remotest islands of
the ocean—each living thing is gone. No breath of a created
being disturbs this earthly atmosphere. But the abodes of man,
and all that he has accomplished, the foot-prints of his wanderings,
and the results of his toil, the visible symbols of his intellectual
cultivation, and moral progress—in short, everything
physical that can give evidence of his present position—shall
remain untouched by the hand of destiny. Then, to inherit and
repeople this waste and deserted earth, we will suppose a new
Adam and a new Eve to have been created, in the full development
of mind and heart, but with no knowledge of their predecessors,
nor of the diseased circumstances that had become encrusted
around them. Such a pair would at once distinguish between
art and nature. Their instincts and intuitions would immediately
recognize the wisdom and simplicity of the latter, while the
former, with its elaborate perversities, would offer them a continual
succession of puzzles. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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