| | 41 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single?  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Two sisters were sitting, one evening, in their small private
library, adjoining their sleeping apartment, in their step-mother's
house, in a fashionable quarter of New York. It
matters not in what year, for though this their history
makes great pretension to veritableness, it pays no respect
whatever to chronology. The youngest—the youngest of
course takes precedence in our society—was not past eighteen,
and, grown to her full stature, rather above the average
height; Grace Herbert differing in most of the faculties,
qualities, and circumstances of her being from the average
of her sex. To a strictly classical eye she was too thin for
her height, but of such exact proportions, so flexible and
graceful, that the defect was insignificant. Her features
were of the noble cast. Her complexion was neither fair
nor brown, but exquisitely smooth and soft. Ordinarily
she was pale, and her large dark eye lacked lustre; but a
flash from her mind, a gust of passion, or even a gentle
throb of affection, would brighten her cheek, light her eye,
play over her lips, and even seem to radiate from the waving
tresses of her dark hair. In that there was a notable
peculiarity. It was dark, and yet so brilliant in certain
lights, that in her little court of school-girl friends, where
she was queen (by divine right), it was a standing dispute
whether its color were golden, auburn, or brown. But it
was not form or color that so much distinguished Grace
Herbert, as a certain magnanimity in the expression of her
face, figure, and movement. “I should have written you as I promised, if I had
found any thing to write, but the town has been deuced
dull. Now it's waking up; there is a splendid little
actress here—one Mrs. Darley; our set patronize her.
(`Patronize—audacity!' exclaimed Grace.) Fanny Dawson
has come home—a splendid beauty! I and she rode out to
Love Lane before breakfast yesterday; my new horse is fine
under the saddle—Fanny is finer, but I shan't try my harness
there; I am shy of reins; one can't tell who will hold
them, so Miss Fanny will be left for my elder—if not my
better—” “My letter has lain by a month, and now I have news.
Smith, Jones and Co. have gone bankrupt, and poor Bill
is on their paper well-nigh to the amount of his fortune;
Luckily there's something left, and then there's the little
widow's fortune. Well, I go for the children of this world,
that are wise in their generation. Commend me to the
Londoners in general.—Believe me, as ever, your's faithfully, “You may conceive, but I can not describe, how
wretched I feel at our separation. You would hear from
me much oftener if I followed the dictates of my heart, but
my time is so absorbed that it is quite impossible to find
a moment for my truest, darlingest, little friend. I write
now to entreat you to match the feathers I send; aren't
they loves? I have spent two days in attempting to do it
here. New York is a paradise for shops, you know; in this
horrid Quaker city there's no variety; at the same time,
dearest love, will you look for a sash, the shade of the
feathers? You may send me a sample, or you may send
me several, if you feel uncertain about the match. It is
really trying, the difficulty of matching. I sometimes walk
up and down the streets of Philadelphia, hours and hours, to
match a lace or a fringe, and so does my mamma. The
Grays wear pink bonnets this winter. Mrs. Remson has
come out in her old yellow brocade again—the third winter,
mamma says—just think of it! Do they hold on to powder
yet in New York? I dread its going out—'tis so becoming;
It makes me quite wretched that you don't come on this
winter, dear little pearl! My hair was superbly dressed at
Mrs. Lee's ball; I paid dear for it, though, for Pardessus was
engaged ten hours ahead, so I had mine done at three A.M.
Of course I didn't feel over well the next day, and General
Washington observed it, and said he did not like to see
young ladies look pale. As it was the only time he ever
spoke to me, he might have found something more pleasing
to say; pale or not, I found partners for every dance, and
refused nine! But, darling, I must cut short my epistle, and
sign myself, your sincere and ever attached friend, “Having a few leisure moments, I sit down to have a
little pleasant chat with you. I have still to acknowledge
your letter, informing me of the decease of our dear old
friend, Lady Hepsy; strange coincidence! that she should
have been burned to death, so afraid of fire as she was all
her life; but so it is—`Our days a transient period run!' “You will feel for me, dear sister, when I tell you the
measles are all over our street. You may be sure I keep
the children shut up. Two of them were terribly ill last
night, and I sent for Dr. Lee. I was all of a nerve when he
came, expecting he would tell me they had the symptoms,
but to my inexpressible relief he said it was only the cranberry
sauce and mince-pie, and almonds, and raisins, and so
on, they had eaten plentifully of at dinner—poor little
things! how much they have to suffer in this world!” “This day I am seventeen! and this day I am the
happiest creature in the universe. You will guess why,
and how, for you prophesied long ago that what has now
happened would come to pass. Perhaps your prophecy
has led to its fulfillment—certainly hastened it, that I
will allow; for since we were at Madame B.'s school, and
you talked so much of him, he has been the ideal of my
life—every thing that I have imagined of noble and beautiful
has been impersonated in Frank Silborn. O think of my
felicity! He is mine, I am his; as the clock struck twelve
last night we plighted vows, and exchanged rings! O what
a bliss is life before me! And yet now I think I would be
content to die, my spirit is so raised with a sense of joy ineffable.
I can not believe it is but three weeks since Frank's
return; my love for him seems to stretch through my whole
being. “It is my sad duty to write to you the most sorrowful
news—prepare yourself, my child, for it will greatly shock
you. Yesterday afternoon—I can scarcely guide my pen—
Silborn drove up to his door in a curricle, and insisted
on taking the two little boys, who were just dressed for
a walk, to ride. Sarah must have seen he was greatly
excited—in no state to drive—for the nurse says `she refused
decidedly to let the children go;' whereupon he
snatched them both, and ran out of the house with them to
the carriage. He drove furiously up the street, turned the
corner short, ran afoul a loaded wagon, turned over the
carriage—the boys, our dear little boys, were thrown against
a curb-stone and killed, instantly—both Sarah's little boys—
both, Emma—both! “I promised, when we parted, to resume our long-suspended
correspondence. With what varied emotions of
remorse and gratitude I survey this chasm. O! Emma, how
differently life looks, prospectively or retrospectively. After
it pleased God to restore my reason, I wasted years of responsible
life in helpless misery, and profitless repining. “The rumor you heard (and heard before we did, so complete
is our retirement from the world) is confirmed. Walter
announced his engagement, in his own way, last evening.
`Do you know,' he asked my mother, `whom Augustus
Dawson married?' “My filial duty and my unlimited confidence in both
your justice and generosity would have induced long since
the communication I am about to make, but it was deferred
by the griefs my sister's calamities brought upon you. I
could not then add another bitter drop to your full cup. I
must no longer delay. Six months since—” “I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the
first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for
my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to
become of great value. I have explored titles a century
back, when this property was a waste rocky field—now, a
noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two
gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular
enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy
is now between descendants of the original purchasers,
`Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an
elderly gentleman, and two young ladies, who, though somewhat
decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy.
Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry—there is
still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert—Walter Herbert,
Esq.—I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old
fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver
sable, an eye like an eagle, and a heart of gold. The young
ladies are his nieces; one, a bright particular star, I have
seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten. “Miss Alice requests me, you say, to describe my friend
Esterly's wedding. Alas! I have no story to tell; business
intervened, and took me out of town, and thus saved all
parties from my blundering performance of the office of
bridegroom.” “Pardon, my dear Mrs. Clifford, my blotted pages. I
have been raining tears over this detail to you of my brief
meeting with my father. God only knows how I loved him
in life—how I honor him in death! Had I known his condition,
I should have come home six months ago. I shall
forever regret a gain to myself, at the expense of a loss to
him. My step-mother, whose valuable qualities I do full
justice to (when I do not come in contact with her), will
maintain her housekeeping, and take three or four boarders,
and so, `by hook or by crook,' they will live comfortably.
I, by means of my own hard work and God's blessing, will
start the boys in life, and thus acknowledge a debt to my
dear father, which I can never fully pay. Letty is a little
jewel, or rather, she is worth all the jewels in a king's
crown, being more for use than decoration. Her cheerfulness
is obscured just now, of course, for she dearly loved
my father; but her pale cheek is, I think, but the livery of
the country, which strikes me in painful contrast with the
Hebe coloring in England. The dirge-like tone of her voice,
too, is but the national note, not so much the voice of sadness
as of `sickness.' `Every village has its song,' says
Carlisle; I wish ours were a livelier one. “When I think that school-girls' friendships are, for the
most part, mere accidents of propinquity, I rejoice that ours,
like all true matches, was fore-ordained. I began with making
you my pet, I believe you are five years my junior, and
now you are my confidante—partly, because you are true as
steel, and will not betray what I tell you, and partly that
you will not advise me, or chide me; and you are unmarried
—kind to kind, is natural. Perhaps you will divine that I
am trying to silence my conscience that tells me my sister
Eleanor should be my confidante; that a sister—and such a
sister!—is the nearest friend, the friend Heaven bestowed;
and truly Eleanor would be my elect friend from all the
world, but that she is married. She has projected herself
into another self, and, though two make one for themselves,
they make two for the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friend. Yes, I am getting into the
old track famously. Some of my old clients have welcomed
me cordially; and though I was cruelly knocked down from
those `steeps so hard to climb' of my profession, yet I am in
no wise discouraged. True, my competitors shot ahead of
me, but I shall gain upon them. There is nothing like the
whip and spur of necessity; in our land, the poor workingman
is on vantage-ground, the general sympathy is with
him, and if he be capable, and in earnest, he has plenty of
work to do. I have delivered two Lectures, made up of my
foreign observations, which were well received, and filled my
pockets. I have had many requests to repeat them. I shall
not. A man should not be diverted from his profession by
`fancy work.' I have offers from booksellers and editors
that will profitably fill my leisure hours, if I have them.
Thus, you see, I can answer your inquiry satisfactorily. I
do not `regret the obligations' I have assumed for my step-brothers.
I have economical quarters, and by avoiding
hotel-life, and all superfluous indulgence, I shall compass my
great object—their education; and after that, Yankee boys
can take care of themselves. * * * “He's a trump—take my word for it, Dates.
He lectured at the Mercantile last evening. I went early,
and got a seat directly in front of him. It seemed as if he
could not keep his eyes off from me! The house was
choke-full, and all attention. You might have heard a pin fall.
He was posted up about every thing t'other side, and told us
a lot about Greece and Athens, and Egypt and Thebes.
There were a number of literary characters present, distinguished
authors and authoresses that write in the Magazines.
He got, they say, $400 by this Lecture alone! Don't he
know how to coin money out of talents? He looks like a
different individual—so genteel!—you can't think! “All other interests are superseded just now by the
alarming illness of Eleanor's boy—her only boy. His illness
has come suddenly. But yesterday, he seemed to stand on
the hill-top of life, radiant with the rosy tints of morning,
casting down into many hearts the hopes and promises of a
long, bright day. “Thank you, for the list of scholars—fifteen in your
school! These, with the promised five out of it, will supply
the deficiencies in our income the next year; and thus, if
we make a fortunate disposition of our house, my husband
will be enabled to repair his strength by a year's travel in
Europe, and rest from work. Thank you, too, for your assurance
that I do not interfere with your accomplished musical
professor, as my lower terms, according with my inferior
ability, also accord with my pupils' smaller means. And
thank you, more than all, for your gentle warning, lest, in
my eagerness to afford my husband material aid, I lose sight
of my first duty; that to my children and household. They
are providentially cared for. An elderly cousin of my husband,
Effie Lynn, has just lost her home. We are glad to
give her the shelter of our's. She is a delicately strung,
nervous little body, and will, in a way, increase my cares;
but she will also immensely relieve them, as, being most
kind, faithful, and fond of children, I can tranquilly leave
my girls with her during my working hours. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 42 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to
Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was
ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while
she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter,
she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other
low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe
directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed
neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications,
or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the
letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how
these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for
the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation,
followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked
him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints
are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the
evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the
uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is
through their intervention that he has failed of his election to
the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this
failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire
rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself
pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother.
I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly
pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling
with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after
Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her
generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met
that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly
changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and
spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with
me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up
—but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary
and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête
with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began:
`I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting
subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving
you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for
it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,'
she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose
a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred
another selection. Your dear father in his life-time
tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next
ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his
wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer
Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior
as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my
mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make
a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is
nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam,
she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne—
and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued,
`when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are
not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped
her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous
struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I
assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for
her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon
to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances
are still quivering. They shall not turn against me.
I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit,
when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne
Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still,
have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or,
I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty,
fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their
price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap
as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But,
my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men,
perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six
years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I
would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set
my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I
would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet
changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday,
I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to
justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances.
This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady,
but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence
to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps
distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember,
that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are
keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a
large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too
well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his
example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia;
you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight
to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began
my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were
deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no
great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession
on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor
House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow,
you will very much oblige me. As it is but one
day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I
imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return
by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have
come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall
we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my
brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead.
God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me
forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis'
maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said,
`it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left
the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go
in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out;
she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She
has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has
not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath,
and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes
she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating,
and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis.
Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta
Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly
beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted
blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she
looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair
matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed
me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit,
though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was
kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch,
her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her
and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me.
I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none.
I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping
cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation
she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the
shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I
know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother
started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who
is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my
arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I
have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your
child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write
that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change
of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair
to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to
speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only
thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I
shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I
shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution,
Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom,
and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of.
I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your
child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition
our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell
me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy.
Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all
empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me
off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed
her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and
by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she
would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched
to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and
laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less
anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her
hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child!
she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh—
did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall
never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I
had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour
with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed
she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never,
never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she
permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and
while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally
for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the
child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people
are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the
demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she
took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And
what was more important, she seemed comforted by my
presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned
to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long
time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she
said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that
God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was
not that what you said? My head has been so confused—
it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and
if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights
and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never
known, and resources upon which you had never drawn;
how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before
felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile
almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the
divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished
and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward
all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how
the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands
realities, while it hungers after the good and the
true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality
comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you
in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn
and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky,
and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr.
Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York
without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when
you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will
forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what
Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am
coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and
kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a
promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put
my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my
house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from
me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You
shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on
one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other.
`I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a
place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A
place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother
can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my
trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up
double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.'
Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek,
saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and
cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter,
girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother,
I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room;
you might have told me, mother, when I asked
you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new
bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing.
It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited,
May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let
him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.'
Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess,
that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked
pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains
and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored
to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow
in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the
sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh
flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike
guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become
his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling
him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent
youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree.
His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was
your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting,
in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving
soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give
it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain,
the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest
with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest
breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long
enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds
did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated
the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to
return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the
manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life
never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations.
L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected
that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects
would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then
followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would
not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself
should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'”
etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked,
every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my
dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your
disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.) | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 43 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings, hiz sayings | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The mule is haf hoss, and haf Jackass, and then
kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake.
Tha weigh more, akordin tu their heft, than enny
other kreetur, except a crowbar. Tha kant hear
enny quicker, nor further than the hoss, yet their
ears are big enuff for snow shoes. You kan trust
them with enny one whose life aint worth enny
more than the mules. The only wa tu keep them
into a paster, is tu turn them into a medder jineing,
and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use,
just as soon as they will du tu abuse. Tha haint
got enny friends, and will live on huckel berry
brush, with an ockasional chanse at Kanada thissels.
Tha are a modern invenshun, i dont think the Bible
deludes tu them at tall. Tha sel for more
money than enny other domestik animile. Yu
kant tell their age by looking into their mouth,
enny more than you kould a Mexican cannons.
Tha never hav no dissease that a good club wont
heal. If tha ever die tha must kum rite tu life
agin, for i never herd nobody sa “ded mule.” Tha
are like sum men, very korrupt at harte; ive known
them tu be good mules for 6 months, just tu git a
good chanse to kick sumbody. I never owned one,
nor never mean to, unless there is a United Staits
law passed, requiring it. The only reason why
tha are pashunt, is bekause tha are ashamed ov
themselfs. I have seen eddikated mules in a sirkus.
Tha kould kick, and bite, tremenjis. I would not
sa what I am forced tu sa again the mule, if his
birth want an outrage, and man want tu blame for
it. Enny man who is willing tu drive a mule,
ought to be exempt by law from running for the
legislatur. Tha are the strongest creeturs on earth,
and heaviest, ackording tu their sise; I herd tell
ov one who fell oph from the tow path, on the Eri
kanawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but
he kept rite on towing the boat tu the nex stashun,
breathing thru his ears, which stuck out ov the water
about 2 feet 6 inches; i did'nt see this did, but
an auctioneer told me ov it, and i never knew an
auctioneer tu lie unless it was absolutely convenient. “Dear Augustus Sidney Bloodgood: Having a
fu spare time tew devote terestial things, i take mi
pen in hand tew rite yu a fu lines. I am well, and
hope theze fu lines will find yu enjoying the same
blessin. I hav jist returned from the gardin ov
Eden whare i hav bin with Dave Sturgiss, who was
killed at the battell ov Gettisburg bi gitting choked
with a pease ov hard tacks. The weather iz fine,
and there iz evry prospeck ov krops; I never see
the potaters look finer. Dri goods is cheap here, yu
can buy good factory cottin cloth, yard wide, for
eleven cents a yard and hav thred thrown in. I see
the Widder Bostwick yesterday, she looks as starched
up as ever. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 44 | Author: | Shillaber
B. P.
(Benjamin Penhallow)
1814-1890 | Add | | | Title: | Knitting-work | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Gentlemen: It has suddenly occurred to me that a preface is
altogether unnecessary, and, therefore, I positively decline writing
one, inasmuch as I have commenced five already, and been compelled
to abandon them all, from sheer inability to complete them.
Prefaces have always seemed to me like drummers for a show,
calling upon people to “come up and see the elephant,” with a
slight exaggeration of the merit of the animal to be exhibited; and
though, in the present case, such enlargement of the fact would
not be necessary, still those disposed to be captious might read our
promises with incredulity. Mrs. Partington, no less than the Roman
dame, should be above suspicion; therefore, this heralding should be
avoided, and her name left with only its olden reputation resting
about it, like the halo of cobweb and dust about an ancient vintage
of port. Her coädjutors, Dr. Spooner, Old Roger, and Wideswarth,
representing the profound, the jolly, and the sentimental, need no
endorsement among the enlightened many who will buy this book;
and we can safely leave them, as lawyers sometimes do their cases
when they have nothing to say, without argument. Again, all will
see for themselves the acid and sugar, and spirit and water, comprised
in the contents of the volume, — forming the components of a
sort of intellectual punch, of which they can partake to any extent,
without headache or heartache, as the sedate therein forms a judicious
corrective of the eccentric and gay which might intoxicate.
The illustrations, by Hoppin, tell their own story, and need no
further commendation than their great excellence. The local
meaning of many of the sayings and doings of the book will, of
course, be readily understood, without explanation or apology; and
the new matter will be distinguished from the old, by the quality of
novelty that generally attaches to that with which we are not familiar.
I thought somewhat of giving the name beneath each individual
represented in our frontispiece; but the idea was dispelled in a
moment, by the reflection that Mrs. Partington — the central sun of
our social system — could not be misinterpreted; while Dr. Spooner,
Prof. Wideswarth, Old Roger, and Ike, were equally well defined;
and the skill of the artist in depicting them needed no aid. Therefore,
all things considered, I think we had better let the book slip
from its dock quietly, and drift out into the tide of publication, to
be borne by this or that eddy of feeling to such success as it may
deserve, without the formality of prefatory bottle-breaking. I leave
the matter, then, as a settled thing, that we will not have a preface. When Mrs. Partington first moved from Beanville,
and the young scion of the Partington stock was
exposed to the temptations of city life and city associations,
it was thought advisable to appoint a “guardeen”
over him. Ike was not a bad boy, in the wicked
sense of the word bad; but he had a constant proclivity
for tormenting every one that he came in contact with;
a resistless tendency for having a hand in everything
that was going on; a mischievous bent, that led him into
continual trouble, that brought on him reproaches from
all sides, and secured for him a reputation that made
him answerable for everything of a wrong character
that was done in the neighborhood. A barber's pole
could not be removed from the barber's door and placed
beside the broker's, but it must be imputed to “that
plaguy Ike;” all clandestine pulls at door-bells in the
evenings were done by “that plaguy Ike;” if a ball or
an arrow made a mistake and dashed through a window,
the ball or the arrow belonged to “that plaguy Ike;” if
on April Fool's day a piece of paper were found pasted
on a door-step, putting grave housekeepers to the trouble
and mortification of trying to pick up an imagined
letter, the blame was laid to “that plaguy Ike;” and if a
voice was heard from round the corner crying “April
Fool!” or “sold,” those who heard it said, at once, it
was “that plaguy Ike's.” Many a thing he had thus to
answer for that he did n't do, as well as many that he
did, until Mrs. Partington became convinced of the
necessity of securing some one to look after him besides
herself. “Miss Parkinson: Your boy has been and tied a culinary utensile to
the caudle appendidge of a canine favorite of ourn, an indignity that wee
shall never submit to. He is a reproach to the neighborhood, and you
must punish him severally. Daring Outrage. — Last evening a burglarious attempt
was made to enter the house of Mr. T. Speed, in
— street; but the burglar threw down a bust of
Shakespeare in the attempt, which attracted the attention
of Mr. Muggins, passing at the time, who pursued the
ruffian over a shed, and boldly attacked him in Marsh
alley, when the villain drew a pistol and threatened to
shoot his assailant, who persistingly stuck to him until
a blow from the butt of the pistol knocked him down,
and the rascal escaped, leaving his hat on the premises,
in which was the name O. Hush. Mr. Muggins treated
him very severely, and it is believed the atrocious
wretch may be detected by the injury he received.
The police are upon his track. “Mr. Milling: Be wary of Upshur. A pitcher that
goes too often to the well may come back broken. “Mr. Milling. — Sir: You may deem me a scoundrel;
but I am to be pitied. I have been led into the
temptation of speculation, have compromised our firm
in its prosecution, and have fled, like Cain, with the
brand of disgrace on my name. But, while thus leaving
like a thief, I solemnly promise that my future shall be
devoted to a reparation of the trouble I have caused.
You shall not hear from me until I am able to wipe the
stain from the name of yours, most ungratefully, “My dear Madam: I am a man of few words — a
friend of your late husband — with means sufficient to
carry out what I propose. I wish to return a portion
of the benefit he conferred upon me, a poor boy. I am
aware of your family circumstances, and would relieve
a portion of your burden. Your youngest daughter
should receive an education. I have the ability to
secure it, and would deem it a favor to be allowed to
incur the expense attending it. The only condition I
propose is that no sense of obligation may be allowed
to overpower you, and no effort be made to discover
the writer. “Dear Partelot: Please excuse me to the family.
I am suddenly called to Mulberry-street. My sister has
arrived from the country. My regards to Mrs. M., and
Misses Matilda and Lily. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 45 | Author: | Shillaber
B. P.
(Benjamin Penhallow)
1814-1890 | Add | | | Title: | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others of the
family | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | 677EAF. Page 013. In-line Illustration. Image of a gun, a sword, a framed profile of a man.
“Perfigis retch: — your our is cum... Mete me to-morrar
outside the Inglish lines, and Ile giv yu Jessy.
Yours respectively, “Dear Mother, — It grieves me to bid you farewell,
but longer sufferance from father's tyrannical usage is
impossible. I go to seek my fortune, and when we meet
again may it be when he and I shall have learned a
lesson from our separation, and the alienation of father
and child may be forgotten in the renewed intercourse
of man and man. Farewell, mother, and may you be
more happy than I should have been able to make you
had I lived with you a thousand years. Farewell. Remember
sometimes your poor boy, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 46 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | As good as a comedy, or, The Tennesseean's story | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Let us start fairly, and not on an empty stomach.
Reader, we begin with a Georgia breakfast. We are
at one of those plain, unpretending, but substantial
farm-houses, which, in the interior of Georgia, and
other Southern States, distinguished more especially
the older inhabitants; those who, from time immemorial,
have appeared pretty much as we find them now.
These all date back beyond the Revolution; the usual
epoch, in our country, at which an ancient family may
be permitted to begin. The region is one of those
lovely spots among the barrens of middle Georgia, in
which, surveyed from the proper point of view, there is
nothing barren. You are not to suppose the settlement
an old one, by any means, for it is not more than twenty
or twenty-five years since all the contiguous territory
within a space of sixty miles was rescued from the
savages. But our family is an old one; inheriting all
the pride, the tastes, and the feelings which belonged
to the old Southern “Continentaler.” This will be
apparent as we proceed; as it is apparent, in fact, to
the eye which contrasts the exterior of its dwelling with
that of the neighboring settlements among which it
harbors. The spot, though undistinguished by surprising
scenery, is a very lovely one, and not unfrequent
in the middle country of the Atlantic Southern
States. It presents a pleasing prospect under a single
glance of the eye, of smooth lawn, and gentle acclivity,
and lofty forest growth. A streamlet, or branch, as it
is here called, winds along, murmuring as it goes, at the
foot of a gentle eminence which is crowned with a luxuriant
wealth of pine and cedar. Looking up from this
spot while your steed drinks, you behold, perched on
another gentle swell of ground, as snug and handsome
an edifice as our forest country usually affords; none
of your overgrown ambitious establishments, but a trim
tidy dwelling, consisting of a single story of wood upon
a brick basement, and surrounded on three sides by a
most glorious piazza. The lawn slopes away, for several
hundred yards, an even and very gradual descent even
to the road; a broad tract, well sprinkled with noble
trees, oaks, oranges, and cedars, with here and there a
clump of towering pines, under which steeds are grazing,
in whose slender and symmetrical forms, clean legs, and
glossy skins, you may discern instant signs of those
superior foreign breeds which the Southern planter so
much affects. The house, neatly painted white, with
green blinds and shutters, is kept in admirable trim; and,
from the agreeable arrangement of trees and shrubbery,
it would seem that the place had been laid out and was
tenanted by those who brought good taste and a becoming
sense of the beautiful to the task. There was
no great exercise of art, it is true. That is not pretended.
But nature was not suffered to have her own
way entirely, was not suffered to overrun the face of
the land with her luxuriance; nor was man so savage
as to strip her utterly of all her graceful decorations—
a crime which we are too frequently called upon to deplore
and to denounce, when we contemplate the habitations
even of the wealthy among our people, particularly
in the South, despoiled, by barbarity, of all their shade-trees,
and denuded of all the grace and softness which
these necessarily confer upon the landscape. Here, the
glance seemed to rest satisfied with what it beheld, and
to want for nothing. There might be bigger houses,
and loftier structures, of more ambitious design and
more commanding proportion; but this was certainly
very neat, and very much in its place. Its white outlines
caught your eye, glinting through openings of the
forest, approaching by the road on either hand, for
some distance before you drew nigh, and with such an
air of peace and sweetness, that you were insensibly
prepared to regard its inmates as very good and well-bred
people. Nor are we wrong in these conjectures.
But of this hereafter. At this moment, you may see
a very splendid iron-gray charger, saddled, and fastened
in the shade, some twenty steps from the dwelling. Lift
your eye to the piazza, and you behold the owner. A
finer-looking fellow lives not in the country. Tall, well
made, and muscular, he treads the piazza like a prince.
The freedom of carriage which belongs to the gentlemen
in our forest country is inimitable, is not to be acquired
by art, and is due to the fact that they suffer from no
laborious occupation, undergo no drudgery, and are
subject to no confinement, which, in childhood, contract
the shoulders into a stoop, depress the spirits, enfeeble
the energies, and wofully impair the freedom and elegance
of the deportment. Constant exercise on foot
and horseback, the fox hunt and the chase; these, with
other sylvan sports, do wonders for the physique, the
grace and the bearing of the country gentleman of the
South. The person before us is one of the noblest specimens
of his class. A frank and handsome countenance,
with a skin clear and inclining to the florid; a bright,
martial blue eye; a full chin; thick, massive locks of
dark brown hair, and lips that express a rare sweetness,
and only do not smile, sufficiently distinguish his peculiarities
of face. His dress is simple, after an ordinary
fashion of the country, but is surprisingly neat and becoming.
A loose blouse, rather more after the Choctaw
than the Parisian pattern, does not lessen the symmetry
of his shape. His trousers are not so loose as to conceal
the fine muscular developments of his lower limbs;
nor does his loose negligée neckcloth, simply folded
about the neck, prevent the display of a column which
admirably sustains the intellectual and massive head
which crowns it, and which we now behold uncovered.
Booted and spurred, he appears ready for a journey,
walks the piazza with something of impatience in his
manner, and frequently stops to shade his eyes from the
glare, as he strains them in exploring the distant highway.
You see that he is young, scarcely twenty-two;
eager in his impulses, restive under restraint, and better
able to endure and struggle with the conflict than to
wait for its slow approaches. Suddenly he starts. He
turns to a call from within, and a matron lady appears
at the entrance of the dwelling, and joins him in the
piazza. He turns to her with respect and fondness. She
is his mother; a stately dame, with features like his
own; a manner at once easy and dignified; an eye
grave, but benevolent; and a voice whose slow, subdued
accents possess a rare sweetness not unmingled with
command. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 47 | Author: | Smith
Seba
1792-1868 | Add | | | Title: | My thirty years out of the Senate | | | | Published: | 2001 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It will be seen by the date above that I wrote this little
history of my life twenty odd years ago. It was the time the
Boston folks published a little vollum of my first Letters, and
the Life was writ to head the vollum with. But I've seen a
great deal more of the world since then, and have writ a
great many more Letters, and seen a great deal more of the
workings of American Politicians. And they'll all have to
come into my Thirty Years' View. But there'll be a kind of
gap near the close of Gineral Jackson's time, and for awhile
after, because a lot of my letters, written at that time, was
lost in a fire some years afterward, and I don't suppose I can
now find the papers they was published in. But I will bridge
over the gap as well as I can, and there'll be a pretty long
road to travel both sides of it. And this reminds me how
strange the parallel runs between me and Colonel Benton;
for he lost a lot of his letters and speeches and dockyments by
fire, and had a good deal of a hard job to go over the ground
again in getting up his work. But I and Colonel Benton are
hard to beat. We generally go ahead, let what will stand in
the way. Dear Cousin Ephraim:—I now take my pen in hand to let
you know that I am well, hoping these few lines will find you
enjoying the same blessing. When I come down to Portland
I didn't think o' staying more than three or four days, if I
could sell my load of ax handles, and mother's cheese, and
cousin Nabby's bundle of footings; but when I got here I
found Uncle Nat was gone a freighting down to Quoddy, and
aunt Sally said as how I shouldn't stir a step home till he come
back agin, which won't be this month. So here I am, loitering
about this great town, as lazy as an ox. Ax handles
don't fetch nothing; I couldn't hardly give 'em away. Tell
Cousin Nabby I sold her footings for nine-pence a pair,
and took it all in cotton cloth. Mother's cheese come to
seven-and-sixpence; I got her half a pound of shushon,
and two ounces of snuff, and the rest in sugar. When
Uncle Nat comes home I shall put my ax handles aboard
of him, and let him take 'em to Boston next time he goes;
I saw a feller tother day, that told me they'd fetch a good
price there. I've been here now a whole fortnight, and
if I could tell ye one half I've seen, I guess you'd stare worse
than if you'd seen a catamount. I've been to meeting, and to
the museum, and to both Legislaters, the one they call the
House, and the one they call the Sinnet. I spose Uncle
Joshua is in a great hurry to hear something about these
Legislaters; for you know he's always reading newspapers,
and talking politics, when he can get anybody to talk with
him. I've seen him when he had five tons of hay in the field
well made, and a heavy shower coming up, stand two hours
disputing with Squire W. about Adams and Jackson—one
calling Adams a tory and a fed, and the other saying Jackson
was a murderer and a fool; so they kept it up, till the rain
began to pour down, and about spoilt all his hay. GRAND CAUCUS AT DOWNINGVILLE—THE LONG AGONY OVER, AND THE
NOMINATION OUT. My Dear Old Friend:—I've jest got the Union, containing
the broadside you fired at me, and I'm amazingly struck up,
and my feelins is badly hurt, to see that you've got so bewildered
that you seemingly don't know me. It's a melancholy
sign when old folks get so bewildered that they mistake their
oldest and best friends, one for t'other. Why, your head is
turned right round. How could you say that I was “a fictitious
Major Jack Downing?” and that my last letter to you
was a “trashy forgery?” and that you would “strip the
mask from me?” I feel bad now about writing my last letter
to you, for I'm afraid you took it too hard. I beg of you now,
my dear friend, to let all drop right where 'tis; leave Mr.
Burke to do the burkin' and the fightin', and you go right out
into the country and put yourself under the “cold-water cure”
somewhere, and see if your head won't come right again. I
“fictitious,” and you going to “strip the mask from me!”
Why, my dear friend, if you could only be up here five
minutes, and jest lift the mask off of my face one minute,
you'd know me jest as easy as the little boy knew his daddy.
Your head couldn't be so turned but what you'd know me; for
you'd see then the very same old friend that stood by you and
Gineral Jackson fifteen, sixteen, and eighteen years ago; the
same old friend that coaxed up Gineral Jackson, and made
him forgive you for calling him such hard names before he
was elected. It's very ungrateful for you to forget me now—
that is, if you was in your right mind. For I'm the same old
friend, the same Jack Downing that was born and brought up
in Downingville, away Down East, in the State of Maine, and
that drove down to Portland in Jinnerwary, 1830, with a load of
ax-handles and bean-poles, and found the Legislater in a dreadful
snarl, all tied and tangled, and see-sawin' up and down a
whole fortnight, and couldn't choose their officers. I found
my ax-handles and bean-poles wouldn't sell, so I took to polytix,
and went to writin' letters. The Legislater fout and fout
all winter; but I kept writin', and at last I got 'em straitened
out. I kept on writin' for a whole year, and got the polytix
of Maine pretty well settled. Then I see Gineral Jackson
was getting into trouble, and I footed it on to Washington to
give him a lift. And you know I always stuck by him afterward
as long as he lived. I helped him fight the battles with
Biddle's monster bank till we killed it off. I helped him put
down nullification, and showed exactly how it would work if it
got the upper hand, in my letter about carrying the raft of logs
across Sebago Pond, when Bill Johnson got mad and swore
he'd have his log all to himself, and so he cut the lashings
and paddled off on his log alone; and then his log begun to roll,
and he couldn't keep it steady, and he got ducked head over
heels half a dozen times, and come pesky near being drowned.
And that wasn't all I did to keep off nullification and help put
it down. I brought on my old company of Downingville
malitia to Washington, under the command of Cousin Sargent
Joel, and kept 'em there, with their guns all loaded, till the
danger was over. And I used to go up top of the Congress
House every day, and keep watch, and listen off toward South
Carolina, so as to be ready, the first moment nullification bust
up there, to order Sargent Joel to march and fire. The Gineral
always said the spunk I showed was what cowed nullification
down so quick, and he always felt very grateful to me for it.
Well, I stuck by the Gineral all weathers; and I kept writin'
letters from Washington to my old friend, the editor of the
Portland Courier, and kept old Hickory's popularity alive
among the people, and didn't let nobody meddle with his Administration
to hurt it. Well, then, you know, the Gineral,
in the summer of 1832, started off on his grand tower Down
East, and I went with him. You remember, when we got to
Philadelphy, the people swarmed round him so thick they almost
smothered him to death; and the Gineral got so tired
shakin' hands that he couldn't give another shake, and come
pretty near faintin' away; and then I put my hand round under
his arm, and shook for him half an hour longer, and so we
made out to get through. I sent the whole account of it to
my old friend of the Portland Courier. Well, then we jogged
along to New York; and there, you remember, we come pesky
near getting a ducking when the bridge broke down at
Castle Garden. I sent the whole account of it to my old
Portland friend. Well, the next day your “original” Major
Downing published his first original letter in a New York
paper, giving an account of the ducking at Castle Garden.
Nobody couldn't dispute but this was the true, ginuine, “original”
Downing document, although my “vile imitations” of it
had been going on and published almost every week for two
years. I say nobody couldn't dispute it, because 'twas proved
by Scripture and poetry both. For the Bible says, “The
first shall be last, and the last first;” and poetry says,
“Coming events cast their shadows before.” So the shadows,
the “vile imitations,” had been flying about the country for
more than two years before the original event got along. I
hope your head will get settled again, so that you can see
through these things and understand 'em, and know me jest
as you used to. I can't bear the idea of your not knowing
me, and thinking I'm “fictitious.” My Dear Old Friend:—I'm alive yet, though I've been
through showers of balls as thick as hailstones. I got
your paper containing my letter that I wrote on the road
to the war. The letters I wrote afterward, the guerrillas
12
and robbers are so thick, I think it's ten chances to one
if you got 'em. Some of Gineral Scott's letters is missing
just in the same way. Now we've got the city of Mexico
annexed, I think the Postmaster-General ought to have a more
regular line of stages running here, so our letters may go
safe. I wish you would touch the President and Mr. Johnson
up a little about this mail-stage business, so they may keep
all the coach makers at work, and see that the farmers raise
horses as fast as they can, for I don't think they have any idea
how long the roads is this way, nor how fast we are gaining
south. If we keep on annexin' as fast as we have done a year
or two past, it wouldn't take much more than half a dozen
years to get clear down to t'other end of South America, clear
to Cape Horn, which would be a very good stopping place;
for then, if our Government got into bad sledding in North
America, and found themselves in a dilemma that hadn't no
horn to suit 'em, they would have a horn in South America
that they might hold on to. Dear Sir:—I've done my best, according to your directions,
to get round Santa Anna, but it is all no use. He's as slippery
as an eel, and has as many lives as a cat. Trist and I
together can't hold him, and Scott and Taylor can't kill him
off. We get fast hold of him with our diplomatics, but he
slips through our fingers; and Scott and Taylor cuts his head
off in every town where they can catch him, but he always
comes to life in the next town, and shows as many heads as
if he had never lost one. I had a long talk with him in the
city, and pinned him right down to the bargain he made with
you when you let him into Vera Cruz, and asked him “why
he didn't stick to it.” He said he “did stick to it as far as
circumstances rendered it prudent.” My Dear Old Friends:—Gineral Scott and I find a good
deal of bother about getting our dispatches through to Vera
Cruz, or else you'd hear from me oftener. I do think the
President is too backward about clearing out this road from
here to Vera Cruz, and keeping it open, and introducing the
improvements into the country that we stand so much in need
of here. He and Mr. Ritchie pretends to have constitutional
scruples about it, and says the Constitution don't allow of
internal improvements; and Mr. Ritchie says the resolutions
of '98 is dead agin it, too; and, besides, Mr. Ritchie says these
internal improvements is a Federal doctrine, and he'd always
go agin 'em for that, if nothin' else. But 'tis strange to me
the President hasn't never found out yet that where there's a
will there's a way, Constitution or no Constitution. All he's
got to do is, to call all these roads round here in Mexico
“military roads,” and then he'd have the Constitution on his
side, for everbody knows the Constitution allows him to make
military roads. I know the President is very delicate about
fringing on the Constitution, so I don't blame him so much for
holding back about the internal improvements here in Mexico,
though I don't think there's any other part of the United
States where they are needed more. But there's no need of
splitting hairs about the roads; military roads isn't internal
improvements, and he's a right to make military roads as
much as he pleases. And as them is jest the kind of roads
we want here, and shall want for fifty years (for our armies
will have to keep marching about the country for fifty years
before they'll be able to tame these Mexicans, and turn 'em
into Americans), it is confounded strange to me that the
President is so behind-hand about this business. What's the
use of our going on and annexin' away down South here, if
he don't back us up and hold on to the slack? And there's
no way to hold on to it but to keep these military roads open
so our armies can go back and forth, and bring us in victuals,
and powder, and shot, and money. Dear Colonel:—Things is getting along here as well as
could be expected, considerin' the help we have, but we are all
together too weak-handed to work to profit. If you want us to
hurry along down South, we need a good deal more help and
more money. It wouldn't be no use to give that three millions
of dollars to Santa Anna now, for the people have got so out
with him that he couldn't make peace if he had six millions.
He's skulking about the country, and has as much as he can
do to take care of himself. So I think you had better give up
the notion about peace altogether, it 'll be such a hard thing
to get, and send on the three millions here to help us along
in our annexin'. It's dangerous standin' still in this annexin'
business. It's like the old woman's soap—if it don't go ahead,
it goes back. It would be a great help to us in the way of
holdin' on to what we get, if you would carry out that
plan of giving the Mexican land to settlers from the United
States, as fast as we annex it. I've been very impatient to
see your proclamation offering the land to settlers to come
out here. You've no idea how much help it would be to us if
we only had a plenty of our folks out here, so that as fast as
we killed a Mexican, or drove him off from his farm, we could
put an American right on to it. If we could only plant as we
go, in this way, we should soon have a crop of settlers here
that could hold on to the slack themselves, and leave the
army free to go ahead, and keep on annexin'. I thought
when I left Washington, you was agoing to put out such a
proclamation right away. And I think you are putting it off
a good deal too long, for we've got land and farms enough
here now for two hundred thousand at least; and, if they
would only come on fast enough, I think we could make room
for twenty thousand a week for a year to come. But I'm afraid
you're too delicate about doing your duty in this business;
you are such a stickler for the Constitution. I'm afraid you're
waiting for Congress to meet, so as to let them have a finger
in the pie. But I wouldn't do it. From all I can hear, it
looks as if the Whigs was coming into power; and if they
should, it would be a terrible calamity, for they are too narrowminded
and too much behind the age to understand the rights
of this annexin' business, and it's ten chances to one if they
don't contrive some way to put a stop to it. GREAT BATTLE IN THE COURT-MARTIAL. Dear Colonel:—I've been stumping it round all over the
lot for two or three months, tight and tight, for our American
friend, Gineral Cass, and as I s'pose you are very anxious and
uneasy to know how it's coming out, I thought I would set
down and make out a private report, and send it on to you by
the telegraph wires, for they say they go like lightening, and
give you some of the premonitory symptons, so that when the
after-clap comes you may be a little prepared for it, and not
feel so bad. As I said afore, I've been all round the lot, sometimes
by the steamboats, and sometimes by the railroads, and
sometimes by the telegraph, and when there wasn't no other
WRITING BY TELEGRAPH.
688EAF. Page 310. In-line image. A man sits upon a telephone pole writing a telegraph on a piece of paper perched on top of his tophat.
way to go, I footed it. And I'm satisfied the jig is up with
us, and it's no use in my trying any longer; and Mr.
Buchanan's speech was all throwed away, too. I'm very sure
we shall get some of the States, but I'll be hanged if I can tell
which ones. There an't a single State that I should dare to
bet upon alone, but taking 'em all in the lump, I should still
stick out strong for half a dozen at least. I see where all the
difficulty is, as plain as day. You may depend upon it, we
should elect Gineral Cass easy enough if it wasn't for Gineral
Taylor; but he stands peskily in the way, jest as much as he
stood in the way of the Mexicans at Bony Vista. As for Mr.
Van Buren, if he stood agin us alone, we should tread him all
to atoms; he couldn't make no headway at all, especially
after we got the nomination at Baltimore. Jest between you
and me, I don't think much of Mr. Van Buren now. I don't
believe he ever was a Democrat. I think he only made believe
all the time; and I'd bet two to one he's only making believe
now. I wish the Old Gineral, dear Old Hickory, that's
dead and gone, could be here now to have the handling of
him for a little while; if he didn't bring him into the traces I
wouldn't guess agin. Dear Gineral:—I'm afraid you've thought strange of it
that I haint writ to you afore now, for so long time past; but
I couldn't, I've been so busy cruising round among the fishermen
down to New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia, and the Gulf
of St. Lawrence, that I couldn't get no time to write, nor
couldn't find no Post-Office to send it. Ye see, Gineral, I didn't
accept your invitation to take a seat in your Cabinet, 'cause
I'm one of them sort that can't bear setting a great deal. I
can't stan' it without I'm up and knocking about pretty much
every day; and I understood the Cabinet had to set nigh
about half the time, so I told you I should a good deal rather
have some foreign appointment, where I could stir myself.
And you told me the foreign appointments was pretty much
all spoken for, twenty times over, but you would give me a
commission as Minister-Gineral, and I might go round and
look after the interests of the country wherever I thought
MAJOR DOWNING'S VISIT TO THE FISHING SMACKS.
688EAF. Illustration page. The Major is standing up in a rowboat, being addressed by a sailor who is standing on the deck of a larger fishing boat next to which the rowboat has drawn. The sailor points to the mast of the boat, and another sailor is bending over some ropes at the prow of the boat. In the background there are many more fishing boats. One bears an "S" on its mainsail.
best. Now that was jest what I liked; you couldn't a gin
me no appointment that would suit me better. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 48 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | New-England legends | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The islands about the harbors of all our New
England rivers are so wild, and would seem to
have offered so many advantages, that they
have always been supposed, by the ruder population,
to be the hiding-place of piratical treasures,
and particularly of Captain Kidd's; and
the secretion, among rocks and sands, of chests
of jewels stripped from noble Spanish ladies
who have walked the awful plank, with shotbags
full of diamonds, and ingots of pure gold,
is one of the tenets of the vulgar faith. This
belief has ranged up and down the whole
shore with more freedom than the pirates ever
did, and the legends on the subject are legion
—from the old Frenchman of Passamaquoddy
Bay to the wild stories of the Jersey and Carolina
sandbars too countless for memory, the
Fireship off Newport, the Shrieking Woman of
Marblehead, and the Lynn Mariner who, while
burying his treasure in a cave, was sealed up
alive by a thunderbolt that cleft the rock, and
whom some one, under spiritual inspiration,
spent lately a dozen years in vain endeavor to
unearth. The parties that have equipped themselves
with hazel-rods and spades, and proceeded,
at the dead of night, in search of these
riches, without turning their heads or uttering
the Divine Name, and, digging till they struck
metal, have met with all manner of ghostly appearances,
from the little naked negro sitting
and crying on the edge of the hogshead of
doubloons, to the ball of fire sailing straight up
the creek, till it hangs trembling on the tide
just opposite the excavation into which it
shoots with the speed of lightning, so terrifying
and bewildering the treasure-seekers that
when all is over they fail to find again the place
of their late labor—the parties that have met
with these adventures would, perhaps, cease to
waste much more of their time in such pursuits
in this part of the country if they knew that
Captain Kidd had never landed north of Block
Island until, with fatal temerity, he brought
his vessel into Boston, and that every penny of
his gains was known and was accounted for,
while as to Bradish, Tew, and the rest of that
genry, they wasted everything as they went in
riotous living, and could never have had a dollar
to hide, and no disposition to hide it if they
had; and whatever they did possess they took
with them when, quietly abandoning their ships
to the officers of the law, they went up the
creeks and rivers in boats, and dispersed themselves
throughout the country. “Received of Bishop Fenwick, the sum of
seventy-nine dollars and twenty cents, the same
being taxes assessed by the Assessors of the
town of Charlestown, upon the land and buildings
of the late Convent of Mount Benedict, for
the year 1834, and which were this day demanded
by Solomon Hovey, Jr., Collector,
agreeably to instructions received by him from
the Assessors, to that effect, although said
buildings had been destroyed by a mob in August
last. “Honor Governor my friend You my friend.
I desire your worship and your power, because
I hope you can do some great matters—this
one. I am poor and naked and I have no men
at my place because I afraid allways Mohogs he
will kill me every day and night. If your worship
when please pray help me you no let
Mohogs kill me at my place at Malamake
Rever called Panukkog and Natukkog, I will
submit your worship and your power. — And
now I want pouder and such alminishun, shatt
and guns, because I have forth at my home and
I plant theare. “Now this day I com your house, I want se
you, and I bring my hand at before you I want
shake hand to you if your worship when please
then you receive my hand then shake your
hand and my hand. You my friend because I
remember at old time when live my grant
father and grant mother then Englishmen com
this country, then my grant father and Englishmen
they make a good govenant, they friend
allwayes, my grant father leving at place called
Malamake Rever, other name chef Natukkog
and Panukkog, that one rever great many
names, and I bring you this few skins at this
first time I will give you my friend. This all
Indian hand. “Please your Worship—I will intreat you
matther, you my friend now; this, if my Indian
he do you long, pray you no put your law, because
som my Indians fooll, some men much
love drunk then he no know what he do, maybe
he do mischif when he drunk, if so pray you
must let me know what he done because I will
ponis him what have done, you, you my friend,
if you desire my business then sent me I will
help you if I can. “Mr. Mason — Pray I want speake you a few
words if your worship when please, because I
com parfas. I will speake this governor but
he go away so he say at last night, and so far
I understand this governor his power that your
power now, so he speak his own mouth. Pray if
you take what I want pray come to me because
I want go hom at this day. “Honorable Sir—The Governor and Council
having this day received a letter from Major
Hinchman, of Chelmsford, that some Indians
are come into them, who report that there is a
gathering of Indians in or about Pennacook,
with design of mischief to the English. Among
the said Indians one Hawkins is said to be a
principal designer, and that they have a particular
design against yourself and Mr. Peter
Coffin, which the Council thought it necessary
presently to dispatch advice thereof, to give
you notice, that you take care of your own safeguard,
they intending to endeavor to betray
you on a pretension of trade. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 51 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | Juno Clifford | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Juno Clifford stood before the mirror of her richly
furnished breakfast parlor. The cloth had been
spread for a half-hour—the silver coffee service was
prettily arranged, and the delicate cups of Sèvres
porcelain were scattered around the urn. But the
mistress of the mansion had only just arisen. It
was ten o'clock. Men, whose business hours had
commenced, were hurrying to and fro in the street—
the city was teeming with life and turbulent with
noise, but the hum only stole through the heavily-curtained
windows of that lofty house on Mount
Vernon street, with a subdued cadence that was very
pleasant. It was a lounging, indolent attitude, in
which the lady stood. In her whole style of manner
there was a kind of tropical languor, and it was easy
to see that she was seldom roused from her habitual
calmness. And yet there was something in the
curving of her dainty lips, the full sweep of her
arching brows, nay, in every motion of her hand,
which told of a slumbering power; an energy,
resistless in its intensity; a will that might have
subjugated an empire. The indolence was habitual
—the energy, native. “Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write,
but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day,
that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge
of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries.
In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am
writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now.
The dear, blue river glides along so gently between
its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like
summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its
breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending
over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and
all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing
in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will
tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my
eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very
strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the
beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and
it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they
cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to
have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their
two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier.
His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has
grown old among the crash of contending armies, and
the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered,
and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings,
young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her
long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front,
hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender
arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter
I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and
truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all
the world could look upon them as I do, that they
could teach every one the same lesson. “I will call you so this once more. God help us,
for He has separated us. I have no strength to tell
you now how tenderly I have loved you. You know
it but too well. Every glance of your blue eyes,
every thread of your golden hair was dearer to me
than my own life. I would not look upon your face
for worlds, now that it is lost to me for ever. My
mother has tried to soothe the agony of this parting.
She has whispered that a time might come, when I
would be free to marry you, but I have no such hope.
I dare not dwell on it; it would be unjust, cruel. I
cannot ask you to love me, to think of me. Rather
let me pray you to forget me; to seek in some other
love the happiness I can never again taste. May he
who shall win and wear you, be more worthy of your
love; he cannot return it more truly. “There, forgive those words, I could not help
them. When once more, after all this lapse of years,
I wrote your name, I forgot for the time that you had
been another's, that you had refused to be mine. I
saw only the Grace of my love and my dreams, very
young, very fair, and, better still, very loving and
trustful. To me you are the same still. I cannot
come to you to-night. I have received a message that
Mabel, my own fair sister, is ill. She may be dying,
but I will hope to find her better. I shall travel night
and day until I reach New York. Pray for me, Grace.
Think of me as your friend, your brother, if you will
not let me be, as in other days— | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 52 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | Some women's hearts | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “My Niece Elizabeth, — I believe myself to be
about to die. I cannot tell why this belief has taken
hold of me, but I am sure that I am not long for this
world. And, before I go out of it, I have an act of
restitution to perform. When your father, my dead
and gone brother James, died, if you had received
your due, you would have had six thousand dollars.
But the business was embarrassed at the time, and I
thought that to put so much money out of my hands
just then would ruin me. I took the responsibility,
therefore, of deciding not to do it. I managed, by
means that were not strictly legitimate, to keep the
whole in my own possession. I did not mean ill by
you, either. Your memory will bear me witness that I
dealt by you in every way as by my own children; nor
do I think the interest of your six thousand dollars, in
whatever way invested, could possibly have taken care
of you so well as I did. Still, to have it to use in my
business at that critical time, was worth much more
than the cost of your maintenance to me. So, as I look
at matters, you owe me no thanks for your upbringing,
and I owe you no farther compensation for the use of
your money during those years which you passed in
my house. For the five years since then, I owe you
interest; and I have added to your six thousand dollars
two thousand more, to reimburse you for your loss during
that time. “You were right, and I was wrong. I would not
tempt you to be other than you are, — the purest as the
fairest woman, in my eyes, whom God ever made.
I am running away, because I have not just now the
strength to stay here. You will not see me again for two
weeks. When I come back, I will be able to meet you
as I ought, and to prove myself worthy to be your
friend. “Your child was born the 28th of June. I did not
know of this which was to come when I left the shelter
of your roof, or I should not have gone. The little one
is very ill; and, feeling that she may not live, I think
it right to give you the opportunity of seeing her, if you
wish to, before she dies. Come, if you choose, to No.
50, Rue Jacob, and you will find her. “My Dear Husband, — Andrew, our little boy, is
very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought
that you would wish to see him. Your presence would
be the greatest comfort. “Mr. Thorndike, — I have hesitated long before
writing you this note. I should not venture to do so
now were it not that I am emboldened by the license
accorded to leap-year. To a different man I would not
write it for worlds, but I am sure your character is of
too high a tone for you to pursue a correspondence
merely for amusement or adventure. If you think I
am indelicate in addressing you at all, — if you do not
desire my friendship, you will let the matter drop here,
— you will never reply to me, or bestow a second
thought on one who will, in that case, strive to think
no more of you. But should you really value the
regard of a girl who is fearless enough thus to disobey
the recognized laws of society; honest enough to show
you her heart as it is; good enough, at least, to feel
your goodness in her inmost soul, — then you will
write. Then, perhaps, we shall know each other better,
and the friendship thus unconventionally begun may
brighten both our lives. Remember I trust to your
honor not to answer this letter if you disapprove of my
course in sending it, — if by so doing I have forfeited
your respect. Should you reply, let it be within three
days, and address, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 53 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | This, that and the other | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Lionel: When your hand touches this sheet, I shall be
far away. It is two hours since you left me, and I have been
sitting here all the while, in a kind of stupor. I have loved you
very fondly, Lionel, and there is no blame for you in my heart
now, only sorrow, bitter, crushing sorrow. I will believe that
you love me — that you did not mean to deceive me! I will
even try to think that the fault, the misunderstanding, was all
mine. My soul shall send back only prayers for you — my heart
shall breathe only blessings. I love you, Lionel — O, how I
love you! If I could coin my life-blood into a flood of blessing,
and pour it on your head, I would do so gladly; if I might die
for you, my soul would be blessed as the angels. I even have
thought, — may God forgive me! — that I could give my soul to
perdition for your sake; but I have no right to bring sorrow, and
shame, and suffering, upon another. The lips that my little sister
presses must be pure; the life consecrated by a dying mother's
blessing must be unstained. “Blanche Leslie, — For something tells me you are Blanche
Leslie yet — I have found you at last, after these weary years.
Listen, and hear if it be not destiny. When you left me, Blanche,
I was a heart-broken, miserable man. You did not know me, little
darling, or you never would have gone. I did not know myself.
I did not know how strong was the love I had for you. Blanche,
believe me, for I swear it before heaven, I never would have asked
you to make one sacrifice for my sake. You should have done
nothing, been nothing, your own heart did not sanction. When
I read your note, I awoke to the knowledge of my own soul.
Then I knew that, without you, wealth, and fame, and honor,
were worse than vanity, hollower than the apples of Sodom. I
would have laid down everything I possessed on earth, to have
called you wife. My soul cried out for you `with groanings
that could not be uttered.' “No, no! Come not near me, Lionel Hunter! Disturb not
the holy calm to which it has been the work of years to attain.
I have wept much, suffered much, but I am stronger now. Talk
no more to me of earthly love, now that my heart has grown old,
and the beauty you used to praise has faded. Leave me, leave
me! It is my prayer; it is all I ask. Over my night of sorrow
dews have fallen, and stars have arisen; let me walk in their
light! Only in heaven will I rest, if it may be so, my head
upon your breast. Then, when the angels shall name me by a
new name, I will steal to your side, and, looking back to earth,
over the bastions of the celestial city, you shall call me “`Heaven forgive and pity me, life of my life, that I should
be writing you, the night before our bridal, only to say farewell.
Our bridal; yes, it shall be so. To-morrow my soul shall marry
your soul, though I am far away. I have been mad, for two
weeks past, Maud! The ashes of the bottomless pit have been
upon my head, and its hot breath has scorched my cheek. I
would not tell you, my beloved, because I wished not to drag
you down with me to perdition. O, Maud, my darling! Maud,
my beloved! Can it be, I never more must draw your head
to my heart — never more must look into your blue eyes,
or watch the blushes stealing over your cheek? But I am
raving. “Can it be that only one sun has set and risen since Stanley
Grayson called me his, — since another and a dearer life grew into
mine, with the knowledge that I was beloved? O, joy! great,
unutterable joy, whose seeds were sown in grief, and watered by
the hot tears which made the flowers grow upon my mother's
grave! Who shall say, if I had not been thus desolate, I could
have felt so deeply this wondrous bliss of love? “A week has passed — a long, sunny week of happiness! Stanley
says we must be married in September — his birth-day, September
fifth. Papa, dear, good papa, has given me carte blanche as
to money. He says I never did cost him anything yet, and have
only been a help to him, all my life; and now, when he 's going
to lose me, he will give me all he can. Poor papa! I fear,
though he likes Stanley, he is hardly reconciled to the idea of
my leaving home; for, when he spoke of my going away, the
tears came to his eyes, and he looked so regretfully at his easy-chair,
and the little ottoman where I always sit beside him! It
seemed so selfish in me to go and leave him, — him who has always
been so kind to me, — and for one, too, whom I had never seen,
a few short months ago! The tears came to my eyes, and for
the moment I was half resolved to send Stanley away without
me; but, O, I know that already my soul is married to his soul,
and I cannot give him up. Lizzie will come home in July, and
she can stay with papa. Do I love Stanley better than papa?
Why do I not say Lizzie will do for Stanley? And why would
she not — she, so good, so young, so very beautiful? “O, how dear, how much dearer than ever, my future husband
is every day becoming to my heart! How long a time
since I 've written here before! but then I 'm so busy, and so
happy! “O, how it rains! — Such a perfect wail as the wind makes,
hurrying by, as if its viewless feet were `swift to do evil!' Poor
Lizzie! she is inside the stage, I suppose; she will have a
long, uncomfortable ride! I don't know why it is, but my soul
seems to go out toward her to-night more than ever. I have
thought of Stanley so much lately, that I 've not had so much
time to think of my poor child, and now my heart is reproaching
me. Sweet Lizzie! She and Stanley have never met. How
proud I am of them both! I am sure they must be pleased
with each other. Stanley is in his room now. I sent him up to
put on his black coat, and that new vest in which he looks so
well. “Yes, it was dear Lizzie. Stanley heard the horn too, and hurried
down stairs. I bade him go and meet Lizzie; for it was
raining, and papa was n't half awake. I followed him to the
door, and he received Lizzie in his arms. She thought it was
papa, for, what with the night and the rain, it was quite dark;
and she pressed her lips to his face again and again. But when he
brought her into the pleasant, brightly-lighted parlor, and set her
down, she pushed from her white shoulders her heavy cloak,
and glanced around; that is, as soon as she could, for at first I held
her to my heart so closely she could see nothing. When papa
took her in his arms, and welcomed her, and bade God bless her,
she glanced at his slippers and dressing-gown, and then at Stanley,
who was looking at her with a shade of amusement at her
perplexity, and yet with the most vivid admiration I ever saw
portrayed on his fine features. At last he laughed out, merrily. “I am a little lonely, I 'm left so much alone now. The long
rides over the hills continue, and of course I stay at home, for
there is no horse for me to ride. Stanley comes and kisses me
just before he goes off, and says, `You are always so busy,
Katie!' but he says nothing of late about the reason I am so
busy — nothing about our marriage. “Two days, and I am writing here again; but O, how
changed! I have been struck by a thunderbolt. I have had
a struggle, brief, but very fierce; and it is past. I was sailing
in a fair ship, upon calm waters; there were only a few clouds
in the sky. Sunlight rested on the waves, and in the distance I
could see a floating pleasure-island, green and calm, made
beautiful with tropic flowers, where gorgeous birds rested, and
sang love-songs all the day. Merrily the bark dashed onward.
Loved forms were by my side, and one dearer than all
was at the helm; but from the clear sky a tempest-blast swept
suddenly. It had sobbed no warning of the doom it was
bringing us. “A month has passed since I wrote here last; I hardly know
why, myself. It has been a long summer month. Days are so
long in summer, and they have seemed like centuries of late.
What a beautiful day it is! The sunshine smiles so pleasantly
on the fields, and the bright-winged birds sing, and the insects
hum lazily, or go to sleep upon the flowers. It seems to me I
never saw such a scene of calm, quiet beauty; — as if Nature
had on her holiday garments, decked newly for the sun, her
lover. “Lizzie is married, and they have gone; surely no bride ever
before looked so beautiful! Her long curls floated over her
white robe like sunshine over snow; and her cheeks were fairer
than ever, shaded so faintly by her rich veil. She trembled
during the ceremony, and I could feel how firm and strong was
the lover-like pressure with which Stanley clasped her waist.
When we knelt in prayer, his arm was around her still; and I
seemed quite to forget my own existence, so intently was I occupied
in watching them, so fervent were my prayers for their
happiness. It was the hardest when Stanley came back to me,
after Lizzie had said good-by, and he had put her in the carriage.
He took both my hands in his, and, looking into my eyes,
whispered, Never mind Peepy, Mrs. Jellyby! Let the child cry, — let
him fall down stairs, and break his nose. What are a thousand
Peepies now present, to the mighty schemes of our modern
Borioboola-Gha, which will affect the destinies of myriads of
Peepies yet to come? Can you fritter away your attention on
one man, and his little troop of children, when that new lawgiver
— that Moses — that Stephen Pearl Andrews — has told us,
woman's chief duty is to be “true to herself, and not true to any
man”? Thanks, Mr. Andrews! We, little girl that we are,
did n't know our duty before. We 've found out, now. Never
mind if there were tears in his eyes, when he whispered, “I can't
live, if you change!” We know our duty now, and it 's not
much matter what he suffers in so good a cause. “Miss Adams: Perhaps it may give you some satisfaction
to learn that, in compliment to you, I returned from New York
last night, instead of this morning, as I at first intended. I went
over to Oakwood, and, in the natural indulgence of a lover's
curiosity, was a witness of the pleasant scene in your favorite
bower. I presume it will be an occasion of heartfelt rejoicing
to you to know that you are quite free from all the ties which
have bound you to No, no, nothing but that! She has never derived any additional
importance from linking her name with yours, imperial
man! — never grown angelized by a wife's thrice-drugged potion
of care and sorrow. She lives alone, in a little, lonely house, —
alone, with her black cat, and her memories of the past! “Edward Gray: Ellen Adair is ill — dying. She will die
to-night. I do not say if you ever loved her, for I know you
did, but, if you love her now, come to us directly. “`I am surprised, Mr. Harding, at the acuteness which enables
you to divine my wishes so readily. I trust the attachment
which can so easily relinquish its object will not be difficult to
overcome. For your kindness in procuring me this casket, I am
infinitely obliged; but you must, of necessity, excuse my accepting
it, as it is a present of too great value for a lady to receive
from any but her lover. Enclosed you will find your miniature
and letters, and a certain emerald ring, the pledge of a tie now
broken. You will excuse me from coming down, as I have a
head-ache this morning. I wish you God-speed on your journey,
long life and happiness, and remain your friend, “Many months have passed since last we met. Summers and
winters have been braided into years, and still on my heart is
your name written; not one hieroglyph that you traced there
has been obliterated. Heart and soul I am, what I always have
been, yours! I married Clara the day succeeding our last meeting,
and I love her very much. Can you reconcile this with what I
have just written? I am yours, as I said; you, even you, my
Agnes, are more to me than all the rest of earth; but it is much
to feel we can make another human being entirely happy. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 54 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Eutaw | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is surely an early hour for the whip-poor-will to begin
her monotonous plainings, sitting on her accustomed hawthorn,
just on the edge of the swamp. The sun has hardly dropped
from sight behind the great pine-thickets. His crimson and
orange robes still flaunt and flicker in the western heavens;
gleams from his great red eyes still purple the tree-tops; and
you may still see a cheerful light hanging in the brave, free
atmosphere; while gray shapes, like so many half-hooded friars,
glide away through the long pine-avenues, inviting you, as it
would seem, to follow, while they steal away slowly from pursuit
into the deeper thickets of the swamp. “My child, my dear Bertha: To you alone can I look for
the rescue of your brother and myself. We are in the power of
an enemy, who requires your hand in marriage for the safety of
my own and my son's life. We have forfeited the security of
British law. My own offences are such that, delivered to the
commandant of Charleston, as I am threatened, my death — an
ignominious death — must follow. Your brother is a captive
also, charged with murdering the king's soldiers without a warrant.
He is suffering in health by his unavoidable confinement.
He can not long live in the condition in which he is kept; and
his release and mine are made to depend entirely on you. Let
me implore you, my child, to come to our succor, and to save us.
Become the wife of Captain Inglehardt, and suffer us once more
to see the light of heaven, and enjoy the freedom of earth.
Come, my beloved child, to our rescue; and, in making the
sacrifice of your choice, to my own, receive the blessings of
your fond, but fettered father. [P. S.] You will readily conceive
our exigency, when I tell you that my wrists and feet are
even now in manacles of iron, and have been so from the first
day of my captivity. For a time, indeed, your brother Henry
was held in similar fetters.” “Sorry, my dear colonel, to cut short your roving commission;
doubly sorry that it has not yet resulted as you could
wish. But we can spare you from the main action of the drama
no longer. We are now, I think, approaching the denouément,
and require all our heroes on the stage. Stewart is in rapid
march downward — a little too strong for us yet, particularly
with the reinforcements which he will get from the lower posts.
We hear of these in motion from several quarters, as many as a
thousand or twelve hundred men. These, in addition to his
estimated strength at present of twenty-three hundred, will give
heavy odds against us, unless our mounted men come out much
more numerously than usual. Greene is on the march, somewhat
recruited, but very little strengthened. Congress has done
nothing — can or will do nothing — not even give us arms and
ammunition! Three hundred of our people are still without
serviceable weapons of any kind, and seven hundred without
jackets or breeches. It is really lucky that we have hot
weather. We must make up in zeal what we lack in men and
munitions, and only fight the harder from having but little
means with which to fight at all! That, my dear Sinclair, is a
new philosophy for the management of armies, but it is one
that will not seem altogether silly in the estimation of the true
patriot. At all events, it is about the best that I can give to
you, who know how to fight so well on short commons; and it
affords the only hope upon which I have fed (very like fasting)
for a long season! Once more, then, my dear Sinclair, let me
regret the necessity which requires that you rejoin your brigade,
and defer, for a brief season, the painfully interesting personal
enterprises upon which you are engaged. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 56 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Vasconselos | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is the province of romance, even more decidedly than history,
to recall the deeds and adventures of the past. It is to fiction
that we must chiefly look for those living and breathing creations
which history quite too unfrequently deigns to summon to her
service. The warm atmosphere of present emotions, and present
purposes, belongs to the dramatis personœ of art; and she
is never so well satisfied in showing us human performances, as
when she betrays the passions and affections by which they were
dictated and endured. It is in spells and possessions of this
character, that she so commonly supersedes the sterner muse
whose province she so frequently invades; and her offices are
not the less legitimate, as regards the truthfulness of things in
general, than are those of history, because she supplies those details
which the latter, unwisely as we think, but too commonly,
holds beneath her regard. In the work before us, however, it is
our purpose to slight neither agency. We shall defer to each of
them, in turn, as they may be made to serve a common purpose.
They both appeal to our assistance, and equally spread their possessions
beneath our eyes. We shall employ, without violating,
the material resources of the Historian, while seeking to endow
them with a vitality which fiction only can confer. It is in pursuit
of this object that we entreat the reader to suppose the backward
curtain withdrawn, unveiling, if only for a moment, the
aspects of a period not so remote as to lie wholly beyond our
sympathies. We propose to look back to that dawn of the sixteenth
century; at all events, to such a portion of the historical
landscape of that period, as to show us some of the first sunny
gleams of European light upon the savage dominions of the
Western Continent. To review this epoch is, in fact, to survey
the small but impressive beginnings of a wondrous drama in
which we, ourselves, are still living actors. The scene is almost
within our grasp. The names of the persons of our narrative
have not yet ceased from sounding in our ears; and the theatre
of performance is one, the boards of which, even at this moment,
are echoing beneath their mighty footsteps. Our curiosity and
interest may well be awakened for awhile, to an action, the fruits
of which, in some degree, are inuring to our present benefit. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 58 | Author: | Stoddard
Elizabeth
1823-1902 | Add | | | Title: | Temple House | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Early one autumn morning, on his forty-first birthday,
Argus Gates walked down the old turfy lawn, and
felt immortal in his human powers. The elms above
him dropped warning leaves, the silver cobwebs in the
grass vanished beneath his tread, and the sere grass
rose not again; but Aurora was in the sky. The
stalwart, willing earth dipped beneath her chariot
wheels, to lave in the rays flooding from those eyes
fixed in
“The ever silent spaces of the East,”
and Argus was one with the earth. “Dear Mother: You never saw such work; we lost the small
trunk, which was not marked. Have you seen Virginia? Her
society will make amends for my absence. I wish I was at home,
but I like travelling. I saw somebody yesterday that looked exactly
like Mary Sutcliffe. I had half a mind to ask her if the
cat's kittens had yellow patches, or if they were black and white:
Mary said the cat would have kittens by the time I got back.
You can't think how fish seems to be prized at these hotels, while
we care nothing for it. We stopped in Boston, and John bought
me an Indian scarf. In New York he bought me a dark blue
silk; he is very attentive, but he has a cold. I had it made, and
it is trimmed with black lace. Mother, the lace was three dollars
a yard. We are in Chicago now. The air has a flat taste to
me; it is different from Kent air. Of course, Uncle Argus has
worried about me; oh yes, I think he is pining away. There are
no good preserves at any hotel; the noise at these great houses,
would drive you wild, mother; you would never again wink your
eyes at my slamming doors, could you stay in one awhile. Have
those Drakes been to see you? I do not care for them; do you,
mother? I shall visit them but very little. John asked me if I
would go to housekeeping in warm weather. I said, “Er, em,
em,” which ment “yes” to him; to me, “nary housekeeping.”
Why should I wash dishes for him, and dust furniture, and learn
not to suit him in cooking—let me see, four times a day. He is
too particular about his food. Mother, I had rather eat your dry
bread; I hate to see people imagining they would like to have
this, and that, to eat. I shall be gone some weeks yet. I'll help
you knit when I return. John has snatched this from the table,
and I am mad, for he laughs loud at it, and says—“Give me a
kiss?” but I won't. It is eleven o'clock; there is no lamp burning
in Temple House; you are asleep. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 59 | Author: | Stoddard
Elizabeth
1823-1902 | Add | | | Title: | Two men | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | When Jason Auster married Sarah Parke he was
twenty years old, and a house-carpenter. As he was
not of age, he made some agreement with a hard father
by which liberty was gained, and a year's wages lost.
He left his native village filled with no adventurous
spirit, but with a simple confidence that he should find
the place where he could earn a living by his trade, and
put in practice certain theories concerning the rights of
men and property which had already made him a pest
at home. The stage-coach which conveyed him thence,
traversed a line of towns that made no impression from
his point of view—the coach window; but when it stopped
to change horses at Crest, a lively maritime town,
and he alighted to stretch his cramped legs, he saluted
Destiny. Its aspect, that spring day, pleased him; he
heard the rain of blows from broad-axes in the ship-yards
by the water's edge, and saw new roofs and
chimneys rising along the irregular streets among the
rows of ancient houses, and concluded to stay. He unstrapped
a small trunk from the stage-rack, carried it
into the tavern entry, and looked about him for some
one to address. A man who had been eying the trunk
advanced towards him with a resolutely closed mouth,
and hands concealed in his pockets. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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