| | 181 | Author: | Thorpe
Thomas Bangs
1815-1878 | Add | | | Title: | The master's 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: | There is not a more charming town in New England, than
Malden, so celebrated, and so widely known for its intelligent
population, its interesting traditions, and its most excellent
seat of learning. Dear Sir,—I understand you desire to purchase some
valuable house servants. I have one or two that I would
part with, if the trade could be made privately, and treated
by you as confidential. I will be at the cross roads, near
the old brick kiln, precisely at five o'clock, where we can
hold conversation unobserved. Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you wish to
purchase a few first class house-servants; I have two that
I would part with, for less than their real value, if you can
manage to get them in your possession, without giving
their owners the pain of going through the separation.
They have been carefully raised, and would not be sold, if
their owners were not conscientiously impressed that their
condition would not be improved, if they were set free. I
shall be at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-day, and shall
proceed at once to your room, to avoid the suspicion among
the neighbors, that I am contemplating selling. You will
consider our communications in honor, and trust they will
be so treated. Sur,—I've got an old negro woman as wants to be sold,
and go to Mobeel, in the State of Mississip'. I wouldn't
sell her, if she didn't want to go down to that South country
to see her children, as is owned by Mister Brownlaw,
who, when he tuck the children, was to buy the old ooman,
but didn't have the money, an hasn't sent for her 'cordin'
to contract. I will sel her for two hundred and fifty, and
I think Brownlaw will give you four hundred on his place,
as her son is a carpenter, and I'm told he thinks a heap
of him, as he can earn five dollars a day, making bridges
on the rale rode. Please say nothing about this, and drop
in at my house in the evening, when nobody is about, on
the Sandy-hill road, f'ur miles from Colesburg, near the
ruins of the old church, with a sign over the door, with
my name painted on it. Dear Sir,—I understood last evening, after church
was out, that you had come on here to obtain a few choice
servants. I have long since been forced to the conclusion,
that slavery is a moral evil, and I have rejoiced that I
have parted with the few I have owned, to humane masters,
which is a great relief to me, in my hours of serious
reflection. I have one girl that has been carefully brought
up, and we are much attached to her, but I am somewhat
advanced in years, as well as her mistress, and we cannot
tell at what time she may, in the course of Providence, be
thrown without a protector, upon the wide, wicked world.
I had determined not to sell her, but seeing you in church
the other day, I have become deeply impressed that you
12*
are a pious man, and as such, would deal justly with the
girl. I have also reflected, that whatever may be my
sense of duty, the excitement at the North has been so
great, that it makes it perfectly impossible for me to carry
out my original intention, of setting the girl free, as I
cannot conceive a more dreadful condition, than for a once
comfortably clothed and well taken care of negro slave, to
be thrown upon the tender mercies of the uncharitable
world, and be left, as are the poor white laborers of the
free States, to starve, and die a miserable death. It
would be difficult to get the girl's consent to be sold, and
therefore this matter must be delicately arranged; she
will no doubt, at first, be much grieved, but we must judge
what is best for her welfare, ourselves, for we know how to
provide for her real good. The girl is nearly nineteen years
of age. Address “Humanity,” through the post-office,
and say where a strictly private interview may be had. Of
course this communication will be considered confidential.
I trust I may sign myself, in the bonds of brotherly love, “Dear Sir: I received your favor, desiring me to state my opinion of the
value of M. Guénon's `Treatise on Milch Cows,' translated from the French....
I immediately commenced the study and application of his method to every cow
that came under my observation. I have examined more than one hundred cows,
and, after carefully marking their escutcheons. I have become satisfied that M.
Guénon's discovery is one of great merit, and can be relied upon as true. I have
no doubt that I can judge very nearly as to the quantity and quality of the milk
any cow will give at the height of her flow, and also the time she will continue
in milk after being with calf. “I have read with great satisfaction M. Guénon's work on Milch Cows, by
which one can judge by certain infallible signs the milking qualities of the animal.
I have compared the marks he gives for his first-grade Flanders cow, and find
they correspond with the escutcheon of my favorite Devon cow `Ellen,' that has
taken the first premium at two cattle-shows of the American Institute. My farmer
has great faith in M. Guénon's work, and so has one of my neighbors, a knowing
Scotch milkman, who keeps fifty cows. He says that, after careful examination,
he places confidence in these marks, and they will govern him in his future
purchases. I shall hereafter make my selection of the calves I will raise from
my choice stocks from the marks given by this author. I think every farmer
should own this work. “Having had experience in raising cows, I was pleased to find a treatise on the
subject by M. Guénon, of Libourne, in France—which I procured and carefully
studied. I think the book more worthy of attention than I believe it has received.
I found that his marks of the particular classes and orders of cows agree with
nearly all I have had an opportunity to examine. It is easy to ascertain, after
studying this book, to which class and order almost every cow belongs, which,
as a guide in purchasing milch cows, or of safely deciding which to keep, before
we have had time or opportunity to test their qualities as milkers, will far more
than repay the price of the book, and the time necessary to a clear understanding
of it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 185 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to | | | | 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: | “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S—
calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What
name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I,
glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding
love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou
art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently
public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest
of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret
I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have
chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and
however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a
thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I
know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal.
Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further
preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high
birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably
given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to
your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is
twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but
she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and
conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am
directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions
are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no
inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without
previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider
the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject,
since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps,
still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as
prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep,
after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent.
It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed
among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth
of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just
breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed
that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the
sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious
little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried
in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted
lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in
the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the
child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to
his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and
looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between
his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought
the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He
knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his
sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers,
poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to
say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on
your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands.
Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will
excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate
choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in
your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess,
tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived—
if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take
my hand when you meet me. That moment will
decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name
another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot
11
explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice
should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has
so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad,
a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my
tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first
month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you
for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you—
lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax
when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your
table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare
you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition
with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you
know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion.
Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank
council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes
in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real
half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived
illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two
stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown
in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of
course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment
of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish
the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon
parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in
your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air
it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then
revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my
tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects
to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are
the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I,
and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged
it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate
the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day.
Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale
troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the
positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine?
Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought
comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude
—in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference
to associating with friends and companions—in writing,
spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly
of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I
divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve
freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own,
only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet
the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the
noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the
world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide
the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer
it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels
from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy
and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost
breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can
understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of
meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance,
but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you
how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our
interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde,
you know me better than those who see me every day. My
most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I,
perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation
of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement
of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child
knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well.
Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my
memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation
may be removed or lessened? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 186 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | St. Elmo | | | | 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: | HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever
lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request
I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely
consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no
leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic
chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid
of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it,
the day would inevitably come when you would regret its
premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence
of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions
of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength
than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public
would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken
is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle
it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your
powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level,
the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme
better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed
MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate
the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write
sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that
you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical
creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic
priests. Remember that women never write histories nor
epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the
centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;'
though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad
that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle,
or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will
hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh
eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism
of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator
Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire
to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any
for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge
in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence
of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg
you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter.
I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect
to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion
and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give
you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my
house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would
I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always,
and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship
mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning,
and I shall know that you are my own dear, little
Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of
the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read
the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached
to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and
the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt
and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then
judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the
mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen
to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings
of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help
me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling!
you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder,
I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty
years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence
your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar
ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the
judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth
we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my
wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can
not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag
mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease
to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you
before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar
circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage
of them and thrust myself into your presence
without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I
felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le
Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility
of meeting me. You, who know something of my
wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine
what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked,
that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not,
shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I
almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a
door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my
life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview!
Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It
is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or
will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again.
Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend
together in this world. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 190 | Author: | Morris
George Pope
1802-1864 | Add | | | Title: | The little Frenchman and his water lots, with other sketches of the times | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | How much real comfort every one might enjoy,
if he would be contented with the lot in which
heaven has cast him, and how much trouble would
be avoided if people would only “let well alone.”
A moderate independence, quietly and honestly
procured, is certainly every way preferable even to
immense possessions achieved by the wear and tear
of mind and body so necessary to procure them.
Yet there are very few individuals, let them be
doing ever so well in the world, who are not always
straining every nerve to do better; and this is one
of the many causes why failures in business so
frequently occur among us. The present generation
seem unwilling to “realize” by slow and sure
degrees; but choose rather to set their whole hopes
upon a single cast, which either makes or mars them
for ever! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 191 | Author: | Neal
John
1793-1876 | Add | | | Title: | The Down-easters, &c. &c. &c | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | We were on our way from Philadelphia to Baltimore,
in the beautiful month of May, 1814; our boat
crowded with passengers, the oddest collection you
ever saw, and the British lying not far off in considerable
force; and yet, so assured were we of our ability to
escape, as not even to be kept awake by our dangerous
neighborhood. The war, chess, politics, flirting,
pushpin, tetotum, and jackstraws, (cards being prohibited,)
newspapers and religious tracts, had all been
tried, and all in vain to relieve the insipidity of a
pleasant passage, and keep off the drowsiness that
weighed upon our spirits like the rich overloaded
atmosphere of a spice-island, breathing about a soft
summer sea. Even the huge negroes felt and enjoyed
the delicious warmth, as they lay stretched out, heads
and points, over the piles of split wood, with their fat
shiny faces turned up to the sky, and their broad feet
stiffening in the shadow. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 192 | Author: | Neal
John
1793-1876 | Add | | | Title: | The Down-easters, &c. &c. &c | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Such was the “terrible letter”! such the very
words of a part which fell upon me, with a power
which no language can describe. And yet, I do believe
I showed no emotion before the girl who brought
me the message of death—I mean what I say—the
message of death; I believe too that I spoke in my usual
voice, and I know that I did not shed a tear, and that
I have not shed a tear since—I hope never to shed
one while I breathe, for the perfidy of that woman.
It was not—oh no!—it was not the losing a
marriage with her, it was not even the losing of her
heart, for I could have borne both, I believe, with a
smile, if she had treated me as I deserve to be treated
by those I love—no—no!—it was neither—it was
the losing of my faith in her that I was ready to worship—and
now I remember a passage in her letter
which I had forgotten before—“I know that you love
me,” said she. “This will be a terrible blow, for you
had set up an image in your heart for worship”—and
so I had! and she broke that image to pieces; and
with it, every hope I had on earth, for every hope I
had on earth was connected in some way or other
with my belief in her exalted virtue, her generosity,
and her truth. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 193 | Author: | Neal
Joseph C.
(Joseph Clay)
1807-1847 | Add | | | Title: | Peter Ploddy, and other oddities | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | 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 no one be unjust to Ploddy—to Peter Ploddy,
once “young man” to Mr. Figgs, the grocer, and now
junior partner of the flourishing firm of Figgs and
Ploddy. Though addicted a little to complaint, and apt
to institute comparisons unfavourable to himself, it would
be a harsh judgment to set him down as ever having
been envious, in the worst sense of the word. It is true,
no doubt, that at the period of his life concerning which
we are now called upon to speak, a certain degree of
discontent with his own position occasionally embittered
his reflections; but he had no wish to deprive others of
the advantage they possessed, nor did he hate them on
the score of their supposed superiority. It was not his
inclination to drag men down, let them be situated as
loftily as they might; and whatever of vexation or perplexity
he experienced in contemplating their elevation, arose
altogether from the fact that he could not clearly understand
why he should not be up there too. It was not
productive of pleasurable sensations to Ploddy, to see
folks splashed who were more elegantly attired than himself.
He never laughed from a window over the disastrous
results of a sudden shower; nor could he find it in
his heart to hope it would rain when his neighbours set
gayly forth on a rural excursion. It is a question, indeed,
whether it had been a source of satisfaction to him to see
any one's name on a list of bankrupts. The sheriff's advertisements
of property “seized and taken in execution,”
were never conned over with delight by Peter Ploddy;
and when the entertainments given in his section of the
town were as splendid as luxury and profusion could
make them, it was yet possible for Peter to turn in his bed
at the sound of the music and of the merriment, without
a snarl about “there you go,” and without a hint that
there are headaches in store for the gentlemen, with a
sufficient variety of coughs and colds for the ladies. He
never said, because an invitation had not been addressed
to Ploddy, that affairs of this sort make work for the
doctors. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 194 | Author: | Smith
Richard Penn
1799-1854 | Add | | | Title: | The forsaken | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | More than half a century ago, there stood in Darby,
a small village near Philadelphia, an humble inn, denominated
“The Hive;” which name the house acquired
in consequence of a rude sign, that yielding to every
blast of wind, creaked in front of the building; although
one who was not a connoisseur in painting, might have
mistaken the hive for a hay-cock, and the bees for
partridges, had not the ingenious artist, to prevent all
mistakes of this nature, judiciously painted, in capital
letters, the name of his design, which at once put an
end to the illiberal cavilling of such critics as could
decipher the alphabet. You may judge of the extent of my perplexities when
I apply to you for pecuniary assistance. Were you in
funds you would be the first I should apply to, but in
your present circumstances you should be the last.
But, as I do not know what fortune may have done for
you since our last interview, I have ventured to make
known my distresses to you. I have an insuperable
objection to my father's becoming acquainted with the
cause of my present embarrassment, and have therefore
employed every means to extricate myself before
a knowledge of the circumstance shall reach him. To
change the subject, I feel that I should fight the battles
of my king with better heart, if my earliest and best
friend were still by my side. Reflect again upon the
nature of the contest; reflect, I beseech you, until you
view it in the light that it is viewed by “Meet me at the sign of the Crooked Billet, on the
evening of the first of October, as I have something to
communicate that concerns you nearly. Fail not to be
punctual. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 195 | Author: | Tucker
Beverley
1784-1851 | Add | | | Title: | The partisan leader | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | 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 part I bore in the transactions which form
the subject of the following narrative, is my voucher
for its authenticity. My admiration of the gallant
people, whose struggle for freedom I witnessed and
partook; the cherished friendships contracted among
them, at a time of life when the heart is warm, and
under circumstances which called all its best feelings
into action; and, above all, the connexion then
formed, which has identified me with Virginia, and
which, during the last five years, has been the source
of all my happiness; are my inducements to dedicate
this work to you. The approbation which, in
acknowledging, more than rewarded my humble
services, is my warrant for hoping, that this tribute
of grateful veneration will be favorably received. Toward the latter end of the month of October,
1849, about the hour of noon, a horseman was seen
ascending a narrow valley at the eastern foot of the
Blue Ridge. His road nearly followed the course of
a small stream, which, issuing from a deep gorge of
the mountain, winds its way between lofty hills, and
terminates its brief and brawling course in one of
the larger tributaries of the Dan. A glance of the eye
took in the whole of the little settlement that lined
its banks, and measured the resources of its inhabitants.
The different tenements were so near to each
other as to allow but a small patch of arable land to
each. Of manufactures there was no appearance,
save only a rude shed at the entrance of the valley,
on the door of which the oft repeated brand of the
horse-shoe gave token of a smithy. There too the
rivulet, increased by the innumerable springs which
afforded to every habitation the unappreciated, but
inappreciable luxury of water, cold, clear and sparkling,
had gathered strength enough to turn a tiny mill.
Of trade there could be none. The bleak and rugged
barrier, which closed the scene on the west, and
the narrow road, fading to a foot-path, gave assurance
to the traveller that he had here reached the ne
plus ultra of social life in that direction. “Mr. Baker begs leave to throw himself on the
mercy of Miss Delia Trevor. He confesses his
offence against her on Saturday last. He admits,
with shame, that he did intend to wound her feelings,
and that he has nothing to offer in extenuation
of his offence. He does not even presume to ask a
pardon, which he acknowledges to be unmerited,
and respectfully tenders the only atonement in his
power, by assuring Miss Trevor that he will never
again, intentionally, offend her by his presence. My dear sir: I hasten to lay before you a piece
of information which touches you nearly. Though I
receive it at the hands of one who has the highest
claims to my confidence, I yet trust it will prove to
have originated in mistake. “My dear sir: Your letter has been received,
and, to me, is entirely satisfactory. But I regret to inform
you that, to those friends whom I feel myself
bound to consult, it is not so. Such of them, indeed,
as are acquainted with your high character, do not
intimate a doubt that a full explanation of the affair
would entirely justify your assurance that I have
been misinformed. “Sir: I have just learned that charges of a
serious nature have been made against Lieutenant
Trevor, which, it seems, grow out of certain occurrences
to which I am privy. I can have little doubt
that the affair, to which I allude, has not been truly
reported to you. Had it been, you would have seen
that Lieutenant T. acted no otherwise than as
became a soldier and a gentleman, in whose presence
a lady, under his protection, had been insulted.
The enclosed documents, to the authenticity of
which I beg leave to testify, will place the transaction
in its true light. Were Lieutenant T. at
Washington, I should not lay these papers before
you, without authority from him. As it is, I trust I
do no more than my duty by him, and by your Excellency,
in furnishing such evidences of the real
facts of the case, as may aid you in deciding on the
course to be pursued in regard to it. “Sir: I have it in command from his Excellency
the President to say, that your letter of resignation
has been received with surprise and regret. “I never performed a more painful duty in my
life, my dear Trevor, than in putting the seal and
superscription to the accompanying letter from the
Secretary. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 196 | Author: | Tuckerman
Henry T.
(Henry Theodore)
1813-1871 | Add | | | Title: | The Italian sketch book | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | There are countries of the globe which possess a
permanent and peculiar interest in human estimation;
an interest proportioned in each individual to
his intelligence, culture and philanthropy. They
are those where the most momentous historical events
occurred, and civilization first dawned; and of which
the past associations and present influences are, consequently,
in a high degree exciting. The history
of these lands affords one of our most attractive
sources of philosophical truth, as the reminiscences
they induce excite poetical sentiment; and, hence,
we very naturally regard a visit to them as an event
singularly interesting, not to say morally important. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 199 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Dashes at life with a free pencil | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Has there been any mistake in the two-penny post
delivery, that I have not received your article for this
month? If so, please send me the rough draught by
the bearer (who waits), and the compositors will try
to make it out. “The tale of this month will be called—” “Dear Mr. Clay: From causes which you will
probably understand, I have been induced to reconsider
your proposal of marriage to my niece.—Imprudent
as I must still consider your union, I find myself
in such a situation that, should you persevere, I must
decide in its favor, as the least of two evils. You will
forgive my anxious care, however, if I exact of you,
before taking any decided step, a full and fair statement
of your pecuniary embarrassments (which I
understand are considerable) and your present income
and prospects. I think it proper to inform you that
Miss Gore's expectations, beyond an annuity of £300
a year, are very distant, and that all your calculations
should be confined to that amount. With this understanding,
I should be pleased to see you at Ashurst
to-morrow morning. “Your dark eye rests on this once familiar handwriting.
If your pulse could articulate at this moment,
it would murmur he loved me well! He who writes to
you now, after years of silence, parted from you with
your tears upon his lips—parted from you as the last
shadow parts from the sun, with a darkness that must
deepen till morn again. I begin boldly, but the usage
of the world is based upon forgetfulness in absence,
and I have not forgotten. Yet this is not to be a love-letter. “Dear Lady Fanny: If you have anything beside
the ghost-room vacant at Freer Hall, I will run
down to you. Should you, by chance, be alone ask
up the curate for a week to keep Sir Harry off my
hands; and, as you don't flirt, provide me with somebody
more pretty than yourself for our mutual
security. As my autograph sells for eighteen pence,
you will excuse the brevity of “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission,
which I know not how to broach to you, except by
simple proposal. Will you forgive my abrupt brevity,
if I inform you, without further preface, that the
Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high birth and
ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are
not irrevocably given to another, I can conceive no
sufficient obstacle to your acceptance of this brilliant
connexion. The countess is twenty-two, and not
beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but she has
high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of
course, and conceived a passion for you, of which this
is the result. I am directed to add, that should you
consent, the following conditions are imposed—that
you marry her within four days, making no inquiry
except as to her age, rank, and property, and that,
without previous interview, she come veiled to the
altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to
consider the extraordinary proposition made me in
your letter. The subject, since it is to be entertained
a moment, requires, perhaps, still further reflection—
but my reply shall be definite, and as prompt as I can
bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “Dear Fred: Nothing going on in town, except
a little affair of my own, which I can't leave to go
down to you. Dull even at Crocky's—nobody plays
this hot weather. And now, as to your commissions.
You will receive Dupree, the cook, by to-night's mail.
Grisi won't come to you without her man—`'twasn't
thus when we were boys!'—so I send you a figurante,
and you must do tableaux. I was luckier in finding
you a wit. S— will be with you to-morrow, though,
by the way, it is only on condition of meeting Lady
Midge Bellasys, for whom, if she is not with you, you
must exert your inveiglements. This, by way only
of shuttlecock and battledore, however, for they play
at wit together—nothing more, on her part at least.
Look out for this devilish fellow, my lord Fred!—
and live thin till you see the last of him—for he'll
laugh you into your second apoplexy with the dangerous
ease of a hair-trigger. I could amuse you with
a turn or two in my late adventures, but black and
white are bad confidants, though very well as a business
firm. And, mentioning them, I have drawn on
you for a temporary £500, which please lump with
my other loan, and oblige “Dear Sir Humphrey: Perhaps you will scarce
remember Jane Jones, to whom you presented the
brush of your first fox. This was thirty years ago.
I was then at school in the little village near Tally-ho
hall. Dear me! how well I remember it! On hearing
of your marriage, I accepted an offer from my late
husband, Mr. S—, and our union was blessed
with one boy, who, I must say, is an angel of goodness.
Out of his small income, my dear James furnished
and rented this very genteel house, and he
tells me I shall have it for life, and provides me one
servant, and everything I could possibly want. Thrice
a week he comes out to spend the day and dine with
me, and, in short, he is the pattern of good sons. As
this dear boy is going down to Warwickshire, I can not
resist the desire I have that you should know him,
and that he should bring me back an account of my
lover in days gone by. Any attention to him, dear
Sir Humphrey, will very much oblige one whom you
once was happy to oblige, and still “Dear Sir: I remember Miss Jones very well,
God bless me, I thought she had been dead many
years. I am sure I shall be very happy to see her
son. Will you come out and dine with us?—dinner
at seven. “Dear Nuncle: It's hard on to six o'clock, and
I'm engaged at seven to a junketing at the `Hen and
chickens,' with Stuggins and the maids. If you intend
to make me acquainted with your great lord, now
is the time. If you don't, I shall walk in presently,
and introduce myself; for I know how to make my
own way, nuncle—ask Miss Bel's maid, and the other
girls you introduced me to at Tally-ho hall! Be in
a hurry, I'm just outside. “My dear Lord: In the belief that a frank communication
would be best under the circumstances, I
wish to make an inquiry, prefacing it with the assurance
that my only hope of happiness has been for
some time staked upon the successful issue of my
suit for your daughter's hand. It is commonly understood,
I believe, that the bulk of your lordship's fortune
is separate from the entail, and may be disposed
of at your pleasure. May I inquire its amount, or
rather, may I ask what fortune goes with the hand of
Lady Angelica. The Beauchief estates are unfortunately
much embarrassed, and my own debts (I may
frankly confess) are very considerable. You will at
once see, my lord, that, in justice to your daughter, as
well as to myself, I could not do otherwise than make
this frank inquiry before pushing my suit to extremity.
Begging your indulgence and an immediate answer, I
remain, my dear lord, “Dear Lord Frederick: I trust you will not
accuse me of a want of candor in declining a direct
answer to your question. Though I freely own to a
friendly wish for your success in your efforts to engage
the affections of Lady Angelica, with a view to marriage,
it can only be in the irrevocable process of a
marriage settlement that her situation, as to the probable
disposal of my fortune, can be disclosed. I may
admit to you, however, that, upon the events of this
day on which you have written (it so chances), may
depend the question whether I should encourage you
to pursue further your addresses to Lady Angelica. “My dear Angelica: I am happy to know that
there are circumstances which will turn aside much
of the poignancy of the communication I am about to
make to you. If I am not mistaken at least, in believing
a mutual attachment to exist between yourself
and Count Pallardos, you will at once comprehend
the ground of my mental relief, and perhaps, in
a measure, anticipate what I am about to say. “Dear Count: You will wonder at receiving a
friendly note from me after my refusal, two months
since, to meet you over `pistols and coffee;' but reparation
may not be too late, and this is to say, that
you have your choice between two modes of settlement,
viz:—to accept for your stable the hunter you
stole from me (vide police report) and allow me to take
a glass of wine with you at my own table and bury the
hatchet, or, to shoot at me if you like, according to
your original design. Manners and Beauchief hope
you will select the latter, as they owe you a grudge
for the possession of your incomparable bride and her
fortune; but I trust you will prefer the horse, which
(if I am rightly informed) bore you to the declaration
of love at Chasteney. Reply to Crockford's. “My dear St. Leger: Enclosed you have the
only surviving lock of my grizzled wig—sign and symbol
that my disguises are over and my object attained.
The wig burns at this instant in the grate, item my
hand-ruffles, item sundry embroidered cravats a la
vielle cour, item (this last not without some trouble at
my heart) a solitary love-token from Constantia Hervey.
One faded rose—given me at Pæstum, the day
before I was driven disgraced from her presence by
the interference of this insolent fool—one faded rose
has crisped and faded into smoke with the rest. And
so fled from the world the last hope of a warm and
passionate heart, which never gave up its destiny till
now—never felt that it was made in vain, guarded, refined,
cherished in vain, till that long-loved flower lay
in ashes. I am accustomed to strip emotion of its
drapery—determined to feel nothing but what is real—
yet this moment, turn it and strip it, and deny its illusions
as I will, is anguish. `Self-inflicted,' you smile
and say! “And now that we know each other again—now
that I can call you by name, as in the past, and be
sure that your inmost consciousness must reply—
a new terror seizes me! Your soul comes back,
youthfully and newly clad, while mine, though of
unfading freshness and youthfulness within, shows to
your eye the same outer garment, grown dull with
mourning and faded with the wear of time. Am I
grown distasteful? Is it with the sight only of this
new body that you look upon me? Rodolph!—spirit
that was my devoted and passionate admirer! soul
that was sworn to me for ever!—am I—the same Margaret,
refound and recognised, grown repulsive? Oh
God! What a bitter answer would this be to my
prayers for your return to me! “I have followed up to this hour, my fair cousin, in
the path you have marked out for me. It has brought
me back, in this chamber, to the point from which I
started under your guidance, and if it had brought me
back unchanged—if it restored me my energy, my
hope, and my prospect of fame, I should pray Heaven
that it would also give me back my love, and be content—more
than content, if it gave me back also my
poverty. The sight of my easel, and of the surroundings
of my boyish dreams of glory, have made my
heart bitter. They have given form and voice to a
vague unhappiness, which has haunted me through all
these absent years—years of degrading pursuits and
wasted powers—and it now impels me from you, kind
and lovely as you are, with an aversion I can not control.
I can not forgive you. You have thwarted my
destiny. You have extinguished with sordid cares a
lamp within me that might, by this time, have shone
through the world. And what am I, since your wishes
are accomplished? Enriched in pocket, and bankrupt
in happiness and self-respect. Dined with F—, the artist, at a trattoria. F— is
a man of genius, very adventurous and imaginative in
his art, but never caring to show the least touch of
these qualities in his conversation. His pictures have
given him great vogue and consideration at Rome, so
that his daily experience furnishes staple enough for
his evening's chit-chat, and he seems, of course, to be
always talking of himself. He is very generally set
down as an egotist. His impulse to talk, however,
springs from no wish for self-glorification, but rather
from an indolent aptness to lay hands on the readiest
and most familiar topic, and that is a kind of egotism
to which I have very little objection—particularly
with the mind fatigued, as it commonly is in Rome,
by a long day's study of works of art. “You will be surprised on glancing at the signature
to this letter. You will be still more surprised when
you are reminded that it is a reply to an unanswered
one of your own—written years ago. That letter lies
by me, expressed with all the diffidence of boyish
feeling. And it seems as if its diffidence would encourage
me in what I wish to say. Yet I write far
more tremblingly than you could have done. “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy
Ione S— calls to thee from the aching void of her
lonely spirit! What name bearest thou? What path
walkest thou? How can I, glow-worm like, lift my
wings and show thee my lamp of guiding love? Thus
wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou art,
perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “`Dear Miss Blidgims: Feeling quite indisposed
myself, and being firmly persuaded that we are
three cases of cholera, I have taken advantage of a
return calesino to hurry on to Modena for medical
advice. The vehicle I take, brought hither a sister of
charity, who assures me she will wait on you, even in
the most malignant stage of your disease. She is
collecting funds for an hospital, and will receive compensation
for her services in the form of a donation to
this object. I shall send you a physician by express
from Modena, where it is still possible we may meet.
With prayers, &c., &c. “Sir: The faculty have decided to impose upon
you the fine of ten dollars and damages, for painting
the president's horse on sabbath night while grazing
on the college green. They, moreover, have removed
Freshman Wilding from your rooms, and appoint as
your future chum the studious and exemplary bearer,
Forbearance Smith, to whom you are desired to show
a becoming respect. “Dear Philip: You will be surprised to hear
that I am in the Lynn jail on a charge of theft and
utterance of counterfeit money. I do not wait to tell
you the particulars. Please come and identify, “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to
be sufficiently public to admit of a groomsman, you
will make me the happiest of friends by selecting me
for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you
of a secret I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured
I should have chosen no one but yourself to
support me on the occasion; and however you have
discovered my design upon your treasure, a thousand
thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Baron: Before taking the usual notice of the occurrence
of this morning, I wish to rectify one or two
points in which our position is false. I find myself,
since last night, the accepted lover of Lady Imogen
Ravelgold, and the master of estates and title as a
count of the Russian empire. Under the etourdissement
of such sudden changes in feelings and fortune,
perhaps my forgetfulness of the lady, in whose cause
you are so interested, admits of indulgence. At any
rate, I am so newly in love with life, that I am willing
to suppose for an hour that had you known these circumstances,
you would have taken a different view of
the offence in question. I shall remain at home till
two, and it is in your power till then to make me the
reparation necessary to my honor. “Dear Sir: My wife wishes me to write to you,
and inform you of her marriage, which took place a
week or two since, and of which she presumes you
are not aware. She remarked to me, that you thought
her looking unhappy last evening, when you chanced
to see her at the play. As she seemed to regret not
being able to answer your note herself, I may perhaps
convey the proper apology by taking upon myself to
mention to you, that, in consequence of eating an imprudent
quantity of unripe fruit, she felt ill before going
to the theatre, and was obliged to leave early.
To day she seems seriously indisposed. I trust she
will be well enough to see you in a day or two—and
remain, THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,
BY HIS FRIEND, Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on
your table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended
to prepare you for that critical campaign. You
must know the ammunition with which you go into
the field. I have seen service, as you know, and,
from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with
discretion. Set your glass before you on the table,
and let us hold a frank council of war. My dear widow: For the wear and tear of your
bright eyes in writing me a letter you are duly credited.
That for a real half-hour, as long as any ordinary
half-hour, such well-contrived illuminations
should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience
of any two stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats
(if not thrown in) turning the comparison a
little in your favor. Thanks—of course—piled high
as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the
attainment of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In
other words, I wish the sin of the Faculty well repented
of, in having endorsed upon parchment such a
barefaced fabrication. Put the document in your pocket,
and come away! There will be no occasion to
air it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for
you, it will then revert to the Faculty. Quiescat ad-huc—as
I used to say of my tailor's bills till they came
through a lawyer. Dear reader: A volume of poems goes from us
in an extra of the Mirror this week, which leaves us
with a feeling—we scarce know how to phrase it—a
feeling of timidity and dread—like a parent's apprehensiveness,
giving his child into the hands of a stranger.
It is not Pliny's “quam sit magnum dare aliquid
in manus hominum,” nor is it, what the habitual avoidance
of grave themes looks like, sometimes—a preference
“to let the serious part of life go by
Like the neglected sand.”
We are used to buttering curiosity with the ooze of
our brains—careful more to be paid than praised—
and we have a cellar, as well as many stories, in our
giddy thought-house; and it is from this cave of privacy
that we have, with reluctance, and consentings far
between, drawn treasures of early feeling and impression,
now bound and offered to you for the first time
in one bundle. Oh, from the different stories of the
mind—from the settled depths, and from the effervescent
and giddy surface—how different looks the world!
—of what different stuff and worth the link that binds
us to it! In looking abroad from one window of the
soul, we see sympathy, goodness, truth, desire for us
and our secrets, that we may be more loved; from
another, we see suspicion, coldness, mockery, and ill-will—the
evil spirits of the world—lying in wait for
us. At one moment—the spirits down, and the heart
calm and trusting—we tear out the golden leaf nearest
the well of life, and pass it forth to be read and wept
over. At another, we bar shutter and blind upon prying
malice, turn key carefully on all below, and,
mounting to the summit, look abroad and jest at the
very treasures we have concealed—wondering at our
folly in even confessing to a heartless world that we
had secrets, and would share them. We are not always
alike. The world does not seem always the
same. We believe it is all good sometimes. We believe
sometimes, that it is but a place accursed, given
to devils and their human scholars. Sometimes we
are all kindness—sometimes aching only for an an
tagonist, and an arena without barrier or law. And
oh what a Procrustes's bed is human opinion—trying
a man's actions and words, in whatever mood committed
and said, by the same standard of rigor! How
often must the angels hovering over us reverse the
sentence of the judge—how oftener still the rebuke
of the old maid and the Pharisee. Sir: A French writer wittily turns the paradox:
“Il faut de l'argent même pour se passer d'argent”—
(is it necessary to have money to be able to do without
it)—and we please ourselves with suspecting that it is
only amid the forgetful ease of possession that you can
have made up your mind to forego us. If so, and
your first se'ennight of unmirrored solitude prove
heavier to bear than the aching three dollar void
balanced against it—so! The pathos of this parting
will have been superfluous. Ladies and gentlemen: In the eleven thousand
shining sixpences which duly rise and dispense their
silver light upon our way, we see of course the
“Heaven of eternal change” toward whose “patines
of bright gold” we have been long stretching with
tiptoe expectation. We trust that, like the unpocketable
troop whose indefatigable punctuality you emulate,
there are still comers to your number unarrived,
and that the “Lost Pleiad” (the single heavenly body
upon whose discontinuance to rise we indited the
foregoing epistle), will come round again in his erratic
orbit, and take his place in the constellation he has
deserted. We give notice here, however, that, at
eleven thousand, we shall, like the nuns of St. Ursula,
stop numbering. There have been virgins since the
shelving of the bones of the “eleven thousand virgins
of Cologne,” yet the oft-told number is still told,
without increase, in the holy tradition. We believe
with the sainted sisterhood that human credence can
go no farther—that 'twixt millions and billions of
virgins the disciple's mind would not be likely to discriminate.
You will still permit us, therefore, to cast
our horoscope upon this nominal number. As other
starry sixpences fall into the chinks of boundless space,
the perceptible increase of our brightness will alone
tell the tale—but they will be marked and welcomed
in the careful astronomy of our leger. You are feeding the news-hopper of your literary
mill, my dear poet, and I am trying on the old trick
of gayety at Saratoga. Which of us should write
the other a letter? You, if you say so—though as I
get older, I am beginning to think well of the town,
even in August. You have your little solaces, my fast
liver! Dear Willis: Your kind note to St. John, of the
Knickerbocker, got me the state-room with the picture
of “Glenmary” on the panel, and I slept under
the protection of your household gods—famously, of
course. The only fault I found with that magnificent
boat, was the right of any “smutched villain” to walk
through her. It is a frightful arrangement that can
sell, to a beauty and a blackguard, for the same money,
the right to promenade on the same carpet, and go to
sleep with the same surroundings on the opposite
sides of a pine partition! Give me a world where
antipodes stay put! But what a right-royal, “slap-up”
supper they give in the Knickerbocker! They'll
make the means better than the end—travelling better
than arriving—if they improve any more! I had a
great mind to go back the next day, and come up
again. “Dear Bel-Phœbe: I have been `twiddling my
sunbeam' (you say my letters are `perfect sunshine')
for some time, more or less, in a quandary as to what
is now resolved upon as `Dear Bel-Phœbe'—the beginning
of this (meant-to-be) faultless epistle. I
chanced to wake critical this morning, and, `dear
Phœbe,' as the beginning of this letter of mine, looked
both vulgar and meaningless. I inked it out as you
see. A reference to my etymological dictionary,
however, restored my liking for that `dear' word. It
is derived from the Anglo-Saxon verb Der-ian, which
means to do mischief. Hence dearth, which, by doing
mischief, makes what remains more precious, and
hence dear, meaning something made precious by having
escaped hurting. `Dear Phœbe,' therefore (meaning
unhurt Phœbe), struck me as pretty well—you being
one of those delicious, late-loving women, destined
to be `hurt' first at thirty. Still, the sacred word
`Phœbe' was too abruptly come upon. It sounded
familiar, and familiarity should be reserved for the
postscript. I should have liked to write `dear Lady
Phœbe,' or `dear Countess Phœbe'—but we are not
permitted to `read our title clear,' in this hideously-simple
country. Might I invent an appellative? We
say char-woman and horse-man—why not put a descriptive
word before a lady's name, by way of respectful
distance. Phœbe Lorn is a belle—why not
say Bel-Phœbe? Good! It sounds authentic. This
letter, then, is to Phœbe, unhurt and beautiful (alias),
`Dear Bel-Phœbe!' “Dear Madam: The undersigned, booksellers,
publishers, and authors, of the city of New York,
have long felt desirous of transmitting to you a memorial
of the high and respectful admiration which
they entertain for one to whose pen we are indebted
for some of the purest and most imaginative productions
in the wide range of English literature. As the
authoress of `Thaddeus of Warsaw,' the `Scottish
Chiefs,' &c., your name has spread over the length
and breadth of our land, and the volumes of your delightful
works may be found gracing alike the abodes
of the wealthy, and the humble dwellings of the
poor. And deservedly so—for if purity of sentiment,
felicity of expression, and the constant inculcation of
the noblest lessons of religion and morality, be any
passport to literary fame, then will the name of Miss
Porter rank high on the list of those whom the present
age delights to honor, and for whom coming ages
will entertain a deep feeling of reverential esteem. Dear Jack: Since my compulsory budding, flowering,
and bearing fruit, have been accelerated to one
season per diem, to feed a daily paper, you will easily
understand that I found it necessary at first to work
all my sap into something useful—omitting as it were,
the gum deposite of superfluous correspondence. I
accordingly left you off. Your last letter was slipped
into the no-more-bother hole, without the usual endorsement
of “answered,” and I considered you like
a trinket laid aside before a race—not to encumber
me. I miss the writing of trumpery, however. I miss
the sweeping out of the corners of my mind—full of
things fit only for the dust-pan, but still very possibly
hiding a silver-spoon. Dear Custom: Your friend is wrong, from the
egg to the apple. Miss Lucy Jones has a mother, or
father, guardian, or friend, at whose house she is to be
married. The invitation should come from the person
under whose protection she is given away—(sent,
if you please, to Mr. Smith's friends, with Mr. Smith's
card, but understood by Miss Lucy Jones's friends,
without card or explanation). It is tampering with
serious things, very dangerously, to circulate the three
words, “and Mrs. John Smith,” one minute before
the putting on of the irrevocable ring. The law
which permits ladies (though not gentlemen) to
change their minds up to the last minute before wed
lock, exacts also that the privileged angels should not
be coerced by the fear of seeing the escaped name
afterward on a wedding card! Besides, such a card,
so issued, would be received from Mrs. Smith before
there was any such person. “Dear Sir: I am directed by the committee of the `Travellers'
to inform you that they have great pleasure in admitting
you as a visiter to the club for the ensuing month, and
that they hope to be favored with your frequent attendance. “Sir: I am directed to inform you that the committee of
the `Athenæum' have ordered your name to be placed on
the list of distinguished foreigners residing in London, who
are invited to the house of the club for three months, subject
to the same regulations as the members are required to
observe. “Mr. Editor: I observe that a `bachelor,' writing
in the `American,' recommends to `invited'
and `inviters,' to send invitations and answers, stamped,
through the penny-post. This is a capital idea,
and I shall adopt it for one. I perceive that a bachelor
in another paper says, `it will suit him and his fellow-bachelors,'
for reasons set forth, and that he will adopt
the plan. Now, Mr. Editor, I am a housekeeper,
and married, and my wife requires the use of all my
servants, and can not spare them to be absent three or
four days, going round the city, delivering notes, on
the eve of a party. These notes could, by the plan
suggested, be delivered in three hours, and insure a
prompt answer. I can then know exactly who is
coming and who is not—a very convenient point of
knowledge! “Right Trusty and Right Well-beloved
Cousin.—We greet you well. Whereas, the 1st day
of March next (or thereabouts) is appointed for our
coronation.—These are to will and command you (all
excuses set apart) to make your personal attendance
on us at the time above-mentioned, furnished and appointed
as to your rank and quality appertaineth.—
There to do and perform all such services as shall be
required and belong to you.—Whereof you are not to
fail.—And so we bid you heartily farewell. “Mr. Editor: One of the greatest treats you
could give your country lady readers, would be to
furnish them from time to time, with brief hints as to
the actual style of fashions in the metropolis. We
have, all along, depended for information on this important
subject, upon the monthly magazines, all of
which profess to give the fashions as worn, but we find
out to our dismay, that they pick up their fashions
from the Paris and London prints at random—some
of them adopted by our city ladies, some not! It thus
happens that we country people, who like to be in the
fashion, are often subjected to great expense and mortification—relying
too implicitly upon the magazine
reports. We cause a bonnet or a dress to be made
strictly in accordance with the style prescribed in the
fashion plate of the magazine, and when we hie away
to the city with our new finery, we discover that our
costume is so outrè that every one laughs at us! Now,
should there not be some remedy for this evil? “`Madam: There is a fund applicable, as vacancies
may occur, to the grant of annual pensions of very
limited amount, which usage has placed at the disposal
of the lady of the first minister. On this fund
there is a surplus of £20 per annum. Dear Fanny: Would your dark eyes vouchsafe
to wonder how I come to write to you? Thus it
befell:— Madame Pico's Concert.—We should guess that
between two and three thousand persons were listeners
in the vast hall of the Tabernacle at the concert. The
five hundred regular opera-goers, who were apparently
all there, were scattered among a mass of graver
countenances, and Madame Pico saw combined her
two bailiwicks of fashion and seriousness. She seems
to be equally popular with both, and her “good-fellow”
physiognomy never showed its honest beauty to
more advantage. She wore a Greek cap of gold braid
on the right-side organ of conscientiousness, and probably
magnetized very powerfully the large gold tassel
that fell from it over her cheek. The English song
was the qui-vive-ity of the evening, however, and
English, from a tongue cradled in a gondola, is certainly
very peculiar! But, preserve us, Rossini-Bellini!
After hearing exclusively Italian music from a
songstress, the descent to Balfe is rather intolerable.
A lark starting for its accustomed zenith with “chicken
fixings” would represent our soul as it undertook to
soar last night with Balfeathered Pico!—What should
make that same song popular is beyond our divining.
Most of its movement works directly in the joint between
the comfortable parts of the voice, and nobody
ever tilted through its see-saw transitions, in our hearing,
without apparent distress. To a lady-friend in the country: I am up to the
knees in newspapers, and write to you under the stare
of nine pigeon-holes, stuffed with literary portent.
Were there such a thing (in this world of everythings)
as papyral magnetism, you would get a letter, not
only typical in itself, but typical of a flood in which
my identity is fast drowning. Oh, the drown of news,
weighed unceasingly—little events and great ones—
against little more than the trouble of snipping round
with scissors! To a horrid death—to a miraculous
preservation—to a heart-gush of poesy—to a marriage
—to a crime—to the turn of a political crisis—to
flashing wit and storied agonies—giving but the one
invariable first thought—“Shall I cut it out?” Alas,
dear beauty-monarch of all you survey!—your own
obituary, were I to read it in a newspaper of to-morrow,
would speak scarce quicker to my heart than to
those scissors of undiscriminating circum-cision!
With the knowledge that the sky above me was enriched,
as Florence once was, by the return of its
long-lost and best model of beauty, I should ask,
with be-paragraphed grief—“will her death do for
the Mirror?” My Dear Sir: To ask me for my idea of General
Morris is like asking the left hand's opinion of the
dexterity of the right. I have lived so long with the
“brigadier,” known him so intimately, worked so constantly
at the same rope, and thought so little of ever
separating from him (except by precedence of ferriage
over the Styx), that it is hard to shove him from me
to the perspective distance—hard to shut my own partial
eyes, and look at him through other people's. I
will try, however, and as it is done with but one foot
off from the treadmill of my ceaseless vocation, you
will excuse both abruptness and brevity. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 200 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The complete works of N.P. Willis | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | This volume is sent forth, with a feeling
somewhat akin to a parent's apprehensiveness,
in giving his child into the hands of a stranger.
We have a cellar, as well as many
stories, in our giddy thought-house; and it
is from this cave of privacy that we have,
with reluctance, and consentings far between,
drawn treasures of feeling and impression,
now bound and offered to you for the first
time in one bundle. Oh, from the different
stories of the mind — from the settled
depths, and from the effervescent and giddy
surface — how different looks the world! — of
what different stuff and worth the link that
binds us to it! In looking abroad from one
window of the soul, we see sympathy, goodness,
truth, desire for us and our secrets, that
we may be more loved; from another, we see
suspicion, coldness, mockery, and ill will —
the evil spirits of the world — lying in wait for
us. At one moment — the spirits down, and
the heart calm and trusting — we tear out the
golden leaf nearest the well of life, and pass
it forth to be read and wept over. At another,
we bar shutter and blind upon prying malice,
turn key carefully on all below, and,
mounting to the summit, look abroad and jest
at the very treasures we have concealed —
wondering at our folly in even confessing to a
heartless world that we had secrets, and would
share them. We are not always alike. The
world does not seem always the same. We
believe it is all good sometimes. We believe
sometimes, that it is but a place accursed, given
to devils and their human scholars. Sometimes
we are all kindness — sometimes aching
only for an antagonist, and an arena without
barrier or law. And oh what a Procrustes'
bed is human opinion — trying a man's actions
and words, in whatever mood committed and
said, by the same standard of rigor! How
often must the angels hovering over us reverse
the sentence of the judge — how oftener still
the rebuke of the old maid and the Pharisee. Sir: In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained
to fall hereafter on this bright spot of earth — the
waters on their way to this sparkling brook — the tints
mixed for the flowers of that enamelled meadow, and
the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers by
the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether
to wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at
my own impertinent audacity toward Nature. How
you can buy the right to exclude at will every other
creature made in God's image from sitting by this
brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying listening
to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees
— how I can sell it you, is a mystery not understood
by the Indian, and dark, I must say to me. “Has there been any mistake in the two-penny post
delivery, that I have not received your article for this
month? If so, please send me the rough draught by
the bearer (who waits), and the compositors will try
to make it out. “Dear Mr. Clay: From causes which you will
probably understand, I have been induced to reconsider
your proposal of marriage to my niece. — Imprudent
as I must still consider your union, I find myself
in such a situation that, should you persevere, I must
decide in its favor, as the least of two evils. You will
forgive my anxious care, however, if I exact of you,
before taking any decided step, a full and fair statement
of your pecuniary embarrassments (which I
understand are considerable) and your present income
and prospects. I think it proper to inform you that
Miss Gore's expectations, beyond an annuity of £300
a year, are very distant, and that all your calculations
should be confined to that amount. With this understanding,
I should be pleased to see you at Ashurst
to-morrow morning. “Your dark eye rests on this once familiar handwriting.
If your pulse could articulate at this moment,
it would murmur he loved me well! He who writes to
you now, after years of silence, parted from you with
your tears upon his lips — parted from you as the last
shadow parts from the sun, with a darkness that must
deepen till morn again. I begin boldly, but the usage
of the world is based upon forgetfulness in absence,
and I have not forgotten. Yet this is not to be a love-letter. “Dear Lady Fanny: If you have anything beside
the ghost-room vacant at Freer Hall, I will run
down to you. Should you, by chance, be alone, ask
up the curate for a week to keep Sir Harry off my
hands; and, as you don't flirt, provide me with somebody
more pretty than yourself for our mutual
security. As my autograph sells for eighteen pence,
you will excuse the brevity of “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission,
which I know not how to broach to you, except by
simple proposal. Will you forgive my abrupt brevity,
if I inform you, without further preface, that the
Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high birth and
ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are
not irrevocably given to another, I can conceive no
sufficient obstacle to your acceptance of this brilliant
connexion. The countess is twenty-two, and not
beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but she has
high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of
course, and conceived a passion for you, of which this
is the result. I am directed to add, that should you
consent, the following conditions are imposed — that
you marry her within four days, making no inquiry
except as to her age, rank, and property, and that,
without previous interview, she come veiled to the
altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to
consider the extraordinary proposition made me in
your letter. The subject, since it is to be entertained
a moment, requires, perhaps, still further reflection —
but my reply shall be definite, and as prompt as I can
bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “Dear Fred: Nothing going on in town, except
a little affair of my own, which I can't leave to go
down to you. Dull even at Crocky's — nobody plays
this hot weather. And now, as to your commissions.
You will receive Dupree, the cook, by to-night's mail.
Grisi won't come to you without her man — `'twasn't
thus when we were boys!' — so I send you a figurante,
and you must do tableaux. I was luckier in finding
you a wit. S — will be with you to-morrow, though,
by the way, it is only on condition of meeting Lady
Midge Bellasys, for whom, if she is not with you, you
must exert your inveiglements. This, by way only
of shuttlecock and battledore, however, for they play
at wit together — nothing more, on her part at least.
Look out for this devilish fellow, my lord Fred! —
and live thin till you see the last of him — for he'll
laugh you into your second apoplexy with the dangerous
ease of a hair-trigger. I could amuse you with
a turn or two in my late adventures, but black and
white are bad confidants, though very well as a business
firm. And, mentioning them, I have drawn on
you for a temporary £500, which please lump with
my other loan, and oblige “Dear Sir Humphrey: Perhaps you will scarce
remember Jane Jones, to whom you presented the
brush of your first fox. This was thirty years ago.
I was then at school in the little village near Tally-ho
hall. Dear me! how well I remember it! On hearing
of your marriage, I accepted an offer from my late
husband, Mr. S — , and our union was blessed
with one boy, who, I must say, is an angel of goodness.
Out of his small income, my dear James furnished
and rented this very genteel house, and he
tells me I shall have it for life, and provides me one
servant, and everything I could possibly want. Thrice
a week he comes out to spend the day and dine with
me, and, in short, he is the pattern of good sons. As
this dear boy is going down to Warwickshire, I can not
resist the desire I have that you should know him,
and that he should bring me back an account of my
lover in days gone by. Any attention to him, dear
Sir Humphrey, will very much oblige one whom you
once was happy to oblige, and still “Dear Sir: I remember Miss Jones very well,
God bless me, I thought she had been dead many
years. I am sure I shall be very happy to see her
son. Will you come out and dine with us? — dinner
at seven. “Dear Nuncle: It's hard on to six o'clock, and
I'm engaged at seven to a junketing at the `Hen and
chickens,' with Stuggins and the maids. If you intend
to make me acquainted with your great lord, now
is the time. If you don't, I shall walk in presently,
and introduce myself; for I know how to make my
own way, nucle — ask Miss Bel's maid, and the other
girls you introduced me to at Tally-ho hall! Be in
a hurry, I'm just outside. “My dear Lord: In the belief that a frank communication
would be best under the circumstances, I
wish to make an inquiry, prefacing it with the assurance
that my only hope of happiness has been for
some time staked upon the successful issue of my
suit for your daughter's hand. It is commonly understood,
I believe, that the bulk of your lordship's fortune
is separate from the entail, and may be disposed
of at your pleasure. May I inquire its amount, or
rather, may I ask what fortune goes with the hand of
Lady Angelica. The Beauchief estates are unfortunately
much embarrassed, and my own debts (I may
frankly confess) are very considerable. You will at
once see, my lord, that, in justice to your daughter, as
well as to myself, I could not do otherwise than make
this frank inquiry before pushing my suit to extremity.
Begging your indulgence and an immediate answer, I
remain, my dear lord, “Dear Lord Frederick: I trust you will not
accuse me of a want of candor in declining a direct
answer to your question. Though I freely own to a
friendly wish for your success in your efforts to engage
the affections of Lady Angelica, with a view to marriage,
it can only be in the irrevocable process of a
marriage settlement that her situation, as to the probable
disposal of my fortune, can be disclosed. I may
admit to you, however, that, upon the events of this
day on which you have written (it so chances), may
depend the question whether I should encourage you
to pursue further your addresses to Lady Angelica. “My dear Angelica: I am happy to know that
there are circumstances which will turn aside much
of the piognancy of the communication I am about to
make to you. If I am not mistaken at least, in believing
a mutual attachment to exist between yourself
and Count Pallardos, you will at once comprehend
the ground of my mental relief, and perhaps, in
a measure, anticipate what I am about to say. “Dear Count: You will wonder at receiving a
friendly note from me after my refusal, two months
since, to meet you over `pistols and coffee;' but reparation
may not be too late, and this is to say, that
you have your choice between two modes of settlement,
viz: — to accept for your stable the hunter you
stole from me (vide police report) and allow me to take
a glass of wine with you at my own table and bury the
hatchet, or, to shoot at me if you like, according to
your original design. Manners and Beauchief hope
you will select the latter, as they owe you a grudge
for the possession of your incomparable bride and her
fortune; but I trust you will prefer the horse, which
(if I am rightly informed) bore you to the declaration
of love at Chasteney. Reply to Crockford's. “My dear St. Leger: Enclosed you have the
only surviving lock of my grizzled wig — sign and symbol
that my disguises are over and my object attained.
The wig burns at this instant in the grate, item my
hand-ruffles, item sundry embroidered cravats a la
vielle cour, item (this last not without some trouble at
my heart) a solitary love-token from Constantia Hervey.
One faded rose — given me at Pæstum, the day
before I was driven disgraced from her presence by
the interference of this insolent fool — one faded rose
has crisped and faded into smoke with the rest. And
so fled from the world the last hope of a warm and
passionate heart, which never gave up its destiny till
now — never felt that it was made in vain, guarded, refined,
cherished in vain, till that long-loved flower lay
in ashes. I am accustomed to strip emotion of its
drapery — determined to feel nothing but what is real —
yet this moment, turn it and strip it, and deny its illusions
as I will, is anguish. `Self-inflicted,' you smile
and say! “I have followed up to this hour, my fair cousin, in
the path you have marked out for me. It has brought
me back, in this chamber, to the point from which I
started under your guidance, and if it had brought me
back unchanged — if it restored me my energy, my
hope, and my prospect of fame, I should pray Heaven
that it would also give me back my love, and be content
— more than content, if it gave me back also my
poverty. The sight of my easel, and of the surroundings
of my boyish dreams of glory, have made my
heart bitter. They have given form and voice to a
vague unhappiness, which has haunted me through all
these absent years — years of degrading pursuits and
wasted powers — and it now impels me from you, kind
and lovely as you are, with an aversion I can not control.
I can not forgive you. You have thwarted my
destiny. You have extinguished with sordid cares a
lamp within me that might, by this time, have shone
through the world. And what am I, since your wishes
are accomplished? Enriched in pocket, and bankrupt
in happiness and self-respect. “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy
Ione S — calls to thee from the aching void of her
lonely spirit! What name bearest thou? What path
walkest thou? How can I, glow-worm like, lift my
wings and show thee my lamp of guiding love? Thus
wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou art,
perhaps, a subscriber to the M — r). Go — truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “`Dear Miss Blidgims: Feeling quite indisposed
myself, and being firmly persuaded that we are
three cases of cholera, I have taken advantage of a
return calesino to hurry on to Modena for medical
advice. The vehicle I take, brought hither a sister of
charity, who assures me she will wait on you, even in
the most malignant stage of your disease. She is
collecting funds for an hospital, and will receive compensation
for her services in the form of a donation to
this object. I shall send you a physician by express
from Modena, where it is still possible we may meet.
With prayers, &c., &c. “Sir: The faculty have decided to impose upon
you the fine of ten dollars and damages, for painting
the president's horse on sabbath night while grazing
on the college green. They, moreover, have removed
Freshman Wilding from your rooms, and appoint as
your future chum the studious and exemplary bearer,
Forbearance Smith, to whom you are desired to show
a becoming respect. “Dear Philip: You will be surprised to hear
that I am in the Lynn jail on a charge of theft and
utterance of counterfeit money. I do not wait to tell
you the particulars. Please come and identify, “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to
be sufficiently public to admit of a groomsman, you
will make me the happiest of friends by selecting me
for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you
of a secret I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured
I should have chosen no one but yourself to
support me on the occasion; and however you have
discovered my design upon your treasure, a thousand
thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Baron: Before taking the usual notice of the occurrence
of this morning, I wish to rectify one or two
points in which our position is false. I find myself,
since last night, the accepted lover of Lady Imogen
Ravelgold, and the master of estates and title as a
count of the Russian empire. Under the etourdissement
of such sudden changes in feelings and fortune,
perhaps my forgetfulness of the lady, in whose cause
you are so interested, admits of indulgence. At any
rate, I am so newly in love with life, that I am willing
to suppose for an hour that had you known these circumstances,
you would have taken a different view of
the offence in question. I shall remain at home till
two, and it is in your power till then to make me the
reparation necessary to my honor. “Dear Sir: My wife wishes me to write to you,
and inform you of her marriage, which took place a
week or two since, and of which she presumes you
are not aware. She remarked to me, that you thought
her looking unhappy last evening, when you chanced
to see her at the play. As she seemed to regret not
being able to answer your note herself, I may perhaps
convey the proper apology by taking upon myself to
mention to you, that, in consequence of eating an imprudent
quantity of unripe fruit, she felt ill before going
to the theatre, and was obliged to leave early.
To day she seems seriously indisposed. I trust she
will be well enough to see you in a day or two — and
remain, Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on
your table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended
to prepare you for that critical campaign. You
must know the ammunition with which you go into
the field. I have seen service, as you know, and,
from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with
discretion. Set your glass before you on the table,
and let us hold a frank council of war. My dear widow: For the wear and tear of your
bright eyes in writing me a letter you are duly credited.
That for a real half-hour, as long as any ordinary
half-hour, such well-contrived illuminations
should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience
of any two stars in the firmament — eyelashes and petticoats
(if not thrown in) turning the comparison a
little in your favor. Thanks — of course — piled high
as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the
attainment of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In
other words, I wish the sin of the Faculty well repented
of, in having endorsed upon parchment such a
barefaced fabrication. Put the document in your pocket,
and come away! There will be no occasion to
air it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for
you, it will then revert to the Faculty. Quiescat ad-huc
— as I used to say of my tailor's bills till they came
through a lawyer. Dear reader: A volume of poems goes from us
in an extra of the Mirror this week, which leaves us
with a feeling — we scarce know how to phrase it — a
feeling of timidity and dread — like a parent's apprehensiveness,
giving his child into the hands of a stranger.
It is not Pliny's “quam sit magnum dare aliquid
in manus hominum,” nor is it, what the habitual avoidance
of grave themes looks like, sometimes — a preference
“to let the serious part of life go by
Like the neglected sand.”
We are used to buttering curiosity with the ooze of
our brains — careful more to be paid than praised —
and we have a cellar, as well as many stories, in our
giddy thought-house; and it is from this cave of privacy
that we have, with reluctance, and consentings far
between, drawn treasures of early feeling and impression,
now bound and offered to you for the first time
in one bundle. Oh, from the different stories of the
mind — from the settled depths, and from the effervescent
and giddy surface — how different looks the world!
— of what different stuff and worth the link that binds
us to it! In looking abroad from one window of the
soul, we see sympathy, goodness, truth, desire for us
and our secrets, that we may be more loved; from
another, we see suspicion, coldness, mockery, and ill-will
— the evil spirits of the world — lying in wait for
us. At one moment — the spirits down, and the heart
calm and trusting — we tear out the golden leaf nearest
the well of life, and pass it forth to be read and wept
over. At another, we bar shutter and blind upon prying
malice, turn key carefully on all below, and,
mounting to the summit, look abroad and jest at the
very treasures we have concealed — wondering at our
folly in even confessing to a heartless world that we
had secrets, and would share them. We are not always
alike. The world does not seem always the
same. We believe it is all good sometimes. We believe
sometimes, that it is but a place accursed, given
to devils and their human scholars. Sometimes we
are all kindness — sometimes aching only for an an
tagonist, and an arena without barrier or law. And
oh what a Procrustes's bed is human opinion — trying
a man's actions and words, in whatever mood committed
and said, by the same standard of rigor! How
often must the angels hovering over us reverse the
sentence of the judge — how oftener still the rebuke
of the old maid and the Pharisee. You are feeding the news-hopper of your literary
mill, my dear poet, and I am trying on the old trick
of gayety at Saratoga. Which of us should write
the other a letter? You, if you say so — though as I
get older, I am beginning to think well of the town,
even in August. You have your little solaces, my fast
liver! Dear Willis: Your kind note to St. John, of the
Knickerbocker, got me the state-room with the picture
of “Glenmary” on the panel, and I slept under
the protection of your household gods — famously, of
course. The only fault I found with that magnificent
boat, was the right of any “smutched villain” to walk
through her. It is a frightful arrangement that can
sell, to a beauty and a blackguard, for the same money,
the right to promenade on the same carpet, and go to
sleep with the same surroundings on the opposite
sides of a pine partition! Give me a world where
antipodes stay put! But what a right-royal, “slap-up”
supper they give in the Knickerbocker! They'll
make the means better than the end — travelling better
than arriving — if they improve any more! I had a
great mind to go back the next day, and come up
again. “Dear Willis: You frightened me to-day, terribly,
in the hint you threw out in the course of conversation
with the `brigadier,' to wit: `Shall we
make it into a monthly?' “Dear Bel-Phœbe: I have been `twiddling my
sunbeam' (you say my letters are `perfect sunshine')
for some time, more or less, in a quandary as to what
is now resolved upon as `Dear Bel-Phœbe' — the beginning
of this (meant-to-be) faultless epistle. I
chanced to wake critical this morning, and, `dear
Phœbe,' as the beginning of this letter of mine, looked
both vulgar and meaningless. I inked it out as you
see. A reference to my etymological dictionary,
however, restored my liking for that `dear' word. It
is derived from the Anglo-Saxon verb Der-ian, which
means to do mischief. Hence dearth, which, by doing
mischief, makes what remains more precious, and
hence dear, meaning something made precious by having
escaped hurting. `Dear Phœbe,' therefore (meaning
unhurt Phœbe), struck me as pretty well — you being
one of those delicious, late-loving women, destined
to be `hurt' first at thirty. Still, the sacred word
`Phœbe' was too abruptly come upon. It sounded
familiar, and familiarity should be reserved for the
postscript. I should have liked to write `dear Lady
Phœbe,' or `dear Countess Phœbe' — but we are not
permitted to `read our title clear,' in this hideously-simple
country. Might I invent an appellative? We
say char-woman and horse-man — why not put a descriptive
word before a lady's name, by way of respectful
distance. Phœbe Lorn is a belle — why not
say Bel-Phœbe? Good! It sounds authentic. This
letter, then, is to Phœbe, unhurt and beautiful (alias),
`Dear Bel-Phœbe!' “Dear Madam: The undersigned, booksellers,
publishers, and authors, of the city of New York,
have long felt desirous of transmitting to you a memorial
of the high and respectful admiration which
they entertain for one to whose pen we are indebted
for some of the purest and most imaginative productions
in the wide range of English literature. As the
authoress of `Thaddeus of Warsaw,' the `Scottish
Chiefs,' &c., your name has spread over the length
and breadth of our land, and the volumes of your delightful
works may be found gracing alike the abodes
of the wealthy, and the humble dwellings of the
poor. And deservedly so — for if purity of sentiment,
felicity of expression, and the constant inculcation of
the noblest lessons of religion and morality, be any
passport to literary fame, then will the name of Miss
Porter rank high on the list of those whom the present
age delights to honor, and for whom coming ages
will entertain a deep feeling of reverential esteem. Dear Jack: Since my compulsory budding, flowering,
and bearing fruit, have been accelerated to one
season per diem, to feed a daily paper, you will easily
understand that I found it necessary at first to work
all my sap into something useful — omitting as it were,
the gum deposite of superfluous correspondence. I
accordingly left you off. Your last letter was slipped
into the no-more-bother hole, without the usual endorsement
of “answered,” and I considered you like
a trinket laid aside before a race — not to encumber
me. I miss the writing of trumpery, however. I miss
the sweeping out of the corners of my mind — full of
things fit only for the dust-pan, but still very possibly
hiding a silver-spoon. Messrs. Editors: My friend John Smith is to be
married to Lucy Jones. She issues a card of invitation
like this: — Dear Custom: Your friend is wrong, from the
egg to the apple. Miss Lucy Jones has a mother, or
father, guardian, or friend, at whose house she is to be
married. The invitation should come from the person
under whose protection she is given away — (sent,
if you please, to Mr. Smith's friends, with Mr. Smith's
card, but understood by Miss Lucy Jones's friends,
without card or explanation). It is tampering with
serious things, very dangerously, to circulate the three
words, “and Mrs. John Smith,” one minute before
the putting on of the irrevocable ring. The law
which permits ladies (though not gentlemen) to
change their minds up to the last minute before wed
lock, exacts also that the privileged angels should not
be coerced by the fear of seeing the escaped name
afterward on a wedding card! Besides, such a card,
so issued, would be received from Mrs. Smith before
there was any such person. “Dear Sir: I am directed by the committee of the `Travellers'
to inform you that they have great pleasure in admitting
you as a visiter to the club for the ensuing month, and
that they hope to be favored with your frequent attendance. “Sir: I am directed to inform you that the committee of
the `Athenæum' have ordered your name to be placed on
the list of distinguished foreigners residing in London, who
are invited to the house of the club for three months, subject
to the same regulations as the members are required to
observe. “Je suis vraiment desolée de ne pouvoir aller ce soir chez
Lady Morgan. Je dine chez le Prince Esterhazy ou je dois
passer la soirée. Demain au soir, j'ai un concert pour M. Laporte,
le reste de la semaine je suis libre et tout à vos ordres.
Si vous croyez de combiner quelque-choze avec Lady Morgan,
comptez sur moi! Demain je passerai chez Lady Morgan
pour faire mes excuses en personne. “Mr. Editor: I observe that a `bachelor,' writing
in the `American,' recommends to `invited'
and `inviters,' to send invitations and answers, stamped,
through the penny-post. This is a capital idea,
and I shall adopt it for one. I perceive that a bachelor
in another paper says, `it will suit him and his fellow-bachelors,'
for reasons set forth, and that he will adopt
the plan. Now, Mr. Editor, I am a housekeeper,
and married, and my wife requires the use of all my
servants, and can not spare them to be absent three or
four days, going round the city, delivering notes, on
the eve of a party. These notes could, by the plan
suggested, be delivered in three hours, and insure a
prompt answer. I can then know exactly who is
coming and who is not — a very convenient point of
knowledge! “Right Trusty and Right Well-beloved
Cousin. — We greet you well. Whereas, the 1st day
of March next (or thereabouts) is appointed for our
coronation. — These are to will and command you (all
excuses set apart) to make your personal attendance
on us at the time above-mentioned, furnished and appointed
as to your rank and quality appertaineth. —
There to do and perform all such services as shall be
required and belong to you. — Whereof you are not to
fail. — And so we bid you heartily farewell. “Mr. Editor: One of the greatest treats you
could give your country lady readers, would be to
furnish them from time to time, with brief hints as to
the actual style of fashions in the metropolis. We
have, all along, depended for information on this important
subject, upon the monthly magazines, all of
which profess to give the fashions as worn, but we find
out to our dismay, that they pick up their fashions
from the Paris and London prints at random — some
of them adopted by our city ladies, some not! It thus
happens that we country people, who like to be in the
fashion, are often subjected to great expense and mortification
— relying too implicitly upon the magazine
reports. We cause a bonnet or a dress to be made
strictly in accordance with the style prescribed in the
fashion plate of the magazine, and when we hie away
to the city with our new finery, we discover that our
costume is so outrè that every one laughs at us! Now,
should there not be some remedy for this evil? “`Madam: There is a fund applicable, as vacancies
may occur, to the grant of annual pensions of very
limited amount, which usage has placed at the disposal
of the lady of the first minister. On this fund
there is a surplus of £20 per annum. To a lady-friend in the country: I am up to the
knees in newspapers, and write to you under the stare
of nine pigeon-holes, stuffed with literary portent.
Were there such a thing (in this world of everythings)
as papyral magnetism, you would get a letter, not
only typical in itself, but typical of a flood in which
my identity is fast drowning. Oh, the drown of news,
weighed unceasingly — little events and great ones —
against little more than the trouble of snipping round
with scissors! To a horrid death — to a marriage
preservation — to a heart-gush of poesy — to a marriage
— to a crime — to the turn of a political crisis — to
flashing wit and storied agonies — giving but the one
50
invariable first thought — “Shall I cut it out?” Alas,
dear beauty-monarch of all you survey! — your own
obituary, were I to read it in a newspaper of to-morrow,
would speak scarce quicker to my heart than to
those scissors of undiscriminating circum-cision!
With the knowledge that the sky above me was enriched,
as Florence once was, by the return of its
long-lost and best model of beauty, I should ask,
with be-paragraphed grief — “will her death do for
the Mirror?” My Dear Sir: To ask me for my idea of General
Morris is like asking the left hand's opinion of the
dexterity of the right. I have lived so long with the
“brigadier,” known him so intimately, worked so constantly
at the same rope, and thought so little of ever
separating from him (except by precedence of ferriage
over the Styx), that it is hard to shove him from me
to the perspective distance — hard to shut my own partial
eyes, and look at him through other people's. I
will try, however, and as it is done with but one foot
off from the treadmill of my ceaseless vocation, you
will excuse both abruptness and brevity. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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