| | 282 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's
night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered
window of the house which had always been his
home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock,
were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at
ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by
the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing
well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips
whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even
till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells
me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind
me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted
brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend
to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record
my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of
stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to
have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see
that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar
used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am,
as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but
simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor
diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent
catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about
—or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important
for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the
trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see.
It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called
upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit,
I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard
from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote
to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I
think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I
have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to
begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I
feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as
my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying
any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the
“allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of
seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as
to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of
myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle
down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over,
you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I
went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at
least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the
way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful),
and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once—
painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is
to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin.
There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know,
Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little
beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort,
in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the
painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young
masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is
not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and
this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as
you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because
there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery)
that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So,
don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show
our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper
for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if
there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow,
it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only
hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is
liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation
of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very
amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be
throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this
is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling
upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore,
we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly,
may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at
the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow
and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to
trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered
and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made
giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless
and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine
moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes
very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not
merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but
the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success
and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye.
If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither
be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all
undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama—
so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no
sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You
are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying
your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in
Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more
because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened
to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon,
Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration
of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious
Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything
else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very
new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for
excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler
of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at
least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils
and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive
shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing,
and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you
will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist
who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which
shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the
course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted
your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you
into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven.
He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement;
but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double
flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the
artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar
which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love.
The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred
till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a
part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost
claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin
to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding
something to look back and say, which you will first read probably,
when I am already there. It will be written with the
trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from
the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I
trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace,
with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes
may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition
at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray
believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records
of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will
speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for
you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and
associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course,
be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at
home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms
are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul,
a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time,
“a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years,
and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable
by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though
very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized
and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall
thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature
to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the
bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from
a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your
advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help
a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt—
so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman
in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I
must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to
my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from
keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it
was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to
which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your
daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A
false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment,
at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me
also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this
also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple
duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification
of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture,
though I do so by placing myself and the consequences
entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed
between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents.
There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language
of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we
were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard
up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly,
and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me
so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce
necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only,
I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For
my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend
than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much
harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say
I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am
I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me,
however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new
laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have
forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle,
of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell,
and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for
the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to
us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a
farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such
a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted
of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is
it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive
ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across
the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote
you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs.
Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me,
and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have
been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished
for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings
home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under
her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is
by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 283 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The town-clock was on the last stroke of
twelve, the solitary candle measured but two
inches from its socket, and, as the summer
wind rushed through the half-closed shutters,
the melted tallow dripped slowly into the
brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The
flickering light fell upon grim battalions of
figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined
pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the
face of the accountant, as he bent over his
work. In these latter days of physical degeneration,
such athletic frames as his are rarely
seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen
years growth had given him unusual height
and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was
difficult to realize that the stature of manhood
had been attained by a mere boy in years. A
gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather
coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing
to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the
coat was thrown partially off. He wore no
vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered
the snowy white collar to fall away
from the throat and expose its well-turned
outline. The head was large, but faultlessly
proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut
short and clinging to the temples, added to its
massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and
smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching
the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed
nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril,
and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache,
combined to render the face one of uncommon
beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures,
there was nothing prepossessing or winning
in his appearance, for though you could
not carp at the moulding of his features, you
involuntarily shrank from the prematurely
grave, nay, austere expression which seemed
habitual to them. He looked just what he
was, youthful in months and years, but old in
trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who
analyzed his countenance, the conviction was
inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition
unbounded, his intellect wonderfully
acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark
in young faces the absence of that
beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous
heart imparts, and though in this instance
there was nothing dark or sinister, you could
not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res
olution which said so plainly: “I struggle,
and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the
world defy me.” Although he had labored
since dawn, there was no drooping of the
muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save
in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm
as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he
sat and worked on, one hand wielding the
pen, the other holding down the leaves which
fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed
over them. “Electra, come to school Monday. The
enclosed will pay your tuition for two months
longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it, if
you really love “With gratitude beyond all expression for
the favor conferred on my mother and myself,
some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon
the money which I have ever regarded
as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future
will afford me some opportunity of proving
my appreciation of her great kindness, “If you do not feel quite ready for the day
of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the
plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six
developed cases of rank typhus. “Before you leave W—, allow me to
see you for a few moments. If your departure
is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to
me this afternoon, at any hour which may
be most convenient. “Huntingdon was desperately wounded at
three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He
died two hours ago. I was with him. The
body leaves to-morrow for W—. “Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded.
Cyrus will show the way. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 284 | Author: | EDITED BY
A Son of Temperance. | Add | | | Title: | The fountain and the bottle | | | | 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: | By Father Frane. “My dear Daughter,—As I write this, you are
playing about my room, a happy child, and all unconscious
of the great loss you will soon have to bear in
the death of your mother. Not long have I now to
remain upon the earth. The sands in my glass have
run low; the life-blood in my heart is ebbing; a few
more fluttering pulses, and my spirit will take its
flight from earth.—Ah, my child! not until you are
yourself a mother, can you understand how I am distressed
at the thought of leaving you alone in this
selfish and cruel world! But I will not linger on
this theme. “Mr. Guzzler,—Dear Sir:—I find that it won't
be convenient for me to lend you the money we
talked about. In fact, to tell the plain truth, I hardly
think it prudent to risk any thing with a man who
neglects his business. No one who lies in bed until
eleven or twelve in the morning, need expect to get
along. Pardon this freedom; but he is the best
friend, generally, who speaks the plainest. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 289 | Author: | Lippard
George
1822-1854 | Add | | | Title: | The Rose of Wissahikon, or, The Fourth of July, 1776 | | | | 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: | A hale old man, leaning on his rifle, with an iron frame,
a bronzed visage, and snow-white hair! Ere you receive this, you will have learned that the prominent members
of the Rebel Congress have been seized and made prisoners, by
certain gentlemen who have proclaimed George Washington, the Rebel
General, King. At this hour, Hancock, Jefferson, Adams, with other
Delegates, are prisoners at my house, near Philadelphia. Thus have
we introduced dissension among the ranks of the rebels; while one
party prate about a republic, another talk of returning to their allegiance,
and a third—I know your excellency will smile—prate of King
Washington. How this has been accomplished, will be made known
at the proper time. Enough to say, that this Declaration, about which
they whispered so deeply, for a month back, this Proclamation of Independence,
is now crushed—quite forgotten in the public clamor. Permit
me to hope, that in announcing these facts to his Majesty, you will
neither forget the services, nor promised reward of | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 292 | Author: | Lippard
George
1822-1854 | Add | | | Title: | Washington and his men | | | | 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: | “I was born of a noble ancestry,” said a great man
who had risen from the kennel where Poverty hides its
hopeless face—“True, my parents were poor, but
three hundred years ago, the blood which flows in my
veins, coursed in the veins of Lords, Archbishops,
Counts, Dukes and Kings.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 293 | Author: | Longstreet
Augustus Baldwin
1790-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Georgia scenes | | | | 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: | If my memory fail me not, the 10th of June, 1809,
found me at about 11 o'clock in the forenoon, ascending
a long and gentle slope, in what was called “The Dark
Corner” of Lincoln. I believe it took its name from
the moral darkness, which reigned over that portion of
the county, at the time of which I am speaking. If in
this point of view, it was but a shade darker than the
rest of the county, it was inconceivably dark. If any
man can name a trick, or sin, which had not been committed
at the time of which I am speaking, in the very
focus of all the county's illumination, (Lincolnton) he
must himself be the most inventive of the tricky, and the
very Judas of sinners. Since that time, however, (all
humor aside) Lincoln has become a living proof “that
light shineth in darkness.” Could I venture to mingle
the solemn with the ludicrous, even for the purposes of
honorable contrast, I could adduce from this county instances
of the most numerous and wonderful transitions,
from vice and folly, to virtue and holiness, which have
ever perhaps been witnessed since the days of the apostolic
ministry. So much, lest it should be thought by
some, that what I am about to relate, is characteristic of
the county in which it occurred. “Dear Sir:—I send you the money collected on the
notes you left with me. Since you left here, Polly has
been thinking about old times, and she says, to save her
life she can't recollect you.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 295 | Author: | Mathews
Cornelius
1817-1889 | Add | | | Title: | Big Abel, and the little Manhattan | | | | 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: | Whoever has sailed up or down the East River in a fog, or
driven to Hallet's Cove, Long Island, on a dusty day, or walked
the Third Avenue in the moonlight, has been beset by the vision
of a great white tower, rising, ghost-like, in the air, and holding
all the neighborhood in subjection to its repose and supernatural
port. The Shot-Tower is a strange old fellow, to be sure! 'Spite
of that incessant buzzing in his head, he holds himself as high
and grandly, as though he hadn't the trouble of making shot for
the six-and-twenty United States. He never dozes or nods, even
in the summer noon; nor does he fall asleep in the most crickety
nights, but winks, with that iron top of his, at all the stars, as they
come up, one by one; and outwatches them all. There he is,
gaunt and clean, as a ghost in a new shroud, every day in the
year. Build as you may, old Gotham! Hammer and ding and
trowel on all sides of him, if you choose,—you cannot stir him an
inch, nor sully the whiteness in which he sees himself clothed, in
that pure glass of his of Kipp's Bay! If you have seen him once,
you know him always. A sturdy Shot-Tower to be sure!—and
go where you will, you carry him with you. He is the Ghost of
New York, gone into the suburbs to meditate on the wickedness
of mankind, and haunt the Big City, in many a dream of war, and
gun-shot wounds, and pattering carnage, when he falls asleep. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 296 | Author: | Mathews
Cornelius
1817-1889 | Add | | | Title: | Chanticleer | | | | 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: | I SEE old Sylvester Peabody—the head of the
Peabody family—seated in the porch of his country
dwelling, like an ancient patriarch, in the calm
of the morning. His broad-brimmed hat lies on the
bench at his side, and his venerable white locks flow
down his shoulders, which time in one hundred seasons
of battle and sorrow, of harvest and drouth, of
toil and death, in all his hardy wrestlings with old
Sylvester, has not been able to bend. The old man's
form is erect and tall, and lifting up his head to its
height, he looks afar, down the country road which
leads from his rural door, towards the city. He has
kept his gaze in that direction for better than an
hour, and a mist has gradually crept upon his vision;
objects begin to lose their distinctness; they grow
dim or soften away like ghosts or spirits; the whole
landscape melts gently into a pictured dew before him.
Is old Sylvester, who has kept it clear and bright so
long, losing his sight at last, or is our common world,
already changing under the old patriarch's pure regard,
into that better, heavenly land? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 297 | Author: | McHenry
James
1753-1816 | Add | | | Title: | O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief | | | | 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: | Perhaps no where in the British Islands, will
the admirer of the grand and sublime, in the works
of nature, find more gratification than along the
northern shores of the county of Antrim. From
the Gabbon precipices, near the entrance of Larne
Harbour, to Port Rush, near Colerain, a long
range of rocky coast, extending upwards of fifty
miles, exhibits, in some places, the boldest promontories
jutting into the sea, and perforated with
numerous caverns, into many of which the raging
waters pour with reverberating noise. In other
places, small bays, occasioned by the mouths of
the rivers and rivulets that there seek a junction
with the ocean, interrupt the continuity of the
rocky chain, and by affording to the visiter the
view of towns and villages, surrounded by the fertility
of nature, and the conveniences of art, produce
a striking and pleasing contrast to the prevailing
wildness of the coast, and make its grandeur
still more grand. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 298 | Author: | McHenry
James
1753-1816 | Add | | | Title: | O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief | | | | 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: | It was on the evening of the fourth of June, that
a messenger arrived from Belfast, at O'Halloran
Castle. He delivered to its owner the following
note, and passed on to circulate others of a similar
import throughout the country. “The signal is given. The mail coach has not
arrived. Our informant says it was stopped yesterday
at Swords. The south is in arms—Wexford is
taken. Let the rising be on the 7th inst. The general
rendezvous for this county is Donegore hill.
The small parties of the military quartered in the
country towns must be captured, if possible, by
surprise. The bearer will proceed with intelligence
along the coast. You will despatch messengers
through the interior, by Ballynure, Ballyclare,
Ballyeaston, Ballymena, &c. Expedition is requisite. “I am now a prisoner in the hands of the insurgents;
and you may be sure I am well treated,
when I inform you that I have had influence
enough to persuade them to postpone an attack,
which, just as I was brought here, they were on
the point of making upon you. “Sir, we are to the number of sixteen hundred
men in arms, prepared to attack the garrison under
your command. But to give you an opportunity
of saving your soldiers from destruction, we
have thought proper, first, to apprize you of our intention,
and to summon you in the name of our
country, to surrender your party, both military
and others, with all your warlike stores, into our
hands. As our prisoners your lives will be safe,
and as much attention as possible paid to your
comforts. The lives, families and properties of
such of our town's-men as have joined you, shall
also remain unmolested. Our attack shall be suspended,
in expectation of your compliance, for three
quarters of an hour, but no longer. “Sir, enclosed is my reply to the rebel chieftains.
By it you will see that you anticipated truly,
when you supposed that I would not agree to an
unconditional surrender. I am sorry that you are
in their power; but it is pleasing to find that they
are not disposed to abuse their good fortune, by
acts of wantonness or cruelty. It may yet be in
my power to show that I can esteem humanity,
even in such an enemy. “In answer to your message, I have to inform
you that rather than comply with your demands,
my party and myself are resolved to meet destruction
amidst the ruins of the place, which it is our
duty to defend. Do not, however, suppose that we
shall fall an easy prey. It is true, your number
exceed ours by ten to one; but were they a hundred
to one, as we are fully supplied with the
means of defence, we know too well how to use
them, not to make our enemies deplore the dearness
of any victory they may gain over us. In
your case, it is apparent that victory is at least
doubtful. Some traits of humanity displayed by
you have been communicated to me, in consideration
of which I give you my promise, and all the
gentlemen of the town, who have so gallantly come
to my assistance, will guarantee its performance,
that if you lay down your arms, and return peaceably
to your allegiance, all that you have yet done
shall be overlooked, and pardoned, and the full
and free protection of the laws of your country
shall once more be extended towards you. Should
you reject this offer, I can only deplore your infatuation;
I must resist you unto destruction, and
the blood of those who may fall on both sides, be
upon your heads. “Dear Sir—It has fallen to my lot to communicate
to you the unfortunate news of the forces we
assembled this morning, being completely defeated
and dispersed, after a severe conflict with a large
body of the king's troops, near Ballynahinch, in
which it is supposed, that we lost upwards of one
thousand men. “Sir, being informed that you have the rebel
chief, O'Halloran, in custody, I am induced, in
consequence of some representations made to me
in his favour, by a person well acquainted with
him, to pardon his offence, on condition that he
shall pay a fine to be assessed by you to any
amount, not exceeding ten thousand pounds, which
sum shall be appropriated to the relief of those
royalists who have suffered from the rebellion in
the county of Antrim. “Dear Barrymore—I have at length followed
you. Excited by my ardent desire to see the peerless
beauty, who could so completely subdue a
heart which was impregnable to all the attacks of
the Dublin fair, I eagerly embraced the first moment,
in which I could, with propriety, undertake
the journey. The day before I left the city, I
waited on the Lord Lieutenant, with the letter you
enclosed from the Recluse, who, I understand, is to
be no longer a mendicant, but is to appear in society
in his own proper character of Francis Hamilton,
Esq. of Hamilton-hall, in the county of Tyrone.
His excellency was much pleased to hear from
him; and, without delay, not only granted to him
his request, but wrote to him a long letter, which
on finding I was about to take a Northern trip, he
entrusted to my care. “Dear Sir—It is with great satisfaction that I
acknowledge the receipt of your's of this morning,
covering the commands of his excellency, the Lord
Lieutenant, respecting you, which, of course, it is
my duty, as well as my pleasure, to obey. I shall
make the agreeable communication known without
delay to all the justices of the peace, jailers, and
other officers, whom it concerns, so that you will
be in no danger of personal molestation; and may
appear in public whenever you think proper. “My Son—A few days ago, I received from you
a very foolish letter, requesting me to consent to
your marriage with a woman I never saw, nor, until
that very moment, ever heard of. I took, of
course, some pains to inquire concerning her, and
her connexions. The only person from whom I
could obtain much information, is your old mendicant
protagee, who praises her in a style that I
cannot well understand; but from which I can
gather that she is a great beauty. I presume,
therefore, that in the ardour of your admiration,
you have endowed her with angelic qualities, for
in the eyes of every love-sick young man who has
a handsome mistress, she cannot be aught else
than an angel. “* * * * * * * * * At what an awful crisis,”
said he, “have I been entrusted with the government
of this unfortunate country? Treason, rebellion,
massacre, and invasion, have shaken her to
pieces, and have prostrated her into the depth of
misery. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 299 | Author: | McHenry
James
1753-1816 | Add | | | Title: | Meredith, or, The mystery of the Meschianza | | | | 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: | I know not whether any philosopher has
ever made the observation, that, the heart which
is the most susceptible of gratitude, is also
the most readily excited to revenge. But
it is a truth which, for its confirmation, requires
not the testimony of philosophers. It
has human nature for its foundation, and experience
for its support. Indeed it is reasonable
to suppose that he who is very sensible of
kindness will be equally so of injuries. Both
feelings spring from the same source, acuteness
of sensation. Hence the frequent saying in relation
to a man of sensibility, that he is either a very
warm friend, or a very bitter enemy. There are
indeed exceptions. But to what rule is there
not? There may be, nay, there actually are,
kind and amiable people whose sensibilities are
altogether on the side of good nature. But
these are generally tame and inefficient beings,
who are either devoid of sagacity to see when
they are injured, or destitute of courage to
show resentment. “I can live no longer. My life has
been for some months but one continued paroxysm
of mental agony. My existence much
longer would bring upon you the most indelible
and unmitigable disgrace that could, by a
daughter, be inflicted on a father. My last interview
with Harris proved fatal to my honour.
He ruined me, and then abandoned me
for ever.—That interview! alas, it was a stolen
one, unknown to you, and granted at his entreaty
contrary to your injunctions. Oh! how
I have been punished for my disobedience!
No one has as yet perceived the effects of my
guilt in the alteration of my person. But in
a short time it would become too apparent
for concealment. Then, then, my father, you
would be disgraced for ever; and were I to
live, I would see you dying broken-hearted—
and I the cause! But I will not live to witness
such a calamity. In opium there is power to destroy
life, by lulling the senses into lethargy
and dissolving the springs of animation. I have
provided myself with the precious drug which
is to relieve me for ever from that load of
earthly misery which has become too great for
me longer to endure. Farewell, my beloved
father. Oh! do not curse me when I shall be
dead, for my last prayer to Heaven shall ascend
for thee.” “You were once the object of my
fond attachment. I addressed you sincerely
Q
with a view to our final alliance, and we became
engaged. Circumstances have lately given
another direction to my views. It is, therefore,
my duty to release you from your engagement.
I do this the more readily and promptly,
because I am aware that my cousin, Captain
Harris, of the British army, has placed his
affections upon you, and I am desirous of being
no longer considered an obstacle to the
success of his suit. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 300 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Add | | | Title: | Mardi | | | | 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 are off! The courses and topsails are set: the
coral-hung anchor swings from the bow: and together, the
three royals are given to the breeze, that follows us out to
sea like the baying of a hound. Out spreads the canvas—
alow, aloft—boom-stretched, on both sides, with many a
stun' sail; till like a hawk, with pinions poised, we shadow
the sea with our sails, and reelingly cleave the brine. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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