| | 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: | Read
Thomas Buchanan
1822-1872 | Add | | | Title: | Paul Redding | | | | 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 Brandywine river may be observed, at one
time, winding slowly, in its silvery silence, through
richly-pastured farms; or running broad and rippling
over its beautiful bed of pearly shells and
golden pebbles, (with which it toys and sings as
merrily as an innocent-hearted child,) until its
waters contract and roll heavily and darkly beneath
the grove of giant oaks, elms and sycamores; but
soon, like the sullen flow of a dark heart, it breaks
angrily over the first obstruction. Thus you may
see the Brandywine, at one point, boiling savagely
over a broken bed of rocks, until its thick sheets of
foam slide, like an avalanche of snow, into a deep
pool, where it sends up a whispering voice, like
that which pervades a rustling audience when the
drop-curtain has shed its folds upon a scene that,
like the “Ancient Mariner,” has held each ear and
eye as with a magic spell. “You have been a wanderer in the world; so have
I. Wherever you have been, there have I been,
also. I have been near you a thousand times
when you little guessed it. But all that is passed.
The time has arrived. Enclosed among these
papers you will find that which will make you
independent of the world. The property is mostly
yours; but you are not alone; there are those who
will be dependent upon you; fail not to do your
duty by them — love them as you should love those
nearest and dearest to you. This letter is only to
prepare you for the perusal of others of deeper
importance; you will find them all at your command,
and as you read them, O, curse me not!
but weep that humanity should fall so far; then
pray that God may cleanse the blood-stained soul,
and forgive, (yes, Paul, it is true!) your dying
father! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 191 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Add | | | Title: | The inquisitor, or, Invisible rambler | | | | 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 Should like to know the certainty of it, said I,
putting the petition into my pocket.—It contained
an account of an unfortunate tradesman reduced to
want, with a wife and three small children.—He asked
not charity for himself, but them.—I should like
to know the certainty of it, said I—there are so many
feigned tales of distress, and the world is so full
of duplicity, that in following the dictates of humanity
we often encourage idleness.—Could I but be
satisfied of the authenticity of this man's story, I
would do something for him. Poor fellow! said I, looking at him with an
eye of compassion as he went out of the apartment
—Poor fellow! thou hast been hardly used by one
man who called himself a Christian, and it makes
thee suspect the whole race—But, surely, said I, it is
not a man's barely prosessing Christianity that makes
him worthy that character; a man must behave
with humanity, not only to his fellow-creatures, but
to the animal creation, before he can be ranked with
propriety among that exalted class of mortals. It was on a fine evening, the latter end of May,
when tired with the fatigues of the day, for she was
a milliner's apprentice, Annie obtained leave of her
mistress to walk out for a little air.—Her mistress
had a shop which she occupied, and frequently visited
during the summer season, situated on the banks
of the Thames. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 198 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The damsel of Darien | | | | 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: | “Nothing,” remarks a distinguished modern writer of
our own country, “could be more chivalrous, urbane and
charitable; nothing more pregnant with noble sacrifices of
passion and interest, with magnanimous instances of forgiveness
of injuries, and noble contests of generosity, than
the transactions of the Spanish discoverers of America with
each other:—” he adds—“it was with the Indians alone
that they were vindictive, blood-thirsty, and implacable.”
In other words, when dealing with their equals—with those
who could strike hard and avenge,—they forbore offence
and injury; to the feeble and unoffending, alone, they
were cruel and unforgiving. Such being the case, according
to the writer's own showing, the eulogium upon
their chivalry, charity, and urbanity, is in very doubtful
propriety, coming from the lips of a Christian historian;
and our charity would be as singularly misplaced as his,
were we to suffer its utterance unquestioned. But the
alleged characteristics of these Spanish adventurers in regard
to their dealings with each other, are any thing but
true, according to our readings of history; and with all
deference to the urbane and usually excellent authority referred
to, we must be permitted, in this place, to record
our dissent from his conclusions. It will not diminish,
perhaps, but rather elevate the character of these discoverers,
to show that their transactions with each other were, with
a few generous exceptions, distinguished by a baseness and
vindictiveness quite as shameless and unequivocal as marked
their treatment of the Indians:—that nearly every departure
from their usual faithlessness of conduct, was induced by
fear, by favour, or the hope of ultimate reward;—that, devouring
the Indians for their treasure, they scrupled not to
exhibit a like rapacity towards their own comrades, in its
attainment, or upon its division; and that, in short, a more
inhuman, faithless, blood-thirsty and unmitigated gang of
savages never yet dishonoured the name of man or debased
his nature. The very volume which contains the eulogy
upon which we comment—Irving's “Companions of Columbus,”—a
misnomer, by the way, since none of them
were, or could be, properly speaking, his companions—
abounds in testimonies which refute and falsify it. The
history of these “companions” is a history of crime and
perfidy from the beginning; of professions made without
sincerity, and pledges violated without scruple; of crimes
committed without hesitation, and, seemingly, without remorse;
of frauds perpetrated upon the confiding, and injuries
inflicted without number upon the defenceless; and
these, too, not in their dealings merely with the natives,
for these they only destroyed, but in their intercourse with
their own comrades; with those countrymen to whom
nature and a common interest should have bound them, to
the fullest extent of their best abilities and strongest sympathies;
but whom they did not scruple to plunder and
abuse, at the instance of motives the most mercenary and
dishonourable. With but a few, and those not very remarkable
exceptions, all the doings of this “ocean chivalry”
are obnoxious to these reproaches. It is enough, in
proof, to instance the fortunes of Cortes, Ojeda, Ponce de
Leon, Balboa, Nienesa, Pizarro, Almagro, and the “great
admiral” himself; most of them hostile to each other, and
all of them victims to the slavish, selfish hates and festering
jealousies, the base avarice, and scarcely less base ambition
of the followers whom they led to wealth, and victory,
and fame. Like most fanatics, who are generally the
creatures of vexing and variable moods, rather than of principle
and a just desire for renown, none of them, with the
single exception of Columbus, seem to have been above
the force of circumstances, which moved them hourly, as
easily to a disregard of right, as to a fearlessness of danger.
At such periods they invariably proved themselves indifferent
to all the ties of country, to all the sentiments of
affection, to all the laws of God: a mere blood-thirsty soldiery,
drunk with the frequent indulgence of a morbid appetite,
and as utterly indifferent, in their frenzy, to their
sworn fellowships as to the common cause. Of the whole
chivalry of this period and nation, but little that is favourable
can be said. That they were brave and fearless, daring
and elastic, cannot be denied. But here eulogium must
cease. From the bigot monarch upon the throne, to the
lowest soldier serving under his banner, they seem all to
have been without faith. The sovereign had no scruple,
when interest moved him and occasion served, to break the
pledges which he might not so easily evade; and the morals
of his people furnished no reproachful commentary upon
the laxity of his own. Let us but once close our eyes
upon the bold deeds and uncalculating courage of these
warriors, and the picture of their performances becomes
one loaded with infamy and shame. The mind revolts
from the loathsome spectacle of perfidy and brute-baseness
which every where remains; and it is even a relief, though
but a momentary one, once more to look upon the scene of
strife, and forget, as we are but too apt to do, in the gallant
passage of arms, the meanness and the malice of him who
delights us with his froward valour, and astounds us with
admiration of his skill and strength. The relief is but
transient, however, and the next moment reveals to us a reenactment
of the sin and the shame, from which the bravest
and the boldest among them could not long maintain the
“whiteness of their souls.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 199 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | The damsel of Darien | | | | 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: | With the first beams of the morning sun, the Indian
warriors of Zemaco, a wild and motly armament, prepared
to descend from the mountains into the plain, or
rather valley, in which lay the Spanish settlement of Darien.
More than five thousand men, detachments from a
hundred tribes, which acknowledged the sovereignty of
Zemaco, were assembled under the lead of this vindictive
chief. They gathered at his summons from the province
of Zobayda, where the golden temple of their worship
stood, and which they esteemed to be the visible dwelling
of their God; Abibeyba, Zenu, and many other provinces,
the several cassiques of which, though not present with
the quotas which they provided, were yet required by
Zemaco to hold themselves in readiness to defend their
territories from the incursions of the Spaniards. The
hills that rose on three sides of the Spanish settlement
were darkened with savage warriors. Exulting in the
certainty of victory, they brandished their macanas of
palm wood, and shot their arrows upward in defiance,
while they sounded their war conchs for the general gathering.
Never, in his whole career of sway and conquest,
had the proud mountain chief at one time, assembled
so vast a host. Their numbers, their known valour,
the great strength of their bodies, and the admirable skill
with which they swung aloft the club or sent the arrow
to its mark, filled his bosom with a vain confidence in his
own superiority, which the better taught Caonabo earnestly
endeavoured to qualify and caution. But his counsels
fell upon unwilling ears, and it was soon apparent to
the latter that the prudence which he commended had the
effect of diminishing his own courage in the estimation of
his hearers. Once assured of this, the mortified Caonabo
sank back to his little command, patiently resolved to
await events, and remove any doubts on this head, of the
Cassique of Darien, by the actual proofs of his prowess,
which he was determined to display upon the field. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 200 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Border beagles | | | | 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 little town of Raymond, in the state of Mississippi,
was in the utmost commotion. Court-day
was at hand, and nothing was to be heard but the
hum of preparation for that most important of all
days in the history of a country village—that of
general muster alone excepted. Strange faces and
strange dresses began to show themselves in the
main street; lawyers were entering from all quarters—“saddlebag”
and “sulky” lawyers—men who
cumber themselves with no weight of law, unless it
can be contained in moderately-sized heads, or valise,
or saddle-bag, of equally moderate dimensions.
Prowling sheriff's officers began to show their hands
again, after a ten or twenty days' absence in the surrounding
country, where they had gone to the great
annoyance of simple farmers, who contract large
debts to the shop-keeper on the strength of crops yet
to be planted, which are thus wasted on changeable
silks for the spouse, and whistle-handled whips for
“Young Hopeful” the only son and heir to possession,
which, in no long time will be heard best of
under the auctioneer's hammer. The population of
the village was increasing rapidly; and what with the
sharp militia colonel, in his new box coat, squab
white hat, trim collar and high-heeled boots, seeking
to find favour in the regiment against the next election
for supplying the brigadier's vacancy; the
swaggering planter to whom certain disquieting hints
of foreclosure have been given, which he can evade
no longer, and which he must settle as he may; the
slashing overseer, prime for cockfight or quarterrace,
and not unwilling to try his own prowess upon
his neighbour, should occasion serve and all other
sports fail; the pleading and impleaded, prosecutor
and prosecuted, witnesses and victims,—Raymond
never promised more than at present to swell beyond
all seasonable boundaries, and make a noise in
the little world round it. Court-day is a day to remember
in the West, either for the parts witnessed
or the parts taken in the various performances; and
whether the party be the loser of an eye or ear, or
has merely helped another to the loss of both, the
case is still pretty much the same; the event is not
usually forgotten. The inference was fair that there
would be a great deal of this sort of prime brutality
performed at the present time. Among the crowd
might be seen certain men who had already distinguished
themselves after this manner, and who strutted
and swaggered from pillar to post, as if conscious
that the eyes of many were upon them, either in scorn
or admiration. Notoriety is a sort of fame which
the vulgar mind essentially enjoys beyond any other;
and we are continually reminded, while in the crowd,
of the fellow in the play, who says he “loves to be
contemptible.” Some of these creatures had lost an
eye, some an ear, others had their faces scarred
with the strokes of knives; and a close inspection of
others might have shown certain tokens about their
necks, which testified to bloody ground fights, in
which their gullets formed an acquaintance with the
enemy's teeth, not over-well calculated to make
them desire new terms of familiarity. Perhaps, in
most cases, these wretches had only been saved
from just punishment by the humane intervention of
the spectators—a humanity that is too often warmed
into volition, only when the proprietor grows sated
with the sport. At one moment the main street in
Raymond was absolutely choked by the press of
conflicting vehicles. Judge Bunkell's sulky hitched
wheels with the carriage of Col. Fishhawk, and
squire Dickens' bran new barouche, brought up from
Orleans only a week before, was “staved all to
flinders”—so said our landlady—“agin the corner
of Joe Richards' stable.” The 'squire himself narrowly
escaped the very last injury in the power of a
fourfooted beast to inflict, that is disposed to use his
hoofs heartily—and, bating an abrasion of the left
nostril, which diminished the size, if it did not, as
was the opinion of many, impair the beauty of the
member, Dickens had good reason to congratulate
himself at getting off with so little personal damage.
These, however, were not the only mishaps on this
occasion. There were other stories of broken heads,
maims and injuries, but whether they grew out of
the unavoidable concussion of a large crowd in a
small place, or from a great natural tendency to broken
heads on the part of the owners, it scarcely falls
within our present purpose to inquire. A jostle in a
roomy region like the west, is any thing but a jostle
in the streets of New York. There you may tilt
the wayfarer into the gutter, and the laugh is
against the loser, it being a sufficient apology for
taking such a liberty with your neighbour's person,
that “business is business, and must be attended to.”
Every man must take care of himself and learn to
push with the rest, where all are in a hurry. But
he brooks the stab who jostles his neighbour where
there is no such excuse; and the stab is certain
where he presumes so far with his neighbour's wife,
or his wife's daughter, or his sister. There's no
pleading that the city rule is to “take the right hand”
—he will let you know that the proper rule is to give
way to the weak and feeble—to women, to age, to
infancy. This is the manly rule among the strong,
and a violation of it brings due punishment in the
west. Jostling there is a dangerous experiment, and
for this very reason, it is frequently practised by
those who love a row and fear no danger. It is one
of the thousand modes resorted to for compelling
the fight of fun—the conflict which the rowdy seeks
from the mere love of tumult, and in the excess of
overheated blood. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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