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281Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The miscellaneous 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: 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. 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 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. Dear Fanny: Would your dark eyes vouchsafe to wonder how I come to write to you? Thus it befell:— 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 obitnary, 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. “Has there been any mistake in the two-penny post delivery, that I have not received your article for this mouth? 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. “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 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 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 hatcher, 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. 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. “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. “The delivery of this was subject, of course, to the condition of the ladies when they should arrive, though I had a presentiment they were in for a serious business. “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,
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282Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The prose 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: 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. “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 confidauts, 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. Your ob't servant, “Humphrey Fencher. “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. “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 funishes 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. Yours, etc., “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 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 you 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 illumination 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 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 Afts.” 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. 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. “Mrs. Noggs, too—a strong woman, by the way— is, nevertheless, weekly on this point, very. She says she'll never forgive you if you change the fair, form of the Mirror. Think o' that! Though not a vain woman, she has a passion for looking into the Mirror that is very affecting. On the other hand, she says if you'll give up the horrid notion of changing the form of the Mirror, she'll fry you `a nipper' as brown as a nut, with her own fair hands, when next you come Bostonward, and will visit our humble cottage near the sea. I have ye now! For my well-tried friends, Gentleman Charles (him of the Astor house, I mean) and his handsome partner, tell me you are a gallant youth and well affected toward the ladies. “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 wedlock, 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! “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? Dear Fanny: Would your dark eyes vouchsafe to wonder how I come to write to you? Thus it befell:— 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 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.
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283Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  People I have met, or, Pictures of society and people of mark, drawn under a thin veil of fiction  
 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 death of a lady, in a foreign land, leaves me at liberty to narrate the circumstances which follow. “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, yours very faithfully, “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. A letter from Lord Aymar to Lady Angelica will put the story forward a little: “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. Mynners 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 3 â la veille 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 cannot 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? Euriched 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. “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. Yours, etc., “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, “My Dear Tremlet,—In the two days that I have exiled you from my presence, I have exiled my happiness also—as you well know without my confessing—but I needed to sleep and wake more than once upon your welcome but unexpected avowal. I fear, indeed, that I need much more time, and that reflection would scarce justify what I am now about to write to you. But my life, hitherto, has been such a succession of heart-chilled waitings upon Reason, that, for once, while I have the power, I am tempted to bound away with Impulse, after happiness. “I promised to return to you when I should resemble my picture. It is possible that exile from your presence has marred more beauty than mental culture has developed—but the soul you drew in portrait has, at least found its way to my features— for the world acknowledges what you alone read prophetically at Leipsic. I have kept myself advised of your movements, with a woman's anxiety. You are still toiling at the art which made us acquainted, and, (thank God!) unmarried. To-night, at the concert of the Countess Isny-Frere, I shall sing to you, for I have taken pains to know that you will be there. Do not speak to me till you can see me alone—but hear me in my art before I abandon myself to the joy long deferred, of throwing myself at your feet with the fortune and fame it is now mine to offer you. “`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 a 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.
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284Author:  Woodworth Samuel 1784-1842Requires cookie*
 Title:  The champions of freedom, or The mysterious 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: AMONG the early champions of American freedom, few, perhaps, bore arms with more honor to themselves or success to the glorious cause, than Major Willoughby. He was the only son of the most opulent farmer in the state of Massachusetts, who designed his son for the study and practice of the law. But while he was preparing for an admittance into Harvard University, the plains of Lexington were wet with the blood of his countrymen. “My Son—I have strange things to tell you— events that will excite your “special wonder,” and which may almost cause you to doubt the veracity of your father. Attend, therefore, while I relate a series of facts as extraordinary as any that ever figured in romance, either ancient or modern. “The plot thickens—war is inevitable— and the folly or madness of democracy fully established. The vassals of Bonaparte in the house of representatives, have agreed to enlist these States under the banners of the tyrant against England; there can be no doubt of the senate's concurrence—war will be declared in a few days —Detroit is the sally-port—look to Sandwich, and expect further particulars as soon as they transpire. “I have, my brave but unfortunate boy, written several letters, and directed them to you at different military posts in Canada; but know not whether either of them has been fortunate enough to reach you. Mr. Fleming, who departs for Buffalo to-morrow morning, expects to meet a young Irish prisoner there, to whom he can safely confide this letter—he being the son of Fleming's particular friend.
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285Author:  Woodworth Samuel 1784-1842Requires cookie*
 Title:  The champions of freedom, or The mysterious 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: The rocky precipice which now sheltered these few “hardy gleanings” of so many desperate fights, was within a few paces of the river's margin; but not a boat was there to receive them. In this extremely painful situation they remained many minutes, when they found themselves suddenly surrounded by more than five times their number; and knowing that a further resistance would produce an useless effusion of blood, they reluctantly complied with their leader's advice, who sighed in the performance of what had now become a necessary duty, for the prevention of a greater sacrifice. They threw down their arms in sullen despondency, which Scott, with a graceful dignity peculiar to himself, tendered his sword to his more fortunate opponent. “Your last, my son, is now before me, and every sentence yields me pleasure, except that in which you mention Amelia's fears on my account. Assure her from me, that the moment any real cause of alarm presents itself, I shall not be backward in providing for the safety of myself and those under my protection. It grieves me that she should make herself unhappy in anticipating evils that may never arrive. Let me intreat her, through you, to banish every fear for the safety of her father, and repose her trust in that merciful Being who, in the operations of his providence, never permits an evil to take place but for the ultimate good of his creatures; and it is our duty to submit without a murmur. I do not wish it to be understood that the ordinary human means of shunning an impending danger are to be neglected: so far from it, I should conceive that I was tempting the Almighty, to remain in a place of danger, when I could retreat consistently with duty. I repeat, that I will remove from Mulberry-Grove the moment I apprehend any 27* danger from staying. Were it a tenable fortress, the case would be different. Let this assurance restore peace to the bosom of my child. “Sir—I have the honor to inform you, that on the 25th inst. being in the lat. 29 N. long. 29, 30, W. we fell in with, and, after an action of an hour and an half, captured his Britannic Majesty's ship Macedonian, commanded by captain John Carden, and mounting forty-nine carriage guns (the odd gun shifting.) She is a frigate of the largest class, two years old, four months out of dock, and reputed one of the best sailors in the British service. The enemy being to windward, had the advantage of engaging us at his own distance, which was so great, that for the first half hour we did not use our carronades, and at no moment was he within the complete effect of our musketry and grape—to this circumstance and a heavy swell, which was on at the time, I ascribe the unusual length of the action. “Yours of the fifteenth December came duly to hand, and has yielded me indescribable pleasure. The unparalleled achievements of our gallant sailors, must convince every man, not blinded by prejudice, of the importance of a respectable naval establishment. This is a point to which the strength and resources of our country can be directed with advantage—with honor— with complete success. Congress will become convinced of this without a very long study in that dear school you speak of. “I hasten, my dear brother, to furnish an antidote to the melancholy which the writing of your last must have occasioned. “Another Naval Victory, my dear George, has rewarded the courage and enterprise of American sailors, and the name of Lawrence is now inscribed with those of Hull, Decatur, Jones, and Bainbridge, on an imperishable pillar of glory. “We are now standing on and off the harbor of York, which we shall attack at day-light in the morning. I shall dedicate these last moments to you, my love, and to-morrow throw all other ideas but my country to the winds. As yet I know not if general Dearborn lands; he has acted honorably so far, and I feel great gratitude to the old gentleman: my sword and pen shall both be exerted to do him honor. I have no new injunction—no new charge to give you; nor any new idea to communicate; yet we love to commune with those we love, more especially when we conceive it may be the last time in this world. Should I fall, defend my memory: and only believe, had I lived, I would have aspired to deeds worthy of your husband. Remember me with a father's love—a father's care, to our dear daughter, and believe me to be, with the warmest sentiments of love and friendship, your “Sir—Pity alone has prompted me to take this method of relieving an embarrassment which must not only be very painful to your feelings, but which (judging from what I this day witnessed) will so impede the performance of your professional duties, as to endanger your reputation. But, sir, you may discard all apprehensions from your mind—I shall never molest you. You know the word of George Washington Willoughby is sacred—it was never yet violated—I shall not condescend to chastise a being whose meanness has sunk him so far below my resentment. I know what you might reasonably expect from many of our young officers, were they placed in my situation. But it is well known to you that my notions of honor are altogether different. You have never injured me, because—it was not in your power. But even if your despicable attempts had succeeded—had you robbed me of my greatest earthly treasure, your blood would no more tend to wash away the injury, than that which daily flows in the meanest butcher's shambles. Entertain no fears, then, for your life; I shall never seek to deprive you of a gem so tarnished with corruption, and yet, so dear to its possessor. “Call all your native fortitude to your aid, my son, for the intelligence I have to communicate is afflicting. Catharine Fleming is safe under my protection—would I could say she was well. Her amiable mother has joined the rest of her unfortunate family in a better world. Fleming is a prisoner of war, and their house is in ashes. Mulberry Grove exhibits nothing but a black heap of smoking ruins. “First recover that— and then thou shalt hear further.” “I am happy, my dear boy, to inform you, that by a courier, who is travelling express from Harrison's head-quarters to Erie, I have received a letter from Fleming, written on board an English gun-boat in Sandusky Bay, just preparing to sail for Malden. He is anxious to learn the fate of his family, and fears the worst. Catharine herself has undertaken to relieve this suspense, by writing immediately, and as flags are frequently passing between the two armies, there will be no difficulty attending its conveyance, except the customary inspection of its contents, which is of no consequence. I am sensible of Harrison's disposition to oblige me, and he has promised to exert his influence in procuring Fleming's release. May the choicest blessings of Heaven rest upon the hero's head. “We arrived at this place on the evening of the thirteenth instant. By a pilot-boat, which was sent out for observation, a British sail was discovered at anchor near one of the islands, and the signal for chase was immediately made. By dark, we were almost within gunshot of the enemy; one hour more of day light, and she would have been captured. A very severe storm came on, and for fear of getting the squadron separated, we anchored for the night. Captain Richardson has gone on shore to proceed to Harrison's head-quarters at Seneca, and accompany the general down to the fleet. General Clay, the commandant at Fort Meigs, has received orders from Harrison to reduce the compass of that fort in such a manner as to enable three hundred men to hold it, and then march with the balance of his force to 42 head-quarters, at Seneca. Preparations are accordingly making to convey the stores, ammunition, and cannon, to Cleveland and Seneca, which it will take about ten days to accomplish. After these arrangements are completed, a force of five thousand troops, regulars and militia, will embark on board this squadron, and be conveyed to Malden, where Harrison will retrieve all that Hull lost. Previous to the embarkation, however, you may expect to hear that we are masters of the lake. “The last eastern mail has brought us the welcome news of Another Naval Victory, the particulars of which I will relate as far as they have been made public, before I descend to local and domestic subjects. “You was right, my dear Willoughby—“Revenge will not remedy the evil.” British blood has flowed in torrents, and still I am the last remaining twig on our family tree; nor can all the blood that flows in English veins, resuscitate the other branches, or restore my lost happiness. We have had a battle, and hundreds of Englishmen are laid low—many of them beneath the waters of Erie. The survivors are our prisoners, and I have conversed with many of them who would willingly die for their country, but who loudly condemn the conduct of those ministers whose ambition has plunged them into a war with their brethren. It is the blood of such men, the blood of our brethren, that has so lavishly crimsoned the waves of this lake, and their blood will cry for vengeance on those ambitious wretches who guide the counsels of England. You was right—these men, whom I have been so eager to destroy, do `commiserate my sufferings, and denounce the authors of them.' Every English groan that has saluted my ears since the battle, has caused me to confess—`that was not the voice which decreed my brother's death; that man had no hand in dragging me on board a British ship; he never employed an Indian to murder my sister; why then should I rejoice at his sufferings?' I do not; I am a convert to your doctrine, and my present tenderness to those poor wounded men who are placed under my care, shall in some measure atone for my former error. “Good news, my dear Willoughby! Detroit, Sandwich, Malden—all that Hull and you lost, and all that you might have taken—is now in possession of the Americans. Tecumseh is slain, Proctor fled, and the British army captured, with all their camp equipage and their leader's private baggage. Harrison is the hero who has achieved all this, by the valor of the brave troops under his command. I have just conversed with an officer who served as a volunteer in this brilliant affair, and he has furnished me with the following particulars: “Be not alarmed, my daughter, that this letter is not written by your father's hand. That hand is, alas! too much enfeebled by disease to hold a pen; I have, therefore, employed that of my most excellent friend, captain Miller, who has generously offered to make a journey to Ithaca for the sole purpose of conveying to you the last injunctions and blessing of your affectionate father.” “Adieu, my dearest, best friend—adieu, until we meet in that world where parting will be no more. I should feel guilty of an unpardonable neglect, did I longer delay to inform you that I am rapidly sinking beneath the iron hand of affliction. Grief for the loss of my parents has made such havoc with my constitution, that my health I fear can never be again restored. I shall never cease to love you—no, not even in heaven; next to my Saviour's, your image will be the object which I shall contemplate with the greatest delight, through the boundless ages of eternity. My greatest earthly comfort is the perusal of your affectionate epistles—this is the first I have ever written to you—it will be the last you must ever expect—preserve it as a legacy of my affection. I will not conceal—for why should I?—that your presence would soothe my dying hour, and that the transition would be sweet from your arms to those of my attendant angels, who are waiting to receive me. But I will not drag you from those higher duties to which you are called by your God and your country. Continue to serve both faithfully, and you will one day be again restored to your ever faithful “It is my good fortune, my dear sir, to announce that I have for the second time, witnessed the glorious sight of a whole British fleet surrendering to the superior skill and bravery of American seamen. Our gallant commodore, M`Donough, will now vie with Perry, while the name of M`Comb will be coupled with those of Harrison, Brown, Scott, Boyd, Ripley, Porter, &c. The eleventh of September will also shine as bright on the page of history, as the tenth. But I will descend to particulars. “Heaven be praised for all its mercies! Catharine is safe! Yes, my dear sir, my poor niece is alive—well—among friends—uninjured—happy, as she can be while separated from us. The inclosed will tell you all—it is from my son, who is in New-Orleans, where he has just taken a wife. Read it, and then join with me in adoring that Being whose `judgments are unsearchable, and whose ways are past finding out.' “Be happy, my dear mother, for I have good news to communicate. Our cousin Catharine Fleming is safe under my protection—the same innocent happy being, as when we were romping together at Ithaca. Pause, while you freely indulge the rapturous tears of joy, and then proceed to particulars.
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286Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories  
 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 
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287Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  On Picket Duty, and Other Tales  
 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: WHAT air you thinkin' of, Phil?
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288Author:  Aldrich Thomas Bailey 1836-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Daisy's necklace, and what came of it  
 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: PROLOGUE. “Come and see me without delay. I have got a— “Sir, — By calling at my office, No. — Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4 P. M., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
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289Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  Cipher  
 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: Spreading this upon the table before him, Mr. Gillies slowly read—but not aloud, for, to have afforded gratuitous information upon his affairs even to the walls and the sea, would have been to do violence to his nature—these words: Pardon the seeming discourtesy of my abrupt departure, and my first signifying it to Francia. I could not see you again, Neria, I could not write to you of less than the whole.
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290Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  Outpost  
 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 last day of October!” said the Sun to himself, — “the last day of my favorite month, and the birthday of my little namesake! See if I don't make the most of it!” “Since writing to you last month, I have been going on with my studies under the Rev. Mr. Brown, as I then mentioned. I do not find that it hurts me to study in the hot weather at all; and I have enjoyed my vacation better this way than if I had been idle. “We shall be at home on Wednesday evening, at six o'clock, and shall bring some guests. You will please prepare tea for eight persons; and make up five beds, three of them single ones. Tell Susan to make the house look as pretty as she can; and send for any thing she or you need in the way of preparation. Yours of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your letters always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the world and the glory thereof, and find that all is vanity, as saith the Preacher. Do not imagine that I am studying divinity instead of medicine; but to-day is Sunday, and I have been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the minister besides.
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291Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  The shadow of Moloch mountain  
 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 Brewster Place 454EAF. [Page 005]. In-line image of a house with a straw roof and smoking chimney. In front of the house is a person holding open a gate. “My Dear Niece Beatrice: It is a long time since we heard any thing from you, and I trust that both you and brother Israel are in good health and prospered in your undertakings. We are all in the enjoyment of our usual health, except your grandmother, who has an attack of rheumatism, from standing at the porch-door talking to Jacob, our hired man, about the new calf. This calf is the daughter of Polly, the red and white heifer that you liked so well and dressed with a garland of wild flowers, which she pulled off and eat up. That was last Independence-day, you remember, and you got mostly blue flowers, because, you said, she must be red, blue, and white. The new calf is very pretty, and we think of raising it; but we shall not name it until you come home, as you may have a choice in the matter. Grandfather is very well, considering, and often speaks of you. He says he wants to see you very much, and hopes you will not have grown out of knowledge. He forgets, being old, that you are grown up already, and will not change outwardly any more until you begin to grow old, which I suppose will not be yet. “I know that you will feel remorseful, because, even without fault of your own, you have done me an injustice by your suspicions; and, later on, have dealt me a blow whose wound will endure for years. To natures ike yours, there is no comfort like reparation and atonement. I offer you the opportunity for both in this set of trinkets, brought from India by me for the unknown lady of my love. If you will take them and wear them, I shall feel that we are friends once more, and that you have forgiven yourself and me for the injury that friendship has sustained. Do not refuse me this amends; and believe me always while I live,
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292Author:  Cummins Maria S. (Maria Susanna) 1827-1866Requires cookie*
 Title:  Haunted hearts  
 Published:  2002 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Every circle has its centre. To describe a circle, one must choose a given point, and radiate thence at equal distances. The north-eastern corner of New Jersey is that part of the earth's surface on which I propose to describe a circle, and the centre of that circle is Stein's Tavern. “Adieu! My sole pang in leaving New Jersey is the thought that I shall never again see the fair friend, `Whose heart was my home in an enemy's land.' I flatter myself that the emotion is mutual. Continue, I entreat you, to cherish tender recollections of your devoted Josselyn. Our paths, like our lots in life, lie apart. Had Heaven placed you, dear girl, in the sphere you are so well fitted to adorn, who knows what we might have been to each other? It grieves me that one whose beauty and grace have cheered my exile should be doomed to waste her sweetness upon a neighborhood so contracted and vulgar as that of Stein's Plains; but habit, I have no doubt, reconciles you to many things which shock the sensibilities of a stranger; and, alas! every station in life has its disadvantages. It may be a consolation to you to be assured that you will not be quite forgotten in those more aristocratic circles to which my destiny leads me. I shall still carry your image in my heart. Many a fair daughter of my own country will suffer by a comparison with it; and when the toast goes round I shall pique the curiosity of my brother officers by giving them the `New Jersey belle.'
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293Author:  Bagby George William 1828-1883Requires cookie*
 Title:  What I did with my fifty millions  
 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: For twenty years at least I had been in the habit of putting myself to sleep by imagining what I would do with the precise sum of fifty millions of dollars. An excellent hypnotic I found it, with no morphine or chloral after-effects. It may have unfitted me for the hard grind of actual life, but no matter now. When it came I was as tranquil as a May morning. The fact is, the transfer was not completed until the close of the month of May, 1876. Negotiations, etc., had been going on for months beforehand, and it has always been a matter of inordinate pride to me that I attended to my regular duties and kept the whole thing a profound secret from my family, friends, and, indeed, everybody in America—the money having come from Hindostan. It required a deal of innocent lying to do this, but secrecy was indispensable to the surprises I meditated, and a surprise, you know, is the very cream of the delight as well of giving as receiving.
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294Author:  Baldwin Joseph G. (Joseph Glover) 1815-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  The flush times of Alabama and Mississippi  
 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: And what history of that halcyon period, ranging from the year of Grace, 1835, to 1837; that golden era, when shin-plasters were the sole currency; when bank-bills were “as thick as Autumn leaves in Vallambrosa,” and credit was a franchise,—what history of those times would be complete, that left out the name of Ovid Bolus? As well write the biography of Prince Hal, and forbear all mention of Falstaff. In law phrase, the thing would be a “deed without a name,” and void; a most unpardonable casus omissus. My Dear Sir,—Having established, at great expense, and from motives purely patriotic and disinterested, a monthly periodical for the purpose of supplying a desideratum in American Literature, namely, the commemoration and perpetuation of the names, characters, and personal and professional traits and histories of American lawyers and jurists, I have taken the liberty of soliciting your consent to be made the subject of one of the memoirs, which shall adorn the columns of this Journal. This suggestion is made from my knowledge, shared by the intelligence of the whole country, of your distinguished standing and merits in our noble profession; and it is seconded by the wishes and requests of many of the most prominent gentlemen in public and private life, who have the honor of your acquaintance. Dear Sir—I got your letter dated 18 Nov., asking me to send you my life and karackter for your Journal. Im obleeged to you for your perlite say so, and so forth. I got a friend to rite it—my own ritin being mostly perfeshunal. He done it—but he rites such a cussed bad hand I cant rede it: I reckon its all korrect tho'. My Dear Sir—The very interesting sketch of your life requested by us, reached here accompanied by your favor of the 1st inst., for which please receive our thanks. Dear Mr. Editor—In your p. s. which seems to be the creem of your correspondents you say I can't get in your book without paying one hundred and fifty dollars—pretty tall entrants fee! I suppose though children and niggers half price—I believe I will pass. I'll enter a nolly prossy q. O-n-e-h-u-n-d-r-e-d dollars and fifty better! Je-whellikens! We can only give it in our way, and only such parts as we can remember, leaving out most of the episodes, the casual explanations and the slang; which is almost the play of Hamlet with the Prince of Denmark omitted. But, thus emasculated, and Cave's gas let off, here goes a report about as faithful as a Congressman's report of his spoken eloquence when nobody was listening in the House.
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295Author:  Longstreet Augustus Baldwin 1790-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Master William Mitten, or, A youth of brilliant talents, who was ruined by bad luck  
 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: Many years ago there lived in a small village in the State of Georgia, a pious widow, who was left with an only son and two daughters. She was in easy circumstances, and managed her temporal concerns with great prudence; so that her estate increased with her years. Her son exhibited, at a very early age, great precocity of genius, and the mother lost no opportunity of letting the world know it. When he was but six years old, he had committed little pieces in prose and poetry, which he delivered with remarkable propriety for his years. He knew as much of the scriptures as any child of that age probably ever knew; and he had already made some progress in geography and mental arithmetic. With all this, he was a very handsome boy. It is not to be wondered at, that his mother should be bringing him out in some department of science, upon all ocoasions; of course; she often brought him out upon very unsuitable occasions, and sometimes kept him out, greatly to the annoyance of her company. Not to praise his performances, would have been discouraging to Master William Mitten, and very mortifying to his mother; accordingly, whether they were well-timed or ill-timed, everybody praised them. The ladies, all of whom loved Mrs. Mitten, were not unfrequently thrown into raptures at the child's exhibitions. They would snatch him up in their arms, kiss him, pronounce him a perfect prodigy, both in beauty of person and power of mind; and declare that they would be willing to go beggars upon the world to have such a child. Others would piously exhort Mrs. Mitten not to set her heart too much upon the child. “They never saw the little creature, without commingled emotions of delight and alarm; so often is it the case that children of such wonderful gifts die early.” Her brother, Capt. David Thomson, a candid, plain-dealing excellent man, often reproved Mrs. M. for parading, as he called it, “her child upon all occasions.” “Having recently understood that you have procured a private teacher, we have ventured to stop your advertisement, though ordered to continue it until forbid, under the impression that you have probably forgotten to have it stopped. If, however, we have been misinformed, we will promptly resume the publication of it. You will find our account below; which as we are much in want of funds, you will oblige us by settling as soon as convenient. Hoping your teacher is all that you could desire in one, “Dear Sir: On taking leave of me, you requested me to give you early information of the standing, conduct, and progress of your nephew; and, as my letter will reach you through the kindness of Mr. Jones, the bearer, nearly or quite a week sooner than it would by regular—or rather irregular—course of mail, I avail myself of the opportunity to comply with your request. William has been under my instruction just a week to-day; and though I would not venture confident predictions of him, upon so short an acquaintance, I will give you my present estimate of him, for what it is worth. If I am not grossly deceived in him, he is destined to a most brilliant future. He was a little rusty in the principles of construction at first—no, in the application of them—for of the principles themselves, he is master, and he improves in the application of them with every lesson. His class was a week ahead of him in the Greek grammar, when he entered it. He has already made up the deficiency, and now stands fully equal to the best in his class in this study—indeed, in all their studies. He is moral, orderly, and studious, and if he will only do half as much for himself as nature has done for him, he will be the pride of his kindred and the boast of his country. You will not be much more delighted at receiving this intelligence, than I am in communicating it. “Dear Mother:—I just write for fear you will feel uneasy if you get no letter from me by this mail. Tom can tell you all about me. Delighted with my boarding house—Fare much better than New's. Health good—Told Mr. Wad'l I wished to go to preach'g with him, if he went to-day, but he don't go till next Sat'y—Best love to all. “My Dearest Boy: Two days after you left us, your Uncle was attacked with bilious fever. The attack is very severe, but we hope not fatal. Last evening he begged that you might be sent for. Come as quick as you can, in mercy to your horse. The Doctor says there is no probability of his dying in four or five days; so do not peril the life of your horse, in your haste to get here. “But the main object of this letter is to offer your son encouragements to return to school. He left here under great depression of spirits, and under the impression that his character was irretrievably lost. No one in this vicinity, in or out of the school, thinks so. Now that the story of his misfortunes is fully understood, every one attributes them to a train of untoward circumstances which surrounded him, on his return hither, rather than to depravity of heart. Indeed, he has some noble traits of character, which almost entirely conceal his faults from the eyes of the public and his school-fellows— I say the public, for though it is a very uncommon thing for the public to know or notice school-boy delinquencies, yet so wide-spread was William's reputation from his performances at our last Examination and Exhibition, that every one who knows him takes an interest in him, and every one, I believe, regards him with more of sympathy than censure. All would rejoice, I doubt not, to hear of his return to the school, and his return to his good habits. Gilbert Hay, his room-mate and bed-fellow, bids me say that he loves him yet, and that the half of his bed is still reserved for him; and the feelings of Gilbert Hay towards him, I believe, are the feelings of nine-tenths of the school towards him. For myself, I shall give him a cordial welcome. But you will naturally ask, what will be my dealings with him, if he return? I answer the question very frankly: I shall feel myself bound to correct him; though in so doing I shall not forget the many circumstances of extenuation in his case. Had he been guilty of but one offence, and that of a veneal nature, I should freely forgive it, as is my custom, with the first offence. But he has been guilty of several offences, and though none of them are very rare in schools, they are, nevertheless, such as I have never allowed to go unpunished in my school, and which I could not allow to escape with impunity in this instance, without setting a dangerous precedent, as well as showing marked partiality. I have reason to believe that William would cheerfully submit to the punishment of his faults, even though it were much severer than it will be, if that would restore him to his lost position; now, I can hardly conceive of anything better calculated to have that effect, than his volunteering to take the punishment which he knows awaits him on his return, when he might perchance avoid it by abandoning the school. But with or without the punishment, he has only to be, for ten months, what he has been for nearly as many, to regain the confidence of everybody. Nothing but the peculiar circumstances of this case, and the very lively interest which I take in the destiny of your highly-gifted son, could have induced me to write a letter so liable to misconstruction, as this is. But brief as is our acquaintance, I think you will credit me, when I assure you, that my own pecuniary interest has had no more to do with it, than yours will have in deliberating upon its contents. Verily, the loss or gain of a scholar is nothing to “When I think, my dearest mother, of the trouble I have given you—how I abused your goodness, and disappointed your reasonable expectations, my conscience smites me, and my cheeks burn with blushes. How could I have been such an ingrate! How could I have sent a pang to the bosom of the sweetest, the kindest, the tenderest, the holiest, the best of mothers! Well, the past is gone, and with it my childish, boyish follies: they have all been forgiven long ago, and no more are to be forgiven in future. That I am to get the first honor in my class is conceded by all the class except four. These four were considered equal competitors for it until I entered the class, and they do not despair yet; but they had as well, for they equal me in nothing but Mathematics, and do not excel me in that. The funds that you allow me ($500 per annum) are more than sufficient to meet all my college expenses, and allow me occasional pleasure rambles during the vacation. What I have written about my stand in College, you will of course understand as intended only for a mother's eye. “All your letters have been received. They have given the Principal of the School great uneasiness, and me great delight. He knows only whence they come—know you whether they have gone; into the most hallowed chamber of my heart. Mail your letters anywhere, but at Princeton; my answers will be returned through a confidante in Morristown. “I have been tormented by strange reports concerning you which I cannot, I will not believe, until they receive some confirmation from your own lips. I will not aggravate your griefs by repeating them now, farther than just to say, that if true, your last brief epistle from Princeton was untrue. “Mr. William Mitten—Sir: Your dismissal from College, and your misrepresentation to me, I could forgive; but I never can forgive your addresses to me, while you were actually engaged to Miss Amanda Ward. “Let them follow the heart of the giver.
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296Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The bandit queen  
 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: BY EMERSON BENNETT,
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297Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The border rover  
 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: I believe it is customary, when an individual sets out to write an autobiography, to begin at the beginning—that is to say, with his first recollection—and give a detailed account of the passing of his earliest years. I shall not adopt this plan; because, in the first place, the earlier years of my existence were not marked with events of peculiar interest to the reader; and in the second place, my narrative is intended merely as a chronicle of the most remarkable scenes and adventures through which I passed after arriving at the age of manhood. It may not be improper, however, to devote a few words to my birth, parentage and past life, in order to fairly introduce myself to the reader, with whom it is my design to make a rather long, and I hope agreeable, journey. “`I shall never cease to remember and pray for the preserver of my life. God bless, preserve and restore you. Shall I ever hear from you again?
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298Author:  Myers P. Hamilton (Peter Hamilton) 1812-1878Requires cookie*
 Title:  The prisoner of the border  
 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: Within view of those mystic mountains, which were long since rendered classic soil by the pen of Irving, and on the banks of that beautiful Hudson, whose charms defy even the power of genius to depict, was the quiet home of Walter Vrail. Not in the days when the ghostly Hendrick and his phantom followers made the rocky halls of the Catskills reverberate with their rumbling balls, and with the clatter of their falling nine-pins, and when their spectral flagon-bearer could be dimly seen at twilight, toiling up the misty ascent to join the shadow revellers, but in these later days, when the quaint old bowlers in doublet and jerkin, have retired deep within the bowels of the mountain, to pursue their endless game undisturbed by the plash of the swift steamboat, or the roar of the linked cars, plunging through dark passes, trembling along narrow ledges, and sending up their shrill scream through all the far recesses of a once holy solitude.
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299Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan  
 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 Christmas eve, that happy period for the young who have parents above the wants and miseries of griping poverty, and notwithstanding a heavy snow was falling, the streets of the goodly city of Philadelphia were thronged with joyous citizens, many of them returning to their cheerful firesides, loaded with toys, which were to greet the eyes of the happy children, when they should awake on the morrow, as the mysterious presents of fabled St. Nicholas. It was a gala time to all but the homeless and destitute; and, alas! there are too many such, who, with fevered eyes, can only look upon the happiness of others through that deep veil of hopeless gloom which shuts out every cheerful ray. To such poor wretches it was a time of open mockery; for they keenly felt that but one tithe of what was now so freely spent for foolish toys, would have provided them against the pangs of starvation and death.
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300Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Requires cookie*
 Title:  My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history  
 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 appears to me that the world is returning to its second childhood, and running mad for Stories. Stories! Stories! Stories! everywhere; stories in every paper, in every crevice, crack and corner of the house. Stories fall from the pen faster than leaves of autumn, and of as many shades and colorings. Stories blow over here in whirlwinds from England. Stories are translated from the French, from the Danish, from the Swedish, from the German, from the Russian. There are serial stories for adults in the Atlantic, in the Overland, in the Galaxy, in Harper's, in Scribner's. There are serial stories for youthful pilgrims in Our Young Folks, the Little Corporal, “Oliver Optic,” the Youth's Companion, and very soon we anticipate newspapers with serial stories for the nursery. We shall have those charmingly illustrated magazines, the Cradle, the Rocking Chair, the First Rattle, and the First Tooth, with successive chapters of “Goosy Goosy Gander,” and “Hickory Dickory Dock,” and “Old Mother Hubbard,” extending through twelve, or twenty-four, or forty-eight numbers. MY Dear Friend and Teacher:—I scarcely dare trust myself to look at the date of your kind letter. Can it really be that I have let it he almost a year, hoping, meaning, sincerely intending to answer it, and yet doing nothing about it? Oh! my dear friend, I was a better girl while I was under your care than I am now; in those times I really did my duties; I never put off things, and I came somewhere near satisfying myself. Now, I live in a constant whirl—a whirl that never ceases. I am carried on from day to day, from week to week, from month to month, with nothing to show for it except a succession of what girls call “good times.” I don't read any thing but stories; I don't study; I don't write; I don't sew; I don't draw, or play, or sing, to any real purpose. I just “go into society,” as they call it. I am an idler, and the only thing I am good for is that I help to adorn a house for the entertainment of idlers; that is about all. My Dear Child:—You place me in an embarrassing position in asking me to speak on a subject, when your parents have already declared their wishes. My Dear Friend:—I am glad you have written as you have to Eva. It is perfectly inexplicable to me that a girl of her general strength of character can be so undecided. Eva has been deteriorating ever since she came from Europe. This fashionable life is to mind and body just like a hotbed to tender plants in summer, it wilts everything down. Eva was a good scholar and I had great hopes of her. She had a warm heart; she has really high and noble aspirations, but for two or three years past she has done nothing but run down her health and fritter away her mind on trifles. She is not half the girl she was at school, either mentally or physically, and I am grieved and indignant at the waste. Her only chance of escape and salvation is to marry a true man. My Dear Belle: Thanks for your kind letter with all its congratulations and inquiries,—for though as yet I have no occasion for congratulation, and nothing to answer to inquiry, I appreciate these all the same. My Dear Belle:—I told you I would write the end of my little adventure, and whether the “hermit” comes or not. Yes, my dear, sure enough, he did come, and mamma and we all like him immensely; he had really quite a success among us. Even Ida, who never receives calls, was gracious and allowed him to come into her sanctum because he is a champion of the modern idea about women. Have you seen an article in the “Milky Way” on the “Women of our Times,” taking the modern radical ground? Well, it was by him; it suited Ida to a hair, but some little things in it vexed me because there was a phrase or two about the “fashionable butterflies,” and all that; that comes a great deal too near the truth to be altogether agreeable. I don't care when Ida says such things, because she's another woman, and between ourselves we know there is a deal of nonsense current among us, and if we have a mind to talk about it among ourselves, why its like abusing one's own relations in the bosom of the family, one of the sweetest domestic privileges, you know; but, when lordly man begins to come to judgment and call over the roll of our sins, I am inclined to tell him to look at home, and to say, “Pray, what do you know about us sir?” I stand up for my sex, right or wrong; so you see we had a spicy little controversy, and I made the hermit open his eyes, (and, between us, he has handsome eyes to open). He looked innocently astonished at first to be taken up so briskly, and called to account for his sayings. You see the way these men have of going on and talking without book about us quite blinds them; they can set us down conclusively in the abstract when they don't see us or hear us, but when a real live girl meets them and asks an account of their sayings they begin to be puzzled. However, I must say my lord can talk when he fairly is put up to it. He is a true, serious, earnest-hearted man, and does talk beautifully, and his eyes speak when he is silent. The forepart of the evening, you see we were in a state of most charming agreement; he was in our little “Italy,” and we had the nicest of times going over all the pictures and portfolios and the dear old Italian life; it seems as if we had both of us seen, and thought of, and liked the same things—it was really curious! “Dear Cousin:—I have had no time to keep up correspondence with anybody for the past year. The state of my father's health has required my constant attention, day and night, to a degree that has absorbed all my power, and left no time for writing. For the last six months father has been perfectly helpless with the most distressing form of chronic rheumatism. His sufferings have been protracted and intense, so that it has been wearing even to witness them; and the utmost that I could do seemed to bring very little relief. And when, at last, death closed the scene, it seemed to be in mercy, putting an end to sufferings which were intolerable. My Darling Belle:—I have been a naughty girl to let your letter lie so long. But my darling, it is not true, as you there suggest, that the bonds of sisterly affection, which bound us in school, are growing weaker, and that I no longer trust you as a confidential friend. Believe me, the day will never come, dearest Belle, when I shall cease to unfold to you every innermost feeling. My Dearest Belle:—Since I wrote to you last there have been the strangest changes. I scarcely know what to think. You remember I told you all about Easter Eve, and a certain person's appearance, and about the stolen glove and all that. Your theory of accounting for all this was precisely mine; in fact I could think of no other. And, Belle, if I could only see you I could tell you of a thousand little things that make me certain that he cares for me more than in the way of mere friendship. I thought I could not be mistaken in that. There has been scarcely a day since our acquaintance began when I have not in some way seen him or heard from him; you know all those early services, when he was as constant as the morning, and always walked home with me; then, he and Jim Fellows always spend at least one evening in a week at our house, and there are no end of accidental meetings. For example, when we take our afternoon drives at Central Park we are sure to see them sitting on the benches watching us go by, and it came to be quite a regular thing when we stopped the carriage at the terrace and got out to walk to find them there, and then Alice would go off with Jim Fellows, and Mr. H. and I would stroll up and down among the lilac hedges and in all those lovely little nooks and dells that are so charming. I'm quite sure I never explored the treasures of the Park as I have this Spring. We have rambled everywhere— up hill and down dale—it certainly is the loveliest and most complete imitation of wild nature that ever art perfected. One could fancy one's self deep in the country in some parts of it; far from all the rush and whirl and frivolity of this great, hot, dizzy New York. You may imagine that with all this we have had opportunity to become very intimate. He has told me all about himself, all the history of his life, all about his mother, and his home; it seems hardly possible that one friend could speak more unreservedly to another, and I, dear Belle, have found myself speaking with equal frankness to him. We know each other so perfectly that there has for a long time seemed to be only a thin impalpable cob-web barrier between us; but you know Belle, that airy filmy barrier is something that one would not by a look or a word disturb. For weeks I have felt every day that surely the next time we meet all this must come to a crisis. That he would say in words what he says in looks—in involuntary actions— what in fact I am perfectly sure of. Till he speaks I must be guarded. I must hold myself back from showing him the kindly interest I really feel. For I am proud, as you know, Belle, and have always held the liberty of my heart as a sacred treasure. I have always felt a secret triumph in the consciousness that I did not care for anybody, and that my happiness was wholly in my own hands, and I mean to keep it so. Our friendship is a pleasant thing enough, but I am not going to let it become too necessary, you understand. It isn't that I care so very much, but my curiosity is really excited to know just what the real state of the case is; one wants to investigate interesting phenomena you know. When I saw that little glove movement on Easter Eve I confess I thought the game all in my own hands, and that I could quietly wait to say “checkmate” in due form and due time; but after all nothing came of it; that is, nothing decisive; and I confess I didn't know what to think. Sometimes I have fancied some obstacle or en tanglement or commitment with some other woman—this Cousin Caroline perhaps—but he talks about her to me in the most open and composed manner. Sometimes I fancy he has heard the report of my engagement to Sydney. If he has, why doesn't he ask me about it? I have no objection to telling him, but I certainly shall not open the subject myself. Perhaps, as Ida thinks, he is proud and poor and not willing to be a suitor to a rich young good-for-nothing. Well, that can't be helped, he must be a suitor if he wins me, for I shan't be; he must ask me, for I certainly shan't ask him, that's settled. If he would “ask me pretty,” now, who knows what nice things he might hear? I would tell him, perhaps, how much more one true noble heart is worth in my eyes than all that Wat Sydney has to give. Sometimes I am quite provoked with him that he should look so much, and yet say no more, and I feel a naughty wicked inclination to flirt with somebody else just to make him open those “grands yeux” of his a little wider and to a little better purpose. Sometimes I begin to feel a trifle vindictive and as if I should like to give him a touch of the claw. The claw, my dear, the little pearly claw that we women keep in reserve in the “patte de velours,” our only and most sacred weapon of defense. Dear Henderson:—You need feel no hesitancy about accepting in full every advantage in the position I propose to you, since you may find it weighted with disadvantages and incumbrances you do not dream of. In short, I shall ask of you services for which no money can pay, and till I knew you there was no man in the world of whom I had dared to ask them. I want a friend, courageous, calm, and true, capable of thinking broadly and justly, one superior to ordinary prejudices, who may be to me another, and in some hours a stronger, self. MY DEAREST BELLE:—Since I last wrote you wondrous things have taken place, and of course I must keep you au courant. Dear Hal:—My head buzzes like a swarm of bees. What haven't I done since you left? The Van Arsdels are all packing up and getting ready to move out, and of course I have been up making myself generally useful there. I have been daily call-boy and page to the adorable Alice. Mem:—That girl is a brick! Didn't use to think so, but she's sublime! The way she takes things is so confounded sensible and steady! I respect her—there's not a bit of nonsense about her now—you'd better believe. They are all going up to the old paternal farm to spend the summer with his father, and by Fall there'll be an arrangement to give him an income (Van Arsdel I mean), so that they'll have something to go on. They'll take a house somewhere in New York in the Fall and do fairly; but think what a change to Alice! Dear Hal:—I promised you a family cat, but I am going to do better by you. There is a pair of my kittens that would bring laughter to the cheeks of a dying anchorite. They are just the craziest specimens of pure jollity that flesh, blood, and fur could be wrought into. Who wants a comic opera at a dollar a night when a family cat will supply eight kittens a year? Nobody seems to have found out what kittens are for. I do believe these two kittens of mine would cure the most obstinate hypochondria of mortal man, and, think of it, I am going to give them to you! Their names are Whisky and Frisky, and their ways are past finding out. Dear Sister:—I am so tired out with packing, and all the thousand and one things that have to be attended to! You know mamma is not strong, and now you and Ida are gone, I am the eldest daughter, and take everything on my shoulders. Aunt Maria comes here daily, looking like a hearse, and I really think she depresses mamma as much by her lugubrious ways as she helps. She positively is a most provoking person. She assumes with such certainty that mamma is a fool, and that all that has happened out of the way comes by some fault of hers, that when she has been here a day mamma is sure to have a headache. But I have discovered faculties and strength I never knew I possessed. I have taken on myself the whole work of separating the things we are to keep from those which are to be sold, and those which we are to take into the country with us, from those which are to be stored in New York for our return. I don't know what I should have done if Jim Fellows hadn't been the real considerate friend he is. Papa is overwhelmed with settling up business matters, and one wants to save him every care, and Jim has really been like a brother—looking up a place to store the goods, finding just the nicest kind of a man to cart them, and actually coming in and packing for me, till I told him I knew he must be giving us time that he wanted for himself —and all this with so much fun and jollification that we really have had some merry times over it, and quite shocked Aunt Maria, who insists on maintaining a general demeanor as if there were a corpse in the house. My Dear Eva:—Notwithstanding all that has passed, I cannot help writing to show that interest in your affairs, which it may be presumed, as your aunt and godmother, I have some right to feel, and though I know that my advice always has been disregarded, still I think it my duty to speak, and shall speak. My Dear Old Boy:—I think we have got it. I mean got the house. I am not quite sure what your wife will say, but I happened to meet Miss Alice last night and I told her, and she says she is sure it will do. Hear and understand.
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