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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 (1)
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1Author:  Taylor Bayard 1825-1878Add
 Title:  John Godfrey's fortunes, related by himself  
 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 was sitting at the front window, buried, chin-deep, in the perusal of “Sandford and Merton,” when I heard the latch of the gate click. Looking up, I saw that it was only Neighbor Niles, coming, as usual, in her sun-bonnet, with her bare arms wrapped in her apron, for a chat with mother. I therefore resumed my reading, for Neighbor Niles always burst into the house without knocking, and mother was sure to know who it was by the manner in which the door opened. I had gotten as far into the book as the building of the Robinson-Crusoe hut, and one half of my mind speculated, as I read, whether a similar hut might not be constructed in our garden, in the corner between the snowball-bush and Muley's stable. Bob Simmons would help me, I was sure; only it was scarcely possible to finish it before winter, and then we could n't live in it without a fireplace and a chimney. “My dear Brother, — Yours of the 10th is received. I am now so accustomed to your sarcastic style, that I always know what to expect when I open one of your epistles. I wish you joy of your — well, I must say our new cousin, though I am sorry you did not let me know of the discovery before telling him. He must be gauche and unpresentable in a degree; but then, I suppose, there 's no likelihood of his ever getting into our set. It is time your schooling was finished, so that I might have you for awhile as my chevalier. Between ourselves, I 'm rather tired of going about with” (here the word “Mamma” had evidently been written and then blotted out) “Mrs. Penrose. Not but what she continues to improve, — only, I am never certain of her not committing some niaiserie, which quite puts me out. However, she behaves well enough at home, and I hope you will overcome your prejudice in the end, for my sake. When you know as much about Society as I do, you will see that it 's always best to smooth over what 's irrevocable. People are beginning to forget the scandal, since that affair of Denbigh has given them something else to talk about. We were at Mrs. Delane's ball on Wednesday; I made her put on blue cut velvet, and she did not look so bad. Mrs. Vane nodded, and of course she was triumphant. I think Papa gives me the credit for all that has been done, — I 'm sure I deserve it. It 's a race between Mrs. P. and myself which shall have the new India shawl at Stokes's; but I shall get it, because Mrs. P. knows that I could teach her to blunder awfully as well as to behave correctly, and would do it, in spite of Papa's swearing, if she drives me to desperation. By the by, he has just come into the room, and says, `You are writing to the cub, as usual, I suppose, Matilda.' So there you have him, to the life.” “Respected Friend, I recd. your favor in which you informed me that you was getting on so well and gave the other as you directed. Thought it best to wait for the other's answer, though there is no particular news. Sep Bratton goes to The Buck every day, and there 's high goings on between him and the squire. Your friend Mr. Rand was there again. People say the squire is speculating about Pottsville, and will cut up pretty fat some day, which is no business of mine, but thought you might like to hear. We are all well, and mother and Sue says remember me to him. I guess Ben and her is satisfied with one another, but you need not say I told you. There is a mistress at the school this summer, a right smart young woman, her name is Lavina Wilkins. And hoping these few lines will find you enjoying good health, I remain, “Dear John,” (there were volumes of withheld confession for me in that one adjective): — Towards the end of May the important book appeared. I am sure that no immortal work was ever watched, through its different processes of incarnation, with such tender solicitude. I lingered over the first proofs, the revised proofs, and the printed and folded sheets, with a proud, luxurious interest, and the final consummation — the little volume, bound and lettered — was so precious that I could have kissed the leaves one by one. It seemed incredible that the “John Godfrey” on the title-page really meant myself! A book for me had hitherto possessed a sublime, mystical individuality of its own, and this, which had grown beneath my hand, by stages of manufacture as distinctly material as those which go to the formation of a shoe or a stove, was now to be classed among those silent, eloquent personalities! It might be placed side by side with “Paradise Lost” or “Childe Harold,” on book-shelves; who could tell whither chance or fortune might not carry it, or what young and burning lips it might not help unseal? “I have judged you unjustly, and treated you rudely, Mr. Godfrey. If I have not forfeited the right to make reparation, or you have not lost the desire to receive it, will you call upon me to-morrow evening, at Mrs. Deering's, and oblige “I will come. “Respd. Nephew, — I take my Pen in hand to inform you that Me and your aunt Peggy are injoying good Health and Those Blessings which the Lord Vouchsafes to us. It is a long Time since we have heard anything of you, but suppose you are still ingaged in the same Occupation as at first, and hence direct accordingly, hoping these few Lines may come Safely to hand. “The news contained in your letter of the 7th was quite unexpected, but none the less welcome, for your sake as well as my own. While I still think that the disposal of my little property ought to have been left to myself, I cheerfully acquit you of any intention to do me wrong, and to show that I not only bear no malice, but am willing to retract my hasty insinuations against your character, I will accept your proffered hospitality when I visit Reading. You may expect me within the next four or five days. “My Dear John, — I know why you have not written to me. In fact I knew, months ago, (through Deering,) what was coming, and had conquered whatever soreness was left in my heart. Fortunately my will is also strong in a reflective sense, and I am, moreover, no child to lament over an irretrievable loss. I dare say the future will make it up to me, in some way, if I wait long enough. At any rate, you won't object, my dear old fellow, to have me say — not that I wish you happiness, for you have it, but — that you deserve your double fortune. The other item I picked up from a newspaper; you might have written me that.
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