| | 1 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | Fanny, or, The hunchback and the roué  | | | | 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 Charles river flows through many a sweet vale in its
inland meanderings; mirrors upon its bosom many a dark hill of
wood and rock; conveys beauty and grace to many a fair scene of
upland and lowland; and flows calmly and brightly past many a
peaceful cot and pleasant village! But the vale of Rose Mead is
the fairest of all its vallies; its banks and wooded heights the
most beautiful, which it mirrors upon its bosom; the fairest of all
others are its scenes of upland and lowland; more peaceful the
cottage-homes which share its grace and beauty; and, lovelier
than all the pleasant villages past which it flows in calmness and
brightness, is that of Hillside. I have at last seen the ideal of all that my most glowing fancy
has pictured, woman! I have within the half hour, beheld the realization
of all the beautiful creations of my imagination, when I
have loved to conceive in my thoughts, the beautiful, the true and
the good in one! Such a face as has ever appeared in my happiest
dreams of boyhood, when forms of love and beauty would float
around me; and when I heard her speak the tones were familiar,
like the voices of the beautiful ones who have spoken to me in my
hours of fancy! But you are full of curiosity to know who I have
seen! That I cannot tell, for her history is a mystery. She is an
orphan. I saw her in the yard of the Inn in this village, as I alighted
from my horse! Her beauty and grace, had an effect upon me
that was irresistible! You well know, dear, good mother, that I am
not susceptible, and that few females have drawn from me expressions
of admiration! you know I am not easily impressable by
mere female loveliness.' She was conveying a burden, all too
weighty for her strength, and I tendered my assistance, which she
thanked me for with a sweet, yet timid, gratitude that went to my
heart. Her mistress, the hostess, observed the act and my sympathy,
and poured upon me a torrent of invectives, saying the cruel task
was imposed upon the maiden by her orders! She was a virago,
and I saw was a tyrant. My heart bled for the young girl; and
of one near by I inquired her history. He told me that her parents
had arrived from England during the cholera season, and had died
in the village; when the landlord of the Inn, now dead, had adopted
her; but that since his decease the widow had made a servant
of her. He said the parents were evidently very genteel people,
but that no one knew their names, and that the child only went by
that of `Fanny.' I have met her—spoken with her, and—but I will not anticipate.
I must forestal your opinion, at the first, that `she could not be a
discreet maiden to meet a stranger.' She got my note, but did not
meet me in consequence of it. So rigidly is she kept at labor that
she had no opportunity to learn its contents till the moon rose,
when she stole out by her mother's grave, to open it by moonlight.
I saw her graceful figure kneeling by the grave-side, for I had been
lingering near, with hope, and approached near enough to hear her
soliloquize upon the contents of my note. I heard her say, `no,
no, I may not meet him—kind, generous as he seems to be. No—
I cannot accede to his request!' I drew nearer, and she recognized
me, and would have fled. But I detained her with gentle
and eloquent appeal. She grew trusting and remained to listen to
me. I urged her to fly her bondage, and offered her, dear mother,
your protection. But she was firm—but finally promised, if some
evil which she did not name, but which she dreaded would come
upon her, should befal her, she would then avail herself of my
proffer of your roof, if you came for her; and this you must do.—
What propriety in all her conduct! But if I was charmed with her
sweet, maidenly modesty, I was enchanted with the character of
her lovely and natural mind. I wish you could have heard her
speak her thoughts. Her language is pure and singularly expressive
of every shade of feeling. She is an extraordinary character,
and I wish you to see and know her. The study—a brief but sweet
lesson it was—of her mind to-night, has opened to me a new world
of beauty. She is as pure and guileless as a child of seven—yet
she is seventeen or eighteen. She soon grew more confiding, and
opened her soul's treasures to me. What a mine of unworked
gold lay in the foundation of her being. She is a very gentle and
single spirit. She talked in a strange, sweet, low voice, like one
musing aloud, and I listened breathless, as to pure and spiritual
communication. Her words recalled the thoughts and hopes of
my early years, and such as I love to indulge when in my better
hours. I thought then, as I listened, 'tis for such thoughts as
these, alone, we exist. How wide the contrast of their singleness
with the double-minded wordiness of the cautious and courteous
world. She is a wild, beautiful, gentle creature; for these opposite
terms just suit her. She is heart-aspiring, and loves to soar
into the new and the unrealized. She is full of fanciful memories,
and discourses sweetly and gravely of what she calls her `Fanciful
Life.' You should listen to her to know her. Blessings on her
generous and confiding heart; blessings on her delightful fancy,
which creates only to love. Let her trust in them to the end, and
without end, whilst they are so pure and hallowing. I have heard
that gigantic thinker, R. Waldo Emerson, say, `nothing is so natural
as the supernatural.' The body stands in the soul's light, and
casts a shadow upon it, and the world of minds is in twilight kept
out of its best powers and possessions. This pure, artless girl has
it always sunshine at her heart. One pure spirit broods over all
her thoughts. Her existence seems divine in human. She lives
in an ideal world of ever changing beauty, and every word she utters
enriches the soul of the listener. But most I value her for is
the loveliness of her piety. There is a holy and perpetual Sabbath
at her heart which is the house of peace. You will say, my dear
mother, that such a person may be a shrine fit, perhaps, to receive
the votaries of worshippers of the ideal and the beautiful, but not
a suitable friend and companion for common life. But this peace
and heart-spirituality is consistent with the most useful activity.—
Here is the piety of character, not of habit. I love the seclusion
of her spirit—the gentle fancies of her inner life—the fresh upspringings
of her untaught thoughts which come from unfathomed
fountains in her soul. teryble materss iss hapendd sinss you wass heer vitch iss wot
korses me phor too tak mi penn inn han witch iss a badd wunn
andd so i hop youle xkus thee spelinn andd itts thiss wot's hapendd
Phany hass loped andd I cutt Gon Hamersmith chin andd he nokt
Snipp our tayllur ovr inntu mi slopp tubb but ile tel you thee pertiklars
ov wots hapendd Snipp tels itt furs tu mee andd i cuts Gon
the smyth andd hee noks himm ovurr phannys run awa andd noe
mystak cozz thee roape wos foun she hangd hurselff with oute ov
thee widers 2 stora windur and itt wos foun ther andd shee wosnt
foun andd thatts wots hapendd andd itts inn ev boddis mouth
andd noe bodi noes wots beekum ov hur, norr i Snipp sedd a
koche tuk hurr off, butt thatts wun ov Snippes lise andd hes a
grat lierr andd dyrnks vich i donte, nott nevur taikin butt wun
tum'lar ov agg-popp—no twass jinger popp, wich gutt inter mi
hedd wich iss troo forr i sorr hur traks undur thee windurr andd
thee bedd kordd twass 12 larste nite wen shee runn awa andd itss
nou 01 inn the phoarnun i maik no dela butt rite rite orf hopin
yool com rite doune orr rite orr heare phrom phahny phor thars
no mistaik shes sloapt. After the most persevering efforts I have at last got on the scent of the
hare. A person answering her description came in town the morning after
the night you said she escaped in a stage, and got out at the tavern in Brattle
street. She was seen to go into a negro's in Ethiopian Row, and then
to go out with him up the street. I have been in the black's, whose name
is Pompey Slack; but he is as mysterious as a fortune-teller, and gravely
shakes his woolly head, and wants to know my business `wid her.' Your
money will get it out of him. I send, as you instructed me to do, a carriage
for you; call for me, and I will accompany you there. I am sure we
are on the track. I reply to your letters in one. I cannot yet visit you. My mind is made
up to prosecute this search. Since I wrote you of her escape I have been
to Hillside, but could glean no intelligence of her. I, however, saw there
a person whom I suspect has had something to do with her flight. If so, I
despair! I have been seeking him at his house, and every where, to accuse
him, and demand her at his hands, and to punish him if she be lost to me,
which God forbid. I hope every thing, yet I fear every thing. He is in
town but keeps himself close. I am more and more persuaded that he has
something to do with her flight, and that she has been deceived. I rode
hard after him the night he left Hillside, but could not overtake him before
he reached town. If I had have done so, I should have known all; for I
would have drawn the truth from him with his life. He is one of those despicable
wretches, who, aided by wealth and leisure, and being destitute of
principle, pass all their time in seeking the indulgence of the lowest vices,
and directing all their skill and talent to ensnaring the young and beautiful
of your sex. I go out again to pursue my inquiries, though with little hope
of success. That she is in Boston I know, for such a person was seen at
the inn to get out of one of the stages; and while I write she is probably
in the snares of this heartless scoundrel. But hope of the best buoys me
up. She is too lovely and pure for me to harbor the idea of her ruin. I
will write you again; but do not ask me to visit you or study till I have pursued
this matter to the end. I am once more going to the tavern in Brattle
street, to seek a clue. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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