Bookbag (0)
Search:
2003 in date [X]
UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 in subject [X]
Modify Search | New Search
Results:  261 ItemsBrowse by Facet | Title | Author
Sorted by:  
Page: Prev  ...  6 7 8 9 10   ...  Next
Date
collapse2003
collapse01
01 (261)
161Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  The golden Christmas  
 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 during that premature spell of cold weather which we so unseasonably had this year in October,—anticipating our usual winter by a full month or more,—cutting off the cotton crop a fourth, and forcing us into our winter garments long before they were ordered from the tailor,—when, one morning, as I stood shivering before the glass, and clumsily striving, with numbed fingers, to adjust my cravat à la nœud Gordien,—my friend, Ned Bulmer, burst into my room, looking as perfect an exquisite as Beau Brummell himself. He was in the gayest clothes and spirits, a thousand times more exhilarated than usual—and Ned is one of those fellows upon whom care sits uneasily, whom, indeed, care seldom sets upon at all! He laughed at my shiverings and awkwardness, seized the ends of my handkerchief, and, with the readiest fingers in the world, and in the most perfect taste, adjusted the folds of the cravat, and looped them up into a rose beneath my chin, in the twinkling of an eye, and to my own perfect satisfaction.
 Similar Items:  Find
162Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Marie de Berniere  
 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: “Start not, dear Marie; nor, if possible, exhibit the least surprise or emotion as you discover the writing to be mine, or note the character of its contents. At all events, make no remark on what you read, and let your answer be in writing also, and addressed to Madame de Chateauneuve, though really intended for myself. There are reasons, believe me, for all these precautions. In brief, dear Marie, I have come to the conclusion, after deep study and long reflection, that you are the victim of a cunning and monstrous imposition, to combat which, successfully, requires the utmost vigilance, and a distrust even of the walls of your chamber. So well am I persuaded of this, that I feel it unwise to whisper to you here the several processes of reasoning by which I have reached these suspicions, or to urge my inquiries farther towards a discovery of the truths. My purpose, therefore, is to entreat that, if you really love me, if you really desire my happiness, as well as your own, and, if you would really revolt at the idea of being deluded by a most audacious piece of jugglery, you will contrive to give me a meeting at my sister's to-morrow morning at 11 o'clock; when I will unfold to you the whole progress of my conjectures. In consenting to this arrangement, I must warn you to suffer no person to know your intentions, not even your servants. Do not order your carriage, but wait for that of Madame de Chateauneuve, who will call for you, a little before this hour. Let me implore you, dear Marie, to accede to this application. Your health will now admit—nay, require some such exercise; exertion, and the fresh pure air of these pleasant days will exhilarate and strengthen you. Supposing even that the decree which you have heard is really the voice of an almighty Providence, His benevolence will not be offended, nor His sense of authority outraged, if you resort to all reasonable and proper means to be assured of its divine origin. Scripture itself counsels us that the world shall be full of false prophets and false signs in these latter days—and there are spirits of evil as well as of good—perhaps a far greater number, who are still permitted, for purposes of mischief, to hover around the habitations of earth. You owe it to me, dear Marie, no less than to yourself —to my future and my heart as well as your own— not to yield to a decree which threatens the wreck of both, until it has been narrowly searched by every probe and principle which human reason has ever invented or conceived for the detection of error, and the discovery of truth. As this revelation appears to be so entirely miraculous—so far beyond all the ordinary events of life—it requires that it should be scrutinized in proportion to its eccentricity, and in just degree with the vital interests which depend upon its execution. Yield to this entreaty, dear Marie, even though you should persist, finally, in the cruel resolution to hearken to no other from the lips of one whose every prayer will still eternally be yours. “Sense of duty, &c. Foreclosure of mortgage, &c. Unavoidable, &c. Very sorry, &c. “Dear Sir: Meeting with the sheriff, and being in want of a sufficient force for my Cedar Island plantation, I have ventured to assume your bond, with interest, being perfectly satisfied to pay the same price for the negroes at which you bought them. As I hold them to be amply worth the amount, I leave it entirely with yourself to retain them, if you please, paying me at your leisure; though I should prefer to have them, on my assumption of your several responsibilities in regard to this property. Whatever may be your decision, which you can make at your leisure, it will at least be proper that they should remain in your keeping until after the holidays. Very faithfully, and with great respect, I am, my dear sir,
 Similar Items:  Find
163Author:  Smith Seba 1792-1868Requires cookie*
 Title:  'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee life  
 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 pilgrim fathers of New England, and their children of the first and second generations, are justly renowned for their grave character, their moral uprightness, which sometimes was rather more than perpendicular, and the vigilant circumspection which each one exercised over his neighbor as well as himself. It is true that Connecticut, from an industrious promulgation of her “Blue Laws,” has acquired more fame on this score than other portions of the “universal Yankee nation,” but this negative testimony against the rest of New England ought not to be allowed too much weight, for wherever the light of history does gleam upon portions further “Down East,” it shows a people not a whit behind Connecticut in their resolute enforcement of all the decencies of life, and their stern and watchful regard for the well-being of society. The justice of this remark will sufficiently appear by a few brief quotations from their judicial records. In the name of Captain Kidd, Amen.—On Jewell's So saying, he opened the paper, which was so much worn at the folds as to drop into several pieces, and read from it as follows:-- PAGE 180. 689EAF. Illustration page. A man sits at a table and reads from a piece of paper. Two other men are looking on listening as he reads the paper. One is stting at the table and the other is standing hunched over the table, leaning forward. There is a woman standing behind the table who is listening in as well. Island, near the harbor of Falmouth, in the District of Maine, is buried a large iron pot full of gold, with an iron cover over it, and also two large iron pots full of silver dollars and half dollars, with iron covers over them; and also one other large iron pot, with an iron cover over it, full of rich jewels, and gold rings and necklaces, and gold watches of great value. In this last pot is the paper containing the agreement of the four persons who buried these treasures, and the name of each one is signed to it with his own blood. In that agreement it is stated that this property belongs equally to the four persons who buried it, and is not to be dug up or disturbed while the whole four are living, except they be all present. And in case it shall not be reclaimed during the lifetime of the four, it shall belong equally to the survivors, who shall be bound to each other in the same manner as the four were bound. And in case this property shall never be dug up by the four, or any of them, the last survivor shall have a right to reveal the place where it is hid, and to make such disposition of it as he may think proper. And in that same paper, the evil spirit of darkness is invoked to keep watch over this money, and to visit with sudden destruction any one of the four who may violate his agreement. This property was buried at the hour of midnight, and only at the hour of midnight can it ever be reclaimed. And it can be obtained only in the most profound silence on the part of those who are digging for it. Not a word or syllable must be uttered from the time the first spade is struck in the ground, till a handful of the money is taken out of one of the pots. This arrangement was entered into with the spirit of darkness, in order to prevent any unauthorized persons from obtaining the money. I am the last survivor of the four. If I shall dispose of this paper to any one before my death, or leave it to any one after I am gone, he may obtain possession of this great treasure by observing the following directions. Go to the north side of the island, where there is a little cove, or harbor, and a good landing on a sandy beach. Take your compass and run by it due south a half a mile, measuring from high-water mark. Then run fifty rods east by compass, and there you will find a blue stone, about two feet long, set endwise into the ground. From this stone, measure fifteen rods brandy-way, and there, at the depth of five feet from the surface of the ground, you will find the pots of money.
 Similar Items:  Find
164Author:  Spofford Harriet Elizabeth Prescott 1835-1921Requires cookie*
 Title:  The amber gods, and other 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 
 Similar Items:  Find
165Author:  Spofford Harriet Elizabeth Prescott 1835-1921Requires cookie*
 Title:  Azarian  
 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: Life, which slips us along like beads on a leash, strung summer after summer on Ruth Yetton's thread, yet none so bright as that one where the Azarian had pictured his sunny face and all his infinite variety of pranksome ways. Ruth's mother had thrown her up in despair, as good for nothing under the sun, but her father always took her on his knee at twilight, listened to her little idealities, and dreamed the hour away with her. Yet without the mother's constructive strength, all Ruth's inherited visioning would have availed her ill.
 Similar Items:  Find
166Author:  Spofford Harriet Elizabeth Prescott 1835-1921Requires cookie*
 Title:  Sir Rohan's ghost  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: THERE is a Ghost in all aristocratic families, and therefore it is not to be presumed that the great house of Belvidere was destitute. But though it had dragged on a miserable existence some three hundred years without one, at last that distinction was to arrive. Sir Rohan had a Ghost. Not by any means a common ghost that appeared at midnight on the striking of a bell, and trailed its winding-sheet through the upper halls nearest the roof, but a Ghost that, sleeping or waking, never left him, a Ghost whose long hair coiled round and stifled the fair creations of his dreams, and whose white garments swept leprously into his sunshine.
 Similar Items:  Find
167Author:  Spofford Harriet Elizabeth Prescott 1835-1921Requires cookie*
 Title:  The thief in the night  
 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 garden lay sparkling under the earliest light of a June morning. A heaven everywhere a field of rose and azure soared over it; charming bird-songs trilled from its thickets; a breeze, that was only living fragrance, rifled its roses, swept up its avenues, and struck leaf and bough and blossom into light before it stripped them of their dewdrops in a shower. The Triton at the lower end of the little lake sent up a shaft of water-streams from his horn to catch the sunbeams and sprinkle them over the surface beneath, and beds of faintly blue forget-me-nots crept out to meet the pickerel-weed and lily-pads, — blue flags, and bluer weed, and waxen-white lilies just unclasping their petals, with here and there a floating ball of gold among them, — where the breeze dipped again in a shining ripple, and weeds and flags and lilies rocked and swayed before it. On the one side, the sweet-brier, climbing a pear-tree to reach the robin's nest, looked back with a hundred blushing blossoms, and blew a breath of delight to the damask-rose on the other. The damask said good-morning to the moss-rose; the moss-rose to the red; the red would have passed on the cheerful salutation, but the pale-white rose, upon its lofty stem, had been awake all night, had looked into the sick man's chamber, and learned what the ruddy-cheeked flowers, which hung their heads and went to sleep with the birds, were not to know. Nevertheless, a red-winged blackbird, lighting there and leaving, shook it so that half its petals fluttered away in pursuit; a little piece of jewel-work of a humming-bird darted by to join the frolic; a bluebird dropped a measure of melody from the spray where he was tilting, and followed after. Every thing, in all the bright and blooming garden, moved and glanced and blushed and glittered. Every thing spoke of life and joy and hope and health: nothing spoke of sad secrets or ill deeds. Every thing told of beauty and breath, the luxury of living: nothing told of death, or desolation.
 Similar Items:  Find
168Author:  Holland J. G. (Josiah Gilbert) 1819-1881Requires cookie*
 Title:  Arthur Bonnicastle  
 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: Life looks beautiful from both extremities. Prospect and retrospect shine alike in a light so divine as to suggest that the first catches some radiance from the gates, not yet closed, by which the soul has entered, and that the last is illuminated from the opening realm into which it is soon to pass. “I should like to see you here next Monday morning, in regard to some repairs about The Mansion. Come early, and if your little boy Arthur is well enough you may bring him. “I have lost my ball. I don't know where in the world it can be. It seemed to get away from me in a curious style. Mr. Bird is very kind, and I like him very much. I am sorry to say I have lost my Barlow knife too. Mr. Bird says a Barlow knife is a very good thing. I don't quite think I have lost the twenty-five cent piece. I have not seen it since yesterday morning, and I think I shall find it. Henry Hulm, who is my chum, and a very smart boy, I can tell you, thinks the money will be found. Mr. Bird says there must be a hole in the top of my pocket. I don't know what to do. I am afraid Aunt Sanderson will be cross about it. Mr. Bird thinks I ought to give my knife to the boy that will find the money, and the money to the boy that will find the knife, but I don't see as I should make much in that way, do you? I love Mrs. Bird very much. Miss Butler is the dearest young lady I ever knew. Mrs. Bird kisses us all when we go to bed, and it seems real good. I have put the testament in the bottom of my trunk, under all the things. I shall keep that if possible. If Mrs. Sanderson finds out that I have lost the things, I wish you would explain it and tell her the testament is safe. Miss Butler has dark eyebrows and wears a belt. Mr. Bird has killed another woodchuck. I wonder if you left the key of my trunk. It seems to be gone. We have real good times, playing ball and taking walks. I have walked out with Miss Butler. I wish mother could see her hair, and I am your son with ever so much love to you and mother and all, “Bring home your Attlus. “The Bell is a noble vessel.
 Similar Items:  Find
169Author:  Irving Washington 1783-1859Requires cookie*
 Title:  Wolfert's roost  
 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 
 Similar Items:  Find
170Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  Juno Clifford  
 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: Juno Clifford stood before the mirror of her richly furnished breakfast parlor. The cloth had been spread for a half-hour—the silver coffee service was prettily arranged, and the delicate cups of Sèvres porcelain were scattered around the urn. But the mistress of the mansion had only just arisen. It was ten o'clock. Men, whose business hours had commenced, were hurrying to and fro in the street— the city was teeming with life and turbulent with noise, but the hum only stole through the heavily-curtained windows of that lofty house on Mount Vernon street, with a subdued cadence that was very pleasant. It was a lounging, indolent attitude, in which the lady stood. In her whole style of manner there was a kind of tropical languor, and it was easy to see that she was seldom roused from her habitual calmness. And yet there was something in the curving of her dainty lips, the full sweep of her arching brows, nay, in every motion of her hand, which told of a slumbering power; an energy, resistless in its intensity; a will that might have subjugated an empire. The indolence was habitual —the energy, native. “Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write, but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day, that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries. In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now. The dear, blue river glides along so gently between its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier. His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has grown old among the crash of contending armies, and the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered, and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings, young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front, hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all the world could look upon them as I do, that they could teach every one the same lesson. “I will call you so this once more. God help us, for He has separated us. I have no strength to tell you now how tenderly I have loved you. You know it but too well. Every glance of your blue eyes, every thread of your golden hair was dearer to me than my own life. I would not look upon your face for worlds, now that it is lost to me for ever. My mother has tried to soothe the agony of this parting. She has whispered that a time might come, when I would be free to marry you, but I have no such hope. I dare not dwell on it; it would be unjust, cruel. I cannot ask you to love me, to think of me. Rather let me pray you to forget me; to seek in some other love the happiness I can never again taste. May he who shall win and wear you, be more worthy of your love; he cannot return it more truly. “There, forgive those words, I could not help them. When once more, after all this lapse of years, I wrote your name, I forgot for the time that you had been another's, that you had refused to be mine. I saw only the Grace of my love and my dreams, very young, very fair, and, better still, very loving and trustful. To me you are the same still. I cannot come to you to-night. I have received a message that Mabel, my own fair sister, is ill. She may be dying, but I will hope to find her better. I shall travel night and day until I reach New York. Pray for me, Grace. Think of me as your friend, your brother, if you will not let me be, as in other days—
 Similar Items:  Find
171Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  Some women's hearts  
 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: “My Niece Elizabeth, — I believe myself to be about to die. I cannot tell why this belief has taken hold of me, but I am sure that I am not long for this world. And, before I go out of it, I have an act of restitution to perform. When your father, my dead and gone brother James, died, if you had received your due, you would have had six thousand dollars. But the business was embarrassed at the time, and I thought that to put so much money out of my hands just then would ruin me. I took the responsibility, therefore, of deciding not to do it. I managed, by means that were not strictly legitimate, to keep the whole in my own possession. I did not mean ill by you, either. Your memory will bear me witness that I dealt by you in every way as by my own children; nor do I think the interest of your six thousand dollars, in whatever way invested, could possibly have taken care of you so well as I did. Still, to have it to use in my business at that critical time, was worth much more than the cost of your maintenance to me. So, as I look at matters, you owe me no thanks for your upbringing, and I owe you no farther compensation for the use of your money during those years which you passed in my house. For the five years since then, I owe you interest; and I have added to your six thousand dollars two thousand more, to reimburse you for your loss during that time. “You were right, and I was wrong. I would not tempt you to be other than you are, — the purest as the fairest woman, in my eyes, whom God ever made. I am running away, because I have not just now the strength to stay here. You will not see me again for two weeks. When I come back, I will be able to meet you as I ought, and to prove myself worthy to be your friend. “Your child was born the 28th of June. I did not know of this which was to come when I left the shelter of your roof, or I should not have gone. The little one is very ill; and, feeling that she may not live, I think it right to give you the opportunity of seeing her, if you wish to, before she dies. Come, if you choose, to No. 50, Rue Jacob, and you will find her. “My Dear Husband, — Andrew, our little boy, is very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought that you would wish to see him. Your presence would be the greatest comfort. “Mr. Thorndike, — I have hesitated long before writing you this note. I should not venture to do so now were it not that I am emboldened by the license accorded to leap-year. To a different man I would not write it for worlds, but I am sure your character is of too high a tone for you to pursue a correspondence merely for amusement or adventure. If you think I am indelicate in addressing you at all, — if you do not desire my friendship, you will let the matter drop here, — you will never reply to me, or bestow a second thought on one who will, in that case, strive to think no more of you. But should you really value the regard of a girl who is fearless enough thus to disobey the recognized laws of society; honest enough to show you her heart as it is; good enough, at least, to feel your goodness in her inmost soul, — then you will write. Then, perhaps, we shall know each other better, and the friendship thus unconventionally begun may brighten both our lives. Remember I trust to your honor not to answer this letter if you disapprove of my course in sending it, — if by so doing I have forfeited your respect. Should you reply, let it be within three days, and address,
 Similar Items:  Find
172Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  This, that and the other  
 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: “Lionel: When your hand touches this sheet, I shall be far away. It is two hours since you left me, and I have been sitting here all the while, in a kind of stupor. I have loved you very fondly, Lionel, and there is no blame for you in my heart now, only sorrow, bitter, crushing sorrow. I will believe that you love me — that you did not mean to deceive me! I will even try to think that the fault, the misunderstanding, was all mine. My soul shall send back only prayers for you — my heart shall breathe only blessings. I love you, Lionel — O, how I love you! If I could coin my life-blood into a flood of blessing, and pour it on your head, I would do so gladly; if I might die for you, my soul would be blessed as the angels. I even have thought, — may God forgive me! — that I could give my soul to perdition for your sake; but I have no right to bring sorrow, and shame, and suffering, upon another. The lips that my little sister presses must be pure; the life consecrated by a dying mother's blessing must be unstained. “Blanche Leslie, — For something tells me you are Blanche Leslie yet — I have found you at last, after these weary years. Listen, and hear if it be not destiny. When you left me, Blanche, I was a heart-broken, miserable man. You did not know me, little darling, or you never would have gone. I did not know myself. I did not know how strong was the love I had for you. Blanche, believe me, for I swear it before heaven, I never would have asked you to make one sacrifice for my sake. You should have done nothing, been nothing, your own heart did not sanction. When I read your note, I awoke to the knowledge of my own soul. Then I knew that, without you, wealth, and fame, and honor, were worse than vanity, hollower than the apples of Sodom. I would have laid down everything I possessed on earth, to have called you wife. My soul cried out for you `with groanings that could not be uttered.' “No, no! Come not near me, Lionel Hunter! Disturb not the holy calm to which it has been the work of years to attain. I have wept much, suffered much, but I am stronger now. Talk no more to me of earthly love, now that my heart has grown old, and the beauty you used to praise has faded. Leave me, leave me! It is my prayer; it is all I ask. Over my night of sorrow dews have fallen, and stars have arisen; let me walk in their light! Only in heaven will I rest, if it may be so, my head upon your breast. Then, when the angels shall name me by a new name, I will steal to your side, and, looking back to earth, over the bastions of the celestial city, you shall call me “`Heaven forgive and pity me, life of my life, that I should be writing you, the night before our bridal, only to say farewell. Our bridal; yes, it shall be so. To-morrow my soul shall marry your soul, though I am far away. I have been mad, for two weeks past, Maud! The ashes of the bottomless pit have been upon my head, and its hot breath has scorched my cheek. I would not tell you, my beloved, because I wished not to drag you down with me to perdition. O, Maud, my darling! Maud, my beloved! Can it be, I never more must draw your head to my heart — never more must look into your blue eyes, or watch the blushes stealing over your cheek? But I am raving. “Can it be that only one sun has set and risen since Stanley Grayson called me his, — since another and a dearer life grew into mine, with the knowledge that I was beloved? O, joy! great, unutterable joy, whose seeds were sown in grief, and watered by the hot tears which made the flowers grow upon my mother's grave! Who shall say, if I had not been thus desolate, I could have felt so deeply this wondrous bliss of love? “A week has passed — a long, sunny week of happiness! Stanley says we must be married in September — his birth-day, September fifth. Papa, dear, good papa, has given me carte blanche as to money. He says I never did cost him anything yet, and have only been a help to him, all my life; and now, when he 's going to lose me, he will give me all he can. Poor papa! I fear, though he likes Stanley, he is hardly reconciled to the idea of my leaving home; for, when he spoke of my going away, the tears came to his eyes, and he looked so regretfully at his easy-chair, and the little ottoman where I always sit beside him! It seemed so selfish in me to go and leave him, — him who has always been so kind to me, — and for one, too, whom I had never seen, a few short months ago! The tears came to my eyes, and for the moment I was half resolved to send Stanley away without me; but, O, I know that already my soul is married to his soul, and I cannot give him up. Lizzie will come home in July, and she can stay with papa. Do I love Stanley better than papa? Why do I not say Lizzie will do for Stanley? And why would she not — she, so good, so young, so very beautiful? “O, how dear, how much dearer than ever, my future husband is every day becoming to my heart! How long a time since I 've written here before! but then I 'm so busy, and so happy! “O, how it rains! — Such a perfect wail as the wind makes, hurrying by, as if its viewless feet were `swift to do evil!' Poor Lizzie! she is inside the stage, I suppose; she will have a long, uncomfortable ride! I don't know why it is, but my soul seems to go out toward her to-night more than ever. I have thought of Stanley so much lately, that I 've not had so much time to think of my poor child, and now my heart is reproaching me. Sweet Lizzie! She and Stanley have never met. How proud I am of them both! I am sure they must be pleased with each other. Stanley is in his room now. I sent him up to put on his black coat, and that new vest in which he looks so well. “Yes, it was dear Lizzie. Stanley heard the horn too, and hurried down stairs. I bade him go and meet Lizzie; for it was raining, and papa was n't half awake. I followed him to the door, and he received Lizzie in his arms. She thought it was papa, for, what with the night and the rain, it was quite dark; and she pressed her lips to his face again and again. But when he brought her into the pleasant, brightly-lighted parlor, and set her down, she pushed from her white shoulders her heavy cloak, and glanced around; that is, as soon as she could, for at first I held her to my heart so closely she could see nothing. When papa took her in his arms, and welcomed her, and bade God bless her, she glanced at his slippers and dressing-gown, and then at Stanley, who was looking at her with a shade of amusement at her perplexity, and yet with the most vivid admiration I ever saw portrayed on his fine features. At last he laughed out, merrily. “I am a little lonely, I 'm left so much alone now. The long rides over the hills continue, and of course I stay at home, for there is no horse for me to ride. Stanley comes and kisses me just before he goes off, and says, `You are always so busy, Katie!' but he says nothing of late about the reason I am so busy — nothing about our marriage. “Two days, and I am writing here again; but O, how changed! I have been struck by a thunderbolt. I have had a struggle, brief, but very fierce; and it is past. I was sailing in a fair ship, upon calm waters; there were only a few clouds in the sky. Sunlight rested on the waves, and in the distance I could see a floating pleasure-island, green and calm, made beautiful with tropic flowers, where gorgeous birds rested, and sang love-songs all the day. Merrily the bark dashed onward. Loved forms were by my side, and one dearer than all was at the helm; but from the clear sky a tempest-blast swept suddenly. It had sobbed no warning of the doom it was bringing us. “A month has passed since I wrote here last; I hardly know why, myself. It has been a long summer month. Days are so long in summer, and they have seemed like centuries of late. What a beautiful day it is! The sunshine smiles so pleasantly on the fields, and the bright-winged birds sing, and the insects hum lazily, or go to sleep upon the flowers. It seems to me I never saw such a scene of calm, quiet beauty; — as if Nature had on her holiday garments, decked newly for the sun, her lover. “Lizzie is married, and they have gone; surely no bride ever before looked so beautiful! Her long curls floated over her white robe like sunshine over snow; and her cheeks were fairer than ever, shaded so faintly by her rich veil. She trembled during the ceremony, and I could feel how firm and strong was the lover-like pressure with which Stanley clasped her waist. When we knelt in prayer, his arm was around her still; and I seemed quite to forget my own existence, so intently was I occupied in watching them, so fervent were my prayers for their happiness. It was the hardest when Stanley came back to me, after Lizzie had said good-by, and he had put her in the carriage. He took both my hands in his, and, looking into my eyes, whispered, Never mind Peepy, Mrs. Jellyby! Let the child cry, — let him fall down stairs, and break his nose. What are a thousand Peepies now present, to the mighty schemes of our modern Borioboola-Gha, which will affect the destinies of myriads of Peepies yet to come? Can you fritter away your attention on one man, and his little troop of children, when that new lawgiver — that Moses — that Stephen Pearl Andrews — has told us, woman's chief duty is to be “true to herself, and not true to any man”? Thanks, Mr. Andrews! We, little girl that we are, did n't know our duty before. We 've found out, now. Never mind if there were tears in his eyes, when he whispered, “I can't live, if you change!” We know our duty now, and it 's not much matter what he suffers in so good a cause. “Miss Adams: Perhaps it may give you some satisfaction to learn that, in compliment to you, I returned from New York last night, instead of this morning, as I at first intended. I went over to Oakwood, and, in the natural indulgence of a lover's curiosity, was a witness of the pleasant scene in your favorite bower. I presume it will be an occasion of heartfelt rejoicing to you to know that you are quite free from all the ties which have bound you to No, no, nothing but that! She has never derived any additional importance from linking her name with yours, imperial man! — never grown angelized by a wife's thrice-drugged potion of care and sorrow. She lives alone, in a little, lonely house, — alone, with her black cat, and her memories of the past! “Edward Gray: Ellen Adair is ill — dying. She will die to-night. I do not say if you ever loved her, for I know you did, but, if you love her now, come to us directly. “`I am surprised, Mr. Harding, at the acuteness which enables you to divine my wishes so readily. I trust the attachment which can so easily relinquish its object will not be difficult to overcome. For your kindness in procuring me this casket, I am infinitely obliged; but you must, of necessity, excuse my accepting it, as it is a present of too great value for a lady to receive from any but her lover. Enclosed you will find your miniature and letters, and a certain emerald ring, the pledge of a tie now broken. You will excuse me from coming down, as I have a head-ache this morning. I wish you God-speed on your journey, long life and happiness, and remain your friend, “Many months have passed since last we met. Summers and winters have been braided into years, and still on my heart is your name written; not one hieroglyph that you traced there has been obliterated. Heart and soul I am, what I always have been, yours! I married Clara the day succeeding our last meeting, and I love her very much. Can you reconcile this with what I have just written? I am yours, as I said; you, even you, my Agnes, are more to me than all the rest of earth; but it is much to feel we can make another human being entirely happy.
 Similar Items:  Find
173Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Eutaw  
 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 is surely an early hour for the whip-poor-will to begin her monotonous plainings, sitting on her accustomed hawthorn, just on the edge of the swamp. The sun has hardly dropped from sight behind the great pine-thickets. His crimson and orange robes still flaunt and flicker in the western heavens; gleams from his great red eyes still purple the tree-tops; and you may still see a cheerful light hanging in the brave, free atmosphere; while gray shapes, like so many half-hooded friars, glide away through the long pine-avenues, inviting you, as it would seem, to follow, while they steal away slowly from pursuit into the deeper thickets of the swamp. “My child, my dear Bertha: To you alone can I look for the rescue of your brother and myself. We are in the power of an enemy, who requires your hand in marriage for the safety of my own and my son's life. We have forfeited the security of British law. My own offences are such that, delivered to the commandant of Charleston, as I am threatened, my death — an ignominious death — must follow. Your brother is a captive also, charged with murdering the king's soldiers without a warrant. He is suffering in health by his unavoidable confinement. He can not long live in the condition in which he is kept; and his release and mine are made to depend entirely on you. Let me implore you, my child, to come to our succor, and to save us. Become the wife of Captain Inglehardt, and suffer us once more to see the light of heaven, and enjoy the freedom of earth. Come, my beloved child, to our rescue; and, in making the sacrifice of your choice, to my own, receive the blessings of your fond, but fettered father. [P. S.] You will readily conceive our exigency, when I tell you that my wrists and feet are even now in manacles of iron, and have been so from the first day of my captivity. For a time, indeed, your brother Henry was held in similar fetters.” “Sorry, my dear colonel, to cut short your roving commission; doubly sorry that it has not yet resulted as you could wish. But we can spare you from the main action of the drama no longer. We are now, I think, approaching the denouément, and require all our heroes on the stage. Stewart is in rapid march downward — a little too strong for us yet, particularly with the reinforcements which he will get from the lower posts. We hear of these in motion from several quarters, as many as a thousand or twelve hundred men. These, in addition to his estimated strength at present of twenty-three hundred, will give heavy odds against us, unless our mounted men come out much more numerously than usual. Greene is on the march, somewhat recruited, but very little strengthened. Congress has done nothing — can or will do nothing — not even give us arms and ammunition! Three hundred of our people are still without serviceable weapons of any kind, and seven hundred without jackets or breeches. It is really lucky that we have hot weather. We must make up in zeal what we lack in men and munitions, and only fight the harder from having but little means with which to fight at all! That, my dear Sinclair, is a new philosophy for the management of armies, but it is one that will not seem altogether silly in the estimation of the true patriot. At all events, it is about the best that I can give to you, who know how to fight so well on short commons; and it affords the only hope upon which I have fed (very like fasting) for a long season! Once more, then, my dear Sinclair, let me regret the necessity which requires that you rejoin your brigade, and defer, for a brief season, the painfully interesting personal enterprises upon which you are engaged.
 Similar Items:  Find
174Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Southward ho!  
 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 at New York in the opening of July. My trunks were packed, and I was drawing on my boots, making ready for departure. Everybody was leaving town, flying from the approaching dog-days in the city. I had every reason to depart also. I had certainly no motive to remain. New York was growing inconceivably dull with all her follies. Art wore only its stalest aspects, and lacked all attractions to one who had survived his own verdancy. Why should I linger?
 Similar Items:  Find
175Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Vasconselos  
 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 is the province of romance, even more decidedly than history, to recall the deeds and adventures of the past. It is to fiction that we must chiefly look for those living and breathing creations which history quite too unfrequently deigns to summon to her service. The warm atmosphere of present emotions, and present purposes, belongs to the dramatis personœ of art; and she is never so well satisfied in showing us human performances, as when she betrays the passions and affections by which they were dictated and endured. It is in spells and possessions of this character, that she so commonly supersedes the sterner muse whose province she so frequently invades; and her offices are not the less legitimate, as regards the truthfulness of things in general, than are those of history, because she supplies those details which the latter, unwisely as we think, but too commonly, holds beneath her regard. In the work before us, however, it is our purpose to slight neither agency. We shall defer to each of them, in turn, as they may be made to serve a common purpose. They both appeal to our assistance, and equally spread their possessions beneath our eyes. We shall employ, without violating, the material resources of the Historian, while seeking to endow them with a vitality which fiction only can confer. It is in pursuit of this object that we entreat the reader to suppose the backward curtain withdrawn, unveiling, if only for a moment, the aspects of a period not so remote as to lie wholly beyond our sympathies. We propose to look back to that dawn of the sixteenth century; at all events, to such a portion of the historical landscape of that period, as to show us some of the first sunny gleams of European light upon the savage dominions of the Western Continent. To review this epoch is, in fact, to survey the small but impressive beginnings of a wondrous drama in which we, ourselves, are still living actors. The scene is almost within our grasp. The names of the persons of our narrative have not yet ceased from sounding in our ears; and the theatre of performance is one, the boards of which, even at this moment, are echoing beneath their mighty footsteps. Our curiosity and interest may well be awakened for awhile, to an action, the fruits of which, in some degree, are inuring to our present benefit.
 Similar Items:  Find
176Author:  Stoddard Elizabeth 1823-1902Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Morgesons  
 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: “That child,” said my aunt Mercy, looking at me with indigo-colored eyes, “is possessed.”
 Similar Items:  Find
177Author:  Stoddard Elizabeth 1823-1902Requires cookie*
 Title:  Temple House  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Early one autumn morning, on his forty-first birthday, Argus Gates walked down the old turfy lawn, and felt immortal in his human powers. The elms above him dropped warning leaves, the silver cobwebs in the grass vanished beneath his tread, and the sere grass rose not again; but Aurora was in the sky. The stalwart, willing earth dipped beneath her chariot wheels, to lave in the rays flooding from those eyes fixed in “The ever silent spaces of the East,” and Argus was one with the earth. “Dear Mother: You never saw such work; we lost the small trunk, which was not marked. Have you seen Virginia? Her society will make amends for my absence. I wish I was at home, but I like travelling. I saw somebody yesterday that looked exactly like Mary Sutcliffe. I had half a mind to ask her if the cat's kittens had yellow patches, or if they were black and white: Mary said the cat would have kittens by the time I got back. You can't think how fish seems to be prized at these hotels, while we care nothing for it. We stopped in Boston, and John bought me an Indian scarf. In New York he bought me a dark blue silk; he is very attentive, but he has a cold. I had it made, and it is trimmed with black lace. Mother, the lace was three dollars a yard. We are in Chicago now. The air has a flat taste to me; it is different from Kent air. Of course, Uncle Argus has worried about me; oh yes, I think he is pining away. There are no good preserves at any hotel; the noise at these great houses, would drive you wild, mother; you would never again wink your eyes at my slamming doors, could you stay in one awhile. Have those Drakes been to see you? I do not care for them; do you, mother? I shall visit them but very little. John asked me if I would go to housekeeping in warm weather. I said, “Er, em, em,” which ment “yes” to him; to me, “nary housekeeping.” Why should I wash dishes for him, and dust furniture, and learn not to suit him in cooking—let me see, four times a day. He is too particular about his food. Mother, I had rather eat your dry bread; I hate to see people imagining they would like to have this, and that, to eat. I shall be gone some weeks yet. I'll help you knit when I return. John has snatched this from the table, and I am mad, for he laughs loud at it, and says—“Give me a kiss?” but I won't. It is eleven o'clock; there is no lamp burning in Temple House; you are asleep.
 Similar Items:  Find
178Author:  Stoddard Elizabeth 1823-1902Requires cookie*
 Title:  Two men  
 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: When Jason Auster married Sarah Parke he was twenty years old, and a house-carpenter. As he was not of age, he made some agreement with a hard father by which liberty was gained, and a year's wages lost. He left his native village filled with no adventurous spirit, but with a simple confidence that he should find the place where he could earn a living by his trade, and put in practice certain theories concerning the rights of men and property which had already made him a pest at home. The stage-coach which conveyed him thence, traversed a line of towns that made no impression from his point of view—the coach window; but when it stopped to change horses at Crest, a lively maritime town, and he alighted to stretch his cramped legs, he saluted Destiny. Its aspect, that spring day, pleased him; he heard the rain of blows from broad-axes in the ship-yards by the water's edge, and saw new roofs and chimneys rising along the irregular streets among the rows of ancient houses, and concluded to stay. He unstrapped a small trunk from the stage-rack, carried it into the tavern entry, and looked about him for some one to address. A man who had been eying the trunk advanced towards him with a resolutely closed mouth, and hands concealed in his pockets.
 Similar Items:  Find
179Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Requires cookie*
 Title:  Dred  
 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: “Bills, Harry? — Yes. — Dear me, where are they? — There! — No. Here? — O, look! — What do you think of this scarf? Is n't it lovely?”
 Similar Items:  Find
180Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Requires cookie*
 Title:  Dred  
 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: Our readers will perhaps feel an interest to turn back with us, and follow the singular wanderings of the mysterious personage, whose wild denunciations had so disturbed the minds of the worshippers at the camp-meeting. My dear Brother: I told you how comfortably we were living on our place — I and my children. Since then, everything has been changed. Mr. Tom Gordon came here and put in a suit for the estate, and attached me and my children as slaves. He is a dreadful man. The case has been tried and gone against us. The judge said that both deeds of emancipation — both the one executed in Ohio, and the one here — were of no effect; that my boy was a slave, and could no more hold property than a mule before a plough. I had some good friends here, and people pitied me very much; but nobody could help me. Tom Gordon is a bad man — a very bad man. I cannot tell you all that he said to me. I only tell you that I will kill myself and my children before we will be his slaves. Harry, I have been free, and I know what liberty is. My children have been brought up free, and if I can help it they never shall know what slavery is. I have got away, and am hiding with a colored family here in Natchez. I hope to get to Cincinnati, where I have friends. “It seems to me that I have felt a greater change in me within the last two months than in my whole life before. When I look back at what I was in New York, three months ago, actually I hardly know myself. It seems to me in those old days that life was only a frolic to me, as it is to the kitten. I don't really think that there was much harm in me, only the want of good. In those days, sometimes I used to have a sort of dim longing to be better, particularly when Livy Ray was at school. It seemed as if she woke up something that had been asleep in me; but she went away, and I fell asleep again, and life went on like a dream. Then I became acquainted with you, and you began to rouse me again, and for some time I thought I did n't like to wake; it was just as it is when one lies asleep in the morning — it 's so pleasant to sleep and dream, that one resists any one who tries to bring them back to life. I used to feel quite pettish when I first knew you, and sometimes wished you 'd let me alone, because I saw that you belonged to a different kind of sphere from what I 'd been living in. And I had a presentiment that, if I let you go on, life would have to be something more than a joke with me. But you would, like a very indiscreet man as you are, you would insist on being in sober earnest. “If I was so happy, my dearest one, as to be able to awaken that deeper and higher nature which I always knew was in you, I thank God. But, if I ever was in any respect your teacher, you have passed beyond my teachings now. Your childlike simplicity of nature makes you a better scholar than I in that school where the first step is to forget all our worldly wisdom, and become a little child. We men have much more to contend with, in the pride of our nature, in our habits of worldly reasoning. It takes us long to learn the lesson that faith is the highest wisdom. Don't trouble your head, dear Nina, with Aunt Nesbit or Mr. Titmarsh. What you feel is faith. They define it, and you feel it. And there 's all the difference between the definition and the feeling, that there is between the husk and the corn. “You say you may to-day be called to do something which you think right, but which will lose you many friends; which will destroy your popularity, which may alter all your prospects in life; and you ask if I can love you yet. I say, in answer, that it was not your friends that I loved, nor your popularity, nor your prospects, but you. I can love and honor a man who is not afraid nor ashamed to do what he thinks to be right; and therefore I hope ever to remain yours, “We are all in affliction here, my dear friend. Poor Uncle John died this morning of the cholera. I had been to E— to see a doctor and provide medicines. When I came back I thought I would call a few moments at the house, and I found a perfect scene of horror. Poor uncle died, and there are a great many sick on the place now; and while I was thinking that I would stay and help aunt, a messenger came in all haste, saying that the disease had broken out on our place at home. “Mr. Clayton: I am now an outcast. I cannot show my face in the world, I cannot go abroad by daylight; for no crime, as I can see, except resisting oppression. Mr. Clayton, if it were proper for your fathers to fight and shed blood for the oppression that came upon them, why is n't it right for us? They had not half the provocation that we have. Their wives and families were never touched. They were not bought, and sold, and traded, like cattle in the market, as we are. In fact, when I was reading that history, I could hardly understand what provocation they did have. They had everything easy and comfortable about them. They were able to support their families, even in luxury. And yet they were willing to plunge into war, and shed blood. I have studied the Declaration of Independence. The things mentioned there were bad and uncomfortable, to be sure; but, after all, look at the laws which are put over us! Now, if they had forbidden them to teach their children to read, — if they had divided them all out among masters, and declared them incapable of holding property as the mule before the plough, — there would have been some sense in that revolution. “I have received your letter. I need not say that I am sorry for all that has taken place — sorry for your sake, and for the sake of one very dear both to me and to you. Harry, I freely admit that you live in a state of society which exercises a great injustice. I admit your right, and that of all men, to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I admit the right of an oppressed people to change their form of government, if they can. I admit that your people suffer under greater oppression than ever our fathers suffered. And, if I believed that they were capable of obtaining and supporting a government, I should believe in their right to take the same means to gain it. But I do not, at present; and I think, if you will reflect on the subject, you will agree with me. I do not think that, should they make an effort, they would succeed. They would only embitter the white race against them, and destroy that sympathy which many are beginning to feel for their oppressed condition. I know it seems a very unfeeling thing for a man who is at ease to tell one, who is oppressed and suffering, to be patient; and yet I must even say it. It is my place, and our place, to seek repeal of the unjust laws which oppress you. I see no reason why the relation of master and servants may not be continued through our states, and the servants yet be free men. I am satisfied that it would be for the best interests of master as well as slave. If this is the truth, time will make it apparent, and the change will come. With regard to you, the best counsel I can give is, that you try to escape to some of the northern states; and I will furnish you with means to begin life there under better auspices. I am very sorry that I have to tell you something very painful about your sister. She was sold to a trading-house in Alexandria, and, in desperation, has killed both her children! For this she is now in prison, awaiting her trial! I have been to see her, and offered every assistance in my power. She declines all. She does not wish to live, and has already avowed the fact; making no defence, and wishing none to be made for her. Another of the bitter fruits of this most unrighteous system! She desired her love and kind wishes to you. Whatever more is to be known, I will tell you at some future time. “Whereas, complaint upon oath hath this day been made to us, two of the Justices of the Peace for the said county and state aforesaid, by Thomas Gordon, that a certain male slave belonging to him, named Harry, a carpenter by trade, about thirty-five years old, five feet four inches high, or thereabouts; dark complexion, stout built, blue eyes, deep sunk in his head, forehead very square, tolerably loud voice; hath absented himself from his master's service, and is supposed to be lurking about in the swamp, committing acts of felony or other misdeeds. These are, therefore, in the name of the state aforesaid, to command said slave forthwith to surrender himself, and return home to his said master. And we do hereby, by virtue of the act of assembly, in such case made and provided, intimate and declare that, if the said slave Harry doth not surrender himself, and return home immediately after the publication of these presents, that any person or persons may kill and destroy the said slave by such means as he or they may think fit, without accusation or impeachment of any crime or offence for so doing, and without incurring any penalty or forfeiture thereby. Given under our hands and seal, “I, James Rochelle, Clerk of the County Court of Southampton, in the State of Virginia, do hereby certify, that Jeremiah Cobb, Thomas Pretlow, James W. Parker, Carr Bowers, Samuel B. Hines, and Orris A. Browne, Esqrs., are acting justices of the peace in and for the county aforesaid; and were members of the court which convened at Jerusalem, on Saturday, the fifth day of November, 1831, for the trial of Nat, alias Nat Turner, a negro slave, late the property of Putnam Moore, deceased, who was tried II. 29* and convicted, as an insurgent in the late insurrection in the County of Southampton aforesaid, and that full faith and credit are due and ought to be given to their acts as justices of the peace aforesaid. “`I see that Castleman, who lately had a trial for whipping a slave to death in Virginia, was “triumphantly acquitted,” — as many expected. There are three persons in this city, with whom I am acquainted, who staid at Castleman's the same night in which this awful tragedy was enacted. They heard the dreadful lashing, and the heartrending screams and entreaties of the sufferer. They implored the only white man they could find on the premises, not engaged in the bloody work, to interpose, but for a long time he refused, on the ground that he was a dependant, and was afraid to give offence; and that, moreover, they had been drinking, and he was in fear for his own life, should he say a word that would be displeasing to them. He did, however, venture, and returned and reported the cruel manner in which the slaves were chained, and lashed, and secured in a blacksmith's vice. In the morning, when they ascertained that one of the slaves was dead, they were so shocked and indignant that they refused to eat in the house, and reproached Castleman with his cruelty. He expressed his regret that the slave had died, and especially as he had ascertained that he was innocent of the accusation for which he had suffered. The idea was that he had fainted from exhaustion; and, the chain being round his neck, he was strangled. The persons I refer to are themselves slaveholders; but their feelings were so harrowed and lacerated that they could not sleep (two of them are ladies), and for many nights afterwards their rest was disturbed, and their dreams made frightful, by the appalling recollection. “`State of North Carolina, Lenoir County. — Whereas complaint hath been this day made to us, two of the justices of the peace for the said county, by William D. Cobb, of Jones County, that two negro slaves belonging to him, named Ben (commonly known by the name of Ben Fox) and Rigdon, have absented themselves from their said master's service, and are lurking about in the Counties of Lenoir and Jones, committing acts of felony; these are, in the name of the state, to command the said slaves forthwith to surrender themselves, and turn home to their said master. And we do hereby also require the sheriff of said County of Lenoir to make diligent search and pursuit after the above-mentioned slaves.... And we do hereby, by virtue of an act of assembly of this state concerning servants and slaves, intimate and declare, if the said slaves do not surrender themselves and return home to their master immediately after the publication of these presents, that any person may kill or destroy said slaves by such means as he or they think fit, without accusation or impeachment of any crime or offence for so doing, or without incurring any penalty of forfeiture thereby. “`$200 Reward. — Ran away from the subscriber, about three years ago, a certain negro man, named Ben, commonly known by the name of Ben Fox; also one other negro, by the name of Rigdon, who ran away on the eighth of this month. “`State of North Carolina, New Hanover County. — Whereas complaint, upon oath, hath this day been made to us, two of the justices of the peace for the said state and county aforesaid, by Guilford Horn, of Edgecombe County, that a certain male slave belonging to him, named Harry, a carpenter by trade, about forty years old, five feet five inches high, or thereabouts; yellow complexion; stout built; with a scar on his left leg (from the cut of an axe); has very thick lips; eyes deep sunk in his head; forehead very square; tolerably loud voice; has lost one or two of his upper teeth; and has a very dark spot on his jaw, supposed to be a mark, — hath absented himself from his master's service, and is supposed to be lurking about in this county, committing acts of felony or other misdeeds; these are, therefore, in the name of state aforesaid, to command the said slave forthwith to surrender himself and return home to his said master; and we do hereby, by virtue of the act of assembly in such cases made and provided, intimate and declare that if the said slave Harry doth not surrender himself and return home immediately after the publication of these presents, that any person or persons may KILL and DESTROY the said slave by such means as he or they may think fit, without accusation or impeachment of any crime or offence in so doing, and without incurring any penalty or forfeiture thereby. “`One Hundred and Twenty-five Dollars Reward will be paid for the delivery of the said Harry to me at Tosnott Depot, Edgecombe County, or for his confinement in any jail in the state, so that I can get him; or One Hundred and Fifty Dollars will be given for his head. “If the plan of separation gives us the pastoral care of you, it remains to inquire whether we have done anything, as a conference, or as men, to forfeit your confidence and affection. We are not advised that even in the great excitement which has distressed you for some months past, any one has impeached our moral conduct, or charged us with unsoundness in doctrine, or corruption or tyranny in the administration of discipline. But we learn that the simple cause of the unhappy excitement among you is, that some suspect us, or affect to suspect us, of being abolitionists. Yet no particular act of the Conference, or any particular member thereof, is adduced as the ground of the erroneous and injurious suspicion. We would ask you, brethren, whether the conduct of our ministry among you for sixty years past ought not to be sufficient to protect us from this charge. Whether the question we have been accustomed, for a few years past, to put to candidates for admission among us, namely, Are you an abolitionist? and, without each one answered in the negative, he was not received, ought not to protect us from the charge. Whether the action of the last Conference on this particular matter ought not to satisfy any fair and candid mind that we are not, and do not desire to be, abolitionists. * * * * We cannot see how we can be regarded as abolitionists, without the ministers of the Methodist Episcopal Church South being considered in the same light. * * *
 Similar Items:  Find
Page: Prev  ...  6 7 8 9 10   ...  Next