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101Author:  Holmes Oliver Wendell 1809-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  The guardian angel  
 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: ON Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1859, the “State Banner and Delphian Oracle,” published weekly at Oxbow Village, one of the principal centres in a thriving river-town of New England, contained an advertisement which involved the story of a young life, and startled the emotions of a small community. Such faces of dismay, such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chirruping chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had not been known since the rainy November Friday, when old Malachi Withers was found hanging in his garret up there at the lonely house behind the poplars. “My dearest Olive: — Think no evil of me for what I have done. The fire-hang-bird's nest, as Cyprian called it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. “A Vision seen by me, Myrtle Hazard, aged fifteen, on the night of June 15, 1859. Written out at the request of a friend from my recollections. “My dearest Clement, — You was so good to write me such a sweet little bit of a letter, — only, dear, you never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be. I wish your Susie was with you to cheer you up; but no, she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you are so ambitious! I have heard you say so many times that nobody could be a great artist without passing years and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking so hard. You won't grow pale and lean, I hope; for I do so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have always had ever since I have known you; and besides, I do not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something great, — you have so much genius, and people of genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. You remember those beautiful lines out of our newspaper I sent you? Well, Mr. Hopkins told me he wrote those lines in one evening without stopping! I wish you could see Mr. Hopkins, — he is a very talented person. I cut out this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show you, — for genius loves genius, — and you would like to hear him read his own poetry, — he reads it beautifully. Please send this piece from the paper back, as I want to put it in my scrap-book, under his autograph: — “My dear Susie, — I have just been reading your pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice, which will do just as well, — won't it, my dear? I was interested in your account of various things going on at Oxbow Village. I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins so agreeable a friend. His poetry is better than some which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. I do not believe he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing verse does not always improve the character. I think I have seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited, sentimental, and frivolous, — perhaps it found them so already. Don't make too much of his talent, and particularly don't let him think that because he can write verses he has nothing else to do in this world. That is for his benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it. “Reverend Sir, — I shall not come to your study this day. I do not feel that I have any more need of religious counsel at this time, and I am told by a friend that there are others who will be glad to hear you talk on this subject. I hear that Mrs. Hopkins is interested in religious subjects, and would have been glad to see you in my company. As I cannot go with her, perhaps Miss Susan Posey will take my place. I thank you for all the good things you have said to me, and that you have given me so much of your company. I hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven some time, if we are good enough, but I want to wait for that awhile, for I do not feel quite ready. I am not going to see you any more alone, reverend sir. I think this is best, and I have good advice. I want to see more of young people of my own age, and I have a friend, Mr. Gridley, who I think is older than you are, that takes an interest in me; and as you have many others that you must be interested in, he can take the place of a father better than you can do. I return to you the hymn-book, — I read one of those you marked, and do not care to read any more.
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102Author:  Howells William Dean 1837-1920Requires cookie*
 Title:  A chance acquaintance  
 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: ON the forward promenade of the Saguenay boat which had been advertised to leave Quebec at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning, Miss Kitty Ellison sat tranquilly expectant of the joys which its departure should bring, and tolerantly patient of its delay; for if all the Saguenay had not been in promise, she would have thought it the greatest happiness just to have that prospect of the St. Lawrence and Quebec. The sun shone with a warm yellow light on the Upper Town, with its girdle to gray wall, and on the red flag that drowsed above the citadel, and was a friendly lustre on the tinned roofs of the Lower Town; while away off to the south and east and west wandered the purple hills and the farmlit plains in such dewy shadow and effulgence as would have been enough to make the heaviest heart glad. Near at hand the river was busy with every kind of craft, and in the distance was mysterious with silvery vapors; little breaths of haze, like an ethereal colorless flame, exhaled from its surface, and it all glowed with a lovely inner radiance. In the middle distance a black ship was heaving anchor and setting sail, and the voice of the seamen came soft and sad and yet wildly hopeful to the dreamy ear of the young girl, whose soul at once went round the world before the ship, and then made haste back again to the promenade of the Saguenay boat. She sat leaning forward a little with her hands fallen into her lap, letting her unmastered thoughts play as they would in memories and hopes around the consciousness that she was the happiest girl in the world, and blest beyond desire or desert. To have left home as she had done, equipped for a single day at Niagara, and then to have come adventurously on, by grace of her cousin's wardrobe, as it were, to Montreal and Quebec; to be now going up the Saguenay, and finally to be destined to return home by way of Boston and New York; — this was more than any one human being had a right to; and, as she had written home to the girls, she felt that her privileges ought to be divided up among all the people of Eriecreek. She was very grateful to Colonel Ellison and Fanny for affording her these advantages; but they being now out of sight in pursuit of state-rooms, she was not thinking of them in relation to her pleasure in the morning scene, but was rather regretting the absence of a lady with whom they had travelled from Niagara, and to whom she imagined she would that moment like to say something in praise of the prospect. This lady was a Mrs. Basil March of Boston; and though it was her wedding journey and her husband's presence ought to have absorbed her, she and Miss Kitty had sworn a sisterhood, and were pledged to see each other before long at Mrs. March's home in Boston. In her absence, now, Kitty thought what a very charming person she was, and wondered if all Boston people were really like her, so easy and friendly and hearty. In her letter she had told the girls to tell her Uncle Jack that he had not rated Boston people a bit too high, if she were to judge from Mr. and Mrs. March, and that she was sure they would help her as far as they could to carry out his instructions when she got to Boston. DEAR GIRLS: Since the letter I wrote you a day or two after we got here, we have been going on very much as you might have expected. A whole week has passed, but we still bear our enforced leisure with fortitude; and, though Boston and New York are both fading into the improbable (as far as we are concerned), Quebec continues inexhaustible, and I don't begrudge a moment of the time we are giving it.
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103Author:  Howells William Dean 1837-1920Requires cookie*
 Title:  A foregone conclusion  
 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: As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow calle or footway leading from the Campo San Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he peered anxiously about him: now turning for a backward look up the calle, where there was no living thing in sight but a cat on a garden gate; now running a quick eye along the palace walls that rose vast on either hand and notched the slender strip of blue sky visible overhead with the lines of their jutting balconies, chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing toward the canal, where he could see the noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There was no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and the harsh scream of a parrot that hung in the sunshine in one of the loftiest windows; but the note of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses in the campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together and gossiped, with the canal between them, at the next gondola station.
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104Author:  Howells William Dean 1837-1920Requires cookie*
 Title:  Their wedding journey  
 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: 610EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Image of a small winged Cupid wearing a top hat and carrying a large suitcase on his shoulder and a valise in one hand.
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105Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  The sunny South, or, The Southerner at home  
 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: Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for, if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors presume so much, you need to be put down. The bearer is Colonel Peyton, a planter of intelligence and fortune, who wishes a governess, who will be charged with the education of his daughter. The position seems to be a very desirable one, and I would recommend you to accept it, if he should, after seeing you, offer it to you. My Dear Sir,—There is probably no purgatory on earth (for purgatories abound in this world) so effectually conducive to penitence and repentance as a watering place. If good cannot come out of evil, nor light out of darkness, nor laughter out of sorrow, neither can any thing interesting proceed from a watering place. Nevertheless, I have to fly to my pen for solace. I have read till reading is insufferably tiresome—I have walked till I could walk no longer—I have talked till I am tired hearing my own voice and the voices of others—I have jumped the rope till I have blistered the soles of my feet, and made my hands burn—I have drunk the waters until I shall never bear to hear water mentioned again— I have danced under the trees, and looked on in the old dancing-room, till dancing is worn out—I have yawned till I have nearly put my jaws out—and I have sat till I could hardly keep my eyes open, looking at the trees, the hot walks, the listlessly-wandering-about people, that look as if they could take laudanum, hang themselves, or cut their throats, “just as lief do it as not,” if it were not so impolite and wicked to shock people's nerves by perpetrating such dreadful things! I have slept till my eyes won't hold any more sleep, and are swelled and red like two pink pin-cushions. I have rolled ninepins till I have nearly broken my arm with the heavy balls; and it is too hot to sew, to knit, to net, to do any thing but write! This I can do when all other things fail. I can write off a headache, write away care, and bury miserable thoughts in the dark depths of my inkstand. Therefore, Mr. —, I fly to my escritoire for relief from the tedium which everywhere surrounds me. The day is past; and as it is our last day at the Springs, therefore rejoice with me, Mr. —. I am impatient to be back once more to my dear, familiar room, with its thousand and one comforts. I want to see my pet deer, my doves, my squirrel, my flowers, my books, my own looking-glass, for I don't look like myself in these at the Springs, which look as if they had been made while a stiff breeze was rippling across their molter, surface. To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed. The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare, in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all. “My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't write in return, and that your little heart will dance with gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print. You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I have a story to tell you about these same birds. Now, Mr. —, I know a letter to a child is not the wisest piece of composition that ever was penned, but Charley is a fine little fellow, and may be an editor himself one of these days; so, if you will be so good as to print the letter, I will be very much obliged to you, and send an extra paper containing it to Charley himself. The signal to embark is now heard, and I must end. In my last letter I took you, will you nill you, on a journey to my forest-emburied home. Landing you safely upon the pier, at the gate which enters the lawn of live-oaks, that stretches between the house and the beautiful expanse of water in front, I gave you a warm and hospitable welcome. The same welcome I will joyfully extend to any of your friends, who think enough of me to turn out of the way of the great Father of Waters, to seek me out amid the heart of this lovely region of the South. “Dear Wife:—This epistle is written at `Illewalla,' or `Lover's Lake,' which is the translation of the soft Indian name. It is the romantic and charming home of my old correspondent, `Kate, of the Needles.' I cannot, with my prosaic pen, begin to present to your mind's eye the peculiar beauty of this retreat. On my way up from New Orleans to Louisville, I determined to stop and see my fair friend, in her own home; and having obtained the direction, I embarked at New Orleans on board the steamer `Dr. Beattie,' for Thibodeaux.
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106Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  The throne of David  
 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: In obedience to your Majesty's commands, I have availed myself of my first leisure to record in the leaves of my tablets the scenery and incidents which have struck me as worthy of observation, during my journey from the banks of the Tigris to those of this remote river. Descriptions of the interesting countries through which I have passed, with allusions to the manners and customs of the people, I will not here repeat, as I have made a careful history of them for your Majesty's perusal when I shall return from my embassy. I am to-night encamped by the “Well of the Oath,” in a palm grove opposite the gate of this southern border-city of Judea. By this well, a thousand years ago, Abimelec, a king of Gerar, and Abraham, the father of the Hebrews, made a covenant of amity. Here at this fountain the ancient Chaldee used to lead to water his thousands of camels and tens of thousands of sheep. It is regarded as a sacred place by the Hebrews, who, with fine feeling, honor every place made historical by association with their “three great patriarchs.” This unlooked-for and unusual delay, your majesty, in accepting thy royal nuptial gifts, and in giving me a final answer, I am at a loss to comprehend, as I am satisfied by daily audience with this charming princess that she is deeply interested in you. All my ardent descriptions of your person, and eulogiums upon your heart and character, have captivated her imagination; and I never discourse of you that her eyes do not beam with the splendors of the torch of love, while her sighs and virgin emotion betray the impassioned ardor of her attachment to your majesty. What a prize shall I have the honor of presenting to you, O Belus! Such personal beauty as she possesses is seldom met with! Besides, she is endowed with the most delicate wit, mirth, intelligence, and wonderful grace of speech and manner. No woman I have seen, save, with your majesty's permission, Adora of Isrilid, can compare with her in that nameless fascination which so often captivates and bewilders the strongest masculine minds.
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107Author:  Jones J. B. (John Beauchamp) 1810-1866Requires cookie*
 Title:  Border war  
 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: Old Maud Clusky, the cook, had repeatedly looked out from the basement of a stately mansion, in the Federal City, impatiently awaiting her master's return from the Capitol. The hour for dinner had struck, and the punctual Senator Langdon had not taken his seat at the table. And, that day, of all others, the President's daughter, Alice Randolph, was to dine with Miss Edith Langdon; and the day following, Miss Randolph was to be Miss Langdon's principal bridesmaid. The Honorable Henry Blount—for he was a member of the House of Representatives, whilst his venerable father occupied a seat in the Senate—was on that day to espouse the beautiful Edith in St. John's Holy Church. And the daughter of the President of the United States was now with the affianced maiden in her boudoir. “Dear General—I think it probable the Resolutions will not pass the Convention. Be upon your guard. It may not be safe to leave your own lines. An attempt has been made on my life. Be careful, General. I will join you in a few days, and shall be happy to serve, the second in command, under the first General and the first man of the country. These, by my honest and faithful messenger, Signor Popoli. “Flora:—My only motive, my only desire, in writing this, and in sending a special messenger, is to save your life. Ruffleton's career is nearly ended. But it was not the Usurper—it was the man—you loved. And I respect him for not abandoning you in the height of his power. I will save his life if possible. But yours is in the greatest danger. If you can rely upon Colonel Snare, who, I am told, commands the regiment at the President's Mansion, warn him that a conspiracy is in existence to arrest and drag you to execution. I cannot indicate the authors of this diabolical scheme—at present. But I declare to you that I know it exists. Lose not a moment in taking effectual measures to guarantee your safety. I know, however, that you cannot remain long in Washington—and I would advise you to leave the city and sojourn in some place of security where you may communicate with Ruffleton, who will soon be—I am certain, Flora—a fugitive. Fly with him to other lands. And that you may be happy is the sincere wish of
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108Author:  Billings Josh 1818-1885Requires cookie*
 Title:  Josh Billings on Ice  
 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: Having herd mutch sed about skating parks, and the grate amount ov helth and muscle they woz imparting tew the present generashun at a slite advanse from fust cost, i bought a ticket and went within the fense. Thru the politeness ov Mr. John Smith, i cum in possession ov yure valuabel letter, at about 9 o'clock night before last, in which yu offer me 10 dollars for a poultiss. POULTISS. Ginowine politeness is a nice mixture ov vanity and good natur, invigerated bi virtue, and chastened bi policy. I am instructed by our association to inquire ov you, and solicit a reply, if you could read a discourse before our lyceum this winter, and if so, at what time, on what subject, and upon what terms. This day, at 10 o'clock A. M., I cum in contact with your letter, and was real glad tew hear from yu. How do you like being Cor. Sek. ov a LyAssoci'? It is a light, pretty bizziness, and don't require much capital.
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109Author:  Warner Anna Bartlett 1824-1915Requires cookie*
 Title:  Dollars and cents  
 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: “ABSOLUTELY left!” said Mr. Howard—“missed the stage after all my hurry; and now I can't get to Edmondtown to-day, and by to-morrow Jarvis will have gone west, and my rent in his pocket! Well—”
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110Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold  
 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 getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered window of the house which had always been his home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock, were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am, as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about —or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see. It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit, I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the “allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over, you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful), and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once— painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin. There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know, Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort, in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery) that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So, don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow, it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore, we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly, may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye. If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama— so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon, Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing, and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven. He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement; but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love. The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding something to look back and say, which you will first read probably, when I am already there. It will be written with the trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace, with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course, be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul, a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time, “a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years, and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt— so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment, at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture, though I do so by placing myself and the consequences entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents. There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly, and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only, I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me, however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle, of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell, and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs. Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me, and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle.
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111Author:  Evans Augusta J. (Augusta Jane) 1835-1909Requires cookie*
 Title:  Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice  
 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 town-clock was on the last stroke of twelve, the solitary candle measured but two inches from its socket, and, as the summer wind rushed through the half-closed shutters, the melted tallow dripped slowly into the brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The flickering light fell upon grim battalions of figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the face of the accountant, as he bent over his work. In these latter days of physical degeneration, such athletic frames as his are rarely seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen years growth had given him unusual height and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was difficult to realize that the stature of manhood had been attained by a mere boy in years. A gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the coat was thrown partially off. He wore no vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered the snowy white collar to fall away from the throat and expose its well-turned outline. The head was large, but faultlessly proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut short and clinging to the temples, added to its massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril, and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache, combined to render the face one of uncommon beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures, there was nothing prepossessing or winning in his appearance, for though you could not carp at the moulding of his features, you involuntarily shrank from the prematurely grave, nay, austere expression which seemed habitual to them. He looked just what he was, youthful in months and years, but old in trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who analyzed his countenance, the conviction was inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition unbounded, his intellect wonderfully acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark in young faces the absence of that beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous heart imparts, and though in this instance there was nothing dark or sinister, you could not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res olution which said so plainly: “I struggle, and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the world defy me.” Although he had labored since dawn, there was no drooping of the muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he sat and worked on, one hand wielding the pen, the other holding down the leaves which fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed over them. “Electra, come to school Monday. The enclosed will pay your tuition for two months longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it, if you really love “With gratitude beyond all expression for the favor conferred on my mother and myself, some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon the money which I have ever regarded as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future will afford me some opportunity of proving my appreciation of her great kindness, “If you do not feel quite ready for the day of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six developed cases of rank typhus. “Before you leave W—, allow me to see you for a few moments. If your departure is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to me this afternoon, at any hour which may be most convenient. “Huntingdon was desperately wounded at three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He died two hours ago. I was with him. The body leaves to-morrow for W—. “Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded. Cyrus will show the way.
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112Author:  EDITED BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.Requires cookie*
 Title:  Out of his head  
 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: “On the seventeenth of August, in the year 16—, the morning sun, resting obliquely on the gables and roof-tops of Portsmouth, lighted up one of those grim spectacles not unusual in New England at that period. In Thomas Bailey Aldrich, whose death was briefly announced in The Times of Wednesday, America has lost the most brilliant man of letters of the generation that succeeded the Concord group. He was born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in November, 1836, when Longfellow and Emerson were in their prime, and he reaped the benefit of their labours by coming into an age which they had familiarized with literature and cultivation. Mr. Aldrich early became a journalist, and was connected with the New York Evening Mirror, Willes's Home Journal, and other papers. The outbreak of the war saw him as newspaper correspondent, and in 1865 he became the editor of Every Saturday. Nine years in that post were followed by seven of miscellaneous work, till in 1881 he reached the height of his career as journalist by becoming editor of the Atlantic Monthly, a position he held till 1890. Meanwhile he had written much original matter both in prose and verse. His genius was many-sided, and it is surprising that so busy an editor and so prolific a writer should have attained the perfection of form for which Mr. Aldrich was remarkable. Among his novels “Prudence Palfrey” and “The Stillwater Tragedy” are the best known. From his country home at Porkapog, Mass., he sent out the charming “Porkapog Papers,” as graceful and delicate as their title was ungainly. He described with the skill of a Hawthorne his native town by the sea, and in “Marjorie Daw” and other works he proved himself an “American humourist” of a characteristic type. One of his books, “The Story of a Bad Boy,” has achieved notable distinction; it has been translated into French in a series entitled “Education et Récréation,” and into German as a specimen of American humour. It is, however, as a poet that Mr. Aldrich was chiefly entitled to recognition, and on his poetry that his fame will rest. Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman regarded him as “the most pointed and exquisite of our lyrical craftsmen”; and the words are well chosen. He was the doyen and the leader of the school of American poetry which is now being displaced by Mr. Bliss Carman and others, who are apparently more virile than the preceding generation. His was the poetry of exquisite finish and not of great force or profundity. To say that his lyrics are vers de société in the highest form is not to rate their content too low nor their manner too high; and it is in lyric song rather than in the longer poems, such as “Wyndham Towers,” that Mr. Aldrich excelled. Some of his poems—that on the intaglio head of Minerva, “When the Sultan goes to Ispahan,” and “Identity”— are in every anthology of American literature, and have won their author fame throughout the English-speaking world. Suddenly Loses Strength After Partially Recovering From an Operation.
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113Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  The marble faun: or, The romance of Monte Beni  
 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: Four individuals, in whose fortunes we should be glad to interest the reader, happened to be standing in one of the saloons of the sculpture-gallery in the Capitol at Rome. It was that room (the first, after ascending the staircase) in the centre of which reclines the noble and most pathetic figure of the Dying Gladiator, just sinking into his death-swoon. Around the walls stand the Antinous, the Amazon, the Lycian Apollo, the Juno; all famous productions of antique sculpture, and still shining in the undiminished majesty and beauty of their ideal life, although the marble that embodies them is yellow with time, and perhaps corroded by the damp earth in which they lay buried for centuries. Here, likewise, is seen a symbol (as apt at this moment as it was two thousand years ago) of the Human Soul, with its choice of Innocence or Evil close at hand, in the pretty figure of a child, clasping a dove to her bosom, but assaulted by a snake.
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114Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  The marble faun: or, The romance of Monte Beni  
 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: From the old butler, whom he found to be a very gracious and affable personage, Kenyon soon learned many curious particulars about the family history and hereditary peculiarities of the Counts of Monte Beni. There was a pedigree, the later portion of which — that is to say, for a little more than a thousand years — a genealogist would have found delight in tracing out, link by link, and authenticating by records and documentary evidences. It would have been as difficult, however, to follow up the stream of Donatello's ancestry to its dim source, as travellers have found it to reach the mysterious fountains of the Nile. And, far beyond the region of definite and demonstrable fact, a romancer might have strayed into a region of old poetry, where the rich soil, so long uncultivated and untrodden, had lapsed into nearly its primeval state of wilderness. Among those antique paths, now overgrown with tangled and riotous vegetation, the wanderer must needs follow his own guidance, and arrive nowhither at last.
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115Author:  Higginson Thomas Wentworth 1823-1911Requires cookie*
 Title:  Malbone  
 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: AS one wanders along this southwestern promontory of the Isle of Peace, and looks down upon the green translucent water which forever bathes the marble slopes of the Pirates' Cave, it is natural to think of the ten wrecks with which the past winter has strewn this shore. Though almost all trace of their presence is already gone, yet their mere memory lends to these cliffs a human interest. Where a stranded vessel lies, thither all steps converge, so long as one plank remains upon another. There centres the emotion. All else is but the setting, and the eye sweeps with indifference the line of unpeopled rocks. They are barren, till the imagination has tenanted them with possibilities of danger and dismay. The ocean provides the scenery and properties of a perpetual tragedy, but the interest arrives with the performers. Till then the shores remain vacant, like the great conventional arm-chairs of the French drama, that wait for Rachel to come and die.
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116Author:  Holland J. G. (Josiah Gilbert) 1819-1881Requires cookie*
 Title:  Sevenoaks  
 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: Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so much like it, in most particulars, that a description of any one of them would present it to the imagination—a town strung upon a stream, like beads upon a thread, or charms upon a chain. Sevenoaks was richer in chain than charms, for its abundant water-power was only partially used. It plunged, and roared, and played, and sparkled, because it had not half enough to do. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing through the village; and, as it started from living springs far northward among the woods and mountains, it never failed in its supplies. “Mr. Robert Belcher: I have been informed of the shameful manner in which you treated a member of my family this morning—Master Harry Benedict. The bullying of a small boy is not accounted a dignified business for a man in the city which I learn you have chosen for your home, however it may be regarded in the little town from which you came. I do not propose to tolerate such conduct toward any dependent of mine. I do not ask for your apology, for the explanation was in my hands before the outrage was committed. I perfectly understand your relations to the lad, and trust that the time will come when the law will define them, so that the public will also understand them. Meantime, you will consult your own safety by letting him alone, and never presuming to repeat the scene of this morning. “Dear Sir: I owe an apology to the people of Sevenoaks for never adequately acknowledging the handsome manner in which they endeavored to assuage the pangs of parting on the occasion of my removal. The resolutions passed at their public meeting are cherished among my choicest treasures, and the cheers of the people as I rode through their ranks on the morning of my departure, still ring in my ears more delightfully than any music I ever heard. Thank them, I pray you, for me, for their overwhelming friendliness. I now have a request to make of them, and I make it the more boldly because, during the past ten years, I have never been approached by any of them in vain when they have sought my benefactions. The Continental Petroleum Company is a failure, and all the stock I hold in it is valueless. Finding that my expenses in the city are very much greater than in the country, it has occurred to me that perhaps my friends there would be willing to make up a purse for my benefit. I assure you that it would be gratefully received; and I apply to you because, from long experience, I know that you are accomplished in the art of begging. Your graceful manner in accepting gifts from me has given me all the hints I shall need in that respect, so that the transaction will not be accompanied by any clumsy details. My butcher's bill will be due in a few days, and dispatch is desirable. “Your letter of this date received, and contents noted. Permit me to say in reply: “Dear Benedict:—I am glad to know that you are better. Since you distrust my pledge that I will give you a reasonable share of the profits on the use of your patents, I will go to your house this afternoon, with witnesses, and have an independent paper prepared, to be signed by myself, after the assignment is executed, which will give you a definite claim upon me for royalty. We will be there at four o'clock.
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117Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Cameron pride, or, Purified by suffering  
 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: UNCLE EPHRAIM BARLOW was an old-fashioned man, clinging to the old-time customs of his fathers, and looking with but little toleration upon what he termed the “new-fangled notions” of the present generation. Born and reared amid the rocks and hills of the Bay State, his nature partook largely of the nature of his surroundings, and he grew into manhood with many a rough point adhering to his character, which, nevertheless, taken as a whole, was, like the wild New England scenery, beautiful and grand. None knew Uncle Ephraim Barlow but to respect him, and at the church in which he was a deacon, few would have been missed more than the tall, muscular man, with the long white hair, who, Sunday after Sunday, walked slowly up the middle aisle to his accustomed seat before the altar, and who regularly passed the contribution box, bowing involuntarily in token of approbation when a neighbor's gift was larger than its wont, and gravely dropping in his own ten cents —never more, never less, always ten cents—his weekly offering, which he knew amounted in a year to just five dollars and twenty cents. And still Uncle Ephraim was not stingy, as the Silverton poor could testify, for many a load of wood and bag of meal found entrance to the doors where cold and hunger would have otherwise been, while to his minister he was literally a holder up of the weary hands, and a comforter in the time of trouble. “Miss Helen Lennox: Please pardon the liberty I have taken in inclosing the sum of $500 to be used by you in procuring whatever Katy may need for present necessities. Presuming that the country seamstresses have not the best facilities for obtaining the latest fashions, my mother proposes sending out her own private dressmaker, Mrs. Ryan. You may look for her the last of the week. Mr. Wilford Cameron: — I give you credit for the kindest of motives in sending the check which I now return to you, with my compliments. We are not as poor as you suppose, and would almost deem it sacrilege to let another than ourselves provide for Katy so long as she is ours. And furthermore, Mrs. Ryan's services will not be needed, so it is not worth her while to make a journey here for nothing. “By the way, Helen, I heard him tell Wilford that you had one of the best shaped heads he ever saw, and that he thought you decidedly good looking. I must tell you now of the only thing which troubles me in the least, and I shall get used to that, I suppose. It is so strange Wilford never told me a word until she came. Think of little Katy Lennox with a waiting-maid, who jabbers French half the time, for she speaks that language as well as her own, having been abroad with the family once before. That is why they sent her to me; they knew her services would be invaluable in Paris. Her name is Esther, and she came the day after we did, and brought me such a beautiful mantilla from Wilford's mother, and the loveliest dress. Just the pattern was fifty dollars, she said. “My Dear Sister Helen:—I have just come in from a little party given by one of Mrs. Harvey's friends, and I am so tired, for you know I am not accustomed to such late hours. The party was very pleasant indeed, and everybody was so kind to me, especially Mr. Ray, who stood by me all the time, and who somehow seemed to help me, so that I knew just what to do, and was not awkward at all. I hope not, at least for Wilford's sake. AFTER German Philosophy and Hamilton's Metaphysics, it is a great relief to have introduced into the family an entirely new element — a character the dissection of which is at once a novelty and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find myself returning to my books with increased vigor after an encounter with that unsophisticated, innocent-minded creature, our sister-in-law Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage who was one day coming to us as Wilford's wife, and of whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas, how hath our idol fallen! And still I rather like the little creature, who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death, giving her lace streamers a most uncomfortable twitch, and actually kissing father — a thing I have not done since I can remember. But then the Camerons are all a set of icicles, encased in a refrigerator at that. If we were not, we should thaw out, when Katy leans on us so affectionately and looks up at us so wistfully, as if pleading for our love. Wilford does wonders; he used to be so grave, so dignified and silent, that I never supposed he would bear having a wife meet him at the door with cooing and kisses, and climbing into his lap right before us all. Juno says it makes her sick, while mother is dreadfully shocked; and even Will sometimes seems annoyed, gently shoving her aside and telling her he is tired. Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible. “Your child is dying at Silverton. Come at once. Dear Katy:—I have been suddenly called to leave the city on business, which will probably detain me for three days or more, and as I must go on the night train, I wish Esther to have my portmanteau ready with whatever I may need for the journey. As I proposed this morning, I shall dine with mother, but come home immediately after dinner. “Will you be sorry when you read this and find that I am gone, that you are free from the husband you do not love,—whom, perhaps, you never loved, though I thought you did. I trusted you once, and now I do not blame you as much as I ought, for you are young and easily influenced. You are very susceptible to flattery, as was proven by your career at Saratoga and Newport. I had no suspicion of you then, but now that I know you better, I see that it was not all childish simplicity which made you smile so graciously upon those who sought your favor. You are a coquette, Katy, and the greater one because of that semblance of artlessness which is the perfection of art. This, however, I might forgive, if I had not learned that another man loved you first and wished to make you his wife, while you, in your secret heart, wish you had known it sooner. Don't deny it, Katy; I saw it in your face when I first told you of Dr. Grant's confession, and I heard it in your voice as well as in your words when you said `A life at Linwood would be perfect rest compared with this.' That hurt me cruelly, Katy. I did not deserve it from one for whom I have done and borne so much, and it was the final cause of my leaving you, for I am going to Washington to enroll myself in the service of my country. You will be happier without me for awhile, and perhaps when I return, Linwood will not look quite the little paradise it does now. “Married—On Christmas Eve, at St. John's Church, Silverton, Mass., by the Rev. Mr. Kelly, Capt. Mark Ray, of the —th Regiment, N. Y. S. Vols., to Miss Helen Lennox, of Silverton.” Your husband cannot live long. Come immediately. “I knew how it would end, when you were in Georgetown,” she wrote, “and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be happy with Dr. Grant and remember the sad past only as some dream from which you have awakened. I thank you for your invitation to visit Linwood, and when my work is over I may come for a few weeks and rest in your bird's nest of a home. Thank God the war is ended; but my boys need me yet, and until the last crutch has left the hospital, I shall stay where duty lies. What my life will henceforth be I do not know; but I have sometimes thought that with the funds you so generously bestowed upon me, I shall open a school for orphan children, taking charge myself, and so doing some good. Will you be the Lady Patroness, and occasionally enliven us with the light of your countenance? I have left the hospital but once since you were here, and then I went to Wilford's grave. I prayed for you while there, remembering only that you had been his wife. In a little box where no eyes but mine ever look, there is a bunch of flowers plucked from Wilford's grave. They are faded and withered, but something of their sweet perfume lingers still; and I prize them as my greatest treasure; for, except the lock of hair severed from his head, they are all that is remaining to me of the past, which now seems so far away. It is time to make my nightly round of visits, so I must bid you good-bye. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and be with you forever.
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118Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and Maggie Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret  
 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: “Write to me, Dora, and tell me of yourself, that I may judge something of your character. Tell me, too, if you ever think of the lonesome old man, who, each night of his life, remembers you in his prayers, asking that if on earth he may never look on Fannie's child, he may at last meet and know her in the better land. And now farewell, my daughter, mine by adoption, if from no other cause. “What does she say?” cried Mrs. Deane and Alice, crowding around her, while with a rueful face she read that Dora would be delighted to meet Uncle Nat at Locust Grove, but could not come quite so soon as they wished to have her. “I cannot possibly come, as I have promised to be present at the dressing of the bride. “Do you fancy some direful calamity has befallen me, because I have not written to you for more than a week? Away with your fears, then, for nothing worse has come upon me than a badly broken limb, which will probably keep me a prisoner here for two months or more. Now don't be frightened, Rosa. I am not crippled for life, and even if I were, I could love you just the same, while you, I'm sure, would love me more. “They say 'tis a mighty bad wind which blows no one any good, and so, though I verily believe I suffer all a man can suffer with a broken bone, yet, when I look at the fair face of Maggie Miller, I feel that I would not exchange this high old bed, to enter which, needs a short ladder, even for a seat by you on that three-legged stool, behind the old writing-desk. I never saw anything like her in my life. Everything she thinks, she says, and as to flattering her, it can't be done. I've told her a dozen times at least that she was beautiful, and she didn't mind it any more than Rose does, when I flatter her. Still, I fancy if I were to talk to her of love, it might make a difference, and perhaps I shall, ere I leave the place. “I grant your request,” she said, “and take you for a sister well beloved. I had a half-sister once, they say, but she died when a little babe. I never looked upon her face, and connected with her birth there was too much of sorrow and humiliation for me to think much of her, save as of one who, under other circumstances, might have been dear to me. And yet, as I grow older, I often find myself wishing she had lived, for my father's blood was in her veins. But I do not even know where her grave was made, for we only heard one winter morning, years ago, that she was dead, with the mother who bore her. Forgive me, Maggie dear, for saying so much about that little child. Thoughts of you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who, had she lived, would have been a young lady now, nearly your own age. So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I would have loved, I adopt you, sweet Maggie Miller, my sister and my friend. May heaven's choicest blessings rest on you forever, and no shadow come between you and the one you have chosen for your husband. To my partial eyes he is worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly in form though you be, and that you may be happy with him will be the daily prayer of “If I had known,” she wrote, “I should have sot the table in the parlor certing, for though I'm plain and homespun, I know as well as the next one what good manners is, and do my endeavors to practise it. But do tell a body,” she continued, “where you was, muster day in Wooster. I knocked and pounded enough to raise the dead, and nobody answered. I never noticed you was deaf when you was here, though Betsey Jane thinks she did. If you be, I'll send you up a receipt for a kind of intment which Miss Sam Babbit invented, and which cures everything.
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119Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Edna Browning  
 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: ROBERT, son of Arthur and Anna Leighton, born April 5th, 18—,” was the record which the old family Bible bore of our hero's birth, parentage, and name, but by his mother and those who knew him best, he was always called Roy, and by that name we introduce him to our readers on a pleasant morning in May, when, wrapped in a heavy shawl, he sat in a corner of a car with a tired, worn look upon his face, and his teeth almost chattering with the cold. “And now, Roy, I want some money,—there's a good fellow. You remember you spoke of my marrying Maude Somerton, and said you'd give me money and stand by me, too. Do it now, Roy, and when mother goes into hysterics and calls Edna that creature, and talks as if she had persuaded me, whereas it was I who persuaded her, say a word for me, won't you? You will like Edna,—and, Roy, I want you to ask us to come home, for a spell, anyway. The fact is, I've romanced a little, and Edna thinks I am heir, or at least joint heir with you, of Leighton Homestead. She don't know I haven't a cent in the world but what comes from you, and I don't want her to. Set me up in business, Roy, and I'll work like a hero. I will, upon my word,—and please send me five hundred at once to the care of John Dana, Chicago. I shall be married and gone before this reaches you, so there's no use for mother to tear her eyes out. Tell her not to. I'm sorry to vex her, for she's been a good mother, and after Edna I love her and you best of all the world. Send the money, do. “I cannot help feeling that if she had known this fact, your unfortunate entanglement would have been prevented. “Oh, Roy, my Charlie is dead,—my Charlie is dead!” “Mr. Robert Leighton: Dear Sir,—Please find inclosed $300 of the $500 you sent to Charlie. “For value received I promise to pay to Robert Leighton, or bearer, the sum of two hundred dollars, with interest at seven per cent per annum, from date. “Perhaps you will get a wrong impression if I do not make some explanation. I did not care one bit for the money I supposed Charlie had, but maybe if I had known he had nothing but what you gave him, I should not have been married so soon. I should have told him to wait till we were older and had something of our own. I am so sorry, and I wish Mrs. Churchill had Charlie back and that I was Edna Browning. I don't want her to hate me, for she is Charlie's mother, and I did love him so much. MRS. CHURCHILL was better, and Georgie was talking again of going to Chicago, and had promised to find Edna and render her any service in her power. Roy had written to Edna at last, but no answer had come to him, and he was beginning to wonder at her silence and to feel a little piqued, when one day early in December Russell brought him a letter mailed in Canandaigua and directed to his mother in a bold, angular handwriting, which stamped the writer as a person of striking originality and strongly marked character. In his mother's weak state it would not do to excite her, and so Roy opened the letter himself and glanced at the signature: “Dear Madam—I've had it on my mind to write to you ever since that terrible disaster by which you were deprived of a son, who was taken to eternity without ever the chance for one last prayer or cry to be saved. Let us hope he had made his prayers beforehand and had no need for them. He had been baptized, I suppose, as I hear you are a church woman, but are you High or Low? Everything to my mind depends upon that. I hold the Low to be purely Evangelical, while the High,—well, I will not harrow up your feelings; what I want to say is, that I do not and never have for a single moment upheld my niece, or rather my great niece, Edna, in what she has done. I took her from charity when her father died, although he was higher than I in his views, and we used to hold many a controversial argument on apostolic succession, for he was a clergyman and my sister's son. His wife, who set up to be a lady and taught music in our select school, died when Edna was born, and I believe went to Heaven, though we never agreed as to the age when children should be confirmed, nor about that word regeneration in the baptismal service. I hold it's a stumbling block and ought to be struck out, while she said I did not understand its import, and confounded it with something else; but that's neither here nor there. Lucy was a good woman and made my nephew a good wife, though she would keep a girl, which I never did. DEAR Sister:—I write in great haste to tell you of little Annie's accident, and that you must come out and see her, if only for a few days. It happened the week after mother died. Her foot must have slipped, or hit on something, and she fell from the top of the stairs to tbe bottom, and hurt her back or hip; I hardly think the doctor knew which, or in fact what to do for her. She cannot walk a step, and lies all day in bed, or sits in her chair, with no other company than old Aunt Luna, who is faithful and kind. But Annie wants you and talks of you all the time, and last night, when I got home from the store, she told me she had written to you, and gave me this bit of paper, which I inclose. “Dear sister Gorgy,” the note began, “mother is dead and I've hurted my back and have to ly all day stil, and it do ake so hard, and I'me so streemly lonesome, and want to see my sweet, pretty sister so much. I ask Jack if you will come and he don't b'leeve you will, and then I 'members my mother say, ask Jesus if you want anything, and I does ask him and tell him my back akes, and mother's gone to live with him. And I want to see you, and won't he send you to me for Christ's sake, amen. And I know he will. Come, Gorgy, pleas, and bring me some choklets. “There has been a railroad accident, and your niece Edna's husband was killed. They were married yesterday morning in Buffalo. “Philip Overton:—I dare say you think me as mean as pussley, and that I kept that money Edna sent for my own, but I assure you, sir, I didn't. I put every dollar in the bank for her, and added another hundred besides. “Miss Jerusha Pepper:—Well done, good and faithful servant. Many daughters have done well, but you excel them all. Three cheers and a tiger for you. “I'd so much rather you would not,” he wrote; “I do not need the money, and it pains me to think of my little sister working so hard, and wearing out her young life, which should be happy, and free from care. Don't do it, Edna, please; and I so much wish you would let me know where you are, so that I might come and see you, and sometime, perhaps, bring you to Leighton, where your home ought to be. Write to me, won't you, and tell me more of yourself, and believe me always, “`Philip Overton, forward the enclosed to Edna, and oblige, Jerusha Amanda Pepper.' “According to orders, I send this to your Uncle Philip, and s'pose you'll answer through the same channel and tell if you'll come home about your business, and teach school for sixteen dollars a month, and I board you for the chores you'll do night and morning. “Don't for goodness' sake come here again on that business, and do let Edna alone. She nor no other woman is worth the powder you are wasting on her. If she don't answer your letter, and tell you she's in the seventh heaven because of your engagement, it's pretty likely she ain't thrown off her balance with joy by it. She didn't fancy that woman with a boy's name none too well when she saw her in Iona, and if I may speak the truth, as I shall, if I speak at 13* all, it was what she overheard that person say to her brother about you and your mother's opinion of poor girls like her, that kept her from going to Leighton with the body, and it's no ways likely she'll ever go now, so long as the thing with the boy's name is there as mistress. So just let her alone and it will work itself out. Anyway, don't bother me with so many letters, when I've as much as I can do with my house-cleaning, and making over comforters, and running sausages. “If you wish to avoid exposure, meet me to-night at twelve o'clock in the woodbine arbor at the foot of the garden. I have no desire to harm you, or spoil the fun to-morrow, but money I must have, so bring whatever you have about you, or if your purse chances to be empty, bring jewelry. I saw you with some superb diamonds on one night at the opera last winter. Don't go into hysterics. You've nothing to fear from me if you come down generous and do the fair thing. I reckon you are free from me, as I've been gone more than seven years. “Don't be a fool, but come. I rather want to see if you look as bad as I do.
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120Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  The English orphans, or, A home in the new world  
 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 makes you keep that big blue sun-bonnet drawn so closely over your face? are you afraid of having it seen?”
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