| | 301 | Author: | Austin
Jane G.
(Jane Goodwin)
1831-1894 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Dora Darling  | | | | 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: | “Hi! Dat good un! Bully for de 'federates, dis
chile say. Dey's showed deyse'fs out now! Cut um
stick in de night, eh, an' put! Jes' like de wicked flea in
de Bible dat no one wan't a tryin' fer to cotch. Golly,
I wish I'd got de rebel flea 'tween dis yer finger an'
fum! Wouldn' I crack um 'bout de shortes'? An' de
Yankees got dar umformation from a 'telligent conterban',
did dey? Wish't I know'd dat 'telligent feller! I'd like
'o shake um paw, an' gib um a chaw ob ole Varginny for
de sarvice he done to ebery nigger in de Souf w'en he
help de Yankees. Wish't I was in his brogans, — reckon
dey wouldn' fin' no 'telligenter nor no willin'er conterban'
dan ole Pic ud make ef he got de chance fer ter show
um sentermen's; but de trouble wid dis yer nigger is, him
candle's got a bushel basket atop ob um, an' de Bible
hese'f say dat dat ar' ain't no kin' ob a fashion. Bud ef de
Yankees 'ud come an' kick off de ole basket—golly,
what a confurgation o' smartness 'ud bust on dey eyesight!” “Dear Dora: I'm going further South with my regiment.
I have been sick, and am not very well now, and
don't believe I will ever come back. I'd like ever so
much to see you before I go, more especially because I
think I never will see you again. I darsn't come inside
the pickets, but this fellow will bring you to me to-night,
if you'll come. Do come, for I want to see you badly. “And now, Mr. Brown, I am going to tell you something
so surprising, that I can hardly believe it myself.
Only think of Captain Karl's mother being my own dear
mother's sister, the very aunt Lucy that I have so long
wanted to find! And only think, too, that Charlie (that's
what we call Captain Karl almost always here) knew all
the time, or suspected, at least; because, when he wrote to
his mother about me, and said my name was Dora Darling,
she wrote back word that her sister married a man
named Darley, and told him to inquire if it wasn't the same
name. Then he took up my little Bible one day, when I
had been reading to him, and saw mother's name, `Mary
Lee,' written in it; and his own mother's name was Lucy
Lee; so he knew then right off. But he made believe to
his mother that he didn't know; and he never said a word
to me; but he says, if I had concluded not to go with
him, he should have told me, though he didn't want to,
because he wanted to surprise us both. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 302 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | A New England tale, and Miscellanies | | | | 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 returning to my lodgings, late last evening, I was
accosted by a man, muffled in a cloak. I recognised his voice
at once. It was our unfortunate townsman, Wilson. He has
succeeded à merveille in an ingenious plan of escape from durance,
and sails in the morning for one of the West India
islands, where he will, no doubt, make his debut as pirate, or
in some other character, for which his training has equally
qualified him. A precious rascal he is indeed; but, allow me
a phrase of your fraternity, sir, I had no light to give him up
to justice, after he had trusted to me; and more than that,
for he informs me, that he had, since his confinement, written
to the Woodhulls to engage me as counsel, and through them
he learnt the fact of my being in this city. This bound me,
in some sort, to look upon the poor devil as my client; and,
as it would have been my duty to get him out of the clutches
of the law, it would have been most ungracious to have put
him into them, you know, since his own cleverness, instead of
mine, has extricated him. He has explained to me, and he
informs me has communicated to you, (for he says he cannot
trust his mother to make them public,) the particulars of the
sequestration of the old woman's money. I think Miss Elton
never imparted to you the event that led to the sudden engagement,
from which she has chosen to absolve me; and you
have yet to learn, that there is generosity, disinterestedness
in the world, that may rival the virtue which reposes under
the shadow of the broad-brim. But, your pardon. I have
wiped out all scores. The reception I have met with in this
finest of cities, has been such as to make me look upon the
incidents of an obscure village as mere bagatelles, not worthy
of a sigh from one who can bask in the broad sunshine of ladies'
favour and fortune's gifts. One word more, en passant,
of Wilson's explanations. I rejoice in it sincerely, on Miss
Elton's account. She deserved to have suffered a little for
her childishness in holding herself bound by an exacted promise,
for having put herself in a situation in which her guilt
would have seemed apparent to any one but a poor dog whom
love had hoodwinked—pro tempore. She is too young and
too beautiful a victim for the altar of conscience. However,
I forgive her, her scruples, her fanaticism, and her cruelties;
and wish her all happiness in this world and the next, advising
her not to turn anchorite here, for the sake of advancement
there. “Mr. Allen came home three weeks ago, and said it was
not sure you would be a colonel; but Mr. Oakley saw it in
the paper, yesterday, that you are one, and I hurraed and
hurraed till my little mother said I should make her deaf.
And mother dressed up, and put the blue ribbon you sent
her, round her neck, and looked so beautiful; Mr. Oakley
said the ribbon was just a match for her eyes, and then such
a rosy colour came into her cheeks. “Dear and Honoured Husband:—Your `little wifie' (I
am glad you still call me so) thanks you from the bottom of
her heart for your long letters. How kind of you, after your
long days' marches, and your hard, hard work, to sit up at
night to write to us, and especially to me, who am but a poor
and short letter-writer myself. Oh, my dear heart, when will
this tedious war be over, and you be at home again? Not that
every thing does not go on very well. Dear sister Sylvy sees
to every thing, does every thing. I am a poor thriftless wife
to you, and I am afraid I shall not even be a mere ornamental
piece of furniture—a `jim crack' of William Freeman's (as you
remember who, called me), if you do not soon come home. I
am getting thinner and thinner, and you will have to put on
your spectacles (I cannot believe you wear spectacles!) to
see me. “Dear and Respected Brother:—Your letter was
duly received two weeks after date. I thank you for
its approving words; also for your profitable advice, concerning
the farm, stock, and so forth, which shall—the Lord
willing—be attended to. “My dear Sir—Family afflictions compel me to resign my
commission. With ardent prayers for my country—all I can
now give her— “My dear Sir—I have just succeeded to the possession
of an immense fortune, and hasten to offer you the only reparation
in my power for a wrong deeply regretted by—
Yours with sentiments of immeasurable respect— “I am clean discouraged. It seems as if Providence
crowded on me. There is black disappointment, turn which
way I will. I have had an offer to go to Orleans, and part
pay beforehand, which same I send you herewith. Ellen read—“Mrs. O'Roorke,—You have been a kind
friend to me, and I thank you; and give you, in token of my
gratitude, all that I have in this room. My clothes please
give to Ellen, and the purse with the two dollars, in the
corner of the drawer, to Pat. With many thanks from me, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 303 | Author: | Bennett
Emerson
1822-1905 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The league of the Miami | | | | 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: | Whoever has attempted to trace through
its various windings, or plunge into and
divine the mysteries of that mysterious,
inexplicable thing, the human heart, has
ever found himself perplexed—lost in a
mazy bewilderment. Well sung one of
England's greatest poets,
“The proper study of mankind is man,”
for man is a strange, strange being; his
life is a medley of inconsistencies—his
heart a labyrinth of good and evil. There
is in our nature a propensity, a desire for
concealment, which may be termed somewhat
hypocritical, and which gives the
outward, and the inward man, two strong
contrasting aspects. Were it not for this,
we should not see the gentle smile upon
the surface, while the death-worm was
gnawing at the core. We should not be
daily told that such an one is happy, such
an one enjoys all the beauties of life,
while he, or she, is looking forward to
the cold and silent tomb to end the misery
of a life of woe. Why is this? Why
do we seek to seem other than we feel—
than we are? Ah, there is the mystery.
That it is so, none will deny. Were it
not for this—were our features the index
of our thoughts—where would be the
sacredness of grief? or the holy charm
of love? And is not one sacred to us?
Does not the other seem holy in our eyes?
Do we not hoard them in our heart of
hearts, as the miser hoards his treasures
from the gaze of the world? And do
we not, like him, feel a secret pleasure in
brooding over them in silence, alone?
Could we not do this—did the world
know us as we know ourselves—not all
the terrors of death, not all the terrors of
a great hereafter, would be sufficient to
hinder thousands from rashly plunging
into the mystic, UNKNOWN BEYOND! In
this do we not behold an All-wise
ordering? Madam:—When this reaches you, I
shall probably be no more. I believe
that we are often warned of our approaching
dissolution, and I feel that mine is
near at hand. What my end will be,
God only knows; yet, while I contemplate
and write, I shudder. Seven years
ago, I placed in your charge Cicely
Edgerton—” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 305 | Author: | Ward
Artemus
1834-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Artemus Ward, his book ; with many comic illustrations | | | | 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: | Sir—I'm movin along—slowly along—down
tords your place. I want you should rite me a
letter, sayin how is the show bizniss in your place.
My show at present consists of three moral Bares, a
Kangaroo (a amoozin little Raskal—t'would make
you larf yerself to deth to see the little cuss jump
up and squeal) wax figgers of G. Washington Gen.
Tayler John Bunyan Capt. Kidd and Dr. Webster
in the act of killin Dr. Parkman, besides several
miscellanyus moral wax statoots of celebrated piruts
& murderers, &c., ekalled by few & exceld by
none. Now Mr. Editor, scratch orf a few lines
sayin how is the show bizniss down to your place.
I shall hav my hanbills dun at your offiss. Depend
upon it. I want you should git my hanbills up in
flamin stile. Also git up a tremenjus excitemunt
in yr. paper 'bowt my onparaleld Show. We must
fetch the public sumhow. We must wurk on their
feelins. Cum the moral on 'em strong. If it's a
temprance community tell 'em I sined the pledge fifteen
minits arter Ise born, but on the contery ef your
peple take their tods, say Mister Ward is as Jenial
a feller as we ever met, full of conwiviality, & the
life an sole of the Soshul Bored. Take, don't you?
If you say anythin abowt my show say my snaiks is
as harmliss as the new born Babe. What a interestin
study it is to see a zewological animil like a
snaik under perfeck subjecshun! My kangaroo is
the most larfable little cuss I ever saw. All for 15
cents. I am anxyus to skewer your infloounce. I
repeet in regard to them hanbills that I shall git
'em struck orf up to your printin office. My
perlitercal sentiments agree with yourn exackly. I
know thay do, becawz I never saw a man whoos
didn't. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 307 | Author: | Child
Lydia Maria Francis
1802-1880 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | A romance of the republic | | | | 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: | “Dearly Beloved,—I am so happy that I cannot
wait a minute without telling you about it. I have done a
naughty thing, but, as it is the first time I ever disobeyed
you, I hope you will forgive me. You told me never to
go to the plantation without you. But I waited and waited,
and you did n't come; and we were so happy there,
that lovely day, that I longed to go again. I knew it
would be very lonesome without you; but I thought it
would be some comfort to see again the places where we
walked together, and sang together, and called each other
all manner of foolish fond names. Do you remember how
many variations you rung upon my name, — Rosabella,
Rosalinda, Rosamunda, Rosa Regina? How you did pelt
me with roses! Do you remember how happy we were in
the garden bower? How we sang together the old-fashioned
canzonet, `Love in thine eyes forever plays'? And
how the mocking-bird imitated your guitar, while you were
singing the Don Giovanni serenade? “Dear Sir, — If you can spare an hour this evening to
talk with me on a subject of importance, you will greatly
oblige yours, “Dearest and best Friends,—It would take days
to explain to you all that has happened since I wrote
you that long, happy letter; and at present I have not
strength to write much. When we meet we will talk
about it more fully, though I wish to avoid the miserable
particulars as far as possible. The preparations I
so foolishly supposed were being made for me were for
a rich Northern bride,—a pretty, innocent-looking little
creature. The marriage with me, it seems, was counterfeit.
When I discovered it, my first impulse was to
fly to you. But a strange illness came over me, and
I was oblivious of everything for four months. My good
Tulee and a black woman named Chloe brought me back
to life by their patient nursing. I suppose it was wrong,
but when I remembered who and what I was, I felt sorry
they did n't let me go. I was again seized with a longing
to fly to you, who were as father and mother to me and my
darling little sister in the days of our first misfortune.
But I was too weak to move, and I am still far from being
able to bear the fatigue of such a journey. Moreover, I
am fastened here for the present by another consideration.
Mr. Fitzgerald says he bought us of papa's creditors, and
that I am his slave. I have entreated him, for the sake
of our unborn child, to manumit me, and he has promised
to do it. If I could only be safe in New Orleans, it is my
wish to come and live with you, and find some way to support
myself and my child. But I could have no peace, so
long as there was the remotest possibility of being claimed
as slaves. Mr. Fitzgerald may not mean that I shall ever
come to harm; but he may die without providing against
it, as poor papa did. I don't know what forms are necessary
for my safety. I don't understand how it is that there
is no law to protect a defenceless woman, who has done no
wrong. I will wait here a little longer to recruit my
strength and have this matter settled. I wish it were possible
for you, my dear, good mother, to come to me for two
or three weeks in June; then perhaps you could take back
with you your poor Rosa and her baby, if their lives should
be spared. But if you cannot come, there is an experienced
old negress here, called Granny Nan, who, Tulee says, will
take good care of me. I thank you for you sympathizing,
loving letter. Who could papa's friend be that left me a
legacy? I was thankful for the fifty dollars, for it is very
unpleasant to me to use any of Mr. Fitzgerald's money,
though he tells Tom to supply everything I want. If it
were not for you, dear friends, I don't think I should have
courage to try to live. But something sustains me wonderfully
through these dreadful trials. Sometimes I think
poor Chloe's prayers bring me help from above; for the
good soul is always praying for me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 308 | Author: | Twain
Mark
1835-1910 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The celebrated jumping frog of Calaveras County | | | | 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 compliance with the request of a
friend of mine, who wrote me from
the East, I called on good-natured,
garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired
after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley,
as requested to do, and I hereunto append the
result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas
W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never
knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured
that, if I asked old Wheeler about him,
it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley,
and he would go to work and bore me
nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence
of him as long and tedious as it should be useless
to me. If that was the design, it certainly
succeeded. “Dear Mark: We spent the evening very pleasantly at
home yesterday. The Rev. Dr. Macklin and wife, from Peoria,
were here. He is an humble laborer in the vineyard, and takes
his coffee strong. He is also subject to neuralgia—neuralgia in
the head—and is so unassuming and prayerful. There are few
such men We had soup for dinner likewise. Although I am
not fond of it. O Mark! why don't you try to lead a better
life? Read II. Kings, from chap. 2 to chap. 24 inclusive. It
would be so gratifying to me if you would experience a change
of heart. Poor Mrs. Gabrick is dead. You did not know her.
She had fits, poor soul. On the 14th the entire army took up
the line of march from—” “Uncle Mark, if you was here, I could tell you about Moses in
the Bulrushers again, I know it better now. Mr. Sowerby has
got his leg broke off a horse. He was riding it on Sunday.
Margaret, that's the maid, Margaret has took all the spittoons,
and slop-buckets, and old jugs out of your room, because she
says she don't think you're ever coming back any more, you
been gone so long. Sissy McElroy's mother has got another
little baby. She has them all the time. It has got little blue
eyes, like Mr. Swimley that boards there, and looks just like
him. I have got a new doll, but Johnny Anderson pulled one
of its legs out. Miss Doosenberry was here to-day; I give her
your picture, but she said she didn't want it. My cat has got
more kittens—oh! you can't think — twice as many as Lottie
Belden's. And there's one, such a sweet little buff one with a
short tail, and I named it for you. All of them's got names
now—General Grant, and Halleck, and Moses, and Margaret,
and Deuteronomy, and Captain Semmes, and Exodus, and Leviticus,
and Horace Greeley—all named but one, and I am saving
it because the one that I named for You's been sick all the time
since, and I reckon it'll die. [It appears to have been mighty
rough on the short-tailed kitten, naming it for me—I wonder
how the reserved victim will stand it.] Uncle Mark, I do believe
Hattie Caldwell likes you, and I know she thinks you are
pretty, because I heard her say nothing couldn't hurt your good
looks—nothing at all—she said, even if you was to have the
small-pox ever so bad, you would be just as good-looking as you
was before. And my ma says she's ever so smart. [Very.] So
no more this time, because General Grant and Moses is fighting. To Mr. Mark Twain: The within parson, which I have sot
to poettry under the name and style of “He Done His Level
Best,” was one among the whitest men I ever see, and it an't
every man that knowed him that can find it in his heart to say
he's glad the poor cuss is busted and gone home to the States.
He was here in an early day, and he was the handyest man
about takin' holt of any thing that come along you most ever
see, I judge. He was a cheerful, stirrin' cretur', always doin'
something, and no man can say he ever see him do any thing
by halvers. Preachin' was his nateral gait, but he warn't a
man to lay back and twidle his thums because there didn't happen
to be nothin' doin' in his own espeshial line—no, sir, he was
a man who would meander forth and stir up something for hisself.
His last acts was to go his pile on “kings-and,” (calklatin'
to fill, but which he didn't fill,) when there was a “flush” out
agin him, and naterally, you see, he went under. And so he
was cleaned out, as you may say, and he struck the home-trail,
cheerful but flat broke. I knowed this talonted man in Arkansaw,
and if you would print this humbly tribute to his gorgis
abillities, you would greatly obleege his onhappy friend. “St. Clair Higgins,” Los Angeles.—“My life is a failure; I
have adored, wildly, madly, and she whom I love has turned
coldly from me and shed her affections upon another. What
would you advise me to do?” “Arithmeticus,” Virginia, Nevada.—“If it would take a
cannon ball 3⅓ seconds to travel four miles, and 3⅜ seconds to
travel the next four, and 3⅝ seconds to travel the next four, and
if its rate of progress continued to diminish in the same ratio,
how long would it take it to go fifteen hundred millions of
miles?” “Discarded Lover.”—“I loved, and still love, the beautiful
Edwitha Howard, and intended to marry her. Yet, during my
temporary absence at Benicia, last week, alas! she married
Jones. Is my happiness to be thus blasted for life? Have I no
redress?” “Arithmeticus,” Virginia, Nevada.—“I am an enthusiastic
student of mathematics, and it is so vexatious to me to find my
progress constantly impeded by these mysterious arithmetical
technicalities. Now do tell me what the difference is between
geometry and conchology?” Distressing Accident.—Last evening about 6 o'clock, as
Mr. William Schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of South
Park, was leaving his residence to go down town, as has been
his usual custom for many years, with the exception only of a
short interval in the spring of 1850, during which he was confined
to his bed by injuries received in attempting to stop a runaway
horse by thoughtlessly placing himself directly in its wake
and throwing up his hands and shouting, which, if he had done
so even a single moment sooner, must inevitably have frightened
the animal still more instead of checking its speed, although
disastrous enough to himself as it was, and rendered more melancholy
and distressing by reason of the presence of his wife's
mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence, notwithstanding
it is at least likely, though not necessarily so, that she
should be reconnoitering in another direction when incidents
occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a general
thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to have
stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious
resurrection, upwards of three years ago, aged 86, being a
Christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in
consequence of the fire of 1849, which destroyed every blasted
thing she had in the world. But such is life. Let us all take
warning by this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct
ourselves that when we come to die we can do it. Let us
place our hands upon our hearts, and say with earnestness and
sincerity that from this day forth we will beware of the intoxicating
bowl.—First Edition of the Californian. “Dear Sir: My object in writing to you is to have you give
me a full history of Nevada. What is the character of its climate?
What are the productions of the earth? Is it healthy?
What diseases do they die of mostly? Do you think it would
be advisable for a man who can make a living in Missouri to
emigrate to that part of the country? There are several of us
who would emigrate there in the spring if we could ascertain to
a certainty that it is a much better country than this. I suppose
you know Joel H. Smith? He used to live here; he lives in
Nevada now; they say he owns considerable in a mine there.
Hoping to hear from you soon, etc., I remain yours, truly, Dearest William: Pardon my familiarity
—but that name touchingly reminds me of the
loved and lost, whose name was similar. I
have taken the contract to answer your letter,
and although we are now strangers, I feel we
shall cease to be so if we ever become acquainted
with each other. The thought is worthy of
attention, William. I will now respond to
your several propositions in the order in which
you have fulminated them. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 310 | Author: | Twain
Mark
1835-1910 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The innocents abroad, or, The new Pilgrim's progress | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | FOR months the great Pleasure Excursion to Europe and
the Holy Land was chatted about in the newspapers
every where in America, and discussed at countless firesides.
It was a novelty in the way of Excursions—its like had not
been thought of before, and it compelled that interest which
attractive novelties always command. It was to be a picnic
on a gigantic scale. The participants in it, instead of freighting
an ungainly steam ferry-boat with youth and beauty and
pies and doughnuts, and paddling up some obscure creek to
disembark upon a grassy lawn and wear themselves out with
a long summer day's laborious frolicking under the impression
that it was fun, were to sail away in a great steamship with
flags flying and cannon pealing, and take a royal holiday
beyond the broad ocean, in many a strange clime and in many
a land renowned in history! They were to sail for months
over the breezy Atlantic and the sunny Mediterranean; they
were to scamper about the decks by day, filling the ship with
shouts and laughter—or read novels and poetry in the shade
of the smoke-stacks, or watch for the jelly-fish and the nautilus,
over the side, and the shark, the whale, and other strange
monsters of the deep; and at night they were to dance in the
open air, on the upper deck, in the midst of a ball-room that
stretched from horizon to horizon, and was domed by the bending
heavens and lighted by no meaner lamps than the stars
and the magnificent moon—dance, and promenade, and
smoke, and sing, and make love, and search the skies for constellations
that never associate with the “Big Dipper” they
were so tired of; and they were to see the ships of twenty
navies—the customs and costumes of twenty curious peoples
—the great cities of half a world—they were to hob-nob with
nobility and hold friendly converse with kings and princes,
Grand Moguls, and the anointed lords of mighty empires! The undersigned will make an excursion as above during the coming season, and
begs to submit to you the following programme: “Monsieur le Landlord—Sir: Pourquoi don't you Mettez some savon in your bed-chambers?
Est-ce que vous pensez I will steal it? La nuit passée you charged me
pour deux chandelles when I only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec glace
when I had none at all; tout les jours you are coming some fresh game or other on
me, mais vous ne pouvez pas play this savon dodge on me twice. Savon is a necessary
de la vie to any body but a Frenchman, et je l'aurai hors de cet hôtel or make
trouble. You hear me. Allons. The steamer Quaker City has accomplished at last her extraordinary voyage
and returned to her old pier at the foot of Wall street. The expedition was a success
in some respects, in some it was not. Originally it was advertised as a “pleasure
excursion.” Well, perhaps, it was a pleasure excursion, but certainly it did
not look like one; certainly it did not act like one. Any body's and every body's
notion of a pleasure excursion is that the parties to it will of a necessity be young
and giddy and somewhat boisterous. They will dance a good deal, sing a good
deal, make love, but sermonize very little. Any body's and every body's notion of
a well conducted funeral is that there must be a hearse and a corpse, and chief
mourners and mourners by courtesy, many old people, much solemnity, no levity,
and a prayer and a sermon withal. Three-fourths of the Quaker City's passengers
were between forty and seventy years of age! There was a picnic crowd for you!
It may be supposed that the other fourth was composed of young girls. But it
was not. It was chiefly composed of rusty old bachelors and a child of six years.
Let us average the ages of the Quaker City's pilgrims and set the figure down as
fifty years. Is any man insane enough to imagine that this picnic of patriarchs
sang, made love, danced, laughed, told anecdotes, dealt in ungodly levity? In my
experience they sinned little in these matters. No doubt it was presumed here at
home that these frolicsome veterans laughed and sang and romped all day, and day
after day, and kept up a noisy excitement from one end of the ship to the other;
and that they played blind-man's buff or danced quadrilles and waltzes on moonlight
evenings on the quarter-dock; and that at odd moments of unoccupied time
they jotted a laconic item or two in the journals they opened on such an elaborate
plan when they left home, and then skurried off to their whist and euchre labors
under the cabin lamps. If these things were presumed, the presumption was at
fault. The venerable excursionists were not gay and frisky. They played no
blind-man's buff; they dealt not in whist; they shirked not the irksome journal,
for alas! most of them were even writing books. They never romped, they talked
but little, they never sang, save in the nightly prayer-meeting. The pleasure ship
was a synagogue, and the pleasure trip was a funeral excursion without a corpse.
(There is nothing exhilarating about a funeral excursion without a corpse.) A free,
hearty laugh was a sound that was not heard oftener than once in seven days about
those decks or in those cabins, and when it was heard it met with precious little
sympathy. The excursionists danced, on three separate evenings, long, long ago,
(it seems an age,) quadrilles, of a single set, made up of three ladies and five gentlemen,
(the latter with handkerchiefs around their arms to signify their sex,) who
timed their feet to the solemn wheezing of a melodeon; but even this melancholy
orgie was voted to be sinful, and dancing was discontinued. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 312 | Author: | Twain
Mark
1835-1910 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Roughing it | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | My brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada
Territory — an office of such majesty that it concentrated
in itself the duties and dignities of Treasurer,
Comptroller, Secretary of State, and Acting Governor in the
Governor's absence. A salary of eighteen hundred dollars a
year and the title of “Mr. Secretary,” gave to the great position
an air of wild and imposing grandeur. I was young and
ignorant, and I envied my brother. I coveted his distinction
and his financial splendor, but particularly and especially the
long, strange journey he was going to make, and the curious
new world he was going to explore. He was going to travel!
I never had been away from home, and that word “travel” had
a seductive charm for me. Pretty soon he would be hundreds
and hundreds of miles away on the great plains and deserts,
and among the mountains of the Far West, and would see buffaloes
and Indians, and prairie dogs, and antelopes, and have
all kinds of adventures, and may be get hanged or scalped, and
have ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all
about it, and be a hero. And he would see the gold mines
and the silver mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon
when his work was done, and pick up two or three pailfuls of
shining slugs, and nuggets of gold and silver on the hillside.
And by and by he would become very rich, and return home by
sea, and be able to talk as calmly about San Francisco and the
ocean, and “the isthmus” as if it was nothing of any consequence
to have seen those marvels face to face. What I
suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot describe.
And so, when he offered me, in cold blood, the sublime position
of private secretary under him, it appeared to me that
ENVIOUS CONTEMPLATIONS.
504EAF. Page 020. In-line image of a man standing in plaid pants and talking
to a man sitting at a desk reading a news paper.
the heavens and the earth passed away, and the firmament
was rolled together as a scroll! I had nothing more to desire.
My contentment was complete. At the end of an hour or
two I was ready for the journey. Not much packing up was
necessary, because we were going in the overland stage from
the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and passengers were only
allowed a small quantity of baggage apiece. There was no
Pacific railroad in those fine times of ten or twelve years ago—
not a single rail of it. “Dear Sir: I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note. It cannot
be possible, Sir, that `turnips restrain passion'—at least the study or contemplation
of turnips cannot—for it is this very employment that has scorched our poor
friend's mind and sapped his bodily strength.—But if they do restrain it, will you
bear with us a little further and explain how they should be prepared? I observe
that you say `causes necessary to state,' but you have omitted to state them. `Potatoes do sometimes make vines; turnips remain passive: cause unnecessary
to state. Inform the poor widow her lad's efforts will be vain. But diet, bathing,
etc. etc., followed uniformly, will wean him from his folly—so fear not. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 313 | Author: | Cooke
John Esten
1830-1886 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Mohun, or, The last days of Lee and his paladins | | | | 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: | “Tell, you know who, that I have just seen the honorable
Mr. —” (here the writer gave the real name and official position
of Mr. X—), “and have had a long conversation with him.
He is fully convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke
without reserve of matters the most private. He is in high spirits,
and looks on the rebel cause as certain to succeed. I never
saw one more blinded to the real state of things. Richmond is
full of misery, and the people seem in despair, but this high official,
who represents the whole government, is evidently certain
of Lee's success. I found him in a garrulous mood, and he did
not conceal his views. The government has just received heavy
supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad—others are
coming—the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising—and
Lee, he stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five
thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch,
which he read me, from England. This startled me. There
seems no doubt that England is about to recognize the Confederacy.
When he had finished reading this dispatch, on the back
of which I could see the English postmark, he said to me—these
are his words:—`You see, things were never brighter; it is only
a question of time; and by holding out a little longer, we shall
compel the enemy to retire and give up the contest. With the
re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one hundred thousand
men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all General
Grant's assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause
was never more hopeful.' “I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come
and see me. Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting,
in addition to | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 314 | Author: | Cooke
John Esten
1830-1886 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Wearing of the gray | | | | 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: | These “Personal Portraits” were undertaken with the design
of making better known and understood the great actors in the
recent struggle who are the subjects of them. “Dear Sir: My telegram will have informed you that I deem
a change of commanders in your department necessary, but it is
due to your zealous and patriotic services that I should explain
the reasons that prompted my action. The situation of affairs
is such that we can neglect no means calculated to develop the
resources we possess to the greatest extent, and make them as
efficient as possible. To this end it is essential that we should
have the cheerful and hearty support of the people and the full
confidence of the soldiers, without which our efforts would be
embarrassed, and our means of resistance weakened. I have
reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that you cannot command
the united and willing co-operation which is so essential to success.
Your reverses in the Valley, of which the public and the
army judge chiefly by the results, have, I fear, impaired your
influence both with the people and the soldiers, and would add
greatly to the difficulties which will, under any circumstances,
attend our military operations in S. W. Va. While my own
confidence in your ability, zeal, and devotion to the cause, is unimpaired,
I have nevertheless felt that I could not oppose what
seems to be the current of opinion, without injustice to your
reputation and injury to the service. I therefore felt constrained
to endeavour to find a commander who would be more likely to
develop the strength and resources of the country and inspire
the soldiers with confidence, and to accomplish this purpose,
thought it proper to yield my own opinion, and defer to that of
those to whom alone we can look for support. I am sure that
you will understand and appreciate my motives, and that no one
will be more ready than yourself to acquiesce in any measure
which the interests of the country may seem to require, regardless
of all personal considerations. Thanking you for the fidelity
and energy with which you have always supported my efforts,
and for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested in
the service of the country, I am, very respectfully and truly,
your obedient servant, “My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia
admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own,
Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could
not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon
her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate
part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun
by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was
he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a
great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer
of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from.
Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from
our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were
leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of
sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his
cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good. “Know Ye, That reposing special confidence in the patriotism,
fidelity, and ability of Antonia J.—, I, James E. B.
Stuart, by virtue of the power vested in me as Brigadier-General
of the Provisional Army of the Confederate States of America,
do hereby appoint and commission her my honorary Aide-de-Camp,
to rank as such from this date. She will be obeyed,
respected, and admired by all true lovers of a noble nature. “I hereby bind myself, on my word of honour, not to take up
arms against the Confederate States, or in any manner give aid
and comfort to the Federal cause, until I am regularly exchanged. When I left home, my dear boys, I promised to write to you
whenever an opportunity occurred, and give you some of my
views and opinions. When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have
to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home,
I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown)
which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a
melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed
bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to
the delights of camp. The Army of Northern Virginia had surrendered! Strange,
incredible announcement! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 315 | Author: | Cozzens
Frederic S.
(Frederic Swartwout)
1818-1869 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Sparrowgrass papers, or, Living in the country | | | | 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 a good thing to live in the country. To
escape from the prison-walls of the metropolis—
the great brickery we call “the city”—and to live
amid blossoms and leaves, in shadow and sunshine,
in moonlight and starlight, in rain, mist, dew,
hoar-frost, and drouth, out in the open campaign,
and under the blue dome that is bounded by the
horizon only. It is a good thing to have a well
with dripping buckets, a porch with honey-buds,
and sweet-bells, a hive embroidered with nimble
bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to the eaves,
curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers in
your bedroom, a rooster on the roof, and a dog
under the piazza. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 316 | Author: | Cummins
Maria S.
(Maria Susanna)
1827-1866 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The lamplighter | | | | 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 growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it
would be light for half an hour or more; but within the close
streets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon the
wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking
house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much
earnestness. The house-door, which was open behind her, was
close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low
that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a
chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made
everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares,
near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served
to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless
than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound
in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the
beautiful snow had lost all its purity. “Dear Gertrude: As there were plenty of Boston folks at
the wedding, I daresay you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's
marriage. He married the widder Holbrook, the same I
wrote you about. She was determined to have him, and she's
got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain.
He likes a quiet life, and he's lost his chance of that,—
poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I
saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havana, but
I guess he thought better of it, and did n't really mean to have
her. When we got to New Orleans, however, she was there;
and the long and short of it is, she carried her point, and married
him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against
it, and always treated the widder as pleasantly as could be; but,
dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many young folks
as there are about all the time now, and so much noise and confusion?
For my part, I an't used to it, and don't pretend that
I think it's agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now
she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as
long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But
I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude,
and will be surprised to find we've got so far as New
York, on our way home,—my way home, I should say, for I'm
the only one that talks of coming at present. The truth is, I
kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there
was so much going on I did n't get a chance; and, after that
horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I was n't good for anything
for a week. But Emily was so anxious to have you written
to that I could n't put it off any longer than until to-day. Poor
Emily is n't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick,
—it's low spirits and nervousness, I suppose, more than anything.
She gets tired and worried very quick, and is easily
startled and disturbed, which did n't use to be the case. I think
likely it's the new wife, and all the nieces, and other disagreeable
things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what
she was pleased to have her father married again; but she has n't
seemed quite happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how
sad she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt
dreadfully not to get any more letters. To come to the principal
thing, however, they are all going to Europe,—Emily and all.
I take it it's the new wife's idea; but, whoever proposed the
thing, it's all settled now. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I
would not hear of such a thing; I would as soon be hung as
venture on the sea again, and I told him so, up and down. So
now he has written for you to go with Emily; and, if you are not
afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be
dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always
needs somebody, on account of her blindness. I do not think she
has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind,
for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife. “I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed
her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought
of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and
fit her for her many trials and labors. The letter written soon
after Mr. Cooper's death, is the last that has reached me, and
I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write
to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father
will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe;
my heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me, but
not if she leave any other duty behind. I trust to you, my love,
to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a
great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness.
Mrs. Graham has two nieces who are with us at the hotel. They
are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very
beautiful girls, especially Belle Clinton, whom you have seen in
Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and
I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted
affection of “Miss Gertrude Flint: I am married, and intend to go
abroad on the 28th of April; my daughter will accompany
us, and, as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I am induced to propose
that you join us in New York, and attend the party, as a companion
to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which
you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would
compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a
spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a
sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in
my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for
her. I thus put it in your power, by complying with our wishes,
to do away from my mind the recollection of your past behavior;
and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain
the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the
month, it is important you should be here in the course of a fortnight;
and, if you will write and name the day, I will myself meet
you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston,
I hope you will come as soon as possible. As you will be obliged
to incur expenses, I enclose a sum of money sufficient to cover
them. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount,
and I will see that all is made right before you leave. Trusting
to your being now come to a sense of your duty, I am ready to
subscribe myself your friend, “My Dear Mrs. Jeremy: As yesterday was the day on which
we expected to sail for Europe, you will be somewhat astonished
to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn
that the foreign tour is now indefinitely postponed. Only two
days since, Mr. Graham was seized with his old complaint, the
gout, and the attack proved so violent as seriously to threaten his
life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his
physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer,
and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable for months to come.
His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as it is possible
for him to bear the journey, we shall all hasten to the house in
D—. I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions
which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did
not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to
your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces,
who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are,
of course, greatly disappointed at the entire change in their plans
for the summer. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her
father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to
meet him in Paris. “My darling Gertrude: My much-loved child,—for such
you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone
wrung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness
that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to
my heart and call you mine. A dozen times before had I been
seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued
and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of
nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the
voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced.
Had I seen you happy, gay and light-hearted, I would not have
asked to share your joy, far less would I have east a shadow on
your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and
your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred,
and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for I am a
wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe. “My dear, dear Father,—If I may dare to believe that you
are so, and, if not that, my best of friends,—how shall I write to
you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery!
Father! blessed word! O, that my noble friend were indeed my
father! Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas! I feel a
sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error.
I never before remember to have heard the name of Philip Amory.
My sweet, pure and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the
world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, I
trust, to my own. Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide
world; never had, or could have. One might as well war with
an angel of Heaven as with a creatures so holy and lovely as she. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 317 | Author: | Cummins
Maria S.
(Maria Susanna)
1827-1866 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Mabel Vaughan | | | | 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 a pleasant midsummer's afternoon, a middle-aged lady,
with a mild and thoughtful face, sat alone in her quiet parlor,
busily engaged in sewing. It was a country home in which
she dwelt, and her low window opened directly into a green
and sloping orchard, now fragrant with new-mown hay, the
sweet breath of which was borne in on every passing breeze.
She was a woman of many cares, and but little leisure, and for
more than an hour had not lifted her eyes from her work,
when, suddenly attracted by the merry voices of children, she
arrested herself in the act of setting a stitch, and, with her
needle still poised between finger and thumb, leaned her elbow
on the window-sill and for several minutes gazed earnestly and
attentively upon a little group collected beneath an opposite
tree. They were too far off for their words to be distinguishable,
but happiness shone in their faces, mirth rang in their
careless shout, and joy danced in all their motions. Whether
chasing the light butterfly, pelting each other with tufts of hay,
or, in the very exuberance of their spirits, scampering without
purpose or rest in the sunshine, they were in every view pictures
of infant glee, cheering and happy sights to a mother's
heart. Though now and then smiling on their sport, however,
the gentle-faced lady at the window was watching them with a
more thoughtful and observant gaze than the occasion seemed
to warrant, for she saw amid their play what a less careful eye
might have failed to discern, and from it she drew a moral. “Dearest May:—After three days and nights of constant
travelling, I arrived at the miserable town from which father
wrote to you, and found him wretchedly accommodated in a
mere barn of a place, every tolerable room in the tavern, and
every spare corner in the few private houses, having been
appropriated to those of the passengers who were more seriously
injured. Father's escape seems almost miraculous, as
he was in the front car, which rolled over twice as it fell down
27*
the embankment. He has suffered considerably from a bruise
on his back, and a sprain in the ancle, which made him quite
helpless for a few days. He has, also, had an uncomfortable
sensation of dizziness in the head, but that is merely the natural
effect of the jar, and has already begun to subside. Do not be
anxious about him, for I flatter myself I make a capital doctor,
nurse, cook, and housekeeper, all of which offices have devolved
upon me. “Dear Miss Mabel,” wrote Lydia, “I'm afraid you don't
know that Mrs. Leroy is very sick at the hotel here in New
York. I hated to frighten you, and didn't know how to tell
you of it without; but mother says you ought to know, for it
wouldn't be like you not to come right away. When she first
took sick, Cecilia sent for us, and we've been here ever since.
Cecilia has gone back to Cape May to wait on another lady.
Mother does the best she can, and I try to be of some use.
The folks in the hotel are very good, and the doctor comes
ever so often; but he can't seem to help her, and she's getting
very bad. Oh, Miss Mabel, we wish you were here, and we
hope you will start as soon as you get this. “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—Your kind New Year's letter,
with all the pleasant reminiscences, affectionate messages, and
loving inquiries from yourself and the dear girls, was a most
welcome proof of the tender interest with which you have
followed me to my new home, and claims a hearty response;
though before I have answered half your questions, I fear
you will weary of my Western experiences. We have now
passed two winters in our new home, and begin to feel ourselves
old settlers;—the more so, as no less than thirty families
have established themselves in the village since our arrival.
As we are a little on the outskirts of the town, however, we
have no near neighbor, except Mr. Gracie, the clergyman,
who lives across the opposite bit of prairie, and who, with his
daughter, are our most intimate and esteemed friends. I have
frequently spoken of Helen in my letters, so her name and many
points of her disposition and character are no doubt familiar to
you. But you cannot imagine the treasure she has been
to me, ever since the first moment of our acquaintance. Next
to yourself, there is no one to whom I am so much indebted
for the ease and pleasure with which I have been enabled to
adapt myself to our new circumstances. Care sits so lightly
on her shoulders, and she knows so well how to combine employment
and recreation, that in her society the most important
duties cease to be burdensome, and little mishaps afford
only new occasion for merriment. The children of the rough
backwoodsmen, who are among her father's parishioners, hear
the sound of her horse's feet, and run to meet her the moment
she is in sight, sure of some trifling gift, a story, or a ride on
the pony, which seems to be common property. If she goes
with her basket of medicines to visit the sick, at a distance,
she comes back so laden with flowers, you would think she
had been a Maying; and an old Canadian Indian woman, to
whom she daily reads a chapter in her French Bible, declares
her voice more musical than running water. I have never
seen father so abstracted with the cares of business that he
has not a pleasant word for his fairy nurse, as he calls her,
and no bribe is so effectual with the boys, or inducement
rather (for I, like you, scorn the use of bribes), as the promise
of an evening visit to Helen. As for Harry—but never
mind about Harry—sisters are so suspicious, you know, where
their brothers are concerned. “Dear Aunt Sabiah:—thus she wrote—I have been
wandering about the house for the last half hour, asking myself
whether the cottage-roofed chamber above can be made
warm in winter, and cool in summer, whether the stairs are
not too steep for any but youthful feet to climb, whether our
parlor is not too contracted for comfort, and the view from its
windows too strange and dreary to ever wear the look of home;
and I have concluded, in spite of all disadvantages, that, with
love on our side, and the earnest wish to make you happy, you
would be far more comfortable here, than in my aunt Ridgway's
spacious and richly-furnished mansion. I never dared
say this before. I never ventured to breathe the hope I have
long had at heart, for I knew your love of old associations, and
your dislike of change. But your last letter has made me
bold. I cannot bear the thought that you are subjected to
such trials, such hardships, and such absolute indignities, as I
plainly perceive you have lately been made to suffer, when
here you would be independent, appreciated, and beloved. It
is true we have not, as we once had, luxuries to offer, but we
have all the necessaries and most of the comforts of life, and
these, too, in abundance; for our Western lands are so lavish
in their produce, that hospitality with us almost ceases to be a
virtue. Then, too, although my father, as you well know, has
sacrificed everything but this Western property for the payment
of his debts, and is unwilling to dispose of any portion of
the estate at present, Harry is gradually bringing a large part
of it under cultivation, and, if his success continues, the rent
which he insists upon paying, will not only furnish us with
every needed supply, but enable us to lay by something for
the children's education. So, even if your poor hands are dis
abled with the rheumatism, you need not fear that your presence
here will be the burden which you say it is to my aunt
Margaret. On the contrary, we shall hail your coming with
delight, and shall rejoice to contribute in every way to your
happiness. I have consulted father, who quite agrees with me
in my view of the matter, and will, I am sure, be rejoiced to
welcome you. The boys are improving very much as they
grow older, and now that they have such an ample play-ground,
you will not suffer at all from their noise. Our village shop-keeper
goes to the eastward every spring for the purchase of
goods, and will be a most excellent escort on the journey. You
see I am quite taking it for granted you will come, but it is
because I feel so truly, dear aunt, that your rightful and
natural place is at our hearth-stone, as well as in our hearts;
and because I know you so well that I venture to believe you
will not disappoint the earnest wishes and hopes of “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—When I look back to the days
of my childhood, there ever arises before me the image of one
dear friend, whose tender love and devoted care made it a
blessed and happy portion of my life, on which memory loves
to dwell. When I consider the years which have since intervened,
I can not fail to be reminded, that at every step I have
been counselled, strengthened and cheered, by the advice, the
warnings, and the lessons of this same dear friend; and now
that I am about to enter upon a new sphere of duty, I feel an
instinctive yearning to still claim a place in her good wishes,
her affection, and her prayers. You have cherished the child,
encouraged the woman—let me bespeak your loving sympathy
for the wife. It does not become me to say much of him to
whom, to-morrow, I expect to stand in this new and near
relation. Some day, I trust, you will see and know Mr.
Percival, and be enabled to judge for yourself. But if genuine
simplicity and true manliness of heart and life entitle a man to
honor, I may well be proud of the station which he holds, both
independently, and in the world's opinion; and if strength of
Christian principle is the surest foundation for confidence and
trust, I may well believe that the sentiments which he now
professes are sincere, and will be lasting. I trust I have not
said too much; but indeed, dear Mrs. Herbert, my only fear is
that I am not worthy to be the object of his choice; and it is
that I may become so, that I chiefly beg an interest in your
prayers. Bayard (for you will wish to know him by his Christian
name also) is the son of Counsellor Percival, as he was
usually called, a lawyer, formerly of high standing in New
York city, but now for some years deceased. His widow is
still living, vigorous and active, although nearly seventy-six
years of age. She, too, is well known in New York and elsewhere,
for the active part she has taken in every philanthropic
and benevolent scheme; nor does she, even at her present
advanced period of life, feel herself excused from exertion, or
unfitted for active duty. You will realize this, when I tell you
that she has recently taken a house in Cambridge, with the
view of furnishing a home for two of her grandsons, now students
at Harvard, and that she has invited Alick and Murray
also to become members of her family. No proposition could
have been more opportune, so far as the boys are concerned;
for Alick hopes to be prepared for admission to the University
at the commencement of the next collegiate year, and Murray
could nowhere pursue, to such advantage, the mathematical
studies which are to fit him for his chosen profession—that
of an engineer. At first, we all opposed the plan, fearing
Madam Percival was assuming too much care; but she over-persuaded
my father and Harry, convinced me that she anticipated
only pleasure from the charge, and finally carried her
point. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 319 | Author: | Curtis
George William
1824-1892 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Trumps | | | | 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: | Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous merchant.
No gentleman on 'Change wore more spotless linen
or blacker broadcloth. His ample white cravat had an air of
absolute wisdom and honesty. It was so very white that his
fellow-merchants could not avoid a vague impression that he
had taken the church on his way down town, and had so purified
himself for business. Indeed a white cravat is strongly
to be recommended as a corrective and sedative of the public
mind. Its advantages have long been familiar to the clergy;
and even, in some desperate cases, politicians have found a resort
to it of signal benefit. There are instructive instances,
also, in banks and insurance offices of the comfort and value
of spotless linen. Combined with highly-polished shoes, it is
of inestimable mercantile advantage. “My dear Abel,—You have now nearly reached the age
at which, by your grandfather's direction, you were to leave
school and enter upon active life. Your grandfather, who
had known and respected Mr. Gray in former years, left you,
as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, upon condition
of your being placed at Mr. Gray's until your nineteenth
birthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth
birthday you will leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best
accounts of you. My plans for you are not quite settled.
What are your own wishes? It is late for you to think of
college; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man, I see
no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin poetry. At
your age I was earning my own living. Your mother and
the family are well. Your affectionate father, “Dear Abel,—I am very glad to hear from Mr. Gray of
your fine progress in study, and your general good character
and deportment. I trust you give some of your leisure to
solid reading. It is very necessary to improve the mind.
I hope you attend to religion. It will help you if you keep a
record of Dr. Peewee's texts, and write abstracts of his sermons.
Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you
are very self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend
Mrs. Beacon was here last week, and she says you bow beautifully!
That is a great deal for her to admit, for her son
Bowdoin is one of the most elegant and presentable young men
I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanly indeed. He and
Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son,
could you not learn to waltz before you come home? It is
considered very bad by some people, because you have to put
your arm round the lady's waist. But I think it is very foolish
for any body to set themselves up against the customs of
society. I think if it is permitted in Paris and London, we
needn't be so very particular about it in New York. Mr.
Dinks and Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very
distingué indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister
Fanny says the Boston young men stick out their elbows
dreadfully when they waltz, and look like owls spinning on invisible
teetotums. She declares, too, that all the Boston girls
are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beacon
and Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance
as well as our young men here. And as for the Boston ladies,
Mr. Dinks tells Fanny that he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne,
who lives in Delafield, who might alter her opinion of the
dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a great heiress,
C
and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know how
idle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Alfred
Dinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and
shakes his head—the truth is, he hasn't much to say for himself.
Bless me! I've got to take another sheet. “Dear Sir,—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a
long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I
thought you would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in
New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you
receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who
will stay at Bunker's. “Dear Aunty,—We're about going away, and we have
been so gay that you would suppose I had had `society'
enough. Do you remember our talk? There have been a
great many people here from every part of the country; and
it has been nothing but bowling, walking, riding, dancing,
dining at the lake, and listening to music in the moonlight, all
the time. Aunt Dinks has been very kind, but although I
have met a great many people I have not made many friends.
I have seen nobody whom I like as much as Amy Waring or
Mr. Lawrence Newt, of whom I wrote you from New York,
and they have neither of them been here. I think of Pinewood
a great deal, but it seems to me long and long ago that
I used to live there. It is strange how much older and different
I feel. But I never forget you, dearest Aunty, and I should
like this very moment to stand by your side at your window
as I used to, and look out at the hills, or, better still, to lie in
your lap or on my bed, and hear you sing one of the dear old
hymns. I thought I had forgotten them until lately. But I
remember them very often now. I think of Pinewood a great
deal, and I love you dearly; and yet somehow I do not feel
as if I cared to go back there to live. Isn't that strange?
Give my love to Grandpa, and tell him I am neither engaged
to a foreign minister, nor a New York merchant, nor a Southern
planter—nor to any body else. But he must keep up
heart, for there's plenty of time yet. Good-by, dear Aunty.
I seem to hear you singing,
`Oh that I now the rest might know!'
Do you know how often you used to sing that? Good-by. “My dear Mr. Newt,—Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather
has had a stroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt
Dinks has, therefore, resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall
go with her. She seems very much affected, indeed, by the
news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor says grandfather
will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes you
could go on with us. I know that you have some kind of
association with Pinewood—you have not told me what. In
this summer weather you will find it very beautiful; and you
know how glad I shall be to have you for my guest. My
guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill I
must be what my mother would have been—mistress of the
house. I shall hardly feel more lonely than I always did when
he was active, for we had but little intercourse. In case of his
death, which I suppose to be very near, I shall not care to live
at the old place. In fact, I do not very clearly see what I am
to do. But there is One who does; and I remember my dear
old nurse's hymn, `On Thee I cast my care.' Come, if you can. “My dear Belch,—B. Newt, Son, & Co. have stopped.
We do not hear of an assignment, so desire you to take steps
at once to secure judgment upon the inclosed account. “My dear Sir,—I have just heard of your misfortunes.
Don't be dismayed. In the shindy of life every body must
have his head broken two or three times, and in our country
'tis a man's duty to fall on his feet. Such men as Abel Newt
are not made to fail. I want to see you immediately. “Fellow-Citizens, — Deeply grateful for the honorable
trust you have so long confided to me, nothing but the imperative
duty of attending to my private affairs, seriously injured
by my public occupations, would induce me to resign it into
your hands. But while his country may demand much of
every patriot, there is a point, which every honest man feels,
at which he may retire. I should be deeply grieved to take
this step did I not know how many abler representatives you
can find in the ranks of that constituency of which any man
may be proud. I leave the halls of legislation at a moment
when our party is consolidated, when its promise for the future
was never more brilliant, and when peace and prosperity
seem to have taken up their permanent abode in our happy
country, whose triumphant experiment of popular institutions
makes every despot shake upon his throne. Gentlemen, in
bidding you farewell I can only say that, should the torch of
the political incendiary ever be applied to the sublime fabric
of our system, and those institutions which were laid in our
father's struggles and cemented with their blood, should totter
and crumble, I, for one, will be found going down with the
ship, and waving the glorious flag of our country above the
smouldering ruins of that moral night. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 320 | Author: | Eggleston
Edward
1837-1902 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The end of the 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: | “I DON'T believe that you'd care a cent if she
did marry a Dutchman! She might as well as to
marry some white folks I know.” “If all they say is true, you have quickly changed. I do
not hold you by any promises you wish to break. “To whom it may concern: I have a list of eight men connected
with the riotous mob which broke into the house of Gottlieb Wehle, a
peaceable and unoffending citizen of the United States. The said eight
men proceeded to commit an assault and battery on the person of the
said Gottlieb Wehle, and even endeavored at one time to take his life.
And the said riotous conduct was the result of a conspiracy, and the
said assault with intent to kill was with malice aforethought. The said
eight men, after having committed grievous outrages upon him by
dipping him in the water and by other means, warned the said Wehle
not to return to the State. Now, therefore, I give notice to all
and several of those concerned in these criminal proceedings that
the said Wehle has returned by my advice; and that if so much as a
hair of his head or a splinter of his property is touched I will appear
against said parties and will prosecute them until I secure the infliction
of the severest penalties made and provided for the punishment
of such infamous crimes. I hope I am well enough known here to
render it certain that if I once begin proceedings nothing but success
or my death or the end of the world can stop them. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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