| | 1 | Author: | Brown
Charles Brockden
1771-1810 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The novels of Charles Brockden Brown  | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | Stephen Dudley was a native of New York. He was
educated to the profession of a painter. His father's trade
was that of an apothecary. But this son, manifesting an attachment
to the pencil, he was resolved that it should be
gratified. For this end Stephen was sent at an early age
to Europe, and not only enjoyed the instructions of Fuzeli
and Bartolozzi, but spent a considerable period in Italy, in
studying the Augustan and Medicean monuments. It was
intended that he should practice his art in his native city, but
the young man, though reconciled to this scheme by deference
to paternal authority, and by a sense of its propriety,
was willing, as long as possible to postpone it. The liberality
of his father relieved him from all pecuniary cares. His
whole time was devoted to the improvement of his skill in his
favorite art, and the enriching of his mind with every valuable
accomplishment. He was endowed with a comprehensive
genius and indefatigable industry. His progress was
proportionably rapid, and he passed his time without much
regard to futurity, being too well satisfied with the present to
anticipate a change. A change however was unavoidable,
and he was obliged at length to pay a reluctant obedience to
his father's repeated summons. The death of his wife had
rendered his society still more necessary to the old gentleman. An hour ago I was in Second street, and
saw you. I followed you till you entered the Indian Queen
Tavern. Knowing where you are, I am now preparing to
demand an interview. I may be disappointed in this hope,
and therefore write you this. Why do I write? For whose use do I pass my time thus?
There is no one living who cares a jot for me. There was a
time, when a throbbing heart, a trembling hand, and eager
eyes, were always prepared to read, and ruminate on the
scantiest and poorest scribble that dropped from my pen;
but she has disappeared; the veil between us is like death. I need not tell you, my friend, what I have felt, in consequence
of your silence. The short note which I received, a
fortnight after you had left me, roused my curiosity and my
fears, instead of allaying them. You promised me a longer
account of some mysterious changes that had taken place in
your condition. This I was to receive in a few days. At
the end of a week I was impatient. The promised letter did
not arrive. Four weeks passed away, and nothing came
from you. Yes; the narrative of Morton is true. The simple recital
which you give, leaves me no doubt. The money is
his, and shall be restored the moment he demands it. For
what I have spent, I must a little while be his debtor. This
he must consent to lose, for I never can repay it. Indeed,
it is not much. Since my change of fortune, I have not
been extravagant. A hundred dollars is the most I have
laid out, and some of this has been in furniture, which I
shall resign to him. "I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I am weary of traversing
hills and dales; and my detention in Virginia being
longer than I expected, shall go on board a vessel in this
port, bound for New York. Contract, in my name, with
your old friend, for the present accommodation of the girls,
and repair to New York as soon as possible. Search out
No.—, Broadway. If I am not there to embrace you,
inquire for my wife or daughter, and mention your name.
Make haste; the women long to see a youth in whose education
I had so large a share; and be sure, by your deportment,
not to discredit your instructer, and belie my good
report. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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