| | 241 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Add | | | Title: | The piazza tales  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | When I removed into the country, it was to
occupy an old-fashioned farm-house, which
had no piazza—a deficiency the more regretted,
because not only did I like piazzas, as
somehow combining the coziness of in-doors
with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so
pleasant to inspect your thermometer there,
but the country round about was such a picture,
that in berry time no boy climbs hill
or crosses vale without coming upon easels
planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters
painting there. A very paradise of painters.
The circle of the stars cut by the circle of the
mountains. At least, so looks it from the
house; though, once upon the mountains, no
circle of them can you see. Had the site been
chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would
not have been. The same day, and month, and year, His Honor, Doctor
Juan Martinez de Rozas, Councilor of the Royal Audience
of this Kingdom, and learned in the law of this Intendency,
ordered the captain of the ship San Dominick, Don Benito
Cereno, to appear; which he did in his litter, attended by
the monk Infelez; of whom he received the oath, which
he took by God, our Lord, and a sign of the Cross; under
which he promised to tell the truth of whatever he should
know and should be asked;—and being interrogated agreeably
11*
to the tenor of the act commencing the process,
he said, that on the twentieth of May last, he set sail with
his ship from the port of Valparaiso, bound to that of Callao;
loaded with the produce of the country beside thirty
cases of hardware and one hundred and sixty blacks, of both
sexes, mostly belonging to Don Alexandro Aranda, gentleman,
of the city of Mendoza; that the crew of the ship
consisted of thirty-six men, beside the persons who went as
passengers; that the negroes were in part as follows: “Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated
gentleman that lives. I am a patriot, exiled
from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 242 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | My third book | | | | 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: | “`Mr. Grant,—I have not been a good man. I
feel this now, lying here on my death-bed, and I confess
it to you the more readily because I do not believe
that at heart you are a one whit better one. I must
speak plainly and bluntly, for I have no time for circumlocution.
I have hardly strength enough left to
dictate this to Richard Huntley, my attorney. I have
made a brave effort to forgive every body; but it has
been the hardest of all to forgive you; for your harshness,
your sinful pride, killed my beautiful Margaret.
You never loved as I loved her—I, her lover, her husband.
There! you will start at that word, I foresee;
you will start again at the marriage certificate enfolded
in this letter. We were married secretly, as you will
perceive, while I was in your very neighborhood. I
bound Margaret, when I left her, by a solemn oath,
not to make it known until she had my permission.
She was a gentle crature, as no one knows better than
you, and never thought of disputing the will of any
one she loved. My father was dead. I was dependent
for all my hopes of future fortune and support on
my mother, a very proud, resolute woman. She had
a grand match in contemplation for me at that time.
I knew it would be no easy matter to reconcile her to
its failure, and if she should know just then that I had
married as she would have thought so far below me,
much as she loved me she would have cast me off forever.
This, to a true man, would have been no great
matter compared with causing Margaret one hour of
trouble, one agony of humiliation. But I was not a
true man. I was helpless and imbecile, for I had never
been brought up to depend on myself. But I must
hasten, for my strength is failing me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 243 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | 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: | Two sisters were sitting, one evening, in their small private
library, adjoining their sleeping apartment, in their step-mother's
house, in a fashionable quarter of New York. It
matters not in what year, for though this their history
makes great pretension to veritableness, it pays no respect
whatever to chronology. The youngest—the youngest of
course takes precedence in our society—was not past eighteen,
and, grown to her full stature, rather above the average
height; Grace Herbert differing in most of the faculties,
qualities, and circumstances of her being from the average
of her sex. To a strictly classical eye she was too thin for
her height, but of such exact proportions, so flexible and
graceful, that the defect was insignificant. Her features
were of the noble cast. Her complexion was neither fair
nor brown, but exquisitely smooth and soft. Ordinarily
she was pale, and her large dark eye lacked lustre; but a
flash from her mind, a gust of passion, or even a gentle
throb of affection, would brighten her cheek, light her eye,
play over her lips, and even seem to radiate from the waving
tresses of her dark hair. In that there was a notable
peculiarity. It was dark, and yet so brilliant in certain
lights, that in her little court of school-girl friends, where
she was queen (by divine right), it was a standing dispute
whether its color were golden, auburn, or brown. But it
was not form or color that so much distinguished Grace
Herbert, as a certain magnanimity in the expression of her
face, figure, and movement. “I should have written you as I promised, if I had
found any thing to write, but the town has been deuced
dull. Now it's waking up; there is a splendid little
actress here—one Mrs. Darley; our set patronize her.
(`Patronize—audacity!' exclaimed Grace.) Fanny Dawson
has come home—a splendid beauty! I and she rode out to
Love Lane before breakfast yesterday; my new horse is fine
under the saddle—Fanny is finer, but I shan't try my harness
there; I am shy of reins; one can't tell who will hold
them, so Miss Fanny will be left for my elder—if not my
better—” “My letter has lain by a month, and now I have news.
Smith, Jones and Co. have gone bankrupt, and poor Bill
is on their paper well-nigh to the amount of his fortune;
Luckily there's something left, and then there's the little
widow's fortune. Well, I go for the children of this world,
that are wise in their generation. Commend me to the
Londoners in general.—Believe me, as ever, your's faithfully, “You may conceive, but I can not describe, how
wretched I feel at our separation. You would hear from
me much oftener if I followed the dictates of my heart, but
my time is so absorbed that it is quite impossible to find
a moment for my truest, darlingest, little friend. I write
now to entreat you to match the feathers I send; aren't
they loves? I have spent two days in attempting to do it
here. New York is a paradise for shops, you know; in this
horrid Quaker city there's no variety; at the same time,
dearest love, will you look for a sash, the shade of the
feathers? You may send me a sample, or you may send
me several, if you feel uncertain about the match. It is
really trying, the difficulty of matching. I sometimes walk
up and down the streets of Philadelphia, hours and hours, to
match a lace or a fringe, and so does my mamma. The
Grays wear pink bonnets this winter. Mrs. Remson has
come out in her old yellow brocade again—the third winter,
mamma says—just think of it! Do they hold on to powder
yet in New York? I dread its going out—'tis so becoming;
It makes me quite wretched that you don't come on this
winter, dear little pearl! My hair was superbly dressed at
Mrs. Lee's ball; I paid dear for it, though, for Pardessus was
engaged ten hours ahead, so I had mine done at three A.M.
Of course I didn't feel over well the next day, and General
Washington observed it, and said he did not like to see
young ladies look pale. As it was the only time he ever
spoke to me, he might have found something more pleasing
to say; pale or not, I found partners for every dance, and
refused nine! But, darling, I must cut short my epistle, and
sign myself, your sincere and ever attached friend, “Having a few leisure moments, I sit down to have a
little pleasant chat with you. I have still to acknowledge
your letter, informing me of the decease of our dear old
friend, Lady Hepsy; strange coincidence! that she should
have been burned to death, so afraid of fire as she was all
her life; but so it is—`Our days a transient period run!' “You will feel for me, dear sister, when I tell you the
measles are all over our street. You may be sure I keep
the children shut up. Two of them were terribly ill last
night, and I sent for Dr. Lee. I was all of a nerve when he
came, expecting he would tell me they had the symptoms,
but to my inexpressible relief he said it was only the cranberry
sauce and mince-pie, and almonds, and raisins, and so
on, they had eaten plentifully of at dinner—poor little
things! how much they have to suffer in this world!” “This day I am seventeen! and this day I am the
happiest creature in the universe. You will guess why,
and how, for you prophesied long ago that what has now
happened would come to pass. Perhaps your prophecy
has led to its fulfillment—certainly hastened it, that I
will allow; for since we were at Madame B.'s school, and
you talked so much of him, he has been the ideal of my
life—every thing that I have imagined of noble and beautiful
has been impersonated in Frank Silborn. O think of my
felicity! He is mine, I am his; as the clock struck twelve
last night we plighted vows, and exchanged rings! O what
a bliss is life before me! And yet now I think I would be
content to die, my spirit is so raised with a sense of joy ineffable.
I can not believe it is but three weeks since Frank's
return; my love for him seems to stretch through my whole
being. “It is my sad duty to write to you the most sorrowful
news—prepare yourself, my child, for it will greatly shock
you. Yesterday afternoon—I can scarcely guide my pen—
Silborn drove up to his door in a curricle, and insisted
on taking the two little boys, who were just dressed for
a walk, to ride. Sarah must have seen he was greatly
excited—in no state to drive—for the nurse says `she refused
decidedly to let the children go;' whereupon he
snatched them both, and ran out of the house with them to
the carriage. He drove furiously up the street, turned the
corner short, ran afoul a loaded wagon, turned over the
carriage—the boys, our dear little boys, were thrown against
a curb-stone and killed, instantly—both Sarah's little boys—
both, Emma—both! “I promised, when we parted, to resume our long-suspended
correspondence. With what varied emotions of
remorse and gratitude I survey this chasm. O! Emma, how
differently life looks, prospectively or retrospectively. After
it pleased God to restore my reason, I wasted years of responsible
life in helpless misery, and profitless repining. “The rumor you heard (and heard before we did, so complete
is our retirement from the world) is confirmed. Walter
announced his engagement, in his own way, last evening.
`Do you know,' he asked my mother, `whom Augustus
Dawson married?' “My filial duty and my unlimited confidence in both
your justice and generosity would have induced long since
the communication I am about to make, but it was deferred
by the griefs my sister's calamities brought upon you. I
could not then add another bitter drop to your full cup. I
must no longer delay. Six months since—” “I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the
first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for
my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to
become of great value. I have explored titles a century
back, when this property was a waste rocky field—now, a
noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two
gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular
enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy
is now between descendants of the original purchasers,
`Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an
elderly gentleman, and two young ladies, who, though somewhat
decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy.
Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry—there is
still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert—Walter Herbert,
Esq.—I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old
fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver
sable, an eye like an eagle, and a heart of gold. The young
ladies are his nieces; one, a bright particular star, I have
seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten. “Miss Alice requests me, you say, to describe my friend
Esterly's wedding. Alas! I have no story to tell; business
intervened, and took me out of town, and thus saved all
parties from my blundering performance of the office of
bridegroom.” “Pardon, my dear Mrs. Clifford, my blotted pages. I
have been raining tears over this detail to you of my brief
meeting with my father. God only knows how I loved him
in life—how I honor him in death! Had I known his condition,
I should have come home six months ago. I shall
forever regret a gain to myself, at the expense of a loss to
him. My step-mother, whose valuable qualities I do full
justice to (when I do not come in contact with her), will
maintain her housekeeping, and take three or four boarders,
and so, `by hook or by crook,' they will live comfortably.
I, by means of my own hard work and God's blessing, will
start the boys in life, and thus acknowledge a debt to my
dear father, which I can never fully pay. Letty is a little
jewel, or rather, she is worth all the jewels in a king's
crown, being more for use than decoration. Her cheerfulness
is obscured just now, of course, for she dearly loved
my father; but her pale cheek is, I think, but the livery of
the country, which strikes me in painful contrast with the
Hebe coloring in England. The dirge-like tone of her voice,
too, is but the national note, not so much the voice of sadness
as of `sickness.' `Every village has its song,' says
Carlisle; I wish ours were a livelier one. “When I think that school-girls' friendships are, for the
most part, mere accidents of propinquity, I rejoice that ours,
like all true matches, was fore-ordained. I began with making
you my pet, I believe you are five years my junior, and
now you are my confidante—partly, because you are true as
steel, and will not betray what I tell you, and partly that
you will not advise me, or chide me; and you are unmarried
—kind to kind, is natural. Perhaps you will divine that I
am trying to silence my conscience that tells me my sister
Eleanor should be my confidante; that a sister—and such a
sister!—is the nearest friend, the friend Heaven bestowed;
and truly Eleanor would be my elect friend from all the
world, but that she is married. She has projected herself
into another self, and, though two make one for themselves,
they make two for the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friend. Yes, I am getting into the
old track famously. Some of my old clients have welcomed
me cordially; and though I was cruelly knocked down from
those `steeps so hard to climb' of my profession, yet I am in
no wise discouraged. True, my competitors shot ahead of
me, but I shall gain upon them. There is nothing like the
whip and spur of necessity; in our land, the poor workingman
is on vantage-ground, the general sympathy is with
him, and if he be capable, and in earnest, he has plenty of
work to do. I have delivered two Lectures, made up of my
foreign observations, which were well received, and filled my
pockets. I have had many requests to repeat them. I shall
not. A man should not be diverted from his profession by
`fancy work.' I have offers from booksellers and editors
that will profitably fill my leisure hours, if I have them.
Thus, you see, I can answer your inquiry satisfactorily. I
do not `regret the obligations' I have assumed for my step-brothers.
I have economical quarters, and by avoiding
hotel-life, and all superfluous indulgence, I shall compass my
great object—their education; and after that, Yankee boys
can take care of themselves. * * * “He's a trump—take my word for it, Dates.
He lectured at the Mercantile last evening. I went early,
and got a seat directly in front of him. It seemed as if he
could not keep his eyes off from me! The house was
choke-full, and all attention. You might have heard a pin fall.
He was posted up about every thing t'other side, and told us
a lot about Greece and Athens, and Egypt and Thebes.
There were a number of literary characters present, distinguished
authors and authoresses that write in the Magazines.
He got, they say, $400 by this Lecture alone! Don't he
know how to coin money out of talents? He looks like a
different individual—so genteel!—you can't think! “All other interests are superseded just now by the
alarming illness of Eleanor's boy—her only boy. His illness
has come suddenly. But yesterday, he seemed to stand on
the hill-top of life, radiant with the rosy tints of morning,
casting down into many hearts the hopes and promises of a
long, bright day. “Thank you, for the list of scholars—fifteen in your
school! These, with the promised five out of it, will supply
the deficiencies in our income the next year; and thus, if
we make a fortunate disposition of our house, my husband
will be enabled to repair his strength by a year's travel in
Europe, and rest from work. Thank you, too, for your assurance
that I do not interfere with your accomplished musical
professor, as my lower terms, according with my inferior
ability, also accord with my pupils' smaller means. And
thank you, more than all, for your gentle warning, lest, in
my eagerness to afford my husband material aid, I lose sight
of my first duty; that to my children and household. They
are providentially cared for. An elderly cousin of my husband,
Effie Lynn, has just lost her home. We are glad to
give her the shelter of our's. She is a delicately strung,
nervous little body, and will, in a way, increase my cares;
but she will also immensely relieve them, as, being most
kind, faithful, and fond of children, I can tranquilly leave
my girls with her during my working hours. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 244 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | 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: | Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to
Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was
ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while
she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter,
she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other
low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe
directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed
neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications,
or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the
letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how
these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for
the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation,
followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked
him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints
are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the
evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the
uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is
through their intervention that he has failed of his election to
the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this
failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire
rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself
pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother.
I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly
pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling
with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after
Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her
generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met
that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly
changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and
spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with
me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up
—but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary
and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête
with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began:
`I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting
subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving
you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for
it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,'
she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose
a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred
another selection. Your dear father in his life-time
tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next
ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his
wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer
Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior
as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my
mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make
a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is
nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam,
she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne—
and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued,
`when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are
not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped
her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous
struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I
assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for
her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon
to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances
are still quivering. They shall not turn against me.
I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit,
when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne
Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still,
have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or,
I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty,
fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their
price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap
as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But,
my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men,
perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six
years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I
would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set
my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I
would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet
changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday,
I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to
justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances.
This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady,
but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence
to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps
distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember,
that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are
keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a
large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too
well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his
example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia;
you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight
to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began
my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were
deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no
great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession
on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor
House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow,
you will very much oblige me. As it is but one
day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I
imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return
by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have
come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall
we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my
brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead.
God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me
forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis'
maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said,
`it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left
the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go
in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out;
she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She
has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has
not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath,
and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes
she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating,
and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis.
Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta
Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly
beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted
blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she
looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair
matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed
me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit,
though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was
kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch,
her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her
and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me.
I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none.
I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping
cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation
she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the
shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I
know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother
started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who
is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my
arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I
have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your
child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write
that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change
of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair
to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to
speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only
thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I
shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I
shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution,
Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom,
and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of.
I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your
child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition
our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell
me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy.
Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all
empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me
off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed
her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and
by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she
would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched
to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and
laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less
anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her
hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child!
she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh—
did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall
never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I
had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour
with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed
she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never,
never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she
permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and
while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally
for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the
child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people
are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the
demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she
took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And
what was more important, she seemed comforted by my
presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned
to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long
time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she
said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that
God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was
not that what you said? My head has been so confused—
it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and
if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights
and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never
known, and resources upon which you had never drawn;
how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before
felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile
almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the
divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished
and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward
all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how
the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands
realities, while it hungers after the good and the
true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality
comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you
in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn
and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky,
and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr.
Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York
without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when
you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will
forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what
Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am
coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and
kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a
promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put
my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my
house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from
me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You
shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on
one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other.
`I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a
place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A
place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother
can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my
trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up
double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.'
Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek,
saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and
cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter,
girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother,
I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room;
you might have told me, mother, when I asked
you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new
bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing.
It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited,
May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let
him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.'
Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess,
that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked
pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains
and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored
to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow
in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the
sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh
flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike
guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become
his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling
him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent
youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree.
His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was
your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting,
in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving
soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give
it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain,
the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest
with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest
breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long
enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds
did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated
the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to
return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the
manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life
never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations.
L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected
that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects
would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then
followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would
not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself
should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'”
etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked,
every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my
dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your
disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.) | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 245 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings, hiz sayings | | | | 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 mule is haf hoss, and haf Jackass, and then
kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake.
Tha weigh more, akordin tu their heft, than enny
other kreetur, except a crowbar. Tha kant hear
enny quicker, nor further than the hoss, yet their
ears are big enuff for snow shoes. You kan trust
them with enny one whose life aint worth enny
more than the mules. The only wa tu keep them
into a paster, is tu turn them into a medder jineing,
and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use,
just as soon as they will du tu abuse. Tha haint
got enny friends, and will live on huckel berry
brush, with an ockasional chanse at Kanada thissels.
Tha are a modern invenshun, i dont think the Bible
deludes tu them at tall. Tha sel for more
money than enny other domestik animile. Yu
kant tell their age by looking into their mouth,
enny more than you kould a Mexican cannons.
Tha never hav no dissease that a good club wont
heal. If tha ever die tha must kum rite tu life
agin, for i never herd nobody sa “ded mule.” Tha
are like sum men, very korrupt at harte; ive known
them tu be good mules for 6 months, just tu git a
good chanse to kick sumbody. I never owned one,
nor never mean to, unless there is a United Staits
law passed, requiring it. The only reason why
tha are pashunt, is bekause tha are ashamed ov
themselfs. I have seen eddikated mules in a sirkus.
Tha kould kick, and bite, tremenjis. I would not
sa what I am forced tu sa again the mule, if his
birth want an outrage, and man want tu blame for
it. Enny man who is willing tu drive a mule,
ought to be exempt by law from running for the
legislatur. Tha are the strongest creeturs on earth,
and heaviest, ackording tu their sise; I herd tell
ov one who fell oph from the tow path, on the Eri
kanawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but
he kept rite on towing the boat tu the nex stashun,
breathing thru his ears, which stuck out ov the water
about 2 feet 6 inches; i did'nt see this did, but
an auctioneer told me ov it, and i never knew an
auctioneer tu lie unless it was absolutely convenient. “Dear Augustus Sidney Bloodgood: Having a
fu spare time tew devote terestial things, i take mi
pen in hand tew rite yu a fu lines. I am well, and
hope theze fu lines will find yu enjoying the same
blessin. I hav jist returned from the gardin ov
Eden whare i hav bin with Dave Sturgiss, who was
killed at the battell ov Gettisburg bi gitting choked
with a pease ov hard tacks. The weather iz fine,
and there iz evry prospeck ov krops; I never see
the potaters look finer. Dri goods is cheap here, yu
can buy good factory cottin cloth, yard wide, for
eleven cents a yard and hav thred thrown in. I see
the Widder Bostwick yesterday, she looks as starched
up as ever. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 246 | Author: | Shillaber
B. P.
(Benjamin Penhallow)
1814-1890 | Add | | | Title: | Knitting-work | | | | 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: | Gentlemen: It has suddenly occurred to me that a preface is
altogether unnecessary, and, therefore, I positively decline writing
one, inasmuch as I have commenced five already, and been compelled
to abandon them all, from sheer inability to complete them.
Prefaces have always seemed to me like drummers for a show,
calling upon people to “come up and see the elephant,” with a
slight exaggeration of the merit of the animal to be exhibited; and
though, in the present case, such enlargement of the fact would
not be necessary, still those disposed to be captious might read our
promises with incredulity. Mrs. Partington, no less than the Roman
dame, should be above suspicion; therefore, this heralding should be
avoided, and her name left with only its olden reputation resting
about it, like the halo of cobweb and dust about an ancient vintage
of port. Her coädjutors, Dr. Spooner, Old Roger, and Wideswarth,
representing the profound, the jolly, and the sentimental, need no
endorsement among the enlightened many who will buy this book;
and we can safely leave them, as lawyers sometimes do their cases
when they have nothing to say, without argument. Again, all will
see for themselves the acid and sugar, and spirit and water, comprised
in the contents of the volume, — forming the components of a
sort of intellectual punch, of which they can partake to any extent,
without headache or heartache, as the sedate therein forms a judicious
corrective of the eccentric and gay which might intoxicate.
The illustrations, by Hoppin, tell their own story, and need no
further commendation than their great excellence. The local
meaning of many of the sayings and doings of the book will, of
course, be readily understood, without explanation or apology; and
the new matter will be distinguished from the old, by the quality of
novelty that generally attaches to that with which we are not familiar.
I thought somewhat of giving the name beneath each individual
represented in our frontispiece; but the idea was dispelled in a
moment, by the reflection that Mrs. Partington — the central sun of
our social system — could not be misinterpreted; while Dr. Spooner,
Prof. Wideswarth, Old Roger, and Ike, were equally well defined;
and the skill of the artist in depicting them needed no aid. Therefore,
all things considered, I think we had better let the book slip
from its dock quietly, and drift out into the tide of publication, to
be borne by this or that eddy of feeling to such success as it may
deserve, without the formality of prefatory bottle-breaking. I leave
the matter, then, as a settled thing, that we will not have a preface. When Mrs. Partington first moved from Beanville,
and the young scion of the Partington stock was
exposed to the temptations of city life and city associations,
it was thought advisable to appoint a “guardeen”
over him. Ike was not a bad boy, in the wicked
sense of the word bad; but he had a constant proclivity
for tormenting every one that he came in contact with;
a resistless tendency for having a hand in everything
that was going on; a mischievous bent, that led him into
continual trouble, that brought on him reproaches from
all sides, and secured for him a reputation that made
him answerable for everything of a wrong character
that was done in the neighborhood. A barber's pole
could not be removed from the barber's door and placed
beside the broker's, but it must be imputed to “that
plaguy Ike;” all clandestine pulls at door-bells in the
evenings were done by “that plaguy Ike;” if a ball or
an arrow made a mistake and dashed through a window,
the ball or the arrow belonged to “that plaguy Ike;” if
on April Fool's day a piece of paper were found pasted
on a door-step, putting grave housekeepers to the trouble
and mortification of trying to pick up an imagined
letter, the blame was laid to “that plaguy Ike;” and if a
voice was heard from round the corner crying “April
Fool!” or “sold,” those who heard it said, at once, it
was “that plaguy Ike's.” Many a thing he had thus to
answer for that he did n't do, as well as many that he
did, until Mrs. Partington became convinced of the
necessity of securing some one to look after him besides
herself. “Miss Parkinson: Your boy has been and tied a culinary utensile to
the caudle appendidge of a canine favorite of ourn, an indignity that wee
shall never submit to. He is a reproach to the neighborhood, and you
must punish him severally. Daring Outrage. — Last evening a burglarious attempt
was made to enter the house of Mr. T. Speed, in
— street; but the burglar threw down a bust of
Shakespeare in the attempt, which attracted the attention
of Mr. Muggins, passing at the time, who pursued the
ruffian over a shed, and boldly attacked him in Marsh
alley, when the villain drew a pistol and threatened to
shoot his assailant, who persistingly stuck to him until
a blow from the butt of the pistol knocked him down,
and the rascal escaped, leaving his hat on the premises,
in which was the name O. Hush. Mr. Muggins treated
him very severely, and it is believed the atrocious
wretch may be detected by the injury he received.
The police are upon his track. “Mr. Milling: Be wary of Upshur. A pitcher that
goes too often to the well may come back broken. “Mr. Milling. — Sir: You may deem me a scoundrel;
but I am to be pitied. I have been led into the
temptation of speculation, have compromised our firm
in its prosecution, and have fled, like Cain, with the
brand of disgrace on my name. But, while thus leaving
like a thief, I solemnly promise that my future shall be
devoted to a reparation of the trouble I have caused.
You shall not hear from me until I am able to wipe the
stain from the name of yours, most ungratefully, “My dear Madam: I am a man of few words — a
friend of your late husband — with means sufficient to
carry out what I propose. I wish to return a portion
of the benefit he conferred upon me, a poor boy. I am
aware of your family circumstances, and would relieve
a portion of your burden. Your youngest daughter
should receive an education. I have the ability to
secure it, and would deem it a favor to be allowed to
incur the expense attending it. The only condition I
propose is that no sense of obligation may be allowed
to overpower you, and no effort be made to discover
the writer. “Dear Partelot: Please excuse me to the family.
I am suddenly called to Mulberry-street. My sister has
arrived from the country. My regards to Mrs. M., and
Misses Matilda and Lily. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 247 | Author: | Shillaber
B. P.
(Benjamin Penhallow)
1814-1890 | Add | | | Title: | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others of the
family | | | | 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: | 677EAF. Page 013. In-line Illustration. Image of a gun, a sword, a framed profile of a man.
“Perfigis retch: — your our is cum... Mete me to-morrar
outside the Inglish lines, and Ile giv yu Jessy.
Yours respectively, “Dear Mother, — It grieves me to bid you farewell,
but longer sufferance from father's tyrannical usage is
impossible. I go to seek my fortune, and when we meet
again may it be when he and I shall have learned a
lesson from our separation, and the alienation of father
and child may be forgotten in the renewed intercourse
of man and man. Farewell, mother, and may you be
more happy than I should have been able to make you
had I lived with you a thousand years. Farewell. Remember
sometimes your poor boy, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 248 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | As good as a comedy, or, The Tennesseean's story | | | | 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: | Let us start fairly, and not on an empty stomach.
Reader, we begin with a Georgia breakfast. We are
at one of those plain, unpretending, but substantial
farm-houses, which, in the interior of Georgia, and
other Southern States, distinguished more especially
the older inhabitants; those who, from time immemorial,
have appeared pretty much as we find them now.
These all date back beyond the Revolution; the usual
epoch, in our country, at which an ancient family may
be permitted to begin. The region is one of those
lovely spots among the barrens of middle Georgia, in
which, surveyed from the proper point of view, there is
nothing barren. You are not to suppose the settlement
an old one, by any means, for it is not more than twenty
or twenty-five years since all the contiguous territory
within a space of sixty miles was rescued from the
savages. But our family is an old one; inheriting all
the pride, the tastes, and the feelings which belonged
to the old Southern “Continentaler.” This will be
apparent as we proceed; as it is apparent, in fact, to
the eye which contrasts the exterior of its dwelling with
that of the neighboring settlements among which it
harbors. The spot, though undistinguished by surprising
scenery, is a very lovely one, and not unfrequent
in the middle country of the Atlantic Southern
States. It presents a pleasing prospect under a single
glance of the eye, of smooth lawn, and gentle acclivity,
and lofty forest growth. A streamlet, or branch, as it
is here called, winds along, murmuring as it goes, at the
foot of a gentle eminence which is crowned with a luxuriant
wealth of pine and cedar. Looking up from this
spot while your steed drinks, you behold, perched on
another gentle swell of ground, as snug and handsome
an edifice as our forest country usually affords; none
of your overgrown ambitious establishments, but a trim
tidy dwelling, consisting of a single story of wood upon
a brick basement, and surrounded on three sides by a
most glorious piazza. The lawn slopes away, for several
hundred yards, an even and very gradual descent even
to the road; a broad tract, well sprinkled with noble
trees, oaks, oranges, and cedars, with here and there a
clump of towering pines, under which steeds are grazing,
in whose slender and symmetrical forms, clean legs, and
glossy skins, you may discern instant signs of those
superior foreign breeds which the Southern planter so
much affects. The house, neatly painted white, with
green blinds and shutters, is kept in admirable trim; and,
from the agreeable arrangement of trees and shrubbery,
it would seem that the place had been laid out and was
tenanted by those who brought good taste and a becoming
sense of the beautiful to the task. There was
no great exercise of art, it is true. That is not pretended.
But nature was not suffered to have her own
way entirely, was not suffered to overrun the face of
the land with her luxuriance; nor was man so savage
as to strip her utterly of all her graceful decorations—
a crime which we are too frequently called upon to deplore
and to denounce, when we contemplate the habitations
even of the wealthy among our people, particularly
in the South, despoiled, by barbarity, of all their shade-trees,
and denuded of all the grace and softness which
these necessarily confer upon the landscape. Here, the
glance seemed to rest satisfied with what it beheld, and
to want for nothing. There might be bigger houses,
and loftier structures, of more ambitious design and
more commanding proportion; but this was certainly
very neat, and very much in its place. Its white outlines
caught your eye, glinting through openings of the
forest, approaching by the road on either hand, for
some distance before you drew nigh, and with such an
air of peace and sweetness, that you were insensibly
prepared to regard its inmates as very good and well-bred
people. Nor are we wrong in these conjectures.
But of this hereafter. At this moment, you may see
a very splendid iron-gray charger, saddled, and fastened
in the shade, some twenty steps from the dwelling. Lift
your eye to the piazza, and you behold the owner. A
finer-looking fellow lives not in the country. Tall, well
made, and muscular, he treads the piazza like a prince.
The freedom of carriage which belongs to the gentlemen
in our forest country is inimitable, is not to be acquired
by art, and is due to the fact that they suffer from no
laborious occupation, undergo no drudgery, and are
subject to no confinement, which, in childhood, contract
the shoulders into a stoop, depress the spirits, enfeeble
the energies, and wofully impair the freedom and elegance
of the deportment. Constant exercise on foot
and horseback, the fox hunt and the chase; these, with
other sylvan sports, do wonders for the physique, the
grace and the bearing of the country gentleman of the
South. The person before us is one of the noblest specimens
of his class. A frank and handsome countenance,
with a skin clear and inclining to the florid; a bright,
martial blue eye; a full chin; thick, massive locks of
dark brown hair, and lips that express a rare sweetness,
and only do not smile, sufficiently distinguish his peculiarities
of face. His dress is simple, after an ordinary
fashion of the country, but is surprisingly neat and becoming.
A loose blouse, rather more after the Choctaw
than the Parisian pattern, does not lessen the symmetry
of his shape. His trousers are not so loose as to conceal
the fine muscular developments of his lower limbs;
nor does his loose negligée neckcloth, simply folded
about the neck, prevent the display of a column which
admirably sustains the intellectual and massive head
which crowns it, and which we now behold uncovered.
Booted and spurred, he appears ready for a journey,
walks the piazza with something of impatience in his
manner, and frequently stops to shade his eyes from the
glare, as he strains them in exploring the distant highway.
You see that he is young, scarcely twenty-two;
eager in his impulses, restive under restraint, and better
able to endure and struggle with the conflict than to
wait for its slow approaches. Suddenly he starts. He
turns to a call from within, and a matron lady appears
at the entrance of the dwelling, and joins him in the
piazza. He turns to her with respect and fondness. She
is his mother; a stately dame, with features like his
own; a manner at once easy and dignified; an eye
grave, but benevolent; and a voice whose slow, subdued
accents possess a rare sweetness not unmingled with
command. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 249 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | New-England legends | | | | 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 islands about the harbors of all our New
England rivers are so wild, and would seem to
have offered so many advantages, that they
have always been supposed, by the ruder population,
to be the hiding-place of piratical treasures,
and particularly of Captain Kidd's; and
the secretion, among rocks and sands, of chests
of jewels stripped from noble Spanish ladies
who have walked the awful plank, with shotbags
full of diamonds, and ingots of pure gold,
is one of the tenets of the vulgar faith. This
belief has ranged up and down the whole
shore with more freedom than the pirates ever
did, and the legends on the subject are legion
—from the old Frenchman of Passamaquoddy
Bay to the wild stories of the Jersey and Carolina
sandbars too countless for memory, the
Fireship off Newport, the Shrieking Woman of
Marblehead, and the Lynn Mariner who, while
burying his treasure in a cave, was sealed up
alive by a thunderbolt that cleft the rock, and
whom some one, under spiritual inspiration,
spent lately a dozen years in vain endeavor to
unearth. The parties that have equipped themselves
with hazel-rods and spades, and proceeded,
at the dead of night, in search of these
riches, without turning their heads or uttering
the Divine Name, and, digging till they struck
metal, have met with all manner of ghostly appearances,
from the little naked negro sitting
and crying on the edge of the hogshead of
doubloons, to the ball of fire sailing straight up
the creek, till it hangs trembling on the tide
just opposite the excavation into which it
shoots with the speed of lightning, so terrifying
and bewildering the treasure-seekers that
when all is over they fail to find again the place
of their late labor—the parties that have met
with these adventures would, perhaps, cease to
waste much more of their time in such pursuits
in this part of the country if they knew that
Captain Kidd had never landed north of Block
Island until, with fatal temerity, he brought
his vessel into Boston, and that every penny of
his gains was known and was accounted for,
while as to Bradish, Tew, and the rest of that
genry, they wasted everything as they went in
riotous living, and could never have had a dollar
to hide, and no disposition to hide it if they
had; and whatever they did possess they took
with them when, quietly abandoning their ships
to the officers of the law, they went up the
creeks and rivers in boats, and dispersed themselves
throughout the country. “Received of Bishop Fenwick, the sum of
seventy-nine dollars and twenty cents, the same
being taxes assessed by the Assessors of the
town of Charlestown, upon the land and buildings
of the late Convent of Mount Benedict, for
the year 1834, and which were this day demanded
by Solomon Hovey, Jr., Collector,
agreeably to instructions received by him from
the Assessors, to that effect, although said
buildings had been destroyed by a mob in August
last. “Honor Governor my friend You my friend.
I desire your worship and your power, because
I hope you can do some great matters—this
one. I am poor and naked and I have no men
at my place because I afraid allways Mohogs he
will kill me every day and night. If your worship
when please pray help me you no let
Mohogs kill me at my place at Malamake
Rever called Panukkog and Natukkog, I will
submit your worship and your power. — And
now I want pouder and such alminishun, shatt
and guns, because I have forth at my home and
I plant theare. “Now this day I com your house, I want se
you, and I bring my hand at before you I want
shake hand to you if your worship when please
then you receive my hand then shake your
hand and my hand. You my friend because I
remember at old time when live my grant
father and grant mother then Englishmen com
this country, then my grant father and Englishmen
they make a good govenant, they friend
allwayes, my grant father leving at place called
Malamake Rever, other name chef Natukkog
and Panukkog, that one rever great many
names, and I bring you this few skins at this
first time I will give you my friend. This all
Indian hand. “Please your Worship—I will intreat you
matther, you my friend now; this, if my Indian
he do you long, pray you no put your law, because
som my Indians fooll, some men much
love drunk then he no know what he do, maybe
he do mischif when he drunk, if so pray you
must let me know what he done because I will
ponis him what have done, you, you my friend,
if you desire my business then sent me I will
help you if I can. “Mr. Mason — Pray I want speake you a few
words if your worship when please, because I
com parfas. I will speake this governor but
he go away so he say at last night, and so far
I understand this governor his power that your
power now, so he speak his own mouth. Pray if
you take what I want pray come to me because
I want go hom at this day. “Honorable Sir—The Governor and Council
having this day received a letter from Major
Hinchman, of Chelmsford, that some Indians
are come into them, who report that there is a
gathering of Indians in or about Pennacook,
with design of mischief to the English. Among
the said Indians one Hawkins is said to be a
principal designer, and that they have a particular
design against yourself and Mr. Peter
Coffin, which the Council thought it necessary
presently to dispatch advice thereof, to give
you notice, that you take care of your own safeguard,
they intending to endeavor to betray
you on a pretension of trade. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 251 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | | | | 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: | Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two
gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished
dining parlor, in the town of P—, in Kentucky.
There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with
chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some
subject with great earnestness. “Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George
six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very intelligent,
speaks handsomely, can read and write; will probably try to pass
for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has been
branded in his right hand with the letter H. “Executor's Sale, — Negroes! — Agreeably to order of court, will
be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the
town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60;
John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for
the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 252 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Add | | | Title: | Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | | | | 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: | “Tom, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want to
go,” she said. “I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True,
as you have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the
whites, in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and
that of my wife and family scarce perceptible. Well,
perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth,
I have no wish to. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 253 | Author: | Taylor
Bayard
1825-1878 | Add | | | Title: | John Godfrey's fortunes, related by himself | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | I was sitting at the front window, buried, chin-deep, in
the perusal of “Sandford and Merton,” when I heard the
latch of the gate click. Looking up, I saw that it was only
Neighbor Niles, coming, as usual, in her sun-bonnet, with
her bare arms wrapped in her apron, for a chat with
mother. I therefore resumed my reading, for Neighbor
Niles always burst into the house without knocking, and
mother was sure to know who it was by the manner in
which the door opened. I had gotten as far into the book
as the building of the Robinson-Crusoe hut, and one half
of my mind speculated, as I read, whether a similar hut
might not be constructed in our garden, in the corner
between the snowball-bush and Muley's stable. Bob Simmons
would help me, I was sure; only it was scarcely possible
to finish it before winter, and then we could n't live
in it without a fireplace and a chimney. “My dear Brother, — Yours of the 10th is received.
I am now so accustomed to your sarcastic style, that I always
know what to expect when I open one of your epistles.
I wish you joy of your — well, I must say our new
cousin, though I am sorry you did not let me know of the
discovery before telling him. He must be gauche and unpresentable
in a degree; but then, I suppose, there 's no
likelihood of his ever getting into our set. It is time your
schooling was finished, so that I might have you for awhile as
my chevalier. Between ourselves, I 'm rather tired of going
about with” (here the word “Mamma” had evidently been
written and then blotted out) “Mrs. Penrose. Not but
what she continues to improve, — only, I am never certain
of her not committing some niaiserie, which quite puts me
out. However, she behaves well enough at home, and I
hope you will overcome your prejudice in the end, for my
sake. When you know as much about Society as I do, you
will see that it 's always best to smooth over what 's irrevocable.
People are beginning to forget the scandal, since
that affair of Denbigh has given them something else to
talk about. We were at Mrs. Delane's ball on Wednesday;
I made her put on blue cut velvet, and she did not
look so bad. Mrs. Vane nodded, and of course she was
triumphant. I think Papa gives me the credit for all that
has been done, — I 'm sure I deserve it. It 's a race between
Mrs. P. and myself which shall have the new India
shawl at Stokes's; but I shall get it, because Mrs. P. knows
that I could teach her to blunder awfully as well as to behave
correctly, and would do it, in spite of Papa's swearing,
if she drives me to desperation. By the by, he has just
come into the room, and says, `You are writing to the cub,
as usual, I suppose, Matilda.' So there you have him, to
the life.” “Respected Friend, I recd. your favor in which you informed
me that you was getting on so well and gave the
other as you directed. Thought it best to wait for the
other's answer, though there is no particular news. Sep
Bratton goes to The Buck every day, and there 's high
goings on between him and the squire. Your friend Mr.
Rand was there again. People say the squire is speculating
about Pottsville, and will cut up pretty fat some day, which
is no business of mine, but thought you might like to hear.
We are all well, and mother and Sue says remember me to
him. I guess Ben and her is satisfied with one another,
but you need not say I told you. There is a mistress at
the school this summer, a right smart young woman, her
name is Lavina Wilkins. And hoping these few lines will
find you enjoying good health, I remain, “Dear John,” (there were volumes of withheld confession
for me in that one adjective): — Towards the end of May the important book appeared.
I am sure that no immortal work was ever watched, through
its different processes of incarnation, with such tender
solicitude. I lingered over the first proofs, the revised
proofs, and the printed and folded sheets, with a proud,
luxurious interest, and the final consummation — the little
volume, bound and lettered — was so precious that I could
have kissed the leaves one by one. It seemed incredible
that the “John Godfrey” on the title-page really meant
myself! A book for me had hitherto possessed a sublime,
mystical individuality of its own, and this, which had grown
beneath my hand, by stages of manufacture as distinctly
material as those which go to the formation of a shoe or a
stove, was now to be classed among those silent, eloquent
personalities! It might be placed side by side with “Paradise
Lost” or “Childe Harold,” on book-shelves; who could
tell whither chance or fortune might not carry it, or what
young and burning lips it might not help unseal? “I have judged you unjustly, and treated you rudely,
Mr. Godfrey. If I have not forfeited the right to make
reparation, or you have not lost the desire to receive it,
will you call upon me to-morrow evening, at Mrs. Deering's,
and oblige “I will come. “Respd. Nephew, — I take my Pen in hand to inform
you that Me and your aunt Peggy are injoying good Health
and Those Blessings which the Lord Vouchsafes to us. It
is a long Time since we have heard anything of you, but
suppose you are still ingaged in the same Occupation as at
first, and hence direct accordingly, hoping these few Lines
may come Safely to hand. “The news contained in your letter of the 7th was quite
unexpected, but none the less welcome, for your sake as
well as my own. While I still think that the disposal of
my little property ought to have been left to myself, I
cheerfully acquit you of any intention to do me wrong, and
to show that I not only bear no malice, but am willing to
retract my hasty insinuations against your character, I will
accept your proffered hospitality when I visit Reading.
You may expect me within the next four or five days. “My Dear John, — I know why you have not written
to me. In fact I knew, months ago, (through Deering,)
what was coming, and had conquered whatever soreness
was left in my heart. Fortunately my will is also strong
in a reflective sense, and I am, moreover, no child to lament
over an irretrievable loss. I dare say the future will
make it up to me, in some way, if I wait long enough. At
any rate, you won't object, my dear old fellow, to have me
say — not that I wish you happiness, for you have it, but —
that you deserve your double fortune. The other item I
picked up from a newspaper; you might have written me
that. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 254 | Author: | Thorpe
Thomas Bangs
1815-1878 | Add | | | Title: | The master's house | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | There is not a more charming town in New England, than
Malden, so celebrated, and so widely known for its intelligent
population, its interesting traditions, and its most excellent
seat of learning. Dear Sir,—I understand you desire to purchase some
valuable house servants. I have one or two that I would
part with, if the trade could be made privately, and treated
by you as confidential. I will be at the cross roads, near
the old brick kiln, precisely at five o'clock, where we can
hold conversation unobserved. Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you wish to
purchase a few first class house-servants; I have two that
I would part with, for less than their real value, if you can
manage to get them in your possession, without giving
their owners the pain of going through the separation.
They have been carefully raised, and would not be sold, if
their owners were not conscientiously impressed that their
condition would not be improved, if they were set free. I
shall be at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-day, and shall
proceed at once to your room, to avoid the suspicion among
the neighbors, that I am contemplating selling. You will
consider our communications in honor, and trust they will
be so treated. Sur,—I've got an old negro woman as wants to be sold,
and go to Mobeel, in the State of Mississip'. I wouldn't
sell her, if she didn't want to go down to that South country
to see her children, as is owned by Mister Brownlaw,
who, when he tuck the children, was to buy the old ooman,
but didn't have the money, an hasn't sent for her 'cordin'
to contract. I will sel her for two hundred and fifty, and
I think Brownlaw will give you four hundred on his place,
as her son is a carpenter, and I'm told he thinks a heap
of him, as he can earn five dollars a day, making bridges
on the rale rode. Please say nothing about this, and drop
in at my house in the evening, when nobody is about, on
the Sandy-hill road, f'ur miles from Colesburg, near the
ruins of the old church, with a sign over the door, with
my name painted on it. Dear Sir,—I understood last evening, after church
was out, that you had come on here to obtain a few choice
servants. I have long since been forced to the conclusion,
that slavery is a moral evil, and I have rejoiced that I
have parted with the few I have owned, to humane masters,
which is a great relief to me, in my hours of serious
reflection. I have one girl that has been carefully brought
up, and we are much attached to her, but I am somewhat
advanced in years, as well as her mistress, and we cannot
tell at what time she may, in the course of Providence, be
thrown without a protector, upon the wide, wicked world.
I had determined not to sell her, but seeing you in church
the other day, I have become deeply impressed that you
12*
are a pious man, and as such, would deal justly with the
girl. I have also reflected, that whatever may be my
sense of duty, the excitement at the North has been so
great, that it makes it perfectly impossible for me to carry
out my original intention, of setting the girl free, as I
cannot conceive a more dreadful condition, than for a once
comfortably clothed and well taken care of negro slave, to
be thrown upon the tender mercies of the uncharitable
world, and be left, as are the poor white laborers of the
free States, to starve, and die a miserable death. It
would be difficult to get the girl's consent to be sold, and
therefore this matter must be delicately arranged; she
will no doubt, at first, be much grieved, but we must judge
what is best for her welfare, ourselves, for we know how to
provide for her real good. The girl is nearly nineteen years
of age. Address “Humanity,” through the post-office,
and say where a strictly private interview may be had. Of
course this communication will be considered confidential.
I trust I may sign myself, in the bonds of brotherly love, “Dear Sir: I received your favor, desiring me to state my opinion of the
value of M. Guénon's `Treatise on Milch Cows,' translated from the French....
I immediately commenced the study and application of his method to every cow
that came under my observation. I have examined more than one hundred cows,
and, after carefully marking their escutcheons. I have become satisfied that M.
Guénon's discovery is one of great merit, and can be relied upon as true. I have
no doubt that I can judge very nearly as to the quantity and quality of the milk
any cow will give at the height of her flow, and also the time she will continue
in milk after being with calf. “I have read with great satisfaction M. Guénon's work on Milch Cows, by
which one can judge by certain infallible signs the milking qualities of the animal.
I have compared the marks he gives for his first-grade Flanders cow, and find
they correspond with the escutcheon of my favorite Devon cow `Ellen,' that has
taken the first premium at two cattle-shows of the American Institute. My farmer
has great faith in M. Guénon's work, and so has one of my neighbors, a knowing
Scotch milkman, who keeps fifty cows. He says that, after careful examination,
he places confidence in these marks, and they will govern him in his future
purchases. I shall hereafter make my selection of the calves I will raise from
my choice stocks from the marks given by this author. I think every farmer
should own this work. “Having had experience in raising cows, I was pleased to find a treatise on the
subject by M. Guénon, of Libourne, in France—which I procured and carefully
studied. I think the book more worthy of attention than I believe it has received.
I found that his marks of the particular classes and orders of cows agree with
nearly all I have had an opportunity to examine. It is easy to ascertain, after
studying this book, to which class and order almost every cow belongs, which,
as a guide in purchasing milch cows, or of safely deciding which to keep, before
we have had time or opportunity to test their qualities as milkers, will far more
than repay the price of the book, and the time necessary to a clear understanding
of it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 258 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to | | | | 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: | “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S—
calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What
name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I,
glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding
love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou
art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently
public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest
of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret
I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have
chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and
however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a
thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I
know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal.
Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further
preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high
birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably
given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to
your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is
twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but
she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and
conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am
directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions
are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no
inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without
previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider
the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject,
since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps,
still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as
prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep,
after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent.
It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed
among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth
of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just
breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed
that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the
sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious
little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried
in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted
lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in
the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the
child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to
his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and
looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between
his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought
the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He
knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his
sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers,
poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to
say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on
your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands.
Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will
excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate
choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in
your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess,
tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived—
if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take
my hand when you meet me. That moment will
decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name
another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot
11
explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice
should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has
so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad,
a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my
tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first
month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you
for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you—
lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax
when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your
table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare
you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition
with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you
know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion.
Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank
council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes
in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real
half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived
illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two
stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown
in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of
course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment
of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish
the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon
parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in
your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air
it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then
revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my
tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects
to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are
the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I,
and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged
it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate
the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day.
Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale
troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the
positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine?
Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought
comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude
—in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference
to associating with friends and companions—in writing,
spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly
of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I
divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve
freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own,
only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet
the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the
noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the
world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide
the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer
it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels
from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy
and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost
breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can
understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of
meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance,
but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you
how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our
interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde,
you know me better than those who see me every day. My
most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I,
perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation
of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement
of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child
knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well.
Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my
memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation
may be removed or lessened? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 259 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | St. Elmo | | | | 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: | HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever
lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request
I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely
consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no
leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic
chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid
of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it,
the day would inevitably come when you would regret its
premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence
of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions
of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength
than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public
would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken
is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle
it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your
powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level,
the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme
better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed
MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate
the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write
sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that
you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical
creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic
priests. Remember that women never write histories nor
epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the
centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;'
though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad
that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle,
or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will
hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh
eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism
of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator
Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire
to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any
for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge
in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence
of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg
you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter.
I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect
to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion
and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give
you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my
house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would
I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always,
and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship
mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning,
and I shall know that you are my own dear, little
Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of
the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read
the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached
to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and
the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt
and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then
judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the
mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen
to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings
of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help
me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling!
you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder,
I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty
years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence
your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar
ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the
judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth
we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my
wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can
not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag
mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease
to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you
before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar
circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage
of them and thrust myself into your presence
without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I
felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le
Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility
of meeting me. You, who know something of my
wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine
what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked,
that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not,
shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I
almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a
door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my
life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview!
Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It
is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or
will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again.
Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend
together in this world. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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