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21Author:  Holland J. G. (Josiah Gilbert) 1819-1881Add
 Title:  The bay-path  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It snowed incessantly. Far up in the fathomless grey the shooting flakes mingled in dim confusion, or crossed each other's lines in momentary angles, or came calmly down for a brief space, and then fled traceless into the tempest; and all, as they met the breath of the blast, became its burden, and were swept in blinding and spiteful clouds to the earth. All around, the storm was vocal. The pines hissed like serpents, and the old oak, catching the wild roar of his children in the far north-east, as it came on and on, over writhing and bowing forests, took up the same strong strain, and, struggling like a giant, sent it off triumphantly to the south-western hills. “To John Searles, constable of Springfield. These are in his majesty's name to require you presently uppon the recite hereof that you attach the body of John Woodcock uppon an execution granted to Mr George Moxon by the Jury against the said John Woodcock for an action of slander: and that you keepe his body in prison of irons until he shall take some course to satisfie the said George Moxon: or else if he neglect or refuse to take a ready course to satisfie the said execution of £6 13s 4d granted by the jury that then you use what means you can to put him out to service and labor till he make satisfaction to the said Mr George Moxon for the said £6 13s 4d, and also to satisfie yourself for such charges as you shall be at for the keeping of his person: And when Mr Moxon and yourself are satisfied, then you are to discharge his person out of prison. Fail not at your peril.* * Copied from the Record of the original Document.
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22Author:  Holland J. G. (Josiah Gilbert) 1819-1881Add
 Title:  Miss Gilbert's career  
 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: Dr. Theophilus Gilbert was in a hurry. He had been in a hurry all night. He had been in a hurry all the morning. While the village of Crampton was asleep, he had amputated the limb of a young man ten miles distant, attended a child in convulsions on his way home, and assisted in introducing into existence an infant at the house of his next-door neighbor—how sad an existence—how terrible a life—neither he nor the poor mother, widowed but a month, could imagine. “Gentlemen:—Will you allow me to call your attention to a novel, just completed by my daughter, Miss Fanny Gilbert, entitled, `Tristram Trevanion, or, The Hounds of the Whippoorwill Hills, by Everard Everest, Gent.?' I am not, perhaps, a reliable judge of its merits. Paternal partiality and exclusive devotion to scientific and business pursits may, in a degree, unfit me to decide upon the position in the world of art and the world of popular favor it is calculated to achieve. In fact, I have not relied upon my own judgment at all. The book has been read to competent literary friends, and their voice is unanimous and most enthusiastic in its favor. The impression is that it cannot fail to be a great success. With your practical eyes, you will recognize, I doubt not, in the title of the book, the characteristic poetic instincts of the writer, and her power to clothe her conceptions in choicest language. We have concluded to offer this book to your celebrated house for publication. It is our desire that it may come before the public under the most favorable auspices—such, in fact, as your imprint alone would give it. I think I can promise you the undivided support of the local press, as I certainly will pledge all the personal efforts on behalf of the volume which my relations to the writer will permit me to make. I may say to you, in this connection, that I have a large medical practice, extending throughout the region, and that I know nearly every family in the county. Please reply at once, and oblige, &c., &c. “Dr. Sir—Yours about book Tristram, &c., rec'd. Novels except by well-known writers not in our line, and we must decline. “My Dear Sir—Your favor, relating to the manuscript novel of your daughter, is at hand, and has been carefully considered. The title of the book seems to us to be exceedingly attractive, and, in a favorable condition of the market, could not fail of itself to sell an entire edition. Unfortunately, the market for novels is very dull now, and, still more unfortunately for us, our engagements are already so numerous, that were the market the best, we should not feel at liberty to undertake your book. We could not possibly make room for it and do it justice. Thanking you for your kind preference of our house, we remain, “Dear Sir—I have carefully read your daughter's manuscript novel, `Tristram Trevanion,' and find it quite interesting, though I doubt whether it can ever achieve much success. I should say that it is a very young novel—written by one who has seen little of life, and much of books. The invention manifested in the incidents is quite extraordinary, and displays genius, though the characters are extravagant. But I do not write to criticize the book. Worse books have found many buyers. I accept it on the terms upon which we settled, as it is; but there are one or two points touching which I wish to make some suggestions. The hero, Tristram Trevanion, does not marry Grace Beaumont, as he ought to do. I think I understand the public mind when I say that it will demand that this marriage take place. It could be done by altering a few pages. Again, I think that the public will demand that the Jewish dwarf, Levi, be made in some way to suffer a violent death at the hand of Trevanion. One word about the title. I confess to its music, but it seems to me to be so smooth as to present no points to catch the popular attention. Besides, I find that the `Hounds of the Whippoorwill Hills' make their appearance but once in the story, and have no claim upon the prominence given them on the title-page. Your daughter will think it very strange, no doubt; but I believe that the sale of the book would be increased by making the title rougher—more startling. How does this look to you—`Tristram Trevanion, or Butter and Cheese and All;' or this—`Tristram Trevanion, or The Dwarf with the Flaxen Forelock'? There is another course which is probably preferable to this, viz.: that of making a title which means nothing, and will puzzle people—a title that defines and explains nothing—bestowed in a whim, as we sometimes give a child a name. What would your daughter think of `Rhododendron,' or `Shucks'? “This night I take one of the most important steps of my life. My father and I have had a long conversation about you, in which he has endeavored, by promises and threats, to make me renounce you, and break my pledge to you. I have reasoned with him, besought him, on my knees begged of him to relent, but all to no purpose. He forbids you the house, and commands me to renounce you forever, or to renounce him. He was very angry, and is implacable. I have taken the alternative he offers me. I shall leave New York to-night. I leave without seeing you, because I fear that an interview would shake my determination; but I am yours—yours now, and yours forever. I shall go where you will not find me, and, if you love me—ah! Frank, I know you do— you will make no search for me. I shall not write to you, because money will buy the interception and miscarriage of letters, but I shall think of you, and pray for you every day, nay, all the time. “Come!
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23Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Add
 Title:  Millbank, or, Roger Irving's ward  
 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: EVERY window and shutter at Millbank was closed. Knots of crape were streaming from the bell-knobs, and all around the house there was that deep hush which only the presence of death can inspire. Indoors there was a kind of twilight gloom pervading the rooms, and the servants spoke in whispers whenever they came near the chamber where the old squire lay in his handsome coffin, waiting the arrival of Roger, who had been in St. Louis when his father died, and who was expected home on the night when our story opens. Squire Irving had died suddenly in the act of writing to his boy Roger, and when found by old Aleck, his hand was grasping the pen, and his head was resting on the letter he would never finish. “Heart disease” was the verdict of the inquest, and then the electric wires carried the news of his decease to Roger, and to the widow of the squire's eldest son, who lived on Lexington avenue, New York, and who always called herself Mrs. Walter Scott Irving, fancying that in some way the united names of two so illustrious authors as Irving and Scott shed a kind of literary halo upon one who bore them. “My Dear Boy — For many days I have had a presentiment that I had not much longer to live, and, as death begins to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward you, my dear Roger —.” “My Dear Boy, — For many days I have been haunted with a presentiment that I have not much longer to live. My heart is badly diseased, and I may drop away any minute, and as death begins to stare me in the face, my thoughts turn toward you, the boy whom I have been so proud of and loved so much. You don't remember your mother, Roger, and you don't know how I loved her, she was so beautiful and artless, and seemed so innocent, with her blue eyes and golden hair. Her home was among the New Hampshire hills, a quarter of a mile or so from the little rural town of Schodick, whose delightful scenery and pure mountain air years ago attracted visitors there during the summer months. Her father was poor and old and infirm, and his farm was mortgaged for more than it was worth, and the mortgage was about to be foreclosed, when, by chance, I became an inmate for a few weeks of the farmhouse. I was stopping in Schodick, the hotel was full, and I boarded with Jessie's father. He had taken boarders before, — one a young man, Arthur Grey, a fast, fashionable, fascinating man, who made love to Jessie, a mere child of sixteen. Her letter, which I inclose, will tell you the particulars of her acquaintance with him, so it is not needful that I go over with them. I knew nothing of Arthur Grey at the time I was at the farm-house, except that I sometimes heard him mentioned as a reckless, dashing young man. I was there during the months of August and September. I had an attack of heart disease, and Jessie nursed me through it, her soft hands and gentle ways and deep blue eyes weaving around me a spell I could not break. She was poor, but a lady every whit, and I loved her better than I had ever loved a human being before, and I wanted her for my wife. As I have said, her father was old and poor, and the farm was mortgaged to a remorseless creditor. They would be homeless when it was sold, and so I bought Jessie, and her father kept his home. I know now that it was a great mistake; know why Jessie fainted when the plan was first proposed to her, but I did not suspect it then. Her father said she was in the habit of fainting, and tried to make light of it. He was anxious for the match, and shut his eyes to his daughter's aversion to it. “My husband: — It would be mockery for me to put the word dear before your honored name. You would not believe I meant it when I have sinned against you so deeply and wounded your pride so sorely. But oh, if you knew all which led me to what I am, you would pity me even if you condemned, for you were always kind, too kind by far to a wicked girl like me. But I am not so bad as you imagine. I have left you, I know, and left my darling baby, and he is here with me, but by no consent of mine. I am not going to Europe. I am going to Charleston, where Lucy is, and shall mail this letter from there. Every word I write will be true, and you must believe it and teach Roger to believe it, too, for I have not sinned as you suppose, and Roger need not blush for his mother except that she deserted him. I am writing this quite as much for him as for you, for I want him to know something of his mother as she was years ago, when she lived among the Schodick hills, in the dear old house which I have dreamed about so often, and which even here on the sea comes up so vividly before me, with the orchard where the mountain shadows fell so early in the afternoon, and the meadows where the buttercups and clover-blossoms grew. Oh, I grow sick, and faint, and dizzy when I think of those happy days and contrast myself as I was then with myself as I am now. I was so happy, though I knew what poverty meant; but that did not matter. Children, if surrounded by loving friends, do not mind being poor, and I did not mind it either until I grew old enough to see how it troubled my father. My mother, as you know, died before I could remember her, and my aunt Mary, my father's only sister, and cousin Lucy's mother, took her place and cared for me. “Squire Irving — Dear Sir — It becomes my painful duty to inform you that not long after the inclosed letter from your wife was finished, a fire broke out and spread so fast that all hope of escape except by the life-boats was cut off. Your wife felt from the first a presentiment that she should be drowned, and brought the letter to me, asking that if I escaped, and she did not, I would forward it at once to Millbank. I took the letter and I tried to save her, when the sea ingulfed us both, but a tremendous wave carried her beyond my reach, and I saw her golden hair rise once above the water and then go down forever. I, with a few others, was saved as by a miracle, — picked up by a vessel bound for New York, which place I reached yesterday. I have read Jessie's letter. She told me to do so, and to add my testimony to the truth of what she had written. Even if it were not true, it would be wrong to refuse the request of one so lovely and dear to me as Jessie was, and I accordingly do as she bade me, and say to you that she has written you the truth. “Mrs. Irving tells me you were very kind to me,” she wrote, “and though I have no recollection that you or any one but Celine came near me, I am grateful all the same, and shall always remember your kindness to me both then and when I was a child, and such a care to you; I am deeply grateful to all who have done so much for me, and I wish them to know it, and remember me kindly as I do them. I am going away soon, and I want to take with me all I brought to Millbank. I have the locket, but the little dress I cannot find. Mrs. Irving thinks you took it in the chest. Did you, and if so, will you please send it to me at once by express, and oblige, “Mr. Irving: Can you forgive me when you hear who I am, and will you try to think of me as you did in the days which now seem so very far in the past. I have been your ruin, Roger. I have brought to you almost every trouble you ever knew, and now to all the rest I must add this, that I am the child of your worst enemy, Arthur Grey. Don't hate me for it, will you? Alice, who is much better than I, would say it was God's way of letting you return good for evil. I wish you would think so, too, and I wish I could tell you all I feel, and how grateful I am to you for what you have done for me. If I could I would repay it, but I am only a girl, and the debt is too great ever to be cancelled by me. May Heaven reward you as you deserve. ROGER had written to Frank, congratulating him upon his approaching marriage, but declining to be present at the wedding. He wished to know as little as possible of the affairs at Millbank, and tried to dissuade Hester from her visit to Mrs. Slocum. But Hester would go, and three days before the great event came off she was installed in Mrs. Slocum's best chamber, and had presented that worthy woman with six bottles of canned fruit, ten yards of calico, and an old coat of Aleck's, which, she said, would cut over nicely for Johnny, Mrs. Slocum's youngest boy. After these presents, Hester felt that she was not “spunging,” as she called it, and settled herself quietly to visit, and to reconnoitre, and watch the proceedings at Millbank. And there was enough to occupy her time and keep her in a state of great excitement. “Magdalen has been very anxious for you to come to Beechwood, and I should now extend an invitation for you to do so, were it not that we have decided to leave at once for Europe. We sail in the `Persia' next week, immediately after my daughter's marriage, which will be a very quiet affair. Hoping to see and know you at some future time, I am
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24Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Add
 Title:  Rose Mather  
 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 long disputed point as to whether the South was in earnest or not was settled, and through the Northern States the tidings flew that Sumter had fallen and the war had commenced. With the first gun which boomed across the waters of Charleston bay, it was ushered in, and they who had cried, “Peace! peace!” found at last “there was no peace.” Then, and not till then, did the nation rise from its lethargic slumber and shake off the delusion with which it had so long been bound. Political differences were forgotten. Republicans and Democrats struck the friendly hand, pulse beat to pulse, heart throbbed to heart, and the watchword everywhere was, “The Union forever.” Throughout the length and breadth of the land were true, loyal hearts, and as at Rhoderic Dhu's command the Highlanders sprang to view from every clump of heather on the wild moors of Scotland, so when the war-cry came up from Sumter our own Highlanders arose, a mighty host, responsive to the call; some from New England's templed hills, with hands inured to toil, and hearts as strong and true as flint; some from the Empire, some the Keystone State, and others from the prairies of the distant West. It mattered not what place had given them birth; it mattered little whether the Green Mountains of Vermont, the granite hills of New Hampshire, or the shadowy forests of Wisconsin had sheltered their childhood's home; united in one cause they rallied round the Stars and Stripes, and went forth to meet, not a foreign foe, but alas, to raise a brother's arm against another brother's arm in that most dreadful of all anarchies, a national civil war. “Dear Mother: Pray don't think you've seen a ghost when you recognize my writing. You thought me dead, I suppose, but there's no such good news as that. I'm bullet-proof, I reckon, or I should have died in New Orleans last summer when the yellow fever and I had such a squabble. I was dreadfully sick then, and half wished I had not run away, for I knew you would feel badly when you heard how I died with nobody to care for me, and was tumbled into the ground, head sticking out as likely as any way. I used to talk about you, old Martha said, and about Rose, too. Dear little Rose. I actually laid down my pen just now, and laughed aloud as I thought how she looked when I treated her to those worms; telling her I had a necklace for her! Didn't she dance and didn't Tom thrash me, too, till I saw stars! Well, he never struck me a blow amiss, though I used to think he did. I was a sorry scamp, mother,—the biggest rascal in Boston. But I've reformed. I have, upon my word, and you ought to see how the people here smile upon and flatter me, telling me what a nice chap I am, and all that sort of thing. “My dear Mrs. Mather—I am sure you will pardon the liberty I am taking. My apology is that I feel so deeply for you, for I understand just what you are suffering,—understand how wearily the hours drag on, knowing as you do that with the waning daylight his step will not be heard just by the door, making in your heart little throbs of joy, such as no other step can make. I am so sorry for you, and I had hoped you at least might be spared, but God in his wisdom has seen fit to order it otherwise, and we know that what He does is right. Still it is hard to bear,—harder for you than for me, perhaps, and when this morning I heard the car signal given, I knelt just where I did when my own husband went away, and asked our Heavenly Father to bring your Willie back in safety, and, Mrs. Mather, I am sure He will, for I felt, even then, an answer to my prayer, —something which said, `It shall be as you ask.' “My dear Mr. Captin Carleton:—I can't help puttin' dear before your name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind you was to him. I'm nothin' but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd years old, but I've got a mother's heart big enough to take you in with my other boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, but whether you're a good one, as I call good, I don't know, though bein' you come from Boston I'm afraid you're a Unitarian, and I'll never quit prayin' for you till I know. That's about all I can do, for I'm poor a'most as Job's turkey; but if there's any shirts or trouses, or the like o' that wants makin', let me know, for I don't believe your mother or sister is great at sewin'. Mrs. Marthers ain't, I know, though as nice a little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife is dead, too, they say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how that feels, for my man died eighteen years ago last October, a few weeks before Isaac was born. “Dear Mother: We've met the rascals, and been as genteelly licked as ever a pack of fools could ask to be. How it happened nobody knows. I was fitin' like a tiger, when all on a sudden I found us a-runnin' like a flock of sheep; and what is the queerest of all, is that while we were takin' to our heels one way the Rebels were goin' it t'other, and for what I know, we should of been runnin' from each other till now if they hadn't found out the game, and so turned upon us. My dear, dear, darling Annie:—It will be days, perhaps, before you see this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told you that your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you read this? Do the tears fall upon the words, `poor George is dead?' Don't cry, my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how you will sorrow and I not there to comfort you. It's hard to die away from home, but not so hard as it would once have been, for I hope I am a different man from the one who bade you good-bye a few short months ago; and, darling, it must comfort you to know that your prayers, your sweet influence have led the wanderer home to God. We shall meet again in Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings are unknown. It may be many years, perhaps, and the grass upon my grave may blossom many times ere you will sleep the sleep which knows no waking but at the last you'll come where I am waiting you. I know I shall be there, Annie. All the harassing doubts and fears are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour's promise has taken them away, and left me perfect peace. God bless you, Annie darling, and grant that as you have guided me, so you may guide others to that home above, where I am going so fast. You have made me very happy since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It makes my death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever passed between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself. You should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than I, a poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps, and have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways. had I lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it is so. As you grew older you might have felt there was a lack in me, a something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature, and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen that we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way, but I am not a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself, and I've often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you did, and again I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as the one I spent with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking forward to many such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and what he does we know is right. I shall never see you again! and though they will bring me back to you, I shall not feel your tears upon my face, or see you bending over my coffin-bed! Still I know you will do this, and that makes it necessary for me to tell what, perhaps, has been too long withheld, because I would spare you if possible. “I am not all bad,” he said; “and on that quiet morning, when beneath the cover of the Virginia woods I lay, watching the Union soldiers coming so bravely on, there was a dizziness in my brain, and a strange, womanly feeling at my heart, while a sensation I cannot describe thrilled every nerve when I saw in the distance the Stars and Stripes waving in the summer wind. How I wanted to warn them of their danger, to bid them turn back from the snare so cunningly devised, and how proud I felt of the Federal soldiers when contrasting them with ours. I fancied I could tell which were the Boston boys, and there came a mist before my eyes, as I thought how your dear hands and those of little Rose had possibly helped to make some portion of the dress they wore. “Will was badly wounded,—lay on the field all night;—Jimmie missing,—supposed to be a prisoner. I am well. “Army of Potomac, and about as licked out an army as you ever seen. To all it may concern, and 'specially Miss Anny Graam. I send you my regrets greetin', and hopin' this will find you enjoyin' the same great blessin'. Burnside has made the thunderinest blunder, and more'n a million of our boys is dead before Fredericksburgh. Mr. Mathers was about riddled through, I guess, and the Corporal, —wall, may as well take it easy,—I fit for him like a tiger, till they nocked me endways, and I played dead to save my life. But the Corporal's a goner,—took prisoner with an awful cut on his neck; and now what I'm going to tell you is this: the night before the battle I came upon him prayin' like a priest, kneelin' in an awful mud-puddle, and what he said was somethin' about Heaven, and Anny, whitch, beggin' your pardon, I think means you, and so I ast him in case of bad luck, if I should write and tell you. I don't think he could have ben in a vary sperritual frame of mind, for he told me to mind my bisiness, but I don't lay it up agin him, and when them too tall, lantern-jawed sons of Balam grabbed him as he was tryin' to skedaddle with the blood a spirtin' from his neck, I pitched inter 'em, and give 'em hale columby for a spell, till they nocked me flat and I made bleeve dead as I was tellin' you. Don't feel bad, Miss Graam. Trust luck and keep your powder dry, and mabby he'll come back sometime. “I mistrusted he was there,” Bill wrote; “and so when me and and some other fellow-travellers was safely landed in purgatory, I went on an explorin' tower to find him. But you bet it want so easy gettin through that crowd. Why, the camp-meetin' they had in the Fair Grounds in Rockland, when Marm Freeman bust her biler hollerin,' was nothin' to the piles of ragged, dirty, hungry-lookin' dogs; some standin' up, some lyin' down, and all lookin' as if they was on their last legs. Right on a little sand-bank, and so near the dead line that I wonder he didn't get shot, I found the Corp'ral, with his trouses tore to tatters, and lookin' like the old gal's rag-bag that hangs in the suller-way. Didn't he cry, though, when I hit him a kelp on the back, and want there some tall cryin' done by both of us as we sat there flat on the sand, with the hot sun pourin' down on us, and the sweat and the tears runnin' down his face, as he told me all he'd suffered. It made my blood bile. I've had a little taste of Libby, and Bell Isle, too; but they can't hold a candle to this place. Miss Graam, you are the good sort, kinder pius like; but I'll be hanged if I don't bleeve you'll justify me in the thumpin' lies I told the Corp'ral that day, to keep his spirits up. Says he, `Have you ever ben to Rockland since Fredericksburg?' and then I tho't in a minute of that nite in the woods when he prayed about Anny; and ses I to myself, `The piusest lie you ever told will be that you have been home, and seen Miss Graam, with any other triflin' additions you may think best;' so I told him I had ben hum on a furbelow, as the old gal (meanin' my mother) calls it. And I seen her, too, says I, Miss Graam, and she talked an awful sight about you, I said, when you orto have seen him shiver all over as he got up closer to me, and asked, `What did she say?' Then I went on romancin', and told him how you spent a whole evenin' at the ole hut, talkin' about him, and how sorry you was for him, and couldn't git your natural sleep for thinkin' of him, and how, when I came away, you said to me on the sly, `William, if you ever happen to meet Mr. Carleton, give him Anny Graam's love, and tell him she means it.' Great Peter! I could almost see the flesh come back to his bones, and his eyes had the old look in 'em, as he liked to of hugged me to death. I'd done him a world of good, he said, and for some days he seemed as chipper as you please; but nobody can stan' a diet of raw meal and the nastiest watter that ever run; and ses I to myself, Corp'ral will die as sure as thunder if somethin' don't turn up; and so, when I got the hang of things a little, and seen how the macheen was worked, sez I, `I'll turn Secesh, though I hate 'em as I do pizen.' They was glad enuff to have me, bein' I'm a kind of carpenter and jiner, and they let me out, and I went to work for the Corp'ral. I'll bet I told a hundred hes, fust and last, if I did one. I said he was at heart Secesh; that he was in the rebel army, and I took him prisoner at Manassas, which, you know was true. Then I said his sweetheart, meanin' you, begging your pardon, got up a row, and made him jine the Federals, and promise never to go agin the flag, and that's how he come to be nabbed up at Fredericksburg. I said 'twan't no use to try to make him swear, for he thought more of his gal's good opinion than he did of liberty, and I set you up till I swan if I bleeve you'd a knowed yourself, and every one of them fellers was ready to stan' by you, and two of 'em drinked your helth with the wust whisky I ever tasted. One of 'em asked me if I was a fair specimen of the Northern Army, and I'll be darned if I didn't tell him no, for I was ashamed to have 'em think the Federals was all like me. I guess, though, they liked me some; anyway, they let me carry something to the Corp'ral every now and then, and I bleeve he'd die if I didn't. I've smuggled him in some paper and a pencil, and he is going to wright to you, and I shall send it, no matter how. The rebs won't see it, and I guess it's pretty sure to go safe. I must stop now, and wright to the old woman. “My dear Annie,” he wrote, “I do not know that this letter will ever reach you. I have but little hope that it will. Still it is worth trying for, and so here in this terrible place, whose horrors no pen or tongue can adequately describe, I am writing to you, who I know think sometimes of the poor wretch starving and dying by inches in Andersonville. Oh, Annie, you can never know what I have suffered from hunger and thirst, and exposure and filth, which makes my very blood curdle and creep, and from that weary homesickness which more than aught else kills the poor boys around me. When I first came here I thought I could not endure it, and though I knew I was not prepared, I used to wish that I might die; but a little drummer boy from Michigan, who took to me from the first, said his prayers one night beside me, and the listening to him carried me back to you, who, I felt sure, prayed for me each day. And so hope came back again, with a desire to live and see your dear face once more. Mylittle drummer boy, Johnny, was all the world to me, and when he grew too sick to sit or stand, I held his poor head in my lap, and gave up my rations to him, for he was almost famished, and ate eagerly whatever was brought to us. We used to say the Lord's Prayer together every night, when a certain star appeared, which he playfully called his `mother,' saying it was her eye watching over him. It was a childish fancy, but we grow childish here, and I, too, have given that star a name. I call it `Annie,' and I watch its coming as eagerly as did the little boy, who died just as the star reached the zenith and was shining down upon him. His head was in my lap, and all there was left of my coat I made into a pillow for him, and held him till he died. His mother's address is —, Michigan. Write to her, Annie, and tell her how Johnny died in the firm hope of meeting her again in heaven. Tell her he did not suffer much pain,—only a weakness, which wasted his life away. Tell her the keepers were kind to him, and brought him ice-water several times. Tell her, too, of the star at which he gazed so long as he had strength.
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25Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Add
 Title:  Tempest and sunshine  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was the afternoon of a bright October day. The old town clock had just tolled the hour of four, when the Lexington and Frankfort daily stage was heard rattling over the stony pavement in the small town of V—, Ky. In a few moments the four panting steeds were reined up before the door of the Eagle, the principal hotel in the place. “Mine host,” a middle-aged, pleasant-looking man, came bustling out to inspect the new comers, and calculate how many would do justice to his beefsteaks, strong coffee, sweet potatoes, and corn cakes, which were being prepared in the kitchen by Aunt Esther.* * Pronounced “Easter.” “Sir—“Upon further reflection, I think it proper to decline your polite invitation for to-night. “Sir:—When I became engaged to you I was very young, and am still so; consequently, you will hardly be surprised, when you learn that I have changed my mind, and wish to have our engagement dissolved. “—Can it be that you are sick? I do not wish to think so; and yet what else can prevent your writing? I have not a thought that you are forgetful of me, for you are too pure, too innocent, to play me false. And yet I am sometimes haunted by a vague fear that all is not right, for a dark shadow seems resting over me. One line from you, dearest Fanny, will fill my heart with sunshine again—” “I hardly know how to write what I wish to tell you. If I knew exactly your opinion concerning me, I might feel differently. As it is, I ardently hope that your extreme youth prevented my foolish, but then sincere attentions, from making any very lasting impression on you. But why not come to the point at once? Fanny, you must try and forget that you ever knew one so wholly unworthy of you as I am. It gives me great pain to write it, but I am about to engage myself to another. “Sir:—Have you, during some weeks past, ever wondered why I did not write to you? And in enumerating to yourself the many reasons which could prevent my writting, has it ever occurred to you, that possibly I might be false? Can you forgive me, Dr. Lacey, when I tell you that the love I once fancied I bore you, has wholly subsided, and I now feel for you a friendship, which I trust will be more lasting than my transient, girlish love. “Why, in the name of all the Woodburns and Camerous that ever were or ever will be, didn't you tell me what kind of mussy, fussy, twisted up things both Mrs. Cameron Senior, and Mrs. Cameron Senior's daughter, are. Why, the very first evening of our arrival, Mrs. Senior met me on the steps, and hugged me so hard that I really thought she was opposed to the match, and meant to kill me at once. In her zeal she actually kissed off both veil and bonnet, and as the latter disappeared, and she got a view of my face, on which the dust and cinders were an inch thick, she exclaimed, `Oh, bootiful, bootiful! Why, Frank, half hasn't been told me.'
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26Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Add
 Title:  West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's  
 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: AT last, dear old book, repository of all my secret thoughts and feelings, I am free to come to you once more, and talk to you as I can talk to no one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion that to-morrow night some other voice than mine would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the darling, cried himself to sleep because I was going away, while the other children manifested in various ways their sorrow at my projected departure. Bless them all, how I do love children, and hope if I am ever married, I may have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,— as peevish as Margaret's six have made her, I should rather be excused. But what nonsense to be written by me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged twenty-eight,—the Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went home with me from the sewing society. But they were mistaken, for if the family Bible is to be trusted, I was only twenty-five last Christmas, and I don't believe I look as old as that.” HOW beautiful it is this summer night, and how softly the moonlight falls upon the quiet street through the maple-trees! On such a night as this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden must have been ere the trail of the serpent was there. I have often wished it had been Adam who first transgressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a man than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon our race. And yet, when I remember that by woman came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given the highest honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much faith in woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that was good and pure and lovely. And have I been mistaken in her? Once, yes. But that is past. Anna is dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for her as for a sister. How long it took to crush out my love,—to overcome the terrible pain which would waken me from the dream that I held her again in my arms, that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do not like curls now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell, with all her whims and vanity, would be tolerably agreeable to me were it not for that forest of hair dangling about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She is no more to me than a friend, and possibly not that. Sometimes I fancy she avoids and even dislikes me. I've suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she urged me to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought me avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at least among the fast young men; but my heavenly Father knows, and some time maybe Dora will. I like to call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her, brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit more like Anna, I never could have liked her as I do,— brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. “`Mother's toock ravin' with one of her headaches, cause auntie's gone, and there's nobody to tend to the young ones. Gawly, how they've cut up, and she wants you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours, with regret, “It seems to me you've been gone a hundred million billion years, and you've no idea what a forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, nor how the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest row—Auntie. I didn't mean to use that word, and I'll scratch it right out, but when you are away, I'll be dar—There I was going to say it agen. I'm a perfectly Dredful Boy, ain't I? But I do love you, Auntie, and last night,—now don't you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody, —last night after I went to bed, I cried and cried and crammed the sheet in my mouth to keep Jim from hearing me till I most vomited. I WAS too tired last night to open my trunk, and so have a double duty to perform, that of recording the events of the last two days. Can it be that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left Beechwood and all its cares, which, now that I am away from them, do seem burdensome? What a delicious feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that for a time at least I can rest; and I begin to think I need it, for how else can I account for the languid, weary sensation which prompts me to sit so still in the great, soft, motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, and which stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look out upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville? “`Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the bearer of this little package, which I should have brought to you myself had Mrs. Randall known where to find you. “A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but I have enjoyed the quiet so much. It seems as if I never should get rested, and I am surprised to find how tired I am, and how selfish I am growing. I was wicked enough to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came, bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit. She is very sociable, and asks numberless questions about Beechwood and its inhabitants. I wonder why I told her of everybody but Dr. West, for I did, but of him I could not talk, and did not. “A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I cannot find it in my heart to scold him on paper for his dreadful language. I will talk to him on my return, and tell him he must be more choice of words and must make an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural to the Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they miss me at home, and I cried over the letter till I was almost sick. I am sure they want me there, and I wonder what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, and Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until September, Mattie and Bell saying they will then go with me to Beechwood. Just think of those two fine ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as expensively furnished as either Mattie's or Bell Verner's, and we keep as many servants; but the children, the confusion! What would they do? No, I must not stay, though I should enjoy it vastly. I like Bell Verner, as I know her better. There is a depth of character about her for which I did not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes no secret of it either. She's old enough, too,—twenty-eight, as she told me of her own accord, just as she is given to telling everything about herself. Secretly, I think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell him that story about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad Johnnie set him right. I would not have Lieutenant Reed for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, good-natured, vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I think I'll turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how her black eyes would flash upon him. “`I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing me that package, and did I go out at all, except to church, I would thank you in person. If you can, will you come and see me before you return to Beechwood? I should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship. “Your package of money and little note, sent by Miss Dora Freeman, was brought to me with a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall's colored servant Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so much, and I wish you had kept a part for yourself. Surely, if the commandment with promise means anything,—and we know it does,—you, my son, will be blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as well as your unselfish devotion to those who have been, one the innocent, the other the guilty, cause of so much suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as I sometimes fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have sent us word ere this. I have given him up, asking God to pardon his sin, which was great. “Dear Mother:—Your letters do me so much good, and make me strong to bear, though really I have perhaps as little to trouble me as do most men of my years. If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,— if we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd, and if we knew that Robert, whether dead or alive, had repented of his sin, I should be very happy. * * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of asking to stay longer. It's right shabby in you to leave me so long, when you know how much I suffer. The children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted real cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You cannot love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think it's downright ungrateful after all I've done for you since father died. If you care for me at all, you'll come in just one week from to-day. I have about decided to go to Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and come.” “Dear Mrs. Russell: — Excuse the liberty I am taking, but really if you and your husband knew how much Dora has improved since leaving home, and how much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her coming home so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner all think it too bad, and I for one veto her leaving us.” “Mrs. Russell.—Madam:—Both myself and Mrs. Randall are exceedingly loth to part with our young guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will do us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add I think it your duty so to do.” “Dear Auntie:—The house is still a as mouse, and seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy, Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all then, but now that she is gone, I'll be—I guess I'll skip the hard words, and say that every time I rem'ber what I said to her, there's a thumpin' great lump comes in my throat, and I wish I hadn't said it. I've begun six letters to tell her I am sorry, and she only been gone two days, but I've tore 'em all up, and now when you see her you tell her I'm sorry,—'cause I am, and I keep thinkin of when I was a little shaver in pettycoats, how she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She says I'm the pest of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor lets me kiss her 'cause she says I slawber and wet her face, and muss her hair and dress. But she's mother, and I wish I hadn't sed them nasty things to her and maid her cry. “Miss Freeman:—You probably do not expect me to write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this letter. The fact is I want permission to go to that little library, which, until this morning, I did not know was yours. There are some books I would like to read, but will not do so without leave from the owner. “Dr. West.—Dear Sir:—You really were over-nice about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book you like. “I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him again! There is something wrong, and I've no faith in anybody. I DID not see Dora after all, and I had thought so much about it, feeling, I am afraid, more than willing that Robin should be sick, and so give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving that little note from Dora, I have frequently dared to build castles of what might some day be, for something in that message led me to hope that I am not indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my informal letter asking the loan of a book would prove it so, so I sit and think and wonder what the future has in store for me, until my patients are in danger of being neglected. “`Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly live. “My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out my grief. Margaret is dead; and all around, the gay world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the same as if in No.— there were no rigid form, no pale Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping over her,—no motherless little children left alone so early. “Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow, on the evening train.” “The governor is O. K. He'll wait and so will I; and if you must say no, he won't raise hob, but I will. I tell you now I'll raise the very roof! Don't say no, Auntie, don't! DO I believe it now, after the first stunning effect is over, and I sit here alone thinking calmly of what came to me in Jessie Verner's letter? Do I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering as I do the expression of her face when she sat by the two graves and I told her of Anna? Can there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not, and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie. Oh, was I deceived, and did her coldness and ill-nature mean more than I was willing to admit? It is very hard to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows best what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He took her away, and now He will take my Dora. It is sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I cannot help feeling that I would rather she were lying by Anna's side than to see her Squire Russell's wife. It is a most unnatural match, for there is no bond of sympathy in their natures. Dora must be unhappy after the novelty is gone. Darling Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus of her now, as there is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which, nevertheless, has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that whether she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me. She does not care for me. She never did, else why does she grow so cross and crisp when my name is mentioned? Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share with me. I am afraid to record on paper how dear she is to me, or how constantly she has been in my mind since I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for some reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the arrival of every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer Jessie so soon, and send that message to Dora? I am confident now that it was not a right spirit which prompted me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken faith with me,—that she should have waited at least the year,—that in some way she was injuring me, and so vindictive pride dictated the words I sent her. May I be forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the bride of her sister's husband, may she be happy with him, and never know one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage will bring to me. “Are you going anywhere this summer? Of course not, for so long as there is an unbaptized child, or a bedridden old woman in the parish, you must stay at home, even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden's coat before we boys made him a present of a new one. I say, Arthur, there was a capital fellow spoiled when you took to the ministry, with your splendid talents, and rare gift for making people like and believe in you. “Mr. Leighton.—Dear Sir:—Cousin Fanny is to have a picnic down in the west woods to-morrow afternoon, and she requests the pleasure of your presence. Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do come. “My Dear Mr. Leighton:—It is my niece's wish that I answer the letter you were so kind as to enclose in the book left for her last Saturday. She desires me to say that though she has a very great regard for you as her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and she regrets exceedingly if she has in any way led you to construe the interest she has always manifested in you into a deeper feeling. “Dear Thorne:—I am suffering from one of those horrid headaches which used to make me as weak and helpless as a woman, but I will write just enough to say that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free to press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a noble girl, worthy even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and if I cannot have her, I would rather give her to you than any one I know. Only don't ask me to perform the ceremony. “Dear Thornton,” Arthur wrote, “you will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that your old college chum is at last engaged; but not to one of the fifty lambs about whom you once jocosely wrote. The shepherd has wandered from his flock, and is about to take into his bosom a little stray ewe-lamb,—Lucy Harcourt by name—”
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27Author:  Holmes Oliver Wendell 1809-1894Add
 Title:  Elsie Venner  
 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 nothing in New England corresponding at all to the feudal aristocracies of the Old World. Whether it be owing to the stock from which we were derived, or to the practical working of our institutions, or to the abrogation of the technical “law of honor,” which draws a sharp line between the personally responsible class of “gentlemen” and the unnamed multitude of those who are not expected to risk their lives for an abstraction, — whatever be the cause, we have no such aristocracy here as that which grew up out of the military systems of the Middle Ages. “The Committee have great pleasure in recording their unanimous opinion, that the Institution was never in so flourishing a condition.... You were kind enough to promise me that you would assist me in any professional or scientific investigations in which I might become engaged. I have of late become deeply interested in a class of subjects which present peculiar difficulty, and I must exercise the privilege of questioning you on some points upon which I desire information I cannot otherwise obtain. I would not trouble you, if I could find any person or books competent to enlighten me on some of these singular matters which have so excited me. The leading doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man, but not versed in the curiosities of medical literature. I do not wonder that you find no answer from your country friends to the curious questions you put. They belong to that middle region between science and poetry which sensible men, as they are called, are very shy of meddling with. Some people think that truth and gold are always to be washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion, that, unless there are so many grains to the peck of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not pay to wash for either, so long as one can find anything else to do. I don't doubt there is some truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism, for instance; but when you ask me to cradle for it, I tell you that the hysteric girls cheat so, and the professionals are such a set of pickpockets, that I can do something better than hunt for the grains of truth among their tricks and lies. Do you remember what I used to say in my lectures? — or were you asleep just then, or cutting your initials on the rail? (You see I can ask questions, my young friend.) Leverage is everything, — was what I used to say; — don't begin to pry till you have got the long arm on your side. I have been for some months established in this place, turning the main crank of the machinery for the manufactory of accomplishments superintended by, or rather worked to the profit of, a certain Mr. Silas Peckham. He is a poor wretch, with a little thin fishy blood in his body, lean and flat, long-armed and large-handed, thick-jointed and thin-muscled, — you know those unwholesome, weak-eyed, half-fed creatures, that look not fit to be round among live folks, and yet not quite dead enough to bury. If you ever hear of my being in court to answer to a charge of assault and battery, you may guess that I have been giving him a thrashing to settle off old scores; for he is a tyrant, and has come pretty near killing his principal lady-assistant with overworking her and keeping her out of all decent privileges.
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28Author:  Holmes Oliver Wendell 1809-1894Add
 Title:  Elsie Venner  
 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 two meeting-houses which faced each other like a pair of fighting-cocks had not flapped their wings or crowed at each other for a considerable time. The Reverend Mr. Fairweather had been dyspeptic and low-spirited of late, and was too languid for controversy. The Reverend Doctor Honeywood had been very busy with his benevolent associations, and had discoursed chiefly on practical matters, to the neglect of special doctrinal subjects. His senior deacon ventured to say to him that some of his people required to be reminded of the great fundamental doctrine of the worthlessness of all human efforts and motives. Some of them were altogether too much pleased with the success of the Temperance Society and the Association for the Relief of the Poor. There was a pestilent heresy about, concerning the satisfaction to be derived from a good conscience, — as if anybody ever did anything which was not to be hated, loathed, despised and condemned. Dr. Cr. To Salary for quarter ending Jan. 1st, @ $75 per quarter $75.00 By Deduction for absence, 1 week 3 days $10.00 By Board, lodging, etc., for 10 days, @ 75 cts. per day 7.50 By Damage to Institution by absence of teacher from duties, say 25.00 By Stationery furnished 43 By Postage-stamp 01 By Balance due Helen Darley 32.06 $75.00 $75.00
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29Author:  Holmes Oliver Wendell 1809-1894Add
 Title:  The guardian angel  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: ON Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1859, the “State Banner and Delphian Oracle,” published weekly at Oxbow Village, one of the principal centres in a thriving river-town of New England, contained an advertisement which involved the story of a young life, and startled the emotions of a small community. Such faces of dismay, such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chirruping chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had not been known since the rainy November Friday, when old Malachi Withers was found hanging in his garret up there at the lonely house behind the poplars. “My dearest Olive: — Think no evil of me for what I have done. The fire-hang-bird's nest, as Cyprian called it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. “A Vision seen by me, Myrtle Hazard, aged fifteen, on the night of June 15, 1859. Written out at the request of a friend from my recollections. “My dearest Clement, — You was so good to write me such a sweet little bit of a letter, — only, dear, you never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be. I wish your Susie was with you to cheer you up; but no, she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you are so ambitious! I have heard you say so many times that nobody could be a great artist without passing years and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking so hard. You won't grow pale and lean, I hope; for I do so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have always had ever since I have known you; and besides, I do not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something great, — you have so much genius, and people of genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. You remember those beautiful lines out of our newspaper I sent you? Well, Mr. Hopkins told me he wrote those lines in one evening without stopping! I wish you could see Mr. Hopkins, — he is a very talented person. I cut out this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show you, — for genius loves genius, — and you would like to hear him read his own poetry, — he reads it beautifully. Please send this piece from the paper back, as I want to put it in my scrap-book, under his autograph: — “My dear Susie, — I have just been reading your pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice, which will do just as well, — won't it, my dear? I was interested in your account of various things going on at Oxbow Village. I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins so agreeable a friend. His poetry is better than some which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. I do not believe he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing verse does not always improve the character. I think I have seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited, sentimental, and frivolous, — perhaps it found them so already. Don't make too much of his talent, and particularly don't let him think that because he can write verses he has nothing else to do in this world. That is for his benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it. “Reverend Sir, — I shall not come to your study this day. I do not feel that I have any more need of religious counsel at this time, and I am told by a friend that there are others who will be glad to hear you talk on this subject. I hear that Mrs. Hopkins is interested in religious subjects, and would have been glad to see you in my company. As I cannot go with her, perhaps Miss Susan Posey will take my place. I thank you for all the good things you have said to me, and that you have given me so much of your company. I hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven some time, if we are good enough, but I want to wait for that awhile, for I do not feel quite ready. I am not going to see you any more alone, reverend sir. I think this is best, and I have good advice. I want to see more of young people of my own age, and I have a friend, Mr. Gridley, who I think is older than you are, that takes an interest in me; and as you have many others that you must be interested in, he can take the place of a father better than you can do. I return to you the hymn-book, — I read one of those you marked, and do not care to read any more.
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30Author:  Howells William Dean 1837-1920Add
 Title:  A chance acquaintance  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: ON the forward promenade of the Saguenay boat which had been advertised to leave Quebec at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning, Miss Kitty Ellison sat tranquilly expectant of the joys which its departure should bring, and tolerantly patient of its delay; for if all the Saguenay had not been in promise, she would have thought it the greatest happiness just to have that prospect of the St. Lawrence and Quebec. The sun shone with a warm yellow light on the Upper Town, with its girdle to gray wall, and on the red flag that drowsed above the citadel, and was a friendly lustre on the tinned roofs of the Lower Town; while away off to the south and east and west wandered the purple hills and the farmlit plains in such dewy shadow and effulgence as would have been enough to make the heaviest heart glad. Near at hand the river was busy with every kind of craft, and in the distance was mysterious with silvery vapors; little breaths of haze, like an ethereal colorless flame, exhaled from its surface, and it all glowed with a lovely inner radiance. In the middle distance a black ship was heaving anchor and setting sail, and the voice of the seamen came soft and sad and yet wildly hopeful to the dreamy ear of the young girl, whose soul at once went round the world before the ship, and then made haste back again to the promenade of the Saguenay boat. She sat leaning forward a little with her hands fallen into her lap, letting her unmastered thoughts play as they would in memories and hopes around the consciousness that she was the happiest girl in the world, and blest beyond desire or desert. To have left home as she had done, equipped for a single day at Niagara, and then to have come adventurously on, by grace of her cousin's wardrobe, as it were, to Montreal and Quebec; to be now going up the Saguenay, and finally to be destined to return home by way of Boston and New York; — this was more than any one human being had a right to; and, as she had written home to the girls, she felt that her privileges ought to be divided up among all the people of Eriecreek. She was very grateful to Colonel Ellison and Fanny for affording her these advantages; but they being now out of sight in pursuit of state-rooms, she was not thinking of them in relation to her pleasure in the morning scene, but was rather regretting the absence of a lady with whom they had travelled from Niagara, and to whom she imagined she would that moment like to say something in praise of the prospect. This lady was a Mrs. Basil March of Boston; and though it was her wedding journey and her husband's presence ought to have absorbed her, she and Miss Kitty had sworn a sisterhood, and were pledged to see each other before long at Mrs. March's home in Boston. In her absence, now, Kitty thought what a very charming person she was, and wondered if all Boston people were really like her, so easy and friendly and hearty. In her letter she had told the girls to tell her Uncle Jack that he had not rated Boston people a bit too high, if she were to judge from Mr. and Mrs. March, and that she was sure they would help her as far as they could to carry out his instructions when she got to Boston. DEAR GIRLS: Since the letter I wrote you a day or two after we got here, we have been going on very much as you might have expected. A whole week has passed, but we still bear our enforced leisure with fortitude; and, though Boston and New York are both fading into the improbable (as far as we are concerned), Quebec continues inexhaustible, and I don't begrudge a moment of the time we are giving it.
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31Author:  Howells William Dean 1837-1920Add
 Title:  A foregone conclusion  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow calle or footway leading from the Campo San Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he peered anxiously about him: now turning for a backward look up the calle, where there was no living thing in sight but a cat on a garden gate; now running a quick eye along the palace walls that rose vast on either hand and notched the slender strip of blue sky visible overhead with the lines of their jutting balconies, chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing toward the canal, where he could see the noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There was no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and the harsh scream of a parrot that hung in the sunshine in one of the loftiest windows; but the note of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses in the campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together and gossiped, with the canal between them, at the next gondola station.
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32Author:  Howells William Dean 1837-1920Add
 Title:  Their wedding journey  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: 610EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Image of a small winged Cupid wearing a top hat and carrying a large suitcase on his shoulder and a valise in one hand.
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33Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Add
 Title:  The sunny South, or, The Southerner at home  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for, if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors presume so much, you need to be put down. The bearer is Colonel Peyton, a planter of intelligence and fortune, who wishes a governess, who will be charged with the education of his daughter. The position seems to be a very desirable one, and I would recommend you to accept it, if he should, after seeing you, offer it to you. My Dear Sir,—There is probably no purgatory on earth (for purgatories abound in this world) so effectually conducive to penitence and repentance as a watering place. If good cannot come out of evil, nor light out of darkness, nor laughter out of sorrow, neither can any thing interesting proceed from a watering place. Nevertheless, I have to fly to my pen for solace. I have read till reading is insufferably tiresome—I have walked till I could walk no longer—I have talked till I am tired hearing my own voice and the voices of others—I have jumped the rope till I have blistered the soles of my feet, and made my hands burn—I have drunk the waters until I shall never bear to hear water mentioned again— I have danced under the trees, and looked on in the old dancing-room, till dancing is worn out—I have yawned till I have nearly put my jaws out—and I have sat till I could hardly keep my eyes open, looking at the trees, the hot walks, the listlessly-wandering-about people, that look as if they could take laudanum, hang themselves, or cut their throats, “just as lief do it as not,” if it were not so impolite and wicked to shock people's nerves by perpetrating such dreadful things! I have slept till my eyes won't hold any more sleep, and are swelled and red like two pink pin-cushions. I have rolled ninepins till I have nearly broken my arm with the heavy balls; and it is too hot to sew, to knit, to net, to do any thing but write! This I can do when all other things fail. I can write off a headache, write away care, and bury miserable thoughts in the dark depths of my inkstand. Therefore, Mr. —, I fly to my escritoire for relief from the tedium which everywhere surrounds me. The day is past; and as it is our last day at the Springs, therefore rejoice with me, Mr. —. I am impatient to be back once more to my dear, familiar room, with its thousand and one comforts. I want to see my pet deer, my doves, my squirrel, my flowers, my books, my own looking-glass, for I don't look like myself in these at the Springs, which look as if they had been made while a stiff breeze was rippling across their molter, surface. To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed. The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare, in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all. “My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't write in return, and that your little heart will dance with gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print. You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I have a story to tell you about these same birds. Now, Mr. —, I know a letter to a child is not the wisest piece of composition that ever was penned, but Charley is a fine little fellow, and may be an editor himself one of these days; so, if you will be so good as to print the letter, I will be very much obliged to you, and send an extra paper containing it to Charley himself. The signal to embark is now heard, and I must end. In my last letter I took you, will you nill you, on a journey to my forest-emburied home. Landing you safely upon the pier, at the gate which enters the lawn of live-oaks, that stretches between the house and the beautiful expanse of water in front, I gave you a warm and hospitable welcome. The same welcome I will joyfully extend to any of your friends, who think enough of me to turn out of the way of the great Father of Waters, to seek me out amid the heart of this lovely region of the South. “Dear Wife:—This epistle is written at `Illewalla,' or `Lover's Lake,' which is the translation of the soft Indian name. It is the romantic and charming home of my old correspondent, `Kate, of the Needles.' I cannot, with my prosaic pen, begin to present to your mind's eye the peculiar beauty of this retreat. On my way up from New Orleans to Louisville, I determined to stop and see my fair friend, in her own home; and having obtained the direction, I embarked at New Orleans on board the steamer `Dr. Beattie,' for Thibodeaux.
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34Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Add
 Title:  The throne of David  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In obedience to your Majesty's commands, I have availed myself of my first leisure to record in the leaves of my tablets the scenery and incidents which have struck me as worthy of observation, during my journey from the banks of the Tigris to those of this remote river. Descriptions of the interesting countries through which I have passed, with allusions to the manners and customs of the people, I will not here repeat, as I have made a careful history of them for your Majesty's perusal when I shall return from my embassy. I am to-night encamped by the “Well of the Oath,” in a palm grove opposite the gate of this southern border-city of Judea. By this well, a thousand years ago, Abimelec, a king of Gerar, and Abraham, the father of the Hebrews, made a covenant of amity. Here at this fountain the ancient Chaldee used to lead to water his thousands of camels and tens of thousands of sheep. It is regarded as a sacred place by the Hebrews, who, with fine feeling, honor every place made historical by association with their “three great patriarchs.” This unlooked-for and unusual delay, your majesty, in accepting thy royal nuptial gifts, and in giving me a final answer, I am at a loss to comprehend, as I am satisfied by daily audience with this charming princess that she is deeply interested in you. All my ardent descriptions of your person, and eulogiums upon your heart and character, have captivated her imagination; and I never discourse of you that her eyes do not beam with the splendors of the torch of love, while her sighs and virgin emotion betray the impassioned ardor of her attachment to your majesty. What a prize shall I have the honor of presenting to you, O Belus! Such personal beauty as she possesses is seldom met with! Besides, she is endowed with the most delicate wit, mirth, intelligence, and wonderful grace of speech and manner. No woman I have seen, save, with your majesty's permission, Adora of Isrilid, can compare with her in that nameless fascination which so often captivates and bewilders the strongest masculine minds.
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35Author:  Jones J. B. (John Beauchamp) 1810-1866Add
 Title:  Border war  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Old Maud Clusky, the cook, had repeatedly looked out from the basement of a stately mansion, in the Federal City, impatiently awaiting her master's return from the Capitol. The hour for dinner had struck, and the punctual Senator Langdon had not taken his seat at the table. And, that day, of all others, the President's daughter, Alice Randolph, was to dine with Miss Edith Langdon; and the day following, Miss Randolph was to be Miss Langdon's principal bridesmaid. The Honorable Henry Blount—for he was a member of the House of Representatives, whilst his venerable father occupied a seat in the Senate—was on that day to espouse the beautiful Edith in St. John's Holy Church. And the daughter of the President of the United States was now with the affianced maiden in her boudoir. “Dear General—I think it probable the Resolutions will not pass the Convention. Be upon your guard. It may not be safe to leave your own lines. An attempt has been made on my life. Be careful, General. I will join you in a few days, and shall be happy to serve, the second in command, under the first General and the first man of the country. These, by my honest and faithful messenger, Signor Popoli. “Flora:—My only motive, my only desire, in writing this, and in sending a special messenger, is to save your life. Ruffleton's career is nearly ended. But it was not the Usurper—it was the man—you loved. And I respect him for not abandoning you in the height of his power. I will save his life if possible. But yours is in the greatest danger. If you can rely upon Colonel Snare, who, I am told, commands the regiment at the President's Mansion, warn him that a conspiracy is in existence to arrest and drag you to execution. I cannot indicate the authors of this diabolical scheme—at present. But I declare to you that I know it exists. Lose not a moment in taking effectual measures to guarantee your safety. I know, however, that you cannot remain long in Washington—and I would advise you to leave the city and sojourn in some place of security where you may communicate with Ruffleton, who will soon be—I am certain, Flora—a fugitive. Fly with him to other lands. And that you may be happy is the sincere wish of
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36Author:  Billings Josh 1818-1885Add
 Title:  Josh Billings on Ice  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Having herd mutch sed about skating parks, and the grate amount ov helth and muscle they woz imparting tew the present generashun at a slite advanse from fust cost, i bought a ticket and went within the fense. Thru the politeness ov Mr. John Smith, i cum in possession ov yure valuabel letter, at about 9 o'clock night before last, in which yu offer me 10 dollars for a poultiss. POULTISS. Ginowine politeness is a nice mixture ov vanity and good natur, invigerated bi virtue, and chastened bi policy. I am instructed by our association to inquire ov you, and solicit a reply, if you could read a discourse before our lyceum this winter, and if so, at what time, on what subject, and upon what terms. This day, at 10 o'clock A. M., I cum in contact with your letter, and was real glad tew hear from yu. How do you like being Cor. Sek. ov a LyAssoci'? It is a light, pretty bizziness, and don't require much capital.
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37Author:  Warner Anna Bartlett 1824-1915Add
 Title:  Dollars and cents  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “ABSOLUTELY left!” said Mr. Howard—“missed the stage after all my hurry; and now I can't get to Edmondtown to-day, and by to-morrow Jarvis will have gone west, and my rent in his pocket! Well—”
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38Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Add
 Title:  Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered window of the house which had always been his home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock, were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am, as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about —or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see. It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit, I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the “allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over, you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful), and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once— painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin. There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know, Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort, in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery) that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So, don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow, it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore, we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly, may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye. If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama— so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon, Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing, and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven. He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement; but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love. The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding something to look back and say, which you will first read probably, when I am already there. It will be written with the trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace, with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course, be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul, a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time, “a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years, and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt— so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment, at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture, though I do so by placing myself and the consequences entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents. There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly, and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only, I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me, however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle, of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell, and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs. Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me, and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle.
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39Author:  Evans Augusta J. (Augusta Jane) 1835-1909Add
 Title:  Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The town-clock was on the last stroke of twelve, the solitary candle measured but two inches from its socket, and, as the summer wind rushed through the half-closed shutters, the melted tallow dripped slowly into the brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The flickering light fell upon grim battalions of figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the face of the accountant, as he bent over his work. In these latter days of physical degeneration, such athletic frames as his are rarely seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen years growth had given him unusual height and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was difficult to realize that the stature of manhood had been attained by a mere boy in years. A gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the coat was thrown partially off. He wore no vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered the snowy white collar to fall away from the throat and expose its well-turned outline. The head was large, but faultlessly proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut short and clinging to the temples, added to its massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril, and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache, combined to render the face one of uncommon beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures, there was nothing prepossessing or winning in his appearance, for though you could not carp at the moulding of his features, you involuntarily shrank from the prematurely grave, nay, austere expression which seemed habitual to them. He looked just what he was, youthful in months and years, but old in trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who analyzed his countenance, the conviction was inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition unbounded, his intellect wonderfully acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark in young faces the absence of that beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous heart imparts, and though in this instance there was nothing dark or sinister, you could not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res olution which said so plainly: “I struggle, and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the world defy me.” Although he had labored since dawn, there was no drooping of the muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he sat and worked on, one hand wielding the pen, the other holding down the leaves which fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed over them. “Electra, come to school Monday. The enclosed will pay your tuition for two months longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it, if you really love “With gratitude beyond all expression for the favor conferred on my mother and myself, some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon the money which I have ever regarded as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future will afford me some opportunity of proving my appreciation of her great kindness, “If you do not feel quite ready for the day of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six developed cases of rank typhus. “Before you leave W—, allow me to see you for a few moments. If your departure is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to me this afternoon, at any hour which may be most convenient. “Huntingdon was desperately wounded at three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He died two hours ago. I was with him. The body leaves to-morrow for W—. “Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded. Cyrus will show the way.
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