| | 161 | Author: | Harte
Bret
1836-1902 | Add | | | Title: | The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches  | | | | 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: | Respected Sir, — When you read this, I am run
away. Never to come back. Never, Never, NEVER.
You can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my
Amerika's Pride [a highly colored lithograph from a
tobacco-box] to Sally Flanders. But don't you give
anything to Clytie Morpher. Don't you dare to. Do
you know what my oppinion is of her, it is this, she is
perfekly disgustin. That is all and no more at present
from | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 164 | Author: | Hawthorne
Nathaniel
1804-1864 | Add | | | Title: | Septimius Felton, or, The elixir of life | | | | 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 a day in early spring; and as that sweet,
genial time of year and atmosphere calls out tender
greenness from the ground, — beautiful flowers, or
leaves that look beautiful because so long unseen
under the snow and decay, — so the pleasant air and
warmth had called out three young people, who sat
on a sunny hillside enjoying the warm day and one
another. For they were all friends: two of them
young men, and playmates from boyhood; the third,
a girl who, two or three years younger than themselves,
had been the object of their boy-love, their
little rustic, childish gallantries, their budding affections;
until, growing all towards manhood and womanhood,
they had ceased to talk about such matters,
perhaps thinking about them the more. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 165 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Add | | | Title: | Darkness and daylight | | | | 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: | Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve
long years its massive walls of dark grey stone had
frowned in gloomy silence upon the passers-by, the terror
of the superstitious ones, who had peopled its halls with
ghosts and goblins, saying even that the snowy-haired old
man, its owner, had more than once been seen there, moving
restlessly from room to room and muttering of the
darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair
young wife and her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man
was not dead, but for years he had been a stranger to his
former home. “Dear Sir: — A wholly unexpected event makes it
necessary for me to be absent from home for the next few
weeks. During this time my house will be shut up, and
I shall be very glad if in her daily rides Miss Hastings
will occasionally come round this way and see that every
thing is straight. I would like much to give the keys into
her charge, knowing as I do that I can trust her. The books
in my library are at her disposal, as is also the portfolio
of drawings, which I will leave upon the writing table. “Dear Sir, — Miss Hastings accepts the great honor of
looking after your house, and will see that nothing gets
mouldy during your absence. “Darling Miggie: — Nina has been so sick this great
long while, and her head is so full of pain. Why don't
you come to me, Miggie? I sit and wait and listen till
my forehead thumps and thumps, just as a bad nurse
thumped it once down in the Asylum. “Poor blind man! Nina is so sorry for you to-night,
because she knows that what she has to tell you will crush
the strong life all out of your big heart, and leave it as
cold and dead as she will be when Victor reads this to
you. There won't be any Nina then, for Miggie and
Arthur, and a heap more, will have gone with her way
out where both my mothers are lying, and Miggie'll cry,
I reckon, when she hears the gravel stones rattling down
just over my head, but I shall know they cannot hit me,
for the coffin-lid will be between, and Nina'll lie so still.
No more pain; no more buzzing; no more headache; no
more darkness; won't it be grand, the rest I'm going to.
I shan't be crazy in Heaven. Arthur says so, and he
knows. “.... It will be dreadful at first, I know, and may
be all three of the darknesses will close around you for a
14
time, — darkness of the heart, darkness of the brain, and
darkness of the eyes, but it will clear away and the daylight
will break, in which you will be happier than in
calling Miggie your wife, and knowing how she shrinks
from you, suffering your caresses only because she knows
she must, but feeling so sick at her stomach all the time,
and wishing you wouldn't touch her. I know just how it
feels, for when Arthur kissed me, or took my hand, or even
came in my sight, before the buzz got into my head, it
made me so cold and faint and ugly, the way the Yankees
mean, knowing he was my husband when I wanted Charlie
Hudson. Don't subject Miggie to this horrid fate.
Be generous and give her up to Arthur. He may not deserve
her more than you, but she loves him the best and
that makes a heap of difference. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 166 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The pillar of fire, or, Israel in bondage | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “I trust, my dear Sesostris,” he writes, “that you
are passing your time both with pleasure and profit, in
visiting places of interest in the valley of the Lower
Nile, and in studying the manners and usages of the
people. You will find the pyramids an exhaustless
source of attraction. From the priests, who are the
most intelligent and learned class in Egypt, you will
obtain all the information respecting those mysterious
monuments of the past, which is known, besides many
legends. “Your Majesty,—I address my letter to you from
this petty castle, though, albeit, the stronghold of your
kingdom seaward, over which you have made me governor.
For a subject, this would be a post of honor.
For me, the son of your husband's brother, your royal
nephew, it is but an honorable exile from a court where
you fear my presence. Honorable, do I say?—rather,
dishonorable; for am I not a prince of the blood of
the Pharaohs? But let this pass, your majesty. I
do not insist upon any thing based upon mere lineage.
I feel that I was aggrieved by the birth of Remeses. I
see that you turn pale. Do not do so yet. You must
read further before the blood wholly leaves your cheek.
I repeat, I am aggrieved by the `birth of Remeses.'
You see I quote the last three words. Ere you close
this letter, your majesty will know why I mark them
thus. Your husband, the vicegerent of the Thisitic
kingdom of the South, after leaving his capital, Thebes,
at the head of a great army, died like a soldier descended
from a line of a thousand warrior kings, in
combat with the Ethiopian. I was then, for your majesty
was without offspring, the heir to the throne of
Egypt. I was the son of your husband's younger
brother. Though but three years old when your lord
was slain, I had learned the lesson that I was to be king
of Egypt, when I became a man. But to the surprise
of all men, of your council of priests, and your cabinet
of statesmen, lo! you soon afterwards became a mother,
when no evidences of this promise had been apparent!
Nay, do not cast down this letter, O queen! Read it to
the end! It is important you should know all. “Your Majesty,—I write from my pavilion pitched
at the foot of the Libyan mountains. I need not forewarn
you of the subject of this letter, when I assure you
that within the hour I have received intelligence from
Memphis, that you are about to abdicate your throne in
favor of Remeses, your suppositious son. This intelligence
does not surprise me. When I was in Lower
Egypt, I saw through you and your policy. I perceived
that while you feared me, you resolved to defeat my
power over you. This purpose, to surrender the sceptre
of the two Egypts, I can penetrate. You design, thereby,
securely to place Remeses beyond my power to
harm him, for that, being king, if I lift a finger he can
destroy me. I admire your policy, and bow in homage
to your diplomacy. But, O queen, both you and
Remeses are in my power! Nay, do not flash your
imperial eyes at this assertion. Hear me for a few
moments. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 167 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The Prince of the House of David, or, Three years in
the Holy City | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | My Dear Father:—My first duty, as it is my highest
pleasure, is to comply with your command to write
you as soon as I arrived at Jerusalem; and this letter,
while it conveys to you intelligence of my arrival, will
confirm to you my filial obedience. “Dearest Ruth:—I fear you have been impatient at
my long silence; but I love you not less, though you do
not often hear from me. Now that I am safe I will write
to you, which I would not do in a state of uncertainty.
Know that after our ship left Cesarea for Crete, we were
caught by a north wind, and in striving to make the east
end of the island, we lost way, and were driven upon
Africa, where we were wrecked, losing all our cargo, and
the lives of many who sailed with us. With others, I was
taken by the barbarians, and carried inland to a country
of rocky mountains, and there became a bondman to one
of the chief men of the nation wherein I was captivated.
At length, inspired by a consciousness of the anguish you
and my beloved mother must suffer, should you never
more hear tidings of me, I resolved to effect my escape.
After great perils, I reached the sea-side, and at the
expiration of many days, by following the coast, I was
taken on board by a small ship of Cyprus, and conveyed
to Alexandria. The vessel was owned by a rich merchant
of my own people, Manassah Benjamin Ben Israel, who,
finding me sick and destitute of all things, just as I
escaped, took me home to his hospitable house, and treated
me as a son till I recovered my health and strength; saying
that he had a daughter far away, in Judea, and he
hoped that if she ever needed the aid of strangers, God
would repay him by making them kind to her.” “The bearer, beloved, is one of the disciples of Jesus.
His name is Bartimeus. He was blind and poor, and
subsisted by begging; and, as you see, his sight is restored,
and he insists now on going from town to town where he
has been known as a blind man, to proclaim what Jesus
has done for him. He takes this to you. I write to say
that I wish thou mayest prosper in all things, and find
the health for which thou and thy cousin sought the air of
Mount Tabor. I have no greater joy than to hear of your
welfare. This letter cometh beseeching thee, lady, that as
we love one another unfeignedly, so may we soon be united
in that holy union which God hath blessed and commanded.
I would have thee bear in remembrance that
thou gavest thy promise hereto when last we met at Nazareth.
But, having much to say hereupon, I will not
commit it to paper and ink; but by to-morrow, or the day
after, I trust to come to you, and speak with you, dearly
beloved, face to face, those things which come now to my
lips. Farewell, lady, and peace be with you, and all in
your house. Greet thy friends in my name, letting them
know that we shall shortly be with you, with Amos, your
father, now our dear brother in the Lord. There are
many things which I have seen and heard touching my
holy Master, Jesus, and his holy mission to the world,
which I will declare unto you when we meet, that you also
may have fellowship with us in those things which we
know and believe concerning him. My Master saluteth
thee and all in your house; Amos, also, greeteth thee with
10*
a kiss. This is the second epistle I have written unto you
from Nazareth.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 170 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | Title: | Margaret | | | | 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: | “Didymus Hart being summoned to this Committee, on
the information of sundry witnesses, that the said Hart on
the 27th day of this month, had violated the laws of the
Continental and Provincial Congress, and done other acts
contrary to the liberties of the country, appeared, and after
due proof being made of said charge, the said Hart was
pleased to make a full confession thereof, and in the most
equivocal and insulting manner attempted to vindicate said
conduct, to wit:— “Whereas I, the subscriber, have from the perverseness
of my wicked heart maliciously and scandalously abused
the character and proceedings of the Continental and Provincial
Congress, Selectmen of this town, and the Committees
of Safety in general, I do hereby declare, that at
the time of my doing it, I knew the said abuses to be the
most scandalous falsehoods, and that I did it for the sole
purpose of abusing those bodies of men, and affronting my
townsmen, and all the friends of liberty throughout the
Continent. Being now fully sensible of my wickedness
and notorious falsehoods, I humbly beg pardon of those
worthy characters I have so scandalously abused, and voluntarily
renouncing my former principles, do promise for
the future to render my conduct unexceptionable to my
countrymen, by strictly adhering to the measures of Congress,
and desire this my confession may be printed in the
Kidderminster Chronicle for three weeks successively. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 171 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | Title: | Margaret | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | My dear Anna:—You told me to write you every
thing; but how shall I utter myself? How can I give
shape or definition to what I am? Easy were it for me to
tell you what I am not. Has a volcano burst within me?
Has a tornado prostrated me? If you were to excavate
the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be, would you
find only charred effigies of things, silent fountains of old
emotions, deserted streets of a once busy and harmonious
life, skeletons of hopes stricken down in the act of running
from impending danger? With Rose, I would forget myself,
that to which this writing recalls me. She says I can
endure the prospect better than she. If this be so, it must
be attributed to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am
in ruins, and so are all things about me. Yet in the windfall
some trees are new sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding
the shattered edifice. View me as you will, I
think I am a doit improving. Do I begin existence wholly
anew, or rise I up from the chaos of an earlier condition?
What is the transition—from myself to myself, or from myself
to another? What is the link between Molly Hart and
Margaret Brückmann, can you tell? In which of the climacterics
do I now exist? I am witheringly afflicted.
Chilion is not!
“Te sine, væ misero mihi! lilia nigra videntur,
Palentesque rosæ, nec dulce rubens hyacinthus!”
The vision of those days distracts me, the remembrance of
my brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and
the sun is pale at midday. In Scotland are Caves of Music,
deep pits where unseen water keeps up a sort of midnight
melody. I am such a cave. Chilion flows through
me, a nethermost, mournfullest dirge. Then, too, Ma is so
silent; her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes
and weaves, hour after hour; I fear she will never smile
again. Pa has lost his glow of countenance; he has grown
absolutely pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip
on his leathern apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens
me. Nimrod comes down from the Ledge and does
his best to enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows
not how to be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the
time of Chilion's trial, and hobbles out to Chilion's boat,
where he sits by the hour. Rose is soothing and active,
but she has a load at her own heart, which, in truth, I need
help her bear. Isabel rides up almost every day, full of
sympathy and generous love. Deacon Ramsdill, Master
Elliman, Mrs. Bowker aud others, have made us kind
visits. Sibyl Radney comes and milks the cow, and does
some of my little chores. Yesterday, Rose and Isabel
went with me to the burying-ground. Good old Philip
Davis, the Sexton, so I have been told, had the courage and
the kindness to go one night and cover Chilion's grave
with green sod. It is by itself apart, in one corner of the
grounds. Few persons have been near it, and the tall grass
has grown rank about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved
in weeping. Murmur I could not; an inarticulate,
ungovernable anguish was all I could feel. O my brother!
I knew not I had such a brother; I knew not I loved such
a brother!—We found a dandelion budding on it—when I
was little, he taught me to love dandelions! Rose folded
me in her arms, Isabel prayed for me. I thought of the
blood-sweating agony of Him, the Divine Sufferer; it penetrated
and subdued mine. Mrs. Bowker gave me a lady's
slipper, taken from the plant Chilion sent her. There is a
fancy that flowers die, when those who have tended them
do. Will Chilion's flowers live? There are many of us
who will fulfil his love towards them. I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive
VOL. II. 18
under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I
am externally more calm, my nerves are less susceptable,
I sleep more soundly, and Margaret says there is some
color in my cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric
circles, I can say the three outer ones approximate a
healthy and natural state. But the fourth, the innermost,
the central core, what can I say of that? I dare not look
in there, I dare not reflect upon myself. One thing, I have
no real guilt to harass me; I only call to mind my follies.
My ambition has ever centered upon a solitary acquisition,
and for that alone have the energies of my being been
spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating, tender, great, solemn
sympathy. Beguiled by this desire, I mistook the demonstrations
of a selfish passion for tokens of a noble heart.
Betrayed beyond the bounds of strict propriety, I became
an object of the censure of mankind. Too proud to confess,
or too much confounded to explain my innocence, I
suffered the penalties of positive infamy. It always seemed
ot me that I was placid by nature, and moderate in my sensations.
This opposition created in me a new nature; my
calamities have imparted heat to my temper and acrimony
to my judgment. I became impetuous, vehement, and, as
it were, possessed. A new consciousness was revived, both
of what I was and of what the world was. Up to that time
I had floated on with tolerable serenity, trusting myself and
others, and ever hoping for the best. Then commenced
my contention and despair. I became all at once sensible
of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom literal
coals of fire are put. My heart swelled to enormous proportions;
it became diseased, and dreadfully painful. It
spread itself through my system, tyrannized over my
thought, and fed upon the choicest strength of my being.
My intellect was darkened, I became an atheist. Under
these circumstances, which you already know something
about, after having long kept it hidden, I declared myself
to Margaret. She had sufficient penetration to understand
me and magnanimity to love me; she awed me by her
superior, uniform goodness. I availed myself of a moment
when she was in tears to unfold the cause of my own. I
rejoiced in her weakness, because I thought thereby I could
find entrance to her greatness. The melancholy, to me
most melancholy, events of her brother's death, I need not
recapitulate. The end of my being is accomplished! The prophecy
of my life is fulfilled! My dreams have gone out in realities!
The Cross is erected on Mons Christi!
Yesterday, the Anniversary of our National Independence,
was the event consummated. The sacred emblem was made
by Mr. Palmer, from a superb block, of the purest marble,
out of his quarry, and is twenty feet high. We met near
the Brook Kedron, on the Via Salutaris. There were all the
members of Christ Church, the Masonic Corps, and a multitude
of others. I was to lead the procession, supported
by Mr. Evelyn; they had me seated on a milk-white
horse, dressed in white, with a wreath of twin flower vines
on my head. Then followed the Cross, borne on the shoulders
of twenty-four young men; next came the Bishop and
wife, the Deacons and their wives, Christ Church members,
two-and-two, man and woman; these were succeeded by
the Masons, and the line was closed by the people at large.
On the Head was a band of Christ Church musicians, playing
the Triumphs of Jesus, which we got from Germany.
We came over the Brook Kedron, traversed what we have
made the broad and ornamental Via Salutaris, and entered
the Avenue of the Beautiful. At the foot of the hill I dismounted.
By a winding gravel-walk I went up—with a
trembling, joyous step I went—followed by the Cross-bearers.
Reaching the summit, I wound the arms and
head of the Cross about with evergreens; the young men
raised it in its place, a solid granite plinth. Returning, we
assembled under the Butternut, in the Avenue of the
Beautiful, where Edward made a discourse to the people;
some idea of which I would like to convey to you. “Livingston.—We have long kept silence about the
VOL. II. 26
movements in this place; but the matter has become too
public to excuse any further negligence. Over the Red
Dragon of Infidelity they have drawn the skin of the Papal
Beast, and tricked the Monster with the trappings of Harlotry!
On the ruins of one of our Churches they have
erected a Temple to Human Pride and Carnal Reasoning.
The contamination is spreading far and wide; and unless
something be attempted, the Kingdom of God in our midst
must soon be surrendered to the arts of Satan. It is
understood that the Rev. Mr. L—, of B—, has openly and
repeatedly exchanged pulpits with the man who, having
denied his Lord and Master, they have had the hardihood
to invest with the robes of the Christian Office. Brethren,
shall we sleep, while the enemy is sowing tares in our
midst? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 172 | Author: | Landon
Melville D.
(Melville De Lancey)
1839-1910 | Add | | | Title: | Saratoga in 1901 | | | | 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: | OFF FOR SARATOGA
628EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Images of a steamship, a train, and a couple on horses.
“My dear Mr. Perkins, Congress Hall—
Many of my aristocratic guests are grieved
at the reports which have gained credence
relative to the young gentlemen holding the
young ladies' hands, evenings, on the hotel
balconies. They also say that it is a very
common thing for them to be seen smiling,
and that dancing is not an unknown amusement
among them. I now invite you to
come and investigate for yourself. I assign
for the use of yourself and wife a suite of cheerful front rooms
overlooking the Catholic church and the graveyard, from the
windows of which you will be able to see everything going on in
our hotel. “I notice the paragraph in the
Commercial. It is to be hoped
you will not use names. I am
an old, gray-haired man. I
have lived a life of usefulness,
and have been long honored as
a member of the open Board of
Brokers in New York. If I have been indiscreet in a thoughtless
moment, I beg of you not to ruin everything by using my name
in connection with any developments which you propose to make.
Come and see me. I will remain in my room all day. “As God is my witness, you have been wrongly informed if you
have heard anything detrimental to my character. I have been
a vestryman of Grace Church for fifteen years. I am incapable
of any such actions; besides, I have a devoted wife, and we are
very fond of each other. I gave $25,000 to the Dudley Observatory
and $50,000 to Cornell University, and have been a
subscriber to the Commercial for seventeen years. I am
incapable of such indiscretion. Whatever other church-members
do, I am as pure as a new-born babe. Come and see me or give
us your company at dinner. I am almost always at church or on
the balcony with my wife. I saw one paragraphe en ze journal, ze Commourshal, about
ze grande scandale of which you have accuse me. I write this as a friend of yours. You have been deceived.
Some of our people came down to Congress Hall, and told these
scandalous things out of spite. Baron Flourins has been a little
exclusive. We have kept him entirely in our clique. The rest
are mad because we have not introduced him. He is a dear duck
of a man, as harmless as he is handsome. My dear Son Eli:—Your St. Alban's High Church letter was
read with a great deal of interest here in our home church, but it
made us all feel very bad. We are sorry that you have gone to
the wicked city, where you so soon forget the simple teaching of
the old Church of your childhood, and go headlong into these
false, new-fangled notions about Ritualism. You ask us to board
up the windows of the old church, bar out the sunlight, and burn
flickering tallow candles. You ask us to tear out the old galleries
of the church, to dismiss the girls from the choir, and dress the farm
boys up in night-gowns, as you do in the city. You ask us to do
away with good old Dr. Watts and sing opera songs selected by
the organist of St. Alban's and arranged for the boy singers by
the middle fiddler of a German band. You ask me to tear up
our charts and maps, and decorate the church with blue and gold
“hallelujahs” and gilded crosses. O my son, we cannot do it!
We prefer to go on in the good old way. If God will not save
us because we do not burn candles—if He will not forgive our
sins because we look straight up to Heaven, and confess them
directly to Him, then I fear we must perish. My dear boy, does
not the Bible say: `I said I would confess my sins unto the
Lord, and so THOU forgavest the wickedness of my sin?' Then
do not, I pray you, my son, depend upon any forgiveness of sin
which men may grant. Eli, if you are bad, do not expect any
man to forgive you, but go right straight to your Maker, the way
your mother taught you in your childhood. Suppose you
confess your sins to a priest? My dear Mother:—Your letter has caused me much anxiety.
After sleeping with it under my pillow, I went up yesterday, as
you requested, to the Church of “St. Mary the Virgin,” on West
Forty-fifth street, near Seventh avenue. Since my conversion to
the High Church Ritualistic faith, my dear mother, I have usually
attended Dr. Ewer's church. I love Dr. Ewer. “This is our new
idea. All the girls have
agreed to it. We call it
the honorable dodge, and
we are bound to put
through every flirting fellow
in New York on it.
The idea is—but I'll tell
you how I practiced it
last night and you'll understand
it better. But
you know it is a secret, and of course you are to be trusted. I wish to ask your sympathy and advice on a subject that has
long been weighing on my mind, and that is—flirting. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 173 | Author: | Lanier
Sidney
1842-1881 | Add | | | Title: | Tiger-lilies | | | | 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: | “Would 'st thou an adventure? Follow the bearer. “Inclosed is a letter
handed me to-day by a neighbor. He does not wish to be
mixed up in the business and asks my advice. The writer of
the letter is a connection of his. Of course, as a loyal citizen,
I cannot leave this letter and its information to pass unnoticed,
and therefore send it to you immediately. “To Mister Jeems Horniddy, My deer Cuzzin Jeems: hope
you air well and these few lines will find you enjoinin the saim.
I lef ole Tennessy some munths ago, I was brought from thar
with mi hands tied as you mought say. The Cornscrip brought
me. I was hid whare I thot the Devil hisself couldn find me,
but ole man Sterlin he cum and showed whar I was and they
took me and sent me to the rigiment. He foun out whare I was
hid by a darn ongentlemunly trick, a-peirootin thu the bushes as
he is always a-Dooin. An if I dont root him out for it I hoap
I may go too hell damn him and I have deserted from the rigiment
and cum down hear to smithfield whare thar aint no
cornscrip. Thar is sum scouts down hear and ole Sterlins son
is wun of thum, and so is brother Cain I thot he had moar
sense and I am agwine to fule em to death i am agwine to
make em put me across the river and then see em captivated
every wun of thum brother Cain and all and what did thay
drag me from hoam and fambly for? which I havent been
married to her moar than a year and a rite young babi and
they a starvin and me not thar. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 174 | Author: | Locke
David Ross
1833-1888 | Add | | | Title: | The Nasby papers | | | | 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 now 15 niggers, men, wimin and childern, or ruther, mail,
femail and yung, in Wingert's Corners, and yisterday another arrove.
I am bekomin alarmed, fer ef they inkreese at this rate, in suthin
over sixty yeres they'll hev a majority in the town, and may, ef they
git mene enuff, tyrannize over us, even ez we air tyrannizin over
them. The danger is imminent! Alreddy our poor white inhabitans
is out uv employment to make room fer that nigger—even now our
shops and factories is full uv that nigger, to the grate detriment uv a
white inhabitant who hez a family 2 support, and our Poor Hows and
Jail is full uv him. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 175 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Add | | | Title: | Moby-Dick, or, The whale | | | | 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: | Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long
precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing
particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about
a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have
of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever
I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it
is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up
the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my
hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong
moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into
the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I
account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my
substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish
Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the
ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it,
almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very
nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 176 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Add | | | Title: | The piazza tales | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | When I removed into the country, it was to
occupy an old-fashioned farm-house, which
had no piazza—a deficiency the more regretted,
because not only did I like piazzas, as
somehow combining the coziness of in-doors
with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so
pleasant to inspect your thermometer there,
but the country round about was such a picture,
that in berry time no boy climbs hill
or crosses vale without coming upon easels
planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters
painting there. A very paradise of painters.
The circle of the stars cut by the circle of the
mountains. At least, so looks it from the
house; though, once upon the mountains, no
circle of them can you see. Had the site been
chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would
not have been. The same day, and month, and year, His Honor, Doctor
Juan Martinez de Rozas, Councilor of the Royal Audience
of this Kingdom, and learned in the law of this Intendency,
ordered the captain of the ship San Dominick, Don Benito
Cereno, to appear; which he did in his litter, attended by
the monk Infelez; of whom he received the oath, which
he took by God, our Lord, and a sign of the Cross; under
which he promised to tell the truth of whatever he should
know and should be asked;—and being interrogated agreeably
11*
to the tenor of the act commencing the process,
he said, that on the twentieth of May last, he set sail with
his ship from the port of Valparaiso, bound to that of Callao;
loaded with the produce of the country beside thirty
cases of hardware and one hundred and sixty blacks, of both
sexes, mostly belonging to Don Alexandro Aranda, gentleman,
of the city of Mendoza; that the crew of the ship
consisted of thirty-six men, beside the persons who went as
passengers; that the negroes were in part as follows: “Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated
gentleman that lives. I am a patriot, exiled
from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 177 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | My third book | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “`Mr. Grant,—I have not been a good man. I
feel this now, lying here on my death-bed, and I confess
it to you the more readily because I do not believe
that at heart you are a one whit better one. I must
speak plainly and bluntly, for I have no time for circumlocution.
I have hardly strength enough left to
dictate this to Richard Huntley, my attorney. I have
made a brave effort to forgive every body; but it has
been the hardest of all to forgive you; for your harshness,
your sinful pride, killed my beautiful Margaret.
You never loved as I loved her—I, her lover, her husband.
There! you will start at that word, I foresee;
you will start again at the marriage certificate enfolded
in this letter. We were married secretly, as you will
perceive, while I was in your very neighborhood. I
bound Margaret, when I left her, by a solemn oath,
not to make it known until she had my permission.
She was a gentle crature, as no one knows better than
you, and never thought of disputing the will of any
one she loved. My father was dead. I was dependent
for all my hopes of future fortune and support on
my mother, a very proud, resolute woman. She had
a grand match in contemplation for me at that time.
I knew it would be no easy matter to reconcile her to
its failure, and if she should know just then that I had
married as she would have thought so far below me,
much as she loved me she would have cast me off forever.
This, to a true man, would have been no great
matter compared with causing Margaret one hour of
trouble, one agony of humiliation. But I was not a
true man. I was helpless and imbecile, for I had never
been brought up to depend on myself. But I must
hasten, for my strength is failing me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 178 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Two sisters were sitting, one evening, in their small private
library, adjoining their sleeping apartment, in their step-mother's
house, in a fashionable quarter of New York. It
matters not in what year, for though this their history
makes great pretension to veritableness, it pays no respect
whatever to chronology. The youngest—the youngest of
course takes precedence in our society—was not past eighteen,
and, grown to her full stature, rather above the average
height; Grace Herbert differing in most of the faculties,
qualities, and circumstances of her being from the average
of her sex. To a strictly classical eye she was too thin for
her height, but of such exact proportions, so flexible and
graceful, that the defect was insignificant. Her features
were of the noble cast. Her complexion was neither fair
nor brown, but exquisitely smooth and soft. Ordinarily
she was pale, and her large dark eye lacked lustre; but a
flash from her mind, a gust of passion, or even a gentle
throb of affection, would brighten her cheek, light her eye,
play over her lips, and even seem to radiate from the waving
tresses of her dark hair. In that there was a notable
peculiarity. It was dark, and yet so brilliant in certain
lights, that in her little court of school-girl friends, where
she was queen (by divine right), it was a standing dispute
whether its color were golden, auburn, or brown. But it
was not form or color that so much distinguished Grace
Herbert, as a certain magnanimity in the expression of her
face, figure, and movement. “I should have written you as I promised, if I had
found any thing to write, but the town has been deuced
dull. Now it's waking up; there is a splendid little
actress here—one Mrs. Darley; our set patronize her.
(`Patronize—audacity!' exclaimed Grace.) Fanny Dawson
has come home—a splendid beauty! I and she rode out to
Love Lane before breakfast yesterday; my new horse is fine
under the saddle—Fanny is finer, but I shan't try my harness
there; I am shy of reins; one can't tell who will hold
them, so Miss Fanny will be left for my elder—if not my
better—” “My letter has lain by a month, and now I have news.
Smith, Jones and Co. have gone bankrupt, and poor Bill
is on their paper well-nigh to the amount of his fortune;
Luckily there's something left, and then there's the little
widow's fortune. Well, I go for the children of this world,
that are wise in their generation. Commend me to the
Londoners in general.—Believe me, as ever, your's faithfully, “You may conceive, but I can not describe, how
wretched I feel at our separation. You would hear from
me much oftener if I followed the dictates of my heart, but
my time is so absorbed that it is quite impossible to find
a moment for my truest, darlingest, little friend. I write
now to entreat you to match the feathers I send; aren't
they loves? I have spent two days in attempting to do it
here. New York is a paradise for shops, you know; in this
horrid Quaker city there's no variety; at the same time,
dearest love, will you look for a sash, the shade of the
feathers? You may send me a sample, or you may send
me several, if you feel uncertain about the match. It is
really trying, the difficulty of matching. I sometimes walk
up and down the streets of Philadelphia, hours and hours, to
match a lace or a fringe, and so does my mamma. The
Grays wear pink bonnets this winter. Mrs. Remson has
come out in her old yellow brocade again—the third winter,
mamma says—just think of it! Do they hold on to powder
yet in New York? I dread its going out—'tis so becoming;
It makes me quite wretched that you don't come on this
winter, dear little pearl! My hair was superbly dressed at
Mrs. Lee's ball; I paid dear for it, though, for Pardessus was
engaged ten hours ahead, so I had mine done at three A.M.
Of course I didn't feel over well the next day, and General
Washington observed it, and said he did not like to see
young ladies look pale. As it was the only time he ever
spoke to me, he might have found something more pleasing
to say; pale or not, I found partners for every dance, and
refused nine! But, darling, I must cut short my epistle, and
sign myself, your sincere and ever attached friend, “Having a few leisure moments, I sit down to have a
little pleasant chat with you. I have still to acknowledge
your letter, informing me of the decease of our dear old
friend, Lady Hepsy; strange coincidence! that she should
have been burned to death, so afraid of fire as she was all
her life; but so it is—`Our days a transient period run!' “You will feel for me, dear sister, when I tell you the
measles are all over our street. You may be sure I keep
the children shut up. Two of them were terribly ill last
night, and I sent for Dr. Lee. I was all of a nerve when he
came, expecting he would tell me they had the symptoms,
but to my inexpressible relief he said it was only the cranberry
sauce and mince-pie, and almonds, and raisins, and so
on, they had eaten plentifully of at dinner—poor little
things! how much they have to suffer in this world!” “This day I am seventeen! and this day I am the
happiest creature in the universe. You will guess why,
and how, for you prophesied long ago that what has now
happened would come to pass. Perhaps your prophecy
has led to its fulfillment—certainly hastened it, that I
will allow; for since we were at Madame B.'s school, and
you talked so much of him, he has been the ideal of my
life—every thing that I have imagined of noble and beautiful
has been impersonated in Frank Silborn. O think of my
felicity! He is mine, I am his; as the clock struck twelve
last night we plighted vows, and exchanged rings! O what
a bliss is life before me! And yet now I think I would be
content to die, my spirit is so raised with a sense of joy ineffable.
I can not believe it is but three weeks since Frank's
return; my love for him seems to stretch through my whole
being. “It is my sad duty to write to you the most sorrowful
news—prepare yourself, my child, for it will greatly shock
you. Yesterday afternoon—I can scarcely guide my pen—
Silborn drove up to his door in a curricle, and insisted
on taking the two little boys, who were just dressed for
a walk, to ride. Sarah must have seen he was greatly
excited—in no state to drive—for the nurse says `she refused
decidedly to let the children go;' whereupon he
snatched them both, and ran out of the house with them to
the carriage. He drove furiously up the street, turned the
corner short, ran afoul a loaded wagon, turned over the
carriage—the boys, our dear little boys, were thrown against
a curb-stone and killed, instantly—both Sarah's little boys—
both, Emma—both! “I promised, when we parted, to resume our long-suspended
correspondence. With what varied emotions of
remorse and gratitude I survey this chasm. O! Emma, how
differently life looks, prospectively or retrospectively. After
it pleased God to restore my reason, I wasted years of responsible
life in helpless misery, and profitless repining. “The rumor you heard (and heard before we did, so complete
is our retirement from the world) is confirmed. Walter
announced his engagement, in his own way, last evening.
`Do you know,' he asked my mother, `whom Augustus
Dawson married?' “My filial duty and my unlimited confidence in both
your justice and generosity would have induced long since
the communication I am about to make, but it was deferred
by the griefs my sister's calamities brought upon you. I
could not then add another bitter drop to your full cup. I
must no longer delay. Six months since—” “I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the
first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for
my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to
become of great value. I have explored titles a century
back, when this property was a waste rocky field—now, a
noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two
gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular
enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy
is now between descendants of the original purchasers,
`Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an
elderly gentleman, and two young ladies, who, though somewhat
decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy.
Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry—there is
still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert—Walter Herbert,
Esq.—I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old
fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver
sable, an eye like an eagle, and a heart of gold. The young
ladies are his nieces; one, a bright particular star, I have
seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten. “Miss Alice requests me, you say, to describe my friend
Esterly's wedding. Alas! I have no story to tell; business
intervened, and took me out of town, and thus saved all
parties from my blundering performance of the office of
bridegroom.” “Pardon, my dear Mrs. Clifford, my blotted pages. I
have been raining tears over this detail to you of my brief
meeting with my father. God only knows how I loved him
in life—how I honor him in death! Had I known his condition,
I should have come home six months ago. I shall
forever regret a gain to myself, at the expense of a loss to
him. My step-mother, whose valuable qualities I do full
justice to (when I do not come in contact with her), will
maintain her housekeeping, and take three or four boarders,
and so, `by hook or by crook,' they will live comfortably.
I, by means of my own hard work and God's blessing, will
start the boys in life, and thus acknowledge a debt to my
dear father, which I can never fully pay. Letty is a little
jewel, or rather, she is worth all the jewels in a king's
crown, being more for use than decoration. Her cheerfulness
is obscured just now, of course, for she dearly loved
my father; but her pale cheek is, I think, but the livery of
the country, which strikes me in painful contrast with the
Hebe coloring in England. The dirge-like tone of her voice,
too, is but the national note, not so much the voice of sadness
as of `sickness.' `Every village has its song,' says
Carlisle; I wish ours were a livelier one. “When I think that school-girls' friendships are, for the
most part, mere accidents of propinquity, I rejoice that ours,
like all true matches, was fore-ordained. I began with making
you my pet, I believe you are five years my junior, and
now you are my confidante—partly, because you are true as
steel, and will not betray what I tell you, and partly that
you will not advise me, or chide me; and you are unmarried
—kind to kind, is natural. Perhaps you will divine that I
am trying to silence my conscience that tells me my sister
Eleanor should be my confidante; that a sister—and such a
sister!—is the nearest friend, the friend Heaven bestowed;
and truly Eleanor would be my elect friend from all the
world, but that she is married. She has projected herself
into another self, and, though two make one for themselves,
they make two for the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friend. Yes, I am getting into the
old track famously. Some of my old clients have welcomed
me cordially; and though I was cruelly knocked down from
those `steeps so hard to climb' of my profession, yet I am in
no wise discouraged. True, my competitors shot ahead of
me, but I shall gain upon them. There is nothing like the
whip and spur of necessity; in our land, the poor workingman
is on vantage-ground, the general sympathy is with
him, and if he be capable, and in earnest, he has plenty of
work to do. I have delivered two Lectures, made up of my
foreign observations, which were well received, and filled my
pockets. I have had many requests to repeat them. I shall
not. A man should not be diverted from his profession by
`fancy work.' I have offers from booksellers and editors
that will profitably fill my leisure hours, if I have them.
Thus, you see, I can answer your inquiry satisfactorily. I
do not `regret the obligations' I have assumed for my step-brothers.
I have economical quarters, and by avoiding
hotel-life, and all superfluous indulgence, I shall compass my
great object—their education; and after that, Yankee boys
can take care of themselves. * * * “He's a trump—take my word for it, Dates.
He lectured at the Mercantile last evening. I went early,
and got a seat directly in front of him. It seemed as if he
could not keep his eyes off from me! The house was
choke-full, and all attention. You might have heard a pin fall.
He was posted up about every thing t'other side, and told us
a lot about Greece and Athens, and Egypt and Thebes.
There were a number of literary characters present, distinguished
authors and authoresses that write in the Magazines.
He got, they say, $400 by this Lecture alone! Don't he
know how to coin money out of talents? He looks like a
different individual—so genteel!—you can't think! “All other interests are superseded just now by the
alarming illness of Eleanor's boy—her only boy. His illness
has come suddenly. But yesterday, he seemed to stand on
the hill-top of life, radiant with the rosy tints of morning,
casting down into many hearts the hopes and promises of a
long, bright day. “Thank you, for the list of scholars—fifteen in your
school! These, with the promised five out of it, will supply
the deficiencies in our income the next year; and thus, if
we make a fortunate disposition of our house, my husband
will be enabled to repair his strength by a year's travel in
Europe, and rest from work. Thank you, too, for your assurance
that I do not interfere with your accomplished musical
professor, as my lower terms, according with my inferior
ability, also accord with my pupils' smaller means. And
thank you, more than all, for your gentle warning, lest, in
my eagerness to afford my husband material aid, I lose sight
of my first duty; that to my children and household. They
are providentially cared for. An elderly cousin of my husband,
Effie Lynn, has just lost her home. We are glad to
give her the shelter of our's. She is a delicately strung,
nervous little body, and will, in a way, increase my cares;
but she will also immensely relieve them, as, being most
kind, faithful, and fond of children, I can tranquilly leave
my girls with her during my working hours. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 179 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to
Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was
ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while
she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter,
she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other
low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe
directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed
neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications,
or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the
letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how
these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for
the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation,
followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked
him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints
are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the
evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the
uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is
through their intervention that he has failed of his election to
the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this
failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire
rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself
pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother.
I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly
pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling
with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after
Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her
generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met
that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly
changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and
spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with
me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up
—but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary
and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête
with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began:
`I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting
subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving
you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for
it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,'
she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose
a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred
another selection. Your dear father in his life-time
tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next
ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his
wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer
Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior
as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my
mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make
a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is
nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam,
she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne—
and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued,
`when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are
not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped
her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous
struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I
assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for
her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon
to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances
are still quivering. They shall not turn against me.
I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit,
when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne
Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still,
have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or,
I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty,
fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their
price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap
as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But,
my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men,
perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six
years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I
would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set
my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I
would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet
changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday,
I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to
justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances.
This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady,
but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence
to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps
distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember,
that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are
keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a
large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too
well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his
example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia;
you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight
to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began
my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were
deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no
great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession
on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor
House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow,
you will very much oblige me. As it is but one
day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I
imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return
by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have
come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall
we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my
brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead.
God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me
forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis'
maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said,
`it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left
the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go
in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out;
she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She
has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has
not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath,
and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes
she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating,
and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis.
Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta
Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly
beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted
blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she
looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair
matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed
me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit,
though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was
kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch,
her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her
and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me.
I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none.
I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping
cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation
she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the
shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I
know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother
started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who
is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my
arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I
have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your
child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write
that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change
of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair
to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to
speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only
thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I
shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I
shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution,
Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom,
and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of.
I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your
child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition
our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell
me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy.
Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all
empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me
off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed
her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and
by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she
would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched
to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and
laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less
anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her
hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child!
she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh—
did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall
never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I
had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour
with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed
she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never,
never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she
permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and
while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally
for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the
child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people
are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the
demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she
took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And
what was more important, she seemed comforted by my
presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned
to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long
time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she
said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that
God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was
not that what you said? My head has been so confused—
it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and
if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights
and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never
known, and resources upon which you had never drawn;
how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before
felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile
almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the
divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished
and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward
all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how
the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands
realities, while it hungers after the good and the
true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality
comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you
in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn
and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky,
and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr.
Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York
without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when
you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will
forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what
Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am
coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and
kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a
promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put
my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my
house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from
me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You
shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on
one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other.
`I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a
place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A
place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother
can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my
trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up
double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.'
Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek,
saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and
cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter,
girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother,
I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room;
you might have told me, mother, when I asked
you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new
bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing.
It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited,
May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let
him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.'
Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess,
that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked
pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains
and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored
to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow
in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the
sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh
flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike
guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become
his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling
him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent
youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree.
His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was
your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting,
in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving
soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give
it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain,
the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest
with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest
breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long
enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds
did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated
the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to
return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the
manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life
never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations.
L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected
that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects
would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then
followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would
not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself
should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'”
etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked,
every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my
dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your
disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.) | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 180 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings, hiz sayings | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The mule is haf hoss, and haf Jackass, and then
kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake.
Tha weigh more, akordin tu their heft, than enny
other kreetur, except a crowbar. Tha kant hear
enny quicker, nor further than the hoss, yet their
ears are big enuff for snow shoes. You kan trust
them with enny one whose life aint worth enny
more than the mules. The only wa tu keep them
into a paster, is tu turn them into a medder jineing,
and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use,
just as soon as they will du tu abuse. Tha haint
got enny friends, and will live on huckel berry
brush, with an ockasional chanse at Kanada thissels.
Tha are a modern invenshun, i dont think the Bible
deludes tu them at tall. Tha sel for more
money than enny other domestik animile. Yu
kant tell their age by looking into their mouth,
enny more than you kould a Mexican cannons.
Tha never hav no dissease that a good club wont
heal. If tha ever die tha must kum rite tu life
agin, for i never herd nobody sa “ded mule.” Tha
are like sum men, very korrupt at harte; ive known
them tu be good mules for 6 months, just tu git a
good chanse to kick sumbody. I never owned one,
nor never mean to, unless there is a United Staits
law passed, requiring it. The only reason why
tha are pashunt, is bekause tha are ashamed ov
themselfs. I have seen eddikated mules in a sirkus.
Tha kould kick, and bite, tremenjis. I would not
sa what I am forced tu sa again the mule, if his
birth want an outrage, and man want tu blame for
it. Enny man who is willing tu drive a mule,
ought to be exempt by law from running for the
legislatur. Tha are the strongest creeturs on earth,
and heaviest, ackording tu their sise; I herd tell
ov one who fell oph from the tow path, on the Eri
kanawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but
he kept rite on towing the boat tu the nex stashun,
breathing thru his ears, which stuck out ov the water
about 2 feet 6 inches; i did'nt see this did, but
an auctioneer told me ov it, and i never knew an
auctioneer tu lie unless it was absolutely convenient. “Dear Augustus Sidney Bloodgood: Having a
fu spare time tew devote terestial things, i take mi
pen in hand tew rite yu a fu lines. I am well, and
hope theze fu lines will find yu enjoying the same
blessin. I hav jist returned from the gardin ov
Eden whare i hav bin with Dave Sturgiss, who was
killed at the battell ov Gettisburg bi gitting choked
with a pease ov hard tacks. The weather iz fine,
and there iz evry prospeck ov krops; I never see
the potaters look finer. Dri goods is cheap here, yu
can buy good factory cottin cloth, yard wide, for
eleven cents a yard and hav thred thrown in. I see
the Widder Bostwick yesterday, she looks as starched
up as ever. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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