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1Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Add
 Title:  The Rebels, Or, Boston Before the Revolution  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: There was hurrying to and fro through the principal streets of Boston on the night of the 14th of August, 1765. A brilliant bonfire was blazing on Fort Hill. Column after column of light died away to rise again with redoubled grandeur, and at each succeeding burst of flame, the loud shouts of the rabble were heard with dreadful distinctness. “A friend of mine, who has lately returned to England, accidentally mentioned meeting Miss Fitzherbert at your house. May I ask who this Miss Fitzherbert is? I have been in my native country but a short time, —I am a bachelor,—and my health is exceedingly precarious. It is therefore important that I should know her history and connexions immediately. “Lieutenant-Governor, Member of the Council, Commander of the Castle, Judge of Probate, and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court! you are hereby commanded to appear under the Liberty-tree within one hour, to plight your faith, that you will use no more influence against an injured and an exasperated people. “I hardly know how to account for the diffidence I feel in addressing you. The usual exaggerated language of affection would, I well know, appear ridiculous to you; and coldness or reserve is but ill suited to the present state of my feelings. The declaration that I have been for years most sincerely and devotedly attached to you, may not perhaps be entirely unexpected; and I once hoped it would not be entirely disagreeable. You do not owe your influence over me to a sudden freak of fancy; it results from a long and intimate knowledge of your character. Yet I will not flatter you, by saying I consider you faultless;—on the contrary, I think you have defects, which may prove very dangerous to yourself and friends, unless timely corrected. But I cannot imagine a character more elevated than might be formed from a mind so vigorous, and a heart so generous and candid as yours. “I have only time before this vessel sails, to tell you, that the important papers,—certificate of marriage, birth, &c., came duly to hand. Evidence is ample and satisfactory. There is no doubt that your father was my dear, but very headstrong nephew,—though your miniature shows not a shadow of family likeness. I rejoice to see by your letter, that you have been educated as a Fitzherbert should be. As a trifling acknowledgement of this kindness, present the articles that accompany this, to Governor Hutchinson and his sister. A voyage at this season would be cold and dangerous, but as soon as the spring opens, you must make for England. “This flower, pure and beautiful as yourself, was purchased for you. Will you accept it from your faithful lover? Will you cherish it for his sake, during the tedious absence to which he is doomed? “Here I am, in the favoured land of the brave, the intelligent, and the free. Yet even while I now repeat it, I scarcely credit it. I feel as if I were walking in my sleep; and it is only when I look out upon the princely buildings around me, that I can realize I am indeed in London. Our voyage was very pleasant, with the exception of sea-sickness. That, however, is a tax we must all pay to lord Neptune for rocking us in his cradle somewhat too roughly. (Pardon me. I forget that the odious word tax is banished from the American vocabulary.) “We last week received your long and affectionate letter. I was delighted, but not dazzled, with your picture of London. I love my own quiet chamber better than I should marble saloons or Corinthian piazzas. Yet our humble mansion has been sad enough since you left us. My father's health fails daily; and long, long before you return to us, Lucretia, I fear the dear venerable old man will have gone to his last home. It grieves me to think of it. Yet why should they whose lives have been stainless, and their purposes all holy, shrink from the hand that enrobes them with immortality. Young as I am, there are times when I would lay down my weary, aching head, and sleep, never more to wake in this cold world, as cheerfully as the tired infant presses the soft pillow of its cradle. “My dear Child, “I delivered your letters according to their directions; and I do not hesitate to say that the general opinion here is entirely in favour of your views. It is, however, very difficult to ascertain what course will be taken, for never was there such a heterogeneous, unintelligible mass as the present ministry. They are made up of the shreds and patches of all political opinions,—a confused jumble of every shade and hue of whiggism. “How very seldom you write; and how wo-begone are your epistles. Do not think me heartless with regard to your father's sickness. Indeed, I have felt most keenly for you and for him; but I have not the least doubt that the fine, clear climate of Canada will restore him; and even if the event should be the worst that we can fear, you must not thus mourn away your young existence. When you wrote last, you were just on the point of starting for Montreal; and I assure you I envied you the excursion. I wish I could have visited Gertrude before I came to England. Not only because I loved her more than I ever loved any one in so short a time; but I am really ashamed when asked about Niagara and the Lakes, to say that I have never seen them. People here are not aware how very unusual it is for American ladies to go out of sight of their own chimnies; and as for space, they do not seem to imagine there is such a thing on the other side of the Atlantic. They would ask a Vermontese about the Blue Ridge, or a Georgian about Niagara, as readily as I should question a Londoner about St. Paul's, or beg a description of Snowdon from a Welchman born and bred within sight of its cloud-kissing peak. “I found your letter dated November 15th, waiting our arrival, when we returned from Canada. Gertrude and I wrote you a crowded epistle last autumn; I wonder you had not received it before you wrote. She is very happy. Indeed her affectionate heart deserves it. Had she been a sister in very truth, she could not have loved me more, or been more kindly attentive to my father. “I last week received a package from Boston, containing letters from uncle Hutchinson, Grace Osborne, and yourself. “How mutable are all human prospects! My last lines were written on the 14th; and uncle Fitzherbert was then in fine health, and animated to a remarkable degree. On the night of the 15th, he was suddenly attacked by violent convulsions. The fits continued with increasing power until the third day,—when, with anguish that cannot be described, I saw the only relative I had on earth stretched on the bed of death. I have never before seen Mrs. Edgarton subdued by emotion; but now I am obliged to exert all my fortitude to support her. Alas! I shall never again be idolized as I was by that dear old gentleman. He seemed to consider me the prop of his house,—the stay and support of his age. Why did my heart ever accuse him of coldness and formality? “Silly Girl, “If the frank avowal that you are still very dear to my widowed heart, requires any apology, let approaching death be my excuse. “It is long since I have written to you,—longer than I once thought it ever would be; but heart-trying scenes prevented it, after my return from England; and when their bitterness had passed away, I was too much depressed to make any mental exertion. “Much respected Madam,
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