| | 141 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Pierre, or, The ambiguities  | | | | 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: | “Dates, my old boy, bestir thyself now. Go to my room,
Dates, and bring me down my mahogany strong-box and lockup,
the thing covered with blue chintz; strap it very carefully,
my sweet Dates, it is rather heavy, and set it just without the
postern. Then back and bring me down my writing-desk, and
set that, too, just without the postern. Then back yet again,
and bring me down the old camp-bed (see that all the parts be
there), and bind the case well with a cord. Then go to the left
corner little drawer in my wardrobe, and thou wilt find my visiting-cards.
Tack one on the chest, and the desk, and the
camp-bed case. Then get all my clothes together, and pack
them in trunks (not forgetting the two old military cloaks,
my boy), and tack cards on them also, my good Dates. Then
fly round three times indefinitely, my good Dates, and wipe a
little of the perspiration off. And then—let me see—then, my
good Dates—why what then? Why, this much. Pick up all
papers of all sorts that may be lying round my chamber, and
see them burned. And then—have old White Hoof put to
the lightest farm-wagon, and send the chest, and the desk, and
the camp-bed, and the trunks to the `Black Swan,' where I
shall call for them, when I am ready, and not before, sweet
Dates. So God bless thee, my fine, old, imperturbable Dates,
and adieu! “The fine cut, the judicious fit of your productions
fill us with amazement. The fabric is excellent—the finest
broadcloth of genius. We have just started in business. Your
pantaloons—productions, we mean—have never yet been collected.
They should be published in the Library form. The
tailors—we mean the librarians, demand it. Your fame is
now in its finest nap. Now—before the gloss is off—now is
the time for the library form. We have recently received an
invoice of Chamois—Russia leather. The library form should
P
be a durable form. We respectfully offer to dress your amazing
productions in the library form. If you please, we will
transmit you a sample of the cloth—we mean a sample-page,
with a pattern of the leather. We are ready to give you one
tenth of the profits (less discount) for the privilege of arraying
your wonderful productions in the library form:—you cashing
the seamstresses'—printer's and binder's bills on the day of
publication. An answer at your earliest convenience will
greatly oblige,— “Sir: I approach you with unfeigned trepidation. For
though you are young in age, you are old in fame and ability.
I can not express to you my ardent admiration of your works;
nor can I but deeply regret that the productions of such graphic
descriptive power, should be unaccompanied by the humbler illustrative
labors of the designer. My services in this line are entirely
at your command. I need not say how proud I should
be, if this hint, on my part, however presuming, should induce
you to reply in terms upon which I could found the hope of
honoring myself and my profession by a few designs for the
works of the illustrious Glendinning. But the cursory mention
of your name here fills me with such swelling emotions, that I
can say nothing more. I would only add, however, that not
being at all connected with the Trade, my business situation
unpleasantly forces me to make cash down on delivery of each
design, the basis of all my professional arrangements. Your
noble soul, however, would disdain to suppose, that this sordid
necessity, in my merely business concerns, could ever impair— “Official duty and private inclination in this present
case most delightfully blend. What was the ardent desire
of my heart, has now by the action of the Committee on Lectures
become professionally obligatory upon me. As Chairman
of our Committee on Lectures, I hereby beg the privilege
of entreating that you will honor this Society by lecturing
before it on any subject you may choose, and at any day most
convenient to yourself. The subject of Human Destiny we
would respectfully suggest, without however at all wishing to
impede you in your own unbiased selection. “This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre
I feel stronger to-day; for to-day I have still more thought of
thine own superhuman, angelical strength; which so, has a
very little been transferred to me. Oh, Pierre, Pierre, with
what words shall I write thee now;—now, when still knowing
nothing, yet something of thy secret I, as a seer, suspect.
Grief,—deep, unspeakable grief, hath made me this seer. I
could murder myself, Pierre, when I think of my previous
blindness; but that only came from my swoon. It was horrible
and most murdersome; but now I see thou wert right in
being so instantaneous with me, and in never afterward writing
to me, Pierre; yes, now I see it, and adore thee the more. “Sir:—You are a swindler. Upon the pretense of writing
a popular novel for us, you have been receiving cash advances
from us, while passing through our press the sheets of a blasphemous
rhapsody, filched from the vile Atheists, Lucian and
Voltaire. Our great press of publication has hitherto prevented
our slightest inspection of our reader's proofs of your book.
Send not another sheet to us. Our bill for printing thus far,
and also for our cash advances, swindled out of us by you, is
now in the hands of our lawyer, who is instructed to proceed
with instant rigor. “Thou, Pierre Glendinning, art a villainous and perjured liar.
It is the sole object of this letter imprintedly to convey the
point blank lie to thee; that taken in at thy heart, it may be
thence pulsed with thy blood, throughout thy system. We
have let some interval pass inactive, to confirm and solidify our
hate. Separately, and together, we brand thee, in thy every
lung-cell, a liar;—liar, because that is the scornfullest and loathsomest
title for a man; which in itself is the compend of all infamous
things. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 143 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Doctor Johns | | | | 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 the summer of 1812, when the good people of
Connecticut were feeling uncommonly bitter about
the declaration of war against England, and were
abusing Mr. Madison in the roundest terms, there
lived in the town of Canterbury a fiery old gentleman,
of near sixty years, and a sterling Democrat, who took
up the cudgels bravely for the Administration, and
stoutly belabored Governor Roger Griswold for his
tardy obedience to the President in calling out the
militia, and for what he called his absurd pretensions
in regard to State sovereignty. He was a man, too,
who meant all that he said, and gave the best proof
of it by offering his military services, — first to the
Governor, and then to the United States General commanding
the Department. “Dear Father, — I have come away from school.
I don't know as you will like it much. I walked all the
way from Bolton, and my feet are very sore; I don't
think I could walk home. Captain Saul says he will
take me by the way of New York. I can go and see
Aunt Mabel. I will tell her you are all well. “I opened the Within to see who the boy was; and
This is to say, I shall take him Aboard, and shall be
off Chatham Red Quarries to-morrow night and next
day morning, and, if you signal from the dock, can
send him Ashore. Or, if this don't Come in time, my
berth is Peck Slip, in York. “My dear Sir, — I am sorry that I threw `Daboll'
in your face as I did, and hope you will forgive the
same. “My dear Johns,” (so his letter runs,) “I had
counted on surprising you completely by dropping
in upon you at your parsonage, (so often in my
thought,) at Ashfield; but circumstances have prevented.
Can I ask so large a favor of you as to
bring my dear Adèle to meet me here? If your
parochial duties forbid this utterly, can you not see
her safely on the river-boat, and I will meet her at
the wharf in New York? But, above all, I hope you
will come with her. I fancy her now so accomplished
a young lady, that there will be needed some
ceremony of presentation at your hands; besides
which, I want a long talk with you. We are both
many years older since we have met; you have had
your trials, and I have escaped with only a few
rubs. Let us talk them over. Slip away quietly,
if you can; beyond Adèle and your good sister,
can't you conceal your errand to the city? Your
country villages are so prone to gossip, that I would
wish to clasp my little Adèle before your towns-folk
shall have talked the matter over. Pray ask your
good sister to prepare the wardrobe of Adèle for a
month or two of absence, since I mean she shall
be my attendant on a little jaunt through the country.
I long to greet her; and your grave face, my
dear Johns, is always a welcome sight.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 144 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Doctor Johns | | | | 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: | AUTUMN and winter passed by, and the summer
of 1838 opened upon the old quiet life of Ashfield.
The stiff Miss Johns, busy with her household
duties, or with her stately visitings. The Doctor's hat
and cane in their usual place upon the little table within
the door, and of a Sunday his voice is lifted up
under the old meeting-house roof in earnest expostulation.
The birds pipe their old songs, and the orchard
has shown once more its wondrous glory of bloom.
But all these things have lost their novelty for Adèle.
Would it be strange, if the tranquil life of the little
town had lost something of its early charm? That
swift French blood of hers has been stirred by contact
with the outside world. She has, perhaps, not been
wholly insensible to those admiring glances which so
quickened the pride of the father. Do not such things
leave a hunger in the heart of a girl of seventeen
which the sleepy streets of a country town can but
poorly gratify? “My dear Johns, — I shall again greet you, God
willing, in your own home, some forty days hence, and
I shall come as a repentant Benedick; for I now wear
the dignities of a married man. Your kind letter
counted for a great deal toward my determination; but
I will not affect to conceal from you, that my tender
interest in the future of Adèle counted for a great deal
more. As I had supposed, the communication to Julie
(which I effected through her brother) that her child
was still living, and living motherless, woke all the tenderness
of her nature. I cannot say that the sudden
change in her inclinations was any way flattering to
me; but knowing her recent religious austerities, I was
prepared for this. I shall not undertake to describe
to you our first interview, which I can never forget. It
belongs to those heart-secrets which cannot be spoken
of; but this much I may tell you, — that, if there was
no kindling of the old and wayward love, there grew
out of it a respect for her present severity and elevation
of character that I had never anticipated. At our
age, indeed, (though, when I think of it, I must be
many years your junior,) a respect for womanly character
most legitimately takes the place of that disorderly
sentiment which twenty years ago blazed out in
passion. “Mon cher Monsieur,” — in this way she begins; for
her religious severities, if not her years, have curbed
any disposition to explosive tenderness, — “I have received
the letter of our child, which was addressed to
you. I cannot tell you the feelings with which I have
read it. I long to clasp her to my heart. And she appeals
to you, for me, — the dear child! Yes, you have
well done in telling her that I was unworthy (méchante).
It is true, — unworthy in forgetting duty, — unworthy
in loving too well. O Monsieur! if I could live over
again that life, — that dear young life among the olive
orchards! But the good Christ (thank Him!) leads
back the repentant wanderers into the fold of His
Church. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 145 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Dream 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: | —“My friend Clarence will I trust beheve me,
when I say that his letter was a surprise to me. To
say that it was very grateful, would be what my
womanly vanity could not fail to claim. I only wish
that I was equal to the flattering portrait which he has
drawn. I even half fancy that he is joking me, and can
hardly believe that my matronly air should have quite
won his youthful heart. At least I shall try not to
believe it; and when I welcome him one day, the husband
of some fairy, who is worthy of his love, we will smile
together at the old lady, who once played the Circe
to his senses. Seriously, my friend Clarence, I know
your impulse of heart has carried you away; and that
in a year's time, you will smile with me, at your old
penchant for one so much your senior, and so ill-suited
to your years, as your true friend, —“Dear Madge,—May I not call you thus, if
only in memory of our childish affections;—and might
I dare to hope that a riper affection which your character
has awakened, may permit me to call you thus,
always? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 146 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Fudge doings | | | | 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 MUST confess that I feel diffident in entering
upon the work which I have taken in hand.
Very few know what it is to assume the position
that I now occupy; viz., endeavoring to entertain
the public with a record of the observations, fancies,
history, and feelings of one's own family. Many people
do this in a quiet way; but I am not aware that
it has heretofore been undertaken in the unblushing
manner which I propose to myself. “Mr. Fudge will much consult his own advantage
in abstaining from the imposition of any more
of his drunken and impertinent fooleries upon the
society of my daughter. “My dear boy,” she says, “I hope you are quite
well, and have got over the cold in the head you
spoke of. It is charming weather in New-York,
and old Truman Bodgers is dead; died aboard the
Eclipse, which burnt up two weeks ago, and a great
many valuable lives lost, which we regret very
much, making true the words of the Psalmist, which
I hope you read, that in the middle of life death
comes and overtakes us. He has left considerable
property, which your father says will be divided
between Aunt Fleming and myself, which will make
a pretty sum for you by-and-by, being eighty
thousand dollars, as Solomon says, in all. “Cruel! cruel! et vous, mon cher! And can you
think that I would suffer your blood to flow under
the hands of that monstre, whom I will not name?
No! no! I know all. I have detained him, but
only for a little time, perhaps. Will you fly? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 147 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Fudge doings | | | | 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 SHALL open this volume with a few observations
upon an individual, who may possibly
have important relations with the Fudge family:
I refer to Mr. Blimmer, of Blimmersville. Mr.
Blimmer has a very snug office, full of diagrams
of Blimmersville. Indeed, the plots, sites, buildings,
and accounts, of that prospective town
may be said to fill up the office. There is,
among other charts, a beautiful lithograph of
Blimmersville, very attractive, with a proposed
church, and a proposed clergyman's cottage; both
of them highly picturesque, highly Gothic, and
highly flattering to the proposed Christian feeling
of the township—much more flattering, indeed, than
such buildings are apt to be in earnest. “My Dear Washington:—I cannot pay longer
your frequent drafts upon me. My affairs are not
in so good case as at last writing. Practise economy,
and make arrangements to return speedily,
when I hope you will enter immediately upon some
sound business-calling. “My Dear Washy:—I have very much to tell
you. We are terribly disturbed; you have heard
of Mr. Bodgers' death, and how he left no will, as
any one can find. Your father was made administrator,
with Mr. Bivins, and things were going very
well, as we thought, and Kitty would have had a
handsome slice, which would have made her perhaps
to be considered as a match for you, my dear son,
although she is a cousin, when, on a sudden, Mr. Quid,
the father of the young gentleman you know, called
on Mr. Fudge, and, showing him some old papers
he has, which I suppose are testimonials, made a
claim for the whole of the property, and what it all
is, I don't know; and your father is anxious, besides
that; the bank is doing badly, and our expenses
with you and Wilhe are heavy. “My Dear Madam:—Duty compels me to inform
you that the claims of Mr. Quid upon the estate of
your deceased kinsman, Truman Bodgers, Esq., of
which I have already given you brief advisement,
are very strong. He has shown to me, in connection
with my legal adviser, papers which appear to
establish, beyond doubt, the rights of his son, as
heir at law. Deeply distressing as this event must
be to both branches of the Bodgers family, I see
no resource. I would advise you, therefore, to
limit your expenses accordingly, as the usual annuity,
which I believe you have been in the habit of
receiving through the generosity of Mr. Bodgers,
will now be cut off. I trust you will bear the
reverse with resolution. “My Dear Jemima:—I should be very ungrateful
for all your kindness if I forgot to write you, as
I promised I would, and to tell you all about my
country home, which I am so glad to welcome
again. “Letitia, ma Chère Letitia:—After our sudden
parting last summer, so very provoking as it was, I
5*
have been pining away in the Avenue. I am well
enough to be sure, and take a drive every day upon
Broadway with mamma; and the Count is civil and
attentive as usual, and the Spindles are as jealous
as ever (which is some comfort), yet somehow it
seems very dull. Papa has a terribly long face;
more than all, when I ask him for money. Mamma
says he is disturbed about his coal-stocks, and business,
and all that. What a horrid thing business
is! It made us come away from the Springs just
as a good set was forming about mamma; and
there's no hope, I fear, of getting it together again.
How is it, dear Letitia, that people will be very
kind, and chatty, and attentive at the Springs, and
then never come near you in town? I should love
to live at Saratoga, that is, provided the Count
and you, and the rest were there, and the set was
good. “Mr. Blimmer's compliments to Mr. Quid, and
begs to advise him that the instalments now due on
lots Numbers seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty,
twenty-one, etc., in the town of Blimmersville, are
still unpaid: he also begs to advise Mr. Quid
(hoping he will not take offence) of his (Blimmer's)
natural reluctance to place in the hands of
so entire a stranger the original document intrusted
to him by a certain deceased party; he believes,
however, that the writing which he had the honor
to place in Mr. Quid's hands, was a true copy of the
same; and, in the event of pending negotiations
being happily matured, he (Blimmer) would have
no objection to add to it the original instrument. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 148 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Seven stories, with basement and attic | | | | 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 an out of the way corner of my library are five
plethoric little note-books of Travel. One of them,
and it is the earliest, is bound in smart red leather, and
has altogether a dapper British air; its paper is firm
and evenly lined, and it came a great many years ago
(I will not say how many) out of a stationer's shop
upon Lord street in Liverpool. A second, in stiff
boards, marbled, and backed with muslin, wears a
soldierly primness in its aspect that always calls to mind
the bugles, and the drums, and the brazen helmets of
Berlin—where, once upon a time, I added it to my
little stock of travelling companions. A third, in limp
morocco, bought under the Hotel de l'Ecu at Geneva,
shows a great deal of the Swiss affection of British
wares, and has borne bravely the hard knapsack service,
and the many stains which belonged to those glorious
mountain tramps that live again whenever I turn
over its sweaty pages. Another is tattered, dingy—the
paper frail, and a half of its cover gone; yet I think it
is a fair specimen of what the Roman stationers could
do, in the days when the Sixteenth Gregory was Pope.
The fifth and last, is coquettish, jaunty—as prim as the
Prussian, limp like the Genevese, and only less solid
than the English: it is all over French; and the fellows
to it may very likely have served a tidy grisette to write
down her tale of finery, or some learned member of the
Institute to record his note-takings in the Imperial
Library. “You must have thought I treated you very
scurvily. Annie thought it best however that I should
not call at your lodgings. We had been privately married
a year before. Though I ought not to say it, the
colonel's return to life was something of a damper to me;
but he knows it all now, and is thoroughly reconciled.
I can show him a rent-roll from my little ventures hereabout,
that is larger than his colonel's pay. We are all
at Clumber Cottage—happy of course. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 150 | Author: | Neal
John
1793-1876 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | True womanhood | | | | 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 a cold, bright clear day, in the troubled winter of 1857-8,
when the great city of New York seemed to be struck with
paralysis, and the “boldest held their breath” for awhile, a
large crowd were gathered just outside of the Park; while, on
the opposite side of the way, there was another and yet
larger collection, filling the street and side-walks, and surging
and struggling about the open doors of a theatre. “Dear Elizabeth, — I hope to be at home to-day. Be of
good cheer. The gentleman who hands you this — Mr. Winthrop
Fay — is my legal adviser just now. He may desire to
see Julia by herself. Whatever he advises, you will be safe in
doing. On the card of Mr. Fay was written: “You may look for me
within the hour; and it may be well for Miss Parry and Mr.
Maynard to be prepared for a short drive. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 151 | Author: | Parkman
Francis
1823-1893 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Vassall Morton | | | | 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: | “Macknight on the Epistles, — that's the name of
the book?” Sir: I am a native of the United States, who, for the
past four years, have been a prisoner in the Castle of Ehrenberg,
confined for no offence, political or otherwise, but
on a groundless suspicion. I escaped by the assistance
of a soldier in the garrison, and have made my way thus far
in the dress of a peasant. I am anxious to reach Genoa, or
some other port beyond the power of Austria, but am embarrassed
and endangered by my ignorance of the routes and
the state of the country. Information on these points, and
the means of communicating with an American consul, are the
only aid of which I am in necessity; and I take the liberty
of applying to you in the hope of obtaining it. By giving it,
you will oblige me in a matter of life and death. The people
of the country cannot be trusted; but I may rely securely on
the generosity of an English gentleman. Dear M.: Uncle Sam in a deuse of a hurry. Ordered to
the island this afternoon. Off for Mexico to-morrow. Sorry
not to see you, but haven't a minute to spare. Good luck. —
Au revoir. Dear Sir: You cannot have forgotten some interviews
and correspondence which formerly passed between us concerning
a person who soon after was unfortunate enough to
fall under the notice of the Austrian police. Nothing has
since been heard of him, and it is commonly believed here
that he is dead. It is my desire to have this opinion confirmed;
and having found you honorable and efficient on another
occasion, I cannot doubt that I shall find you so in this.
May I beg your services in the following particulars? I heard all. I have learned, at last, to know you. These
were your bad dreams! This was the cloud that overshadowed
you! No wonder that your eye was anxious, your
forehead wrinkled, and your cheek pale. To have led that
brave and loyal heart through months and years of anguish!
— to have buried him from the light of day! — to have
buried him in darkness and despair, if despair could ever touch
a soul like his! And there he would have been lost forever,
if you had had your will, — if a higher hand had not been
outstretched to save him. One whom you dared not meet
face to face; one as far above your sphere as the eagle is
above the serpent to which he likened you! You have taught
me how sin can cringe and cower under the anger of a true
and deeply outraged man. That I should have lived to hear
my husband called a villain! — and still live to tell him that
the word was just! My husband! You are not my husband.
It was not a criminal, a traitorous wretch, whom I
pledged myself to love and honor. You have insnared me;
you have me, for a time, safely entangled in your meshes.
The same cause which led me to this yoke must withhold me
from casting it off. I cannot imbitter my father's dying moments.
I cannot bring distress and horror to his tranquil
death bed. For his sake, I will play the hypocrite, and
stoop to pass in the world's eye as your wife. For the few
weeks he has to live, I will lodge, if I must, under your roof;
I will sit, if I must, at your table; but when my father is
gone, let the world impute to me what blame it will, I will
leave you forever. You need not fear that I shall expose
your crimes. If he could spare you, it does not become me
to speak. Live on, and make what atonement you may;
but meanwhile there is a gulf between us wider than death. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 152 | Author: | Roe
Edward Payson
1838-1888 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Barriers burned away | | | | 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: | From its long sweep over the unbroken prairie, a
heavier blast than usual shook the slight frame house.
The windows rattled in the casements, as if shivering in
their dumb way in the December storm. So open and
defective was the dwelling in its construction, that eddying
currents of cold air found admittance at various
points—in some instances carrying with them particles
of the fine, sharp, hail-like snow that the gale was driving
before it in blinding fury. “Dear Mother:—I arrived safely, and am very well.
I did not, yesterday, find a situation suited to my taste,
but expect better success to-day. I am just on the point
of starting out on my search, and when settled will write
you full particulars. Many kisses for yourself and the
little girls. Your affectionate son, “My dear Wife:—Perhaps before this reaches you,
our best friend, our human saviour, will be in heaven. There
is a heaven, I believe as I never did before; and when
Mrs. Fleet prays the gate seems to open, and the glory to
stream right down upon us. But I fear now that not even
her prayers can keep him. Only once he knew her; then
he smiled and said, “Mother, it is all right,” and dropped
asleep. Soon fever came on again, and he is sinking fast.
The doctor shakes his head and gives no hope. My heart
is breaking. Marguerite, Mr. Fleet is not dying a natural
death; he has been slain. I understand all his manner
now, all his desperate hard work. He loved one above
him in wealth—none could be above him in other respects
—and that one was Miss Ludolph. I suspected it, though,
till delirious, he scarcely ever mentioned her name. But
now I believe she played with his heart—the noblest that
ever beat—and then threw it away, as it were a toy instead
of the richest offering ever made to a woman. Proud fool
that she was; she had done more mischief than a thousand
such frivolous lives as hers can atone for. I can write no
more—my heart is breaking with grief and indignation.” “Would Miss Ludolph be willing to come and see a
dying woman? “I have been compelled to supply your place in your
absence: therefore your services will be no longer needed
at this store. Inclosed you will find a check for the small
balance still due you. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 153 | Author: | Roe
Edward Payson
1838-1888 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | From jest to earnest | | | | 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 a cloudy December morning, a gentleman,
two ladies, and a boy, stepped down from the
express train at a station just above the Highlands
on the Hudson. A double sleigh, overflowing with
luxurious robes, stood near, and a portly coachman
with difficulty restrained his spirited horses while
the little party arranged themselves for a winter
ride. Both the ladies were young, and the gentleman's
anxious and almost tender solicitude for one
of them seemed hardly warranted by her blooming
cheeks and sprightly movements. A close observer
might soon suspect that his assiduous attentions
were caused by a malady of his own rather than
indisposition on her part. IT is a common impression that impending disasters
cast their shadows before; and especially in
the realm of fiction do we find that much is made
of presentiments, which are usually fulfilled in a
very dramatic way. But the close observer of real
life, to a large degree, loses faith in these bodings
of ill. He learns that sombre impressions result
more often from a defective digestion and
disquieted conscience than any other cause; and
that, after the gloomiest forebodings, the days pass
in unusual sereneness. Not that this is always
true, but it would almost seem the rule. Perhaps
more distress is caused by those troubles which
never come, but which are feared and worried over,
than by those which do come, teaching us, often,
patience and faith. “Mr. Hemstead, I sincerely ask your forgiveness
for my folly, which you cannot condemn as
severely as I do. Though unworthy, indeed, of your
friendship and esteem, can you believe that I am
not now the weak, wicked creature that I was when
we first met? But I have not the courage to plead
my own cause. I know that both facts and appearances
are against me. I can only ask you,
Who told His disciples to forgive each other,
`seventy times seven'? “My Friend: “I am in receipt of your splendid book. It is full of valuable information,
not only to beginners but to those of the ripest experience. In fact, it is the most elegant in
its illustrations and execution, comprehensive in its investigations, and judicious in its
teachings, of any work on the same subject ever published in our country. More than
this, it is a fine illustration of what industry, intelligence, and devotion can accomplish.
I give it a hearty welcome. Success to `Success with Small Fruits.' | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 155 | Author: | Roe
Edward Payson
1838-1888 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | What can she do? | | | | 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 very cold blustering day in early January,
and even brilliant thronged Broadway felt
the influence of winter's harshest frown. There
had been a heavy fall of snow which, though in
the main cleared from the sidewalks, lay in the
streets comparatively unsullied and unpacked.
Fitful gusts of the passing gale caught it up and
whirled it in every direction. From roof, ledges,
and window sills, miniature avalanches suddenly
descended on the startled pedestrians, and the air
was here and there loaded with falling flakes from
wild hurrying masses of clouds, the rear guard of
the storm that the biting northwest wind was
driving seaward. “In your request and reproaches, I see the influence
of another mind. Left to yourself you
would not doubt me. And yet such is my love for
you, I would comply with your request were it not
for what passed that fatal evening. My feelings
and honor as a man forbid my ever meeting your
sister again till she has apologized. She never
liked me, and always wronged me with doubts.
Elliot acted like a fool and a villain, and I have
nothing more to do with him. But your sister, in
her anger and excitement, classed me with him.
When you have been my loved and trusted wife
for some length of time, I hope your family will do
me justice. When you are here with me you will
soon see why our marriage must be private for the
present. You have known me since you were a
child. I will be true to my word and will do
exactly as I agreed. I will meet you any evening
you wish on the down boat. Awaiting your reply
with an anxiety which only the deepest love can
inspire, I remain “I am going, Edith, to meet Mr. Van Dam, as he
told me. I cannot—I will not believe that he will
prove false to me. I leave his letter, which I received
to-day. Perhaps you never will forgive me
at home; but whatever becomes of poor little Zell,
she will not cease to love you all. I would only be
a burden if I stayed. There will be one less to
provide for, and I may be able to help you far more
by going than staying. Don't follow me. I've
made my venture, and chosen my lot. “Mother, Edith, farewell! When you read these
sad words I shall be dead. I fear death—I cannot
tell you how I fear it, but I fear that dreadful gulf
which daily grows nearer more. I must die. There
is no other resource for a poor, weak woman like
16
me. If I were only strong—if I had only been
taught something—but I am helpless. Do not be
too hard upon poor little Zell. Her eyes were
blinded by a false love; she did not see the black
gulf as I see it. If God cares for what such poor
forlorn creatures as I do, may He forgive. I have
thought till my brain reels. I have tried to pray,
but hardly knew what I was praying to. I don't
understand God—He is far off. The world scorns
us. There is none to help. There is no other
remedy save the drug at my side, which will soon
bring sleep which I hope will be dreamless. Farewell! “Miss Edith Allen: You need not fear that I
shall offend again by either writing or speaking
such rash words as those which so deeply pained
you this morning. They would not have been
spoken then, perhaps never, had I not been startled
out of my self-control—had I not seen that you
suspected me of evil. I was very unwise, and I sincerely
ask your pardon. But I meant no wrong,
and as you referred to my sister, I can say, before
God, that I would shield you as I would shield
her. “Guilliam:—You cannot know where I am.
You cannot know what has happened. You could
not be such a fiend as to cast me off and send me
here to die—and die I shall. The edge of the grave
seems crumbling under me as I write. If you have
a spark of love for me, come and see me before I
die. Oh, Guilliam, Guilliam! what a heaven of a
home I would have made you, if you had only married
me. It would have been my whole life to make
you happy. I said bitter words to you—forgive
them. We both have sinned—can God forgive us?
I will not believe you know what has happened.
You are grieving for me—looking for me. They
took me away while you were gone. Come and see
me before I die. Good-bye. I'm writing in the dark
—I'm dying in the dark—my soul is in the dark—
I'm going away in the dark—where, O God, where? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 156 | Author: | Sargent
Epes
1813-1880 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Peculiar | | | | 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 is a small and somewhat faded room in an unpretending
brick house in one of the streets that intersect Broadway,
somewhere between Canal Street and the Park. A woman
sits at a writing-table, with the fingers of her left hand thrust
through her hair and supporting her forehead, while in her
right hand she holds a pen with which she listlessly draws
figures, crosses, circles and triangles, faces and trees, on the
blotting-paper that partly covers a letter which she has been
inditing. DEAR HENRY: You kindly left word for me to write
you. I have little of a cheering nature to say in regard
to myself. We have moved from the house in Fourteenth
Street into a smaller one nearer to the Park and to Mr. Charlton's
business. His complaints of his disappointment in regard
to my means have lately grown more bitter. Your allowance,
liberal as it is, seems to be lightly esteemed. The other day
he twitted me with setting a snare for him by pretending to be
a rich widow. O Henry, what an aggravation of insult! I
knew nothing, and of course said nothing, as to the extent of
your father's wealth. I supposed, as every one else did, that
he left a large property. His affairs proved to be in such a
state that they could not be disentangled by his executors till
two years after his death. Before that time I was married to
Mr. Charlton. “To Carberry Ratcliff, Esq.: — Sir: By the time this letter
reaches you I shall be out of your power, and with my freedom
assured. Still I desire to be at liberty to return to New
Orleans, if I should so elect, and therefore I request you to name
the sum in consideration of which you will give me free papers.
A friend will negotiate with you. Let that friend have your
answer, if you please, in the form of an advertisement in the
Picayune, addressed to “To Estelle: For fifty dollars, I will give you the papers
you desire. “What shall I call thee? Dearest? But that word implies
a comparative; and whom shall I compare with thee? Most
precious and most beloved? O, that is not a tithe of it! Idol?
Darling? Sweet? Pretty words, but insufficient. Ah! life
of my life, there are no superlatives in language that can interpret
to thee the unspeakable affection which swells in my
heart and moistens my eyes as I commence this letter! Can
we by words give an idea of a melody? No more can I put on
paper what my heart would be whispering to thine. Forgive
the effort and the failure. “Judge Onslow, late of Mississippi, and his son saved themselves
by swimming. Among the bodies they identified was
that of Mrs. Berwick of New York, wounded in the head.
From the nature of the wound, her death must have been instantaneous.
Her husband was badly scalded, and, on recognizing
the body of his wife, and learning that his child was
among the drowned, he became deeply agitated. He lingered
till the next day at noon. The child had been in the keeping
of a mulatto nurse. Mr. Burgess of St. Louis, who was saved,
saw them both go overboard. It appears, however, that the
nurse, with her charge in her arms, was seen holding on to a
life-preserving stool; but they were both drowned, though
every effort was made by Colonel Hyde, aided by Mr. Quattles
of South Carolina, to save them. “To Perdita: I shall not be able to see you again to-day.
Content yourself as well as you can in the company of
Mozart and Beethoven, Bellini and Donizetti, Irving and Dickens,
Tennyson and Longfellow. The company is not large, but
you will find it select. Unless some very serious engagement
should prevent, I will see you to-morrow. “Dear Brother: I have called, as you requested, on
Mr. Charlton in regard to his real estate in New Orleans.
Let me give you some account of this man. He is taxed for
upwards of a million. He inherited a good part of this sum
from his wife, and she inherited it from a nephew, the late Mr.
Berwick, who inherited it from his infant daughter, and this
last from her mother. Mother, child, and father — the whole
Berwick family — were killed by a steamboat explosion on the
Mississippi some fifteen or sixteen years ago. “Will you come and dine with me at five to-day without
ceremony? Please reply by the bearer. “I thank you for all the hospitality I have received at your
hands. Enclosed you will find my hotel bill receipted, also
five dollars for the use of such dresses as I have worn. With
best wishes for your mother's restoration to health and for your
own welfare, I bid you good by. “Stricken down by a death-wound, I write this. When it
reaches you, my son, you will be the last survivor of your
family. The faithful negro who bears this letter will tell you
all. You may rely on what he says. This crafty, this Satanic
Slave Power has — I can use the pen no longer. But I
can dictate. The negro must be my amanuensis.” “This Slave Power, which, for many weeks past, has been
hunting down and hanging Union men, has at last laid its
14 * U
bloody hand on our innocent household. Should you meet
Colonel A. J. Hamilton,*
* Late member of Congress from Texas. In his speech in New York
(1862) he said: “I know that the loyalists of Texas have died deaths not
heard of since the dark ages until now; not only hunted and shot, murdered
upon their own thresholds, but tied up and scalded to death with boiling
water; torn asunder by wild horses fastened to their feet; whole neighborhoods
of men exterminated, and their wives and children driven away.”
It is estimated by a writer in the New Orleans Crescent (June, 1863), that
at least twenty-five hundred persons had been hung in Texas during the preceding
two years for fidelity to the Union.
The San Antonio (Texas) Herald, a Rebel sheet of November 13th, 1862,
taunted the Unionists with the havoc that had been made among them! It
says: “They (Union men) are known and will be remembered. Their numbers
were small at first, and they are becoming every day less. In the
mountains near Fort Clark and along the Rio Grande their bones are bleaching
in the sun, and in the counties of Wire and Denton their bodies are
suspended by scores from black-jacks.”
Such are the shameless butchers and hangmen that Slavery spawns!
he will tell you something of what
the pro-slavery butchers have been doing. “The scoundrels have cut the telegraph wires, and we can't
communicate with the forts. I leave here at once to engage a
boat for the pursuit. Shall go in her myself. You must do
this one thing for me without fail: Take up your abode at
once, this very night, in my house, and stay there till I come
back. Use every possible precaution to prevent another escape
of that young person of whom I spoke to you. Do not
let her move a step out of doors without you or your agents
know precisely where she is. I shall hold you responsible for
her security. I may not be back for a day or two, in which
case you must have my wife's interment properly attended to. “Dear Mr. Vance: On leaving you at the Levee I drove
straight for the stable where my horses belonged. I passed
the night with my friend Antoine, the coachman. The next
day I went to your house, where I have stayed with those kind
people, the Bernards, ever since. “Do not think me fanciful, Mr. Vance, but the moment I
set eyes on this young woman the conviction struck me, She
is the lost Clara for whom we are seeking. The coincidence
of age and the fact that I have had the search of her on my
mind, may fully explain the impression. May. But you know
I believe in the phenomena of Spiritualism. Belief is not the
right word. Knowledge would be nearer the truth. “My dear little Granddaughter: This comes to you
from one to whom you seem nearer than any other she leaves
behind. She wishes she could make you wise through her
experience. Since her heart is full of it, let her speak it. In
that event, so important to your happiness, your marriage, may
you be warned by her example, and neither let your affections
blind your reason, nor your reason underrate the value of the
affections. Be sure not only that you love, but that you are
loved. Choose cautiously, my dear child, if you choose at all;
and may your choice be so felicitous that it will serve for the
next world as well as this. “Poor Peek, — rather let me say fortunate Peek! He fell
nobly, as he always desired to fall, in the cause of freedom and
humanity. His son, Sterling, is now with me; a bright, brave
little fellow, who is already a great comfort and help.” “My dear Cousin: I received last night your letter from
Meade's headquarters. 'T was a comfort to be assured you
escaped unharmed amid your many exposures. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 158 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The cassique of Kiawah | | | | 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: | Suppose the day to be a fine one — calm, placid, and without
a cloud — even such a day as frequently comes to cheer us in
the benign and bud-compelling month of April; — suppose the
seas to be smooth; at rest, and slumbering without emotion; with
a fair bosom gently heaving, and sending up only happy murmurs,
like an infant's after a late passion of tears; suppose the hour
to be a little after the turn of noon, when, in April, the sun, only
gently soliciting, forbears all ardency; sweetly smiles and softly
embraces; and, though loving enough for comfort, is not so oppressive
in his attachments as to prompt the prayer for an iceberg
upon which to couch ourselves for his future communion; supposing
all these supposes, dear reader, then the voyager, running
close in for the land — whose fortune it is to traverse that portion
of the Atlantic which breaks along the shores of Georgia and the
Carolinas — beholds a scene of beauty in repose, such as will be
very apt to make him forgetful of all the dangers he has passed! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 159 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Charlemont, or, The pride of the village | | | | 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 stormy and rugged winds of March were overblown
— the first fresh smiling days of April had come at last —
the days of sunshine and shower, of fitful breezes, the breath
of blossoms, and the newly-awakened song of birds. Spring
was there in all the green and glory of her youth, and the
bosom of Kentucky heaved with the prolific burden of the
season. She had come, and her messengers were everywhere,
and everywhere busy. The birds bore her gladsome
tidings to
“Alley green,
Dingle or bushy dell of each wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side—”
nor were the lately-trodden and seared grasses of the forests
left unnoted; and the humbled flower of the wayside
sprang up at her summons. Like some loyal and devoted
people, gathered to hail the approach of a long-exiled and
well-beloved sovereign, they crowded upon the path over
which she came, and yielded themselves with gladness at
her feet. The mingled songs and sounds of their rejoicing
might be heard, and far-off murmurs of gratulation, rising
from the distant hollows, or coming faintly over the hilltops,
in accents not the less pleasing because they were the
less distinct. That lovely presence which makes every
land blossom, and every living thing rejoice, met, in the
happy region in which we meet her now, a double tribute
of honor and rejoicing. “Dear Barnabas: The strangest adventure — positively
the very strangest — that ever happened to a son of Murkey's,
will keep me from the embraces of the brethren a few weeks
longer. I am benighted, bewildered, taken with art-magic,
transmuted, transmogrified, not myself nor yet another, but,
as they say in Mississippi, `a sort of betweenity.' Fancy
me suddenly become a convert to the bluest presbyterianism,
as our late excellent brother Woodford became, when
he found that he could not get Moll Parkinson on any other
terms — and your guess will not be very far from the true
one. I am suddenly touched with conviction. I have seen
a light on my way from Tarsus. The scales have fallen
from my eyes. I have seen the wickedness of my ways,
and yours too, you dog; and, having resolved on my own
repentance, I am taking lessons which shall enable me to
effect yours. Precious deal of salt will it need for that!
Salt river will fall, while its value rises. But the glory of
the thing — think of that, my boy! What a triumph it will
be to revolutionize Murkey's! — to turn out the drinkers,
and smokers, and money-changers; to say, `Hem! my
brethren, let us pay no more taxes to sin in this place!'
There shall be no more cakes and ale. Ginger shall have
no heat i' the mouth there; and, in place of smoking meats
and tobacco, give you nothing but smoking methodism!
Won't that be a sight and a triumph which shall stir the
dry bones in our valley — ay, and bones not so dry? There
shall be a quaking of the flesh in sundry places. Flam will
perish in the first fit of consternation; and if Joe Burke's
sides do not run into sop and jelly, through the mere humor
of the thing, then prophecy is out of its element quite. “Sir: If I understood your last assurance on leaving
you this day, I am to believe that the stroke of my whip has
made its proper impression on your soul — that you are
willing to use the ordinary means of ordinary persons, to
avenge an indignity which was not confined to your cloth.
If so, meet me at the lake with whatever weapons you choose
to bring. I will be there, provided with pistols for both, at
any hour from three to six. I shall proceed to the spot as
soon as I receive your answer. “I will meet you as soon as I can steal off without provoking
suspicion. I have pistols which I will bring with
me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 160 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days | | | | 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 district of Orangeburg, in South Carolina, constitutes
one of the second tier (from the seaboard) of the political and
judicial divisions or districts of that state. It is a vast plain,
with a surface almost unbroken, in the southern and western
portions, by elevations of any sort. In this region, it is irrigated
by numerous watercourses, rivers, and creeks, that make
their way through swamps of more or less width and density.
These are all thickly covered with a wild and tangled forest-growth,
skirted with great pines, and dwarf-oaks, to say nothing
of a vast variety of shrub-trees; the foliage of which,
massed together by gadding vines, usually presents, in midsummer,
the appearance of a solid wall, impervious to sight and
footstep. “These, old Sinkeler, are to signify that ef you don't surrender
up our friend and brother officer and sodger, Leftenant Joel
Andrews sometimes called `Hell-fire Dick,' of his royal majesty's
regiment of loyal rangers, third company of foragers,
we'll have your heart's blood out of your body, and thar shant
be stick or stone standing of your big house after we've gone
through it. These is to say to you that you must give him up
to the barrer of dispatches, in hafe an hour after you reads 'em,
or you may expeck the eternal vengeance of all consarned. “If he of H— D— [Holly-Dale] is honest, and will
speak the truth, giving proof as he promises, he shall have the
guaranty which he seeks. I will give him the meeting. See
to the arrangemeuts for it as soon as possible. We have reached
that stage of the game, when the loss of a pawn may be
that of a castle; when the gain, even of a pawn, may enable us
to give check-mate to a king! “Let him of H. D. know that I see no reason to depart from
our arrangement as originally made. “I shall take the liberty, my dear Captain Porgy, of bringing
with me a couple of additional guests, in General Greene
and Colonel Lee, knowing that your provision will not only be
ample, but that the taste which usually presides over your banquets
will give to our friends from Rhode Island and Virginia
such a notion of the tastes of Apicius and Lucullus, as certainly
never yet dawned upon them in their own half-civilized regions.
Your own courtesy will do the rest and will, I trust, sufficiently
justify the confidence with which I have insisted upon their
coming. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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