| | 21 | Author: | Holmes
Oliver Wendell
1809-1894 | Add | | | Title: | The guardian angel  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | ON Saturday, the 18th day of June, 1859, the “State
Banner and Delphian Oracle,” published weekly at
Oxbow Village, one of the principal centres in a thriving
river-town of New England, contained an advertisement
which involved the story of a young life, and startled the
emotions of a small community. Such faces of dismay,
such shaking of heads, such gatherings at corners, such
halts of complaining, rheumatic wagons, and dried-up, chirruping
chaises, for colloquy of their still-faced tenants, had
not been known since the rainy November Friday, when
old Malachi Withers was found hanging in his garret up
there at the lonely house behind the poplars. “My dearest Olive: — Think no evil of me for what
I have done. The fire-hang-bird's nest, as Cyprian called
it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown. “A Vision seen by me, Myrtle Hazard, aged fifteen, on
the night of June 15, 1859. Written out at the request
of a friend from my recollections. “My dearest Clement, — You was so good to write
me such a sweet little bit of a letter, — only, dear, you
never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be.
I wish your Susie was with you to cheer you up; but no,
she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you
are so ambitious! I have heard you say so many times
that nobody could be a great artist without passing years
and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking
so hard. You won't grow pale and lean, I hope; for I do
so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have
always had ever since I have known you; and besides, I do
not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something
great, — you have so much genius, and people of
genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. You
remember those beautiful lines out of our newspaper I
sent you? Well, Mr. Hopkins told me he wrote those lines
in one evening without stopping! I wish you could see
Mr. Hopkins, — he is a very talented person. I cut out
this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show
you, — for genius loves genius, — and you would like to
hear him read his own poetry, — he reads it beautifully.
Please send this piece from the paper back, as I want to
put it in my scrap-book, under his autograph: — “My dear Susie, — I have just been reading your
pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you
ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice,
which will do just as well, — won't it, my dear? I was
interested in your account of various things going on at
Oxbow Village. I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins
so agreeable a friend. His poetry is better than some
which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally
unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. I do not believe
he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing
verse does not always improve the character. I think I have
seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited,
sentimental, and frivolous, — perhaps it found them
so already. Don't make too much of his talent, and particularly
don't let him think that because he can write verses
he has nothing else to do in this world. That is for his
benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it. “Reverend Sir, — I shall not come to your study this
day. I do not feel that I have any more need of religious
counsel at this time, and I am told by a friend that there
are others who will be glad to hear you talk on this subject.
I hear that Mrs. Hopkins is interested in religious subjects,
and would have been glad to see you in my company. As
I cannot go with her, perhaps Miss Susan Posey will take
my place. I thank you for all the good things you have
said to me, and that you have given me so much of your
company. I hope we shall sing hymns together in heaven
some time, if we are good enough, but I want to wait for
that awhile, for I do not feel quite ready. I am not going
to see you any more alone, reverend sir. I think this is
best, and I have good advice. I want to see more of young
people of my own age, and I have a friend, Mr. Gridley,
who I think is older than you are, that takes an interest in
me; and as you have many others that you must be interested
in, he can take the place of a father better than you
can do. I return to you the hymn-book, — I read one of
those you marked, and do not care to read any more. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 22 | Author: | Howells
William Dean
1837-1920 | Add | | | Title: | A chance acquaintance | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | ON the forward promenade of the Saguenay
boat which had been advertised to leave
Quebec at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning,
Miss Kitty Ellison sat tranquilly expectant of
the joys which its departure should bring, and tolerantly
patient of its delay; for if all the Saguenay
had not been in promise, she would have
thought it the greatest happiness just to have that
prospect of the St. Lawrence and Quebec. The
sun shone with a warm yellow light on the Upper
Town, with its girdle to gray wall, and on the red
flag that drowsed above the citadel, and was a
friendly lustre on the tinned roofs of the Lower
Town; while away off to the south and east and
west wandered the purple hills and the farmlit
plains in such dewy shadow and effulgence as
would have been enough to make the heaviest
heart glad. Near at hand the river was busy
with every kind of craft, and in the distance
was mysterious with silvery vapors; little breaths
of haze, like an ethereal colorless flame, exhaled
from its surface, and it all glowed with a
lovely inner radiance. In the middle distance a
black ship was heaving anchor and setting sail,
and the voice of the seamen came soft and sad
and yet wildly hopeful to the dreamy ear of the
young girl, whose soul at once went round the
world before the ship, and then made haste back
again to the promenade of the Saguenay boat. She
sat leaning forward a little with her hands fallen
into her lap, letting her unmastered thoughts play
as they would in memories and hopes around the
consciousness that she was the happiest girl in the
world, and blest beyond desire or desert. To have
left home as she had done, equipped for a single
day at Niagara, and then to have come adventurously
on, by grace of her cousin's wardrobe, as it
were, to Montreal and Quebec; to be now going up
the Saguenay, and finally to be destined to return
home by way of Boston and New York; — this
was more than any one human being had a right
to; and, as she had written home to the girls, she
felt that her privileges ought to be divided up
among all the people of Eriecreek. She was very
grateful to Colonel Ellison and Fanny for affording
her these advantages; but they being now out of
sight in pursuit of state-rooms, she was not thinking
of them in relation to her pleasure in the
morning scene, but was rather regretting the absence
of a lady with whom they had travelled
from Niagara, and to whom she imagined she
would that moment like to say something in praise
of the prospect. This lady was a Mrs. Basil March
of Boston; and though it was her wedding journey
and her husband's presence ought to have
absorbed her, she and Miss Kitty had sworn a
sisterhood, and were pledged to see each other
before long at Mrs. March's home in Boston. In
her absence, now, Kitty thought what a very
charming person she was, and wondered if all
Boston people were really like her, so easy and
friendly and hearty. In her letter she had told
the girls to tell her Uncle Jack that he had not
rated Boston people a bit too high, if she were to
judge from Mr. and Mrs. March, and that she was
sure they would help her as far as they could to
carry out his instructions when she got to Boston. DEAR GIRLS: Since the letter I wrote
you a day or two after we got here, we
have been going on very much as you
might have expected. A whole week has passed,
but we still bear our enforced leisure with fortitude;
and, though Boston and New York are both
fading into the improbable (as far as we are concerned),
Quebec continues inexhaustible, and I
don't begrudge a moment of the time we are giving
it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 23 | Author: | Howells
William Dean
1837-1920 | Add | | | Title: | A foregone conclusion | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | As Don Ippolito passed down the long narrow
calle or footway leading from the Campo San
Stefano to the Grand Canal in Venice, he peered
anxiously about him: now turning for a backward
look up the calle, where there was no living thing
in sight but a cat on a garden gate; now running
a quick eye along the palace walls that rose vast on
either hand and notched the slender strip of blue
sky visible overhead with the lines of their jutting
balconies, chimneys, and cornices; and now glancing
toward the canal, where he could see the
noiseless black boats meeting and passing. There
was no sound in the calle save his own footfalls and
the harsh scream of a parrot that hung in the sunshine
in one of the loftiest windows; but the note
of a peasant crying pots of pinks and roses in the
campo came softened to Don Ippolito's sense, and
he heard the gondoliers as they hoarsely jested together
and gossiped, with the canal between them,
at the next gondola station. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 25 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The sunny South, or, The Southerner at home | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Not that you are very “dear” to me, for I never
saw you in all my life, but then one must begin their
epistles, and as everybody says dear, and don't mean
any thing by it, I say dear too, and don't mean any
thing by it, so don't flatter yourself in the least; for,
if it were the fashion, and the whim hit my fancy, I
should just as likely have written “Bear.” You editors
presume so much, you need to be put down. The bearer is Colonel Peyton, a planter of intelligence
and fortune, who wishes a governess, who will be
charged with the education of his daughter. The position
seems to be a very desirable one, and I would recommend
you to accept it, if he should, after seeing you,
offer it to you. My Dear Sir,—There is probably no purgatory on
earth (for purgatories abound in this world) so effectually
conducive to penitence and repentance as a watering
place. If good cannot come out of evil, nor light out of
darkness, nor laughter out of sorrow, neither can any
thing interesting proceed from a watering place. Nevertheless,
I have to fly to my pen for solace. I have read
till reading is insufferably tiresome—I have walked till
I could walk no longer—I have talked till I am tired
hearing my own voice and the voices of others—I have
jumped the rope till I have blistered the soles of my
feet, and made my hands burn—I have drunk the waters
until I shall never bear to hear water mentioned again—
I have danced under the trees, and looked on in the old
dancing-room, till dancing is worn out—I have yawned
till I have nearly put my jaws out—and I have sat till
I could hardly keep my eyes open, looking at the trees,
the hot walks, the listlessly-wandering-about people, that
look as if they could take laudanum, hang themselves,
or cut their throats, “just as lief do it as not,” if it
were not so impolite and wicked to shock people's nerves
by perpetrating such dreadful things! I have slept till
my eyes won't hold any more sleep, and are swelled and
red like two pink pin-cushions. I have rolled ninepins
till I have nearly broken my arm with the heavy balls;
and it is too hot to sew, to knit, to net, to do any thing
but write! This I can do when all other things fail.
I can write off a headache, write away care, and bury
miserable thoughts in the dark depths of my inkstand.
Therefore, Mr. —, I fly to my escritoire for relief
from the tedium which everywhere surrounds me. The day is past; and as it is our last day at the
Springs, therefore rejoice with me, Mr. —. I am impatient
to be back once more to my dear, familiar room,
with its thousand and one comforts. I want to see my
pet deer, my doves, my squirrel, my flowers, my books,
my own looking-glass, for I don't look like myself
in these at the Springs, which look as if they had been
made while a stiff breeze was rippling across their molter,
surface. To-day we embark for Havana, that city towards
which so many filibustering eyes are at this time directed.
The bustle and hurry of packing and getting our trunks
on board is over, and there are yet three hours to spare,
in which quiet and a pen would be, by contrast with the
turmoil of the hotel, a great luxury. But as I wrote
you only yesterday, I will use my leisure and my pen
for the purpose of writing a letter to my Yankee brother
away by the hills of New Hampshire, those glorious
snow-capped pillars of the clouds upon whose summits
the intellect of Webster has enkindled a blaze that shall
light the remotest posterities. Wrapped in his senatorial
gown, he has laid down to rest among the mighty
dead of the past, himself one of the mightiest of them all. “My dear little Charley:—There is some satisfaction
and pleasure in writing to you, as I know you can't
write in return, and that your little heart will dance with
gladness to get a letter from your sister Kate all in print.
You remember, Charley, I said to you, in my last letter
from that French gentleman's house, Mr. De Clery, that
the blue-birds had built a nest in the piazza. Now I
have a story to tell you about these same birds. Now, Mr. —, I know a letter to a child is not the
wisest piece of composition that ever was penned, but
Charley is a fine little fellow, and may be an editor himself
one of these days; so, if you will be so good as to
print the letter, I will be very much obliged to you,
and send an extra paper containing it to Charley himself.
The signal to embark is now heard, and I must
end. In my last letter I took you, will you nill you, on a
journey to my forest-emburied home. Landing you
safely upon the pier, at the gate which enters the lawn
of live-oaks, that stretches between the house and the
beautiful expanse of water in front, I gave you a warm
and hospitable welcome. The same welcome I will joyfully
extend to any of your friends, who think enough of
me to turn out of the way of the great Father of Waters,
to seek me out amid the heart of this lovely region of the
South. “Dear Wife:—This epistle is written at `Illewalla,'
or `Lover's Lake,' which is the translation of the soft
Indian name. It is the romantic and charming home of
my old correspondent, `Kate, of the Needles.' I cannot,
with my prosaic pen, begin to present to your mind's eye
the peculiar beauty of this retreat. On my way up from
New Orleans to Louisville, I determined to stop and see
my fair friend, in her own home; and having obtained
the direction, I embarked at New Orleans on board the
steamer `Dr. Beattie,' for Thibodeaux. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 26 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The throne of David | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In obedience to your Majesty's commands, I have
availed myself of my first leisure to record in the leaves
of my tablets the scenery and incidents which have
struck me as worthy of observation, during my journey
from the banks of the Tigris to those of this remote
river. Descriptions of the interesting countries through
which I have passed, with allusions to the manners and
customs of the people, I will not here repeat, as I have
made a careful history of them for your Majesty's perusal
when I shall return from my embassy. I am to-night encamped by the “Well of the Oath,”
in a palm grove opposite the gate of this southern border-city
of Judea. By this well, a thousand years ago,
Abimelec, a king of Gerar, and Abraham, the father of
the Hebrews, made a covenant of amity. Here at this
fountain the ancient Chaldee used to lead to water his
thousands of camels and tens of thousands of sheep. It
is regarded as a sacred place by the Hebrews, who, with
fine feeling, honor every place made historical by association
with their “three great patriarchs.” This unlooked-for and unusual delay, your majesty,
in accepting thy royal nuptial gifts, and in giving me a
final answer, I am at a loss to comprehend, as I am satisfied
by daily audience with this charming princess that
she is deeply interested in you. All my ardent descriptions
of your person, and eulogiums upon your heart and
character, have captivated her imagination; and I never
discourse of you that her eyes do not beam with the
splendors of the torch of love, while her sighs and virgin
emotion betray the impassioned ardor of her attachment
to your majesty. What a prize shall I have the
honor of presenting to you, O Belus! Such personal
beauty as she possesses is seldom met with! Besides,
she is endowed with the most delicate wit, mirth, intelligence,
and wonderful grace of speech and manner. No
woman I have seen, save, with your majesty's permission,
Adora of Isrilid, can compare with her in that nameless
fascination which so often captivates and bewilders the
strongest masculine minds. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 27 | Author: | Jones
J. B.
(John Beauchamp)
1810-1866 | Add | | | Title: | Border war | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Old Maud Clusky, the cook, had repeatedly looked out
from the basement of a stately mansion, in the Federal
City, impatiently awaiting her master's return from the
Capitol. The hour for dinner had struck, and the punctual
Senator Langdon had not taken his seat at the table. And,
that day, of all others, the President's daughter, Alice
Randolph, was to dine with Miss Edith Langdon; and the
day following, Miss Randolph was to be Miss Langdon's
principal bridesmaid. The Honorable Henry Blount—for
he was a member of the House of Representatives, whilst
his venerable father occupied a seat in the Senate—was on
that day to espouse the beautiful Edith in St. John's Holy
Church. And the daughter of the President of the United
States was now with the affianced maiden in her boudoir. “Dear General—I think it probable the Resolutions will
not pass the Convention. Be upon your guard. It may
not be safe to leave your own lines. An attempt has been
made on my life. Be careful, General. I will join you in a
few days, and shall be happy to serve, the second in command,
under the first General and the first man of the
country. These, by my honest and faithful messenger,
Signor Popoli. “Flora:—My only motive, my only desire, in writing
this, and in sending a special messenger, is to save
your life. Ruffleton's career is nearly ended. But it was
not the Usurper—it was the man—you loved. And I respect
him for not abandoning you in the height of his
power. I will save his life if possible. But yours is in the
greatest danger. If you can rely upon Colonel Snare, who,
I am told, commands the regiment at the President's Mansion,
warn him that a conspiracy is in existence to arrest
and drag you to execution. I cannot indicate the authors
of this diabolical scheme—at present. But I declare to you
that I know it exists. Lose not a moment in taking effectual
measures to guarantee your safety. I know, however,
that you cannot remain long in Washington—and I would
advise you to leave the city and sojourn in some place of
security where you may communicate with Ruffleton, who
will soon be—I am certain, Flora—a fugitive. Fly with
him to other lands. And that you may be happy is the
sincere wish of | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 28 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings on Ice | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Having herd mutch sed about skating parks, and
the grate amount ov helth and muscle they woz imparting
tew the present generashun at a slite advanse
from fust cost, i bought a ticket and went within the
fense. Thru the politeness ov Mr. John Smith, i cum in
possession ov yure valuabel letter, at about 9 o'clock
night before last, in which yu offer me 10 dollars
for a poultiss. POULTISS. Ginowine politeness is a nice mixture ov vanity
and good natur, invigerated bi virtue, and chastened
bi policy. I am instructed by our association to inquire ov
you, and solicit a reply, if you could read a discourse
before our lyceum this winter, and if so, at
what time, on what subject, and upon what terms. This day, at 10 o'clock A. M., I cum in contact
with your letter, and was real glad tew hear from
yu. How do you like being Cor. Sek. ov a LyAssoci'?
It is a light, pretty bizziness, and don't
require much capital. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 30 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was getting toward “the small hours” of a summer's
night in 1830, when Paul Fane tapped at the closely shuttered
window of the house which had always been his
home. The family prayers, invariable at nine o'clock,
were long over, and at the front door, inexorably locked at
ten, the truant son now stood—excluded for the night by
the stern father whose hand had turned the key, but knowing
well that sleepless eyes were watching for him, and lips
whose good-night blessing and kiss would await him, even
till morning. That little twitch at the lock of hair over my left temple tells
me that you are here, just as certainly as when you crept behind
me at my easel at home, and by that bell-pull to my abstracted
brain, informed me that I was to come out of my picture and attend
to you. Spirits can cross oceans and pull hair—I here record
my well-founded belief—and you are here, up three flights of
stairs, in my private and unapproachable Parisian den waiting to
have a talk with your boy. Kiss, dear mother, and begin. By looking at the bottom of the fourth page you will see
that I still write to you “au naturel” as our French grammar
used to say, and I beg to inform you, more particularly, that I am,
as yet, neither Lady Cummit Strong, nor Countess Ebenhog, but
simply your old friend 'Phia Firkin, not much aggravated nor
diminished. The above titles, however, being my present imminent
catastrophes, I name them at once, to ease your anxious mind. Not quite sure that I have anything to write to you about
—or rather, seeing very distinctly that what may seem important
for me to write may not be important enough for you to take the
trouble to read—I still venture to intrude upon you, as you see.
It will not be the first time that your good nature has been called
upon in my behalf, and, trusting to your having acquired the habit,
I must pray you to pardon me once more! I dare say you feel quite like a widow, not to have heard
from your faithful 'Phia for so long (now three weeks since I wrote
to you, I believe), but the neglect is not because I forget you. I
think of you, on the contrary, oftener than ever, and because I
have more to tell—which, you know, makes it so much harder to
begin. Why, I live so much more than I used to, Kitty, that I
feel like half a dozen of what I used to be! In fact, multiplied as
my existence is, at present, I should not feel justified in marrying
any one man. Don't you think there is danger of outgrowing the
“allowance for one”—becoming, in one's own self, a sort of
seraglio, as it were? At any rate, my mind must be more clear as
to what constitutes a “single woman,” before I give the whole of
myself to a single husband! But it is curious how the kind of love that one means to settle
down upon, after all (when our little innocent flirtations are over,
you know, Kitty!), just spoils a man for painting one's portrait! I
went to sit to my devoted Blivins, expecting that he would, at
least, make me as good-looking as I am—(especially as, by the
way, he talked to me, I was sure he thought me very beautiful),
and what does he do but begin his husbanding of me at once—
painting me in a helmet and tunic as a Goddess of Liberty, that is
to say—and a more boxed up woman you never saw, out of a coffin.
There was nothing to be seen of me but the face! Now you know,
Kitty (for we have compared notes on the subject), that what little
beauty I have is not exactly there. It has been my greatest comfort,
in visiting these foreign galleries and studios, to see that the
painters of all ages (ugly “old masters” as well as handsome young
masters) dwell particularly on just where I am perfect. There is
not a Virgin Mary, nor a Saint Cecilia, nor even a Lucretia (and
this last is a pattern of modesty, you know), that is not painted, as
you may say, with a figure. And mamma says it is only because
there are so many exposed bosoms (fifty, at least, in every gallery)
that people walk round and look at them so unconcernedly. So,
don't you see, that if it were only the fashion for us all to show
our figures, it would be proper enough! In the East, it is improper
for a woman to show her mouth; and I dare say that, if
there were only one woman in the world that showed her elbow,
it would be considered very immoral. Papa has commissioned me to act as his amanuensis, his only
hand being disabled by the neuralgic trouble to which he is
liable, and I obey—only with a little uncommissioned variation
of my own. * * * Your accounts of gaieties and intimacies are very
amusing, and, to us at this distance at least, they seem to be
throwing very attractive spells upon you as you pass. And this
is to be rejoiced in. The world should be thanked for smiling
upon us, if it will. But, in these glittering eddies along the shore,
we should not forget the main current of our life, and you particularly,
may as well be reminded, perhaps, that your arrival at
the far outlet of ambition and culture is to be by a headway slow
and unnoticed. You have but the force of the natural channel to
trust for guidance and progress, and are just so often hindered
and thrown into the slack-water of inaction, as you are made
giddy by any side-whirls, or excitements such as are objectless
and temporary. * * * The path of Art which, in glowing and sanguine
moments, I mark out for myself as peculiarly my own, becomes
very indistinct under depression and discouragement. It is not
merely that I cannot handle my pencil, when out of spirits, but
the handling that I have already done, with a feeling of success
and a belief in its originality, loses all force and beauty to my eye.
If I were working entirely by myself, I should, half the time, neither
be the same person, nor believe Art to be the same thing. Please receive me in my night-cap and slippers, for I was all
undressed to go to bed, when I found I must first go to Alabama—
so full of thoughts of you, that is to say, that there would be no
sleeping till I had written you a letter. It is not late, either. You
are very certain to be wide awake, yourself. Very likely enjoying
your second-hand sunset—the identical sun that set, for us here in
Florence, three or four hours ago! Of course you love it more
because it has lately seen me; though, when Mr. Fane happened
to mention Europe's getting the first call from the sun and moon,
Pa was quite disgusted with the whole affair. He said the Declaration
of Independence ought to have arranged that our glorious
Republic should have the “first cut” of daylight and everything
else. My dear Friend,—I am the first to write, and for this very
new forwardness in myself, my pride naturally looks about for
excuses. The best I can find within reach is, that I am the idler
of the two. You would have written first to me (I will believe, at
least, till this letter has gone)! but for devotion to your pencils
and easel. While you are at your studio, toiling after some elusive
shadow of beauty, I am alone in my room, weary of sight-seeing,
and with a day upon my hands. Your letter to “Mr. Evenden” is herewith enclosed, and you
will be surprised to hear that there is no such person. The artist
who painted your portrait assumed the name (for an object which
shall be more fully explained to you hereafter), and it was in the
course of maintaining his incognito, that he thoughtlessly admitted
your supposition as to the freedom of his hand. He thus led you
into an error for which he hopes so to apologize as to be forgiven.
He is not at liberty, at present, to form any matrimonial engagement;
but he hopes that you will still allow him to retain the double
flattery which your letter contains—precious flattery both for the
artist and the man—and to burn incense to friendship, on an altar
which, under other circumstances, might have been sacred to love.
The explanation of the reasons for the incognito, is only deferred
till the dénoûment of a little drama of which it is just now a
part. Without dating my letter precisely from Spirit-land, I may almost
claim a hearing from thence—so nearly arrived thither that I begin
to see with the unworldly eyes of that better existence, and finding
something to look back and say, which you will first read probably,
when I am already there. It will be written with the
trembling hand of departure, and at broken moments, stolen from
the watchfulness of the dear one of whom I wish to speak; but I
trust to find strength and opportunity, as I go on, and to trace,
with this last use of pen and ink, words which your kindly eyes
may manage to decipher. If I mistake not, there will be an intuition
at your heart that will even anticipate my meaning; and, pray
believe that, if it be possible to return to earth through the records
of thoughts that go with us to heaven, these ill-traced words will
speak to you also with a spirit-presence. Mrs. Cleverly will remain for some time in Florence; and, for
you to have Mary Evenden there, in the midst of objects and
associations of such common interest to you both, will, of course,
be delightful. The Arts—always a sufficient feast to share even at
home—will be like an intoxication of sympathy where their charms
are perfected by the world's masterpieces. But, my dear Paul,
a thought here takes shape, which has been to me, for some time,
“a shadow on the wall.” More or less haunted by it for years,
and dismissing it constantly as a subject that would be more manageable
by-and-by, I must express it now as a new anxiety—though
very possibly, in your mind it is a familiar matter, long ago recognized
and disposed of. The more needless my nervousness shall
thus prove to have been, however, the better pleased I shall be. I presume it will somewhat startle you to see the signature
to this letter—(“Winifred Tetherly,” if, before arriving at the
bottom of the page where I am to write it, I do not first awake from
a dream)—though, for what is but a prompt following of your
advice, you have no very reasonable ground for surprise. To help
a lady to a husband you will think, is as easy as to pass the salt—
so easy, and for one who thought herself the most difficult woman
in the world, that I am not yet fully persuaded of it myself. But I
must at least, tell you the story of an event which (according to
my present strong impression and belief), has prevented me from
keeping my appointment with you as Miss Ashly. When I once before had occasion to trouble you with a letter, it
was (if you remember) to explain my waiving of a happiness to
which I had properly no claim—a place at court, of which your
daughter generously supposed that I might do the honors. A
false position of a still more delicate nature is my embarrassment,
at present—a much higher happiness, and accorded to me
also by the noble generosity of your family—and to waive this
also, as unquestionably and entirely, would, perhaps, be my simple
duty in now writing to you. But there is a presumptuous qualification
of this second disclaimer, upon which I believe I must venture,
though I do so by placing myself and the consequences
entirely in your hands. Your letter was so in accordance with what had already passed
between us, that I was not surprised at its tone and contents.
There was a startling unlikeness, in it, to the common language
of lovers, as well as to the common usage of the world, but we
were prepared for its delicate generosity, by knowing the standard
up to which you live. Allow me to begin by thanking you, frankly,
and with all my heart, for the fresh proof of it which touches me
so nearly—adding, however (though the explanation is scarce
necessary), that, if it were a question of my own happiness only,
I should not accept so unreservedly this sacrifice of yourself. For
my daughter, I must be even less magnanimous toward a friend
than were else possible. I am sure you will understand how much
harder this proof of affection is than the other extreme. I date once more from Paris, though, in your last, you say
I should have signed myself, “your affectionate snail,” so slow am
I at crawling towards home. Please have some hopes, of me,
however, as I am, at present, a bivalve, and, of course, with new
laws of motion—flattened into this new character (I liked to have
forgot to tell you) on the first of May, by the Rev. Mr. Sprinkle,
of the English chapel—my beloved Wabash being the other shell,
and connubial bliss, of course, the mutual oyster between us. The sadness at the news of your letter, is so struggling for
the present with my resentment at your not coming to say adieu to
us, that I am doubting whether this will turn out a scolding or a
farewell. I can scarce see to write, for the tears that are in such
a silly hurry to forgive you—but how dreadfully unkind and hard-hearted
of you, to think of going without a word of good-bye! Is
it quite safe, do you think, to commit yourself to the retributive
ocean with a sin of such enormity on your shoulders? You are thinking of me to-day, I know, as half-way across
the water. I was to have sailed a fortnight ago (as I wrote
you), and should have been happy indeed to do so, but for Mrs.
Cleverly's delays at Paris. She and Mary are to come with me,
and the good lady's milliners and dress-makers, I suppose, have
been less prompt than her kindnesses. Boston is to be kept astonished
for a year or two, of course, with the fashions she brings
home—the tribute to the magnificent great heart that beats under
her “latest fashion,” being as little thought of by herself, as it is
by the goodness-blind world she cares only to dazzle. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 31 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Add | | | Title: | Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The town-clock was on the last stroke of
twelve, the solitary candle measured but two
inches from its socket, and, as the summer
wind rushed through the half-closed shutters,
the melted tallow dripped slowly into the
brightly-burnished brazen candlestick. The
flickering light fell upon grim battalions of
figures marshalled on the long, blue-lined
pages of a ledger, and flashed fitfully on the
face of the accountant, as he bent over his
work. In these latter days of physical degeneration,
such athletic frames as his are rarely
seen among the youth of our land. Sixteen
years growth had given him unusual height
and remarkable breadth of chest, and it was
difficult to realize that the stature of manhood
had been attained by a mere boy in years. A
gray suit (evidently home-made), of rather
coarse texture, bespoke poverty; and, owing
to the oppressive heat of the atmosphere, the
coat was thrown partially off. He wore no
vest, and the loosely-tied black ribbon suffered
the snowy white collar to fall away
from the throat and expose its well-turned
outline. The head was large, but faultlessly
proportioned, and the thick black hair, cut
short and clinging to the temples, added to its
massiveness. The lofty forehead, white and
smooth, the somewhat heavy brows matching
the hue of the hair, the straight, finely-formed
nose with its delicate but clearly-defined nostril,
and full, firm lips unshaded by mustache,
combined to render the face one of uncommon
beauty. Yet, as he sat absorbed by his figures,
there was nothing prepossessing or winning
in his appearance, for though you could
not carp at the moulding of his features, you
involuntarily shrank from the prematurely
grave, nay, austere expression which seemed
habitual to them. He looked just what he
was, youthful in months and years, but old in
trials, sorrows, and labors, and to one who
analyzed his countenance, the conviction was
inevitable that his will was gigantic, his ambition
unbounded, his intellect wonderfully
acute and powerful. It is always sad to remark
in young faces the absence of that
beaming enthusiasm which only a joyous
heart imparts, and though in this instance
there was nothing dark or sinister, you could
not fail to be awed by the cold, dauntless res
olution which said so plainly: “I struggle,
and shall conquer. I shall mount, though the
world defy me.” Although he had labored
since dawn, there was no drooping of the
muscular frame, no symptom of fatigue, save
in the absolute colorlessness of his face. Firm
as some brazen monument on its pedestal, he
sat and worked on, one hand wielding the
pen, the other holding down the leaves which
fluttered, now and then, as the breeze passed
over them. “Electra, come to school Monday. The
enclosed will pay your tuition for two months
longer. Please don't hesitate to accept it, if
you really love “With gratitude beyond all expression for
the favor conferred on my mother and myself,
some years since, I now return to Miss Huntingdon
the money which I have ever regarded
as a friendly loan. Hoping that the future
will afford me some opportunity of proving
my appreciation of her great kindness, “If you do not feel quite ready for the day
of judgment, avoid the Row as you would the
plagues of Egypt. I found no less than six
developed cases of rank typhus. “Before you leave W—, allow me to
see you for a few moments. If your departure
is positively fixed for to-morrow, come to
me this afternoon, at any hour which may
be most convenient. “Huntingdon was desperately wounded at
three o'clock to-day, in making a charge. He
died two hours ago. I was with him. The
body leaves to-morrow for W—. “Come at once. Aubrey is badly wounded.
Cyrus will show the way. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
|
