| | 21 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | Title: | Margaret  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Didymus Hart being summoned to this Committee, on
the information of sundry witnesses, that the said Hart on
the 27th day of this month, had violated the laws of the
Continental and Provincial Congress, and done other acts
contrary to the liberties of the country, appeared, and after
due proof being made of said charge, the said Hart was
pleased to make a full confession thereof, and in the most
equivocal and insulting manner attempted to vindicate said
conduct, to wit:— “Whereas I, the subscriber, have from the perverseness
of my wicked heart maliciously and scandalously abused
the character and proceedings of the Continental and Provincial
Congress, Selectmen of this town, and the Committees
of Safety in general, I do hereby declare, that at
the time of my doing it, I knew the said abuses to be the
most scandalous falsehoods, and that I did it for the sole
purpose of abusing those bodies of men, and affronting my
townsmen, and all the friends of liberty throughout the
Continent. Being now fully sensible of my wickedness
and notorious falsehoods, I humbly beg pardon of those
worthy characters I have so scandalously abused, and voluntarily
renouncing my former principles, do promise for
the future to render my conduct unexceptionable to my
countrymen, by strictly adhering to the measures of Congress,
and desire this my confession may be printed in the
Kidderminster Chronicle for three weeks successively. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 22 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | Title: | Margaret | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | My dear Anna:—You told me to write you every
thing; but how shall I utter myself? How can I give
shape or definition to what I am? Easy were it for me to
tell you what I am not. Has a volcano burst within me?
Has a tornado prostrated me? If you were to excavate
the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be, would you
find only charred effigies of things, silent fountains of old
emotions, deserted streets of a once busy and harmonious
life, skeletons of hopes stricken down in the act of running
from impending danger? With Rose, I would forget myself,
that to which this writing recalls me. She says I can
endure the prospect better than she. If this be so, it must
be attributed to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am
in ruins, and so are all things about me. Yet in the windfall
some trees are new sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding
the shattered edifice. View me as you will, I
think I am a doit improving. Do I begin existence wholly
anew, or rise I up from the chaos of an earlier condition?
What is the transition—from myself to myself, or from myself
to another? What is the link between Molly Hart and
Margaret Brückmann, can you tell? In which of the climacterics
do I now exist? I am witheringly afflicted.
Chilion is not!
“Te sine, væ misero mihi! lilia nigra videntur,
Palentesque rosæ, nec dulce rubens hyacinthus!”
The vision of those days distracts me, the remembrance of
my brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and
the sun is pale at midday. In Scotland are Caves of Music,
deep pits where unseen water keeps up a sort of midnight
melody. I am such a cave. Chilion flows through
me, a nethermost, mournfullest dirge. Then, too, Ma is so
silent; her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes
and weaves, hour after hour; I fear she will never smile
again. Pa has lost his glow of countenance; he has grown
absolutely pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip
on his leathern apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens
me. Nimrod comes down from the Ledge and does
his best to enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows
not how to be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the
time of Chilion's trial, and hobbles out to Chilion's boat,
where he sits by the hour. Rose is soothing and active,
but she has a load at her own heart, which, in truth, I need
help her bear. Isabel rides up almost every day, full of
sympathy and generous love. Deacon Ramsdill, Master
Elliman, Mrs. Bowker aud others, have made us kind
visits. Sibyl Radney comes and milks the cow, and does
some of my little chores. Yesterday, Rose and Isabel
went with me to the burying-ground. Good old Philip
Davis, the Sexton, so I have been told, had the courage and
the kindness to go one night and cover Chilion's grave
with green sod. It is by itself apart, in one corner of the
grounds. Few persons have been near it, and the tall grass
has grown rank about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved
in weeping. Murmur I could not; an inarticulate,
ungovernable anguish was all I could feel. O my brother!
I knew not I had such a brother; I knew not I loved such
a brother!—We found a dandelion budding on it—when I
was little, he taught me to love dandelions! Rose folded
me in her arms, Isabel prayed for me. I thought of the
blood-sweating agony of Him, the Divine Sufferer; it penetrated
and subdued mine. Mrs. Bowker gave me a lady's
slipper, taken from the plant Chilion sent her. There is a
fancy that flowers die, when those who have tended them
do. Will Chilion's flowers live? There are many of us
who will fulfil his love towards them. I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive
VOL. II. 18
under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I
am externally more calm, my nerves are less susceptable,
I sleep more soundly, and Margaret says there is some
color in my cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric
circles, I can say the three outer ones approximate a
healthy and natural state. But the fourth, the innermost,
the central core, what can I say of that? I dare not look
in there, I dare not reflect upon myself. One thing, I have
no real guilt to harass me; I only call to mind my follies.
My ambition has ever centered upon a solitary acquisition,
and for that alone have the energies of my being been
spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating, tender, great, solemn
sympathy. Beguiled by this desire, I mistook the demonstrations
of a selfish passion for tokens of a noble heart.
Betrayed beyond the bounds of strict propriety, I became
an object of the censure of mankind. Too proud to confess,
or too much confounded to explain my innocence, I
suffered the penalties of positive infamy. It always seemed
ot me that I was placid by nature, and moderate in my sensations.
This opposition created in me a new nature; my
calamities have imparted heat to my temper and acrimony
to my judgment. I became impetuous, vehement, and, as
it were, possessed. A new consciousness was revived, both
of what I was and of what the world was. Up to that time
I had floated on with tolerable serenity, trusting myself and
others, and ever hoping for the best. Then commenced
my contention and despair. I became all at once sensible
of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom literal
coals of fire are put. My heart swelled to enormous proportions;
it became diseased, and dreadfully painful. It
spread itself through my system, tyrannized over my
thought, and fed upon the choicest strength of my being.
My intellect was darkened, I became an atheist. Under
these circumstances, which you already know something
about, after having long kept it hidden, I declared myself
to Margaret. She had sufficient penetration to understand
me and magnanimity to love me; she awed me by her
superior, uniform goodness. I availed myself of a moment
when she was in tears to unfold the cause of my own. I
rejoiced in her weakness, because I thought thereby I could
find entrance to her greatness. The melancholy, to me
most melancholy, events of her brother's death, I need not
recapitulate. The end of my being is accomplished! The prophecy
of my life is fulfilled! My dreams have gone out in realities!
The Cross is erected on Mons Christi!
Yesterday, the Anniversary of our National Independence,
was the event consummated. The sacred emblem was made
by Mr. Palmer, from a superb block, of the purest marble,
out of his quarry, and is twenty feet high. We met near
the Brook Kedron, on the Via Salutaris. There were all the
members of Christ Church, the Masonic Corps, and a multitude
of others. I was to lead the procession, supported
by Mr. Evelyn; they had me seated on a milk-white
horse, dressed in white, with a wreath of twin flower vines
on my head. Then followed the Cross, borne on the shoulders
of twenty-four young men; next came the Bishop and
wife, the Deacons and their wives, Christ Church members,
two-and-two, man and woman; these were succeeded by
the Masons, and the line was closed by the people at large.
On the Head was a band of Christ Church musicians, playing
the Triumphs of Jesus, which we got from Germany.
We came over the Brook Kedron, traversed what we have
made the broad and ornamental Via Salutaris, and entered
the Avenue of the Beautiful. At the foot of the hill I dismounted.
By a winding gravel-walk I went up—with a
trembling, joyous step I went—followed by the Cross-bearers.
Reaching the summit, I wound the arms and
head of the Cross about with evergreens; the young men
raised it in its place, a solid granite plinth. Returning, we
assembled under the Butternut, in the Avenue of the
Beautiful, where Edward made a discourse to the people;
some idea of which I would like to convey to you. “Livingston.—We have long kept silence about the
VOL. II. 26
movements in this place; but the matter has become too
public to excuse any further negligence. Over the Red
Dragon of Infidelity they have drawn the skin of the Papal
Beast, and tricked the Monster with the trappings of Harlotry!
On the ruins of one of our Churches they have
erected a Temple to Human Pride and Carnal Reasoning.
The contamination is spreading far and wide; and unless
something be attempted, the Kingdom of God in our midst
must soon be surrendered to the arts of Satan. It is
understood that the Rev. Mr. L—, of B—, has openly and
repeatedly exchanged pulpits with the man who, having
denied his Lord and Master, they have had the hardihood
to invest with the robes of the Christian Office. Brethren,
shall we sleep, while the enemy is sowing tares in our
midst? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 23 | Author: | Landon
Melville D.
(Melville De Lancey)
1839-1910 | Add | | | Title: | Saratoga in 1901 | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | OFF FOR SARATOGA
628EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Images of a steamship, a train, and a couple on horses.
“My dear Mr. Perkins, Congress Hall—
Many of my aristocratic guests are grieved
at the reports which have gained credence
relative to the young gentlemen holding the
young ladies' hands, evenings, on the hotel
balconies. They also say that it is a very
common thing for them to be seen smiling,
and that dancing is not an unknown amusement
among them. I now invite you to
come and investigate for yourself. I assign
for the use of yourself and wife a suite of cheerful front rooms
overlooking the Catholic church and the graveyard, from the
windows of which you will be able to see everything going on in
our hotel. “I notice the paragraph in the
Commercial. It is to be hoped
you will not use names. I am
an old, gray-haired man. I
have lived a life of usefulness,
and have been long honored as
a member of the open Board of
Brokers in New York. If I have been indiscreet in a thoughtless
moment, I beg of you not to ruin everything by using my name
in connection with any developments which you propose to make.
Come and see me. I will remain in my room all day. “As God is my witness, you have been wrongly informed if you
have heard anything detrimental to my character. I have been
a vestryman of Grace Church for fifteen years. I am incapable
of any such actions; besides, I have a devoted wife, and we are
very fond of each other. I gave $25,000 to the Dudley Observatory
and $50,000 to Cornell University, and have been a
subscriber to the Commercial for seventeen years. I am
incapable of such indiscretion. Whatever other church-members
do, I am as pure as a new-born babe. Come and see me or give
us your company at dinner. I am almost always at church or on
the balcony with my wife. I saw one paragraphe en ze journal, ze Commourshal, about
ze grande scandale of which you have accuse me. I write this as a friend of yours. You have been deceived.
Some of our people came down to Congress Hall, and told these
scandalous things out of spite. Baron Flourins has been a little
exclusive. We have kept him entirely in our clique. The rest
are mad because we have not introduced him. He is a dear duck
of a man, as harmless as he is handsome. My dear Son Eli:—Your St. Alban's High Church letter was
read with a great deal of interest here in our home church, but it
made us all feel very bad. We are sorry that you have gone to
the wicked city, where you so soon forget the simple teaching of
the old Church of your childhood, and go headlong into these
false, new-fangled notions about Ritualism. You ask us to board
up the windows of the old church, bar out the sunlight, and burn
flickering tallow candles. You ask us to tear out the old galleries
of the church, to dismiss the girls from the choir, and dress the farm
boys up in night-gowns, as you do in the city. You ask us to do
away with good old Dr. Watts and sing opera songs selected by
the organist of St. Alban's and arranged for the boy singers by
the middle fiddler of a German band. You ask me to tear up
our charts and maps, and decorate the church with blue and gold
“hallelujahs” and gilded crosses. O my son, we cannot do it!
We prefer to go on in the good old way. If God will not save
us because we do not burn candles—if He will not forgive our
sins because we look straight up to Heaven, and confess them
directly to Him, then I fear we must perish. My dear boy, does
not the Bible say: `I said I would confess my sins unto the
Lord, and so THOU forgavest the wickedness of my sin?' Then
do not, I pray you, my son, depend upon any forgiveness of sin
which men may grant. Eli, if you are bad, do not expect any
man to forgive you, but go right straight to your Maker, the way
your mother taught you in your childhood. Suppose you
confess your sins to a priest? My dear Mother:—Your letter has caused me much anxiety.
After sleeping with it under my pillow, I went up yesterday, as
you requested, to the Church of “St. Mary the Virgin,” on West
Forty-fifth street, near Seventh avenue. Since my conversion to
the High Church Ritualistic faith, my dear mother, I have usually
attended Dr. Ewer's church. I love Dr. Ewer. “This is our new
idea. All the girls have
agreed to it. We call it
the honorable dodge, and
we are bound to put
through every flirting fellow
in New York on it.
The idea is—but I'll tell
you how I practiced it
last night and you'll understand
it better. But
you know it is a secret, and of course you are to be trusted. I wish to ask your sympathy and advice on a subject that has
long been weighing on my mind, and that is—flirting. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 24 | Author: | Lanier
Sidney
1842-1881 | Add | | | Title: | Tiger-lilies | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Would 'st thou an adventure? Follow the bearer. “Inclosed is a letter
handed me to-day by a neighbor. He does not wish to be
mixed up in the business and asks my advice. The writer of
the letter is a connection of his. Of course, as a loyal citizen,
I cannot leave this letter and its information to pass unnoticed,
and therefore send it to you immediately. “To Mister Jeems Horniddy, My deer Cuzzin Jeems: hope
you air well and these few lines will find you enjoinin the saim.
I lef ole Tennessy some munths ago, I was brought from thar
with mi hands tied as you mought say. The Cornscrip brought
me. I was hid whare I thot the Devil hisself couldn find me,
but ole man Sterlin he cum and showed whar I was and they
took me and sent me to the rigiment. He foun out whare I was
hid by a darn ongentlemunly trick, a-peirootin thu the bushes as
he is always a-Dooin. An if I dont root him out for it I hoap
I may go too hell damn him and I have deserted from the rigiment
and cum down hear to smithfield whare thar aint no
cornscrip. Thar is sum scouts down hear and ole Sterlins son
is wun of thum, and so is brother Cain I thot he had moar
sense and I am agwine to fule em to death i am agwine to
make em put me across the river and then see em captivated
every wun of thum brother Cain and all and what did thay
drag me from hoam and fambly for? which I havent been
married to her moar than a year and a rite young babi and
they a starvin and me not thar. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 25 | Author: | Locke
David Ross
1833-1888 | Add | | | Title: | The Nasby papers | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | There is now 15 niggers, men, wimin and childern, or ruther, mail,
femail and yung, in Wingert's Corners, and yisterday another arrove.
I am bekomin alarmed, fer ef they inkreese at this rate, in suthin
over sixty yeres they'll hev a majority in the town, and may, ef they
git mene enuff, tyrannize over us, even ez we air tyrannizin over
them. The danger is imminent! Alreddy our poor white inhabitans
is out uv employment to make room fer that nigger—even now our
shops and factories is full uv that nigger, to the grate detriment uv a
white inhabitant who hez a family 2 support, and our Poor Hows and
Jail is full uv him. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 26 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Add | | | Title: | Moby-Dick, or, The whale | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long
precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing
particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about
a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have
of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever
I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it
is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up
the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my
hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong
moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into
the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I
account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my
substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish
Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the
ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it,
almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very
nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 27 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Add | | | Title: | The piazza tales | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | When I removed into the country, it was to
occupy an old-fashioned farm-house, which
had no piazza—a deficiency the more regretted,
because not only did I like piazzas, as
somehow combining the coziness of in-doors
with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so
pleasant to inspect your thermometer there,
but the country round about was such a picture,
that in berry time no boy climbs hill
or crosses vale without coming upon easels
planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters
painting there. A very paradise of painters.
The circle of the stars cut by the circle of the
mountains. At least, so looks it from the
house; though, once upon the mountains, no
circle of them can you see. Had the site been
chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would
not have been. The same day, and month, and year, His Honor, Doctor
Juan Martinez de Rozas, Councilor of the Royal Audience
of this Kingdom, and learned in the law of this Intendency,
ordered the captain of the ship San Dominick, Don Benito
Cereno, to appear; which he did in his litter, attended by
the monk Infelez; of whom he received the oath, which
he took by God, our Lord, and a sign of the Cross; under
which he promised to tell the truth of whatever he should
know and should be asked;—and being interrogated agreeably
11*
to the tenor of the act commencing the process,
he said, that on the twentieth of May last, he set sail with
his ship from the port of Valparaiso, bound to that of Callao;
loaded with the produce of the country beside thirty
cases of hardware and one hundred and sixty blacks, of both
sexes, mostly belonging to Don Alexandro Aranda, gentleman,
of the city of Mendoza; that the crew of the ship
consisted of thirty-six men, beside the persons who went as
passengers; that the negroes were in part as follows: “Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated
gentleman that lives. I am a patriot, exiled
from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 28 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Add | | | Title: | My third book | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “`Mr. Grant,—I have not been a good man. I
feel this now, lying here on my death-bed, and I confess
it to you the more readily because I do not believe
that at heart you are a one whit better one. I must
speak plainly and bluntly, for I have no time for circumlocution.
I have hardly strength enough left to
dictate this to Richard Huntley, my attorney. I have
made a brave effort to forgive every body; but it has
been the hardest of all to forgive you; for your harshness,
your sinful pride, killed my beautiful Margaret.
You never loved as I loved her—I, her lover, her husband.
There! you will start at that word, I foresee;
you will start again at the marriage certificate enfolded
in this letter. We were married secretly, as you will
perceive, while I was in your very neighborhood. I
bound Margaret, when I left her, by a solemn oath,
not to make it known until she had my permission.
She was a gentle crature, as no one knows better than
you, and never thought of disputing the will of any
one she loved. My father was dead. I was dependent
for all my hopes of future fortune and support on
my mother, a very proud, resolute woman. She had
a grand match in contemplation for me at that time.
I knew it would be no easy matter to reconcile her to
its failure, and if she should know just then that I had
married as she would have thought so far below me,
much as she loved me she would have cast me off forever.
This, to a true man, would have been no great
matter compared with causing Margaret one hour of
trouble, one agony of humiliation. But I was not a
true man. I was helpless and imbecile, for I had never
been brought up to depend on myself. But I must
hasten, for my strength is failing me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 29 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Two sisters were sitting, one evening, in their small private
library, adjoining their sleeping apartment, in their step-mother's
house, in a fashionable quarter of New York. It
matters not in what year, for though this their history
makes great pretension to veritableness, it pays no respect
whatever to chronology. The youngest—the youngest of
course takes precedence in our society—was not past eighteen,
and, grown to her full stature, rather above the average
height; Grace Herbert differing in most of the faculties,
qualities, and circumstances of her being from the average
of her sex. To a strictly classical eye she was too thin for
her height, but of such exact proportions, so flexible and
graceful, that the defect was insignificant. Her features
were of the noble cast. Her complexion was neither fair
nor brown, but exquisitely smooth and soft. Ordinarily
she was pale, and her large dark eye lacked lustre; but a
flash from her mind, a gust of passion, or even a gentle
throb of affection, would brighten her cheek, light her eye,
play over her lips, and even seem to radiate from the waving
tresses of her dark hair. In that there was a notable
peculiarity. It was dark, and yet so brilliant in certain
lights, that in her little court of school-girl friends, where
she was queen (by divine right), it was a standing dispute
whether its color were golden, auburn, or brown. But it
was not form or color that so much distinguished Grace
Herbert, as a certain magnanimity in the expression of her
face, figure, and movement. “I should have written you as I promised, if I had
found any thing to write, but the town has been deuced
dull. Now it's waking up; there is a splendid little
actress here—one Mrs. Darley; our set patronize her.
(`Patronize—audacity!' exclaimed Grace.) Fanny Dawson
has come home—a splendid beauty! I and she rode out to
Love Lane before breakfast yesterday; my new horse is fine
under the saddle—Fanny is finer, but I shan't try my harness
there; I am shy of reins; one can't tell who will hold
them, so Miss Fanny will be left for my elder—if not my
better—” “My letter has lain by a month, and now I have news.
Smith, Jones and Co. have gone bankrupt, and poor Bill
is on their paper well-nigh to the amount of his fortune;
Luckily there's something left, and then there's the little
widow's fortune. Well, I go for the children of this world,
that are wise in their generation. Commend me to the
Londoners in general.—Believe me, as ever, your's faithfully, “You may conceive, but I can not describe, how
wretched I feel at our separation. You would hear from
me much oftener if I followed the dictates of my heart, but
my time is so absorbed that it is quite impossible to find
a moment for my truest, darlingest, little friend. I write
now to entreat you to match the feathers I send; aren't
they loves? I have spent two days in attempting to do it
here. New York is a paradise for shops, you know; in this
horrid Quaker city there's no variety; at the same time,
dearest love, will you look for a sash, the shade of the
feathers? You may send me a sample, or you may send
me several, if you feel uncertain about the match. It is
really trying, the difficulty of matching. I sometimes walk
up and down the streets of Philadelphia, hours and hours, to
match a lace or a fringe, and so does my mamma. The
Grays wear pink bonnets this winter. Mrs. Remson has
come out in her old yellow brocade again—the third winter,
mamma says—just think of it! Do they hold on to powder
yet in New York? I dread its going out—'tis so becoming;
It makes me quite wretched that you don't come on this
winter, dear little pearl! My hair was superbly dressed at
Mrs. Lee's ball; I paid dear for it, though, for Pardessus was
engaged ten hours ahead, so I had mine done at three A.M.
Of course I didn't feel over well the next day, and General
Washington observed it, and said he did not like to see
young ladies look pale. As it was the only time he ever
spoke to me, he might have found something more pleasing
to say; pale or not, I found partners for every dance, and
refused nine! But, darling, I must cut short my epistle, and
sign myself, your sincere and ever attached friend, “Having a few leisure moments, I sit down to have a
little pleasant chat with you. I have still to acknowledge
your letter, informing me of the decease of our dear old
friend, Lady Hepsy; strange coincidence! that she should
have been burned to death, so afraid of fire as she was all
her life; but so it is—`Our days a transient period run!' “You will feel for me, dear sister, when I tell you the
measles are all over our street. You may be sure I keep
the children shut up. Two of them were terribly ill last
night, and I sent for Dr. Lee. I was all of a nerve when he
came, expecting he would tell me they had the symptoms,
but to my inexpressible relief he said it was only the cranberry
sauce and mince-pie, and almonds, and raisins, and so
on, they had eaten plentifully of at dinner—poor little
things! how much they have to suffer in this world!” “This day I am seventeen! and this day I am the
happiest creature in the universe. You will guess why,
and how, for you prophesied long ago that what has now
happened would come to pass. Perhaps your prophecy
has led to its fulfillment—certainly hastened it, that I
will allow; for since we were at Madame B.'s school, and
you talked so much of him, he has been the ideal of my
life—every thing that I have imagined of noble and beautiful
has been impersonated in Frank Silborn. O think of my
felicity! He is mine, I am his; as the clock struck twelve
last night we plighted vows, and exchanged rings! O what
a bliss is life before me! And yet now I think I would be
content to die, my spirit is so raised with a sense of joy ineffable.
I can not believe it is but three weeks since Frank's
return; my love for him seems to stretch through my whole
being. “It is my sad duty to write to you the most sorrowful
news—prepare yourself, my child, for it will greatly shock
you. Yesterday afternoon—I can scarcely guide my pen—
Silborn drove up to his door in a curricle, and insisted
on taking the two little boys, who were just dressed for
a walk, to ride. Sarah must have seen he was greatly
excited—in no state to drive—for the nurse says `she refused
decidedly to let the children go;' whereupon he
snatched them both, and ran out of the house with them to
the carriage. He drove furiously up the street, turned the
corner short, ran afoul a loaded wagon, turned over the
carriage—the boys, our dear little boys, were thrown against
a curb-stone and killed, instantly—both Sarah's little boys—
both, Emma—both! “I promised, when we parted, to resume our long-suspended
correspondence. With what varied emotions of
remorse and gratitude I survey this chasm. O! Emma, how
differently life looks, prospectively or retrospectively. After
it pleased God to restore my reason, I wasted years of responsible
life in helpless misery, and profitless repining. “The rumor you heard (and heard before we did, so complete
is our retirement from the world) is confirmed. Walter
announced his engagement, in his own way, last evening.
`Do you know,' he asked my mother, `whom Augustus
Dawson married?' “My filial duty and my unlimited confidence in both
your justice and generosity would have induced long since
the communication I am about to make, but it was deferred
by the griefs my sister's calamities brought upon you. I
could not then add another bitter drop to your full cup. I
must no longer delay. Six months since—” “I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the
first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for
my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to
become of great value. I have explored titles a century
back, when this property was a waste rocky field—now, a
noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two
gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular
enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy
is now between descendants of the original purchasers,
`Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an
elderly gentleman, and two young ladies, who, though somewhat
decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy.
Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry—there is
still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert—Walter Herbert,
Esq.—I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old
fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver
sable, an eye like an eagle, and a heart of gold. The young
ladies are his nieces; one, a bright particular star, I have
seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten. “Miss Alice requests me, you say, to describe my friend
Esterly's wedding. Alas! I have no story to tell; business
intervened, and took me out of town, and thus saved all
parties from my blundering performance of the office of
bridegroom.” “Pardon, my dear Mrs. Clifford, my blotted pages. I
have been raining tears over this detail to you of my brief
meeting with my father. God only knows how I loved him
in life—how I honor him in death! Had I known his condition,
I should have come home six months ago. I shall
forever regret a gain to myself, at the expense of a loss to
him. My step-mother, whose valuable qualities I do full
justice to (when I do not come in contact with her), will
maintain her housekeeping, and take three or four boarders,
and so, `by hook or by crook,' they will live comfortably.
I, by means of my own hard work and God's blessing, will
start the boys in life, and thus acknowledge a debt to my
dear father, which I can never fully pay. Letty is a little
jewel, or rather, she is worth all the jewels in a king's
crown, being more for use than decoration. Her cheerfulness
is obscured just now, of course, for she dearly loved
my father; but her pale cheek is, I think, but the livery of
the country, which strikes me in painful contrast with the
Hebe coloring in England. The dirge-like tone of her voice,
too, is but the national note, not so much the voice of sadness
as of `sickness.' `Every village has its song,' says
Carlisle; I wish ours were a livelier one. “When I think that school-girls' friendships are, for the
most part, mere accidents of propinquity, I rejoice that ours,
like all true matches, was fore-ordained. I began with making
you my pet, I believe you are five years my junior, and
now you are my confidante—partly, because you are true as
steel, and will not betray what I tell you, and partly that
you will not advise me, or chide me; and you are unmarried
—kind to kind, is natural. Perhaps you will divine that I
am trying to silence my conscience that tells me my sister
Eleanor should be my confidante; that a sister—and such a
sister!—is the nearest friend, the friend Heaven bestowed;
and truly Eleanor would be my elect friend from all the
world, but that she is married. She has projected herself
into another self, and, though two make one for themselves,
they make two for the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friend. Yes, I am getting into the
old track famously. Some of my old clients have welcomed
me cordially; and though I was cruelly knocked down from
those `steeps so hard to climb' of my profession, yet I am in
no wise discouraged. True, my competitors shot ahead of
me, but I shall gain upon them. There is nothing like the
whip and spur of necessity; in our land, the poor workingman
is on vantage-ground, the general sympathy is with
him, and if he be capable, and in earnest, he has plenty of
work to do. I have delivered two Lectures, made up of my
foreign observations, which were well received, and filled my
pockets. I have had many requests to repeat them. I shall
not. A man should not be diverted from his profession by
`fancy work.' I have offers from booksellers and editors
that will profitably fill my leisure hours, if I have them.
Thus, you see, I can answer your inquiry satisfactorily. I
do not `regret the obligations' I have assumed for my step-brothers.
I have economical quarters, and by avoiding
hotel-life, and all superfluous indulgence, I shall compass my
great object—their education; and after that, Yankee boys
can take care of themselves. * * * “He's a trump—take my word for it, Dates.
He lectured at the Mercantile last evening. I went early,
and got a seat directly in front of him. It seemed as if he
could not keep his eyes off from me! The house was
choke-full, and all attention. You might have heard a pin fall.
He was posted up about every thing t'other side, and told us
a lot about Greece and Athens, and Egypt and Thebes.
There were a number of literary characters present, distinguished
authors and authoresses that write in the Magazines.
He got, they say, $400 by this Lecture alone! Don't he
know how to coin money out of talents? He looks like a
different individual—so genteel!—you can't think! “All other interests are superseded just now by the
alarming illness of Eleanor's boy—her only boy. His illness
has come suddenly. But yesterday, he seemed to stand on
the hill-top of life, radiant with the rosy tints of morning,
casting down into many hearts the hopes and promises of a
long, bright day. “Thank you, for the list of scholars—fifteen in your
school! These, with the promised five out of it, will supply
the deficiencies in our income the next year; and thus, if
we make a fortunate disposition of our house, my husband
will be enabled to repair his strength by a year's travel in
Europe, and rest from work. Thank you, too, for your assurance
that I do not interfere with your accomplished musical
professor, as my lower terms, according with my inferior
ability, also accord with my pupils' smaller means. And
thank you, more than all, for your gentle warning, lest, in
my eagerness to afford my husband material aid, I lose sight
of my first duty; that to my children and household. They
are providentially cared for. An elderly cousin of my husband,
Effie Lynn, has just lost her home. We are glad to
give her the shelter of our's. She is a delicately strung,
nervous little body, and will, in a way, increase my cares;
but she will also immensely relieve them, as, being most
kind, faithful, and fond of children, I can tranquilly leave
my girls with her during my working hours. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 30 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Married or single? | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to
Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was
ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while
she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter,
she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other
low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe
directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed
neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications,
or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the
letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how
these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for
the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation,
followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked
him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints
are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the
evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the
uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is
through their intervention that he has failed of his election to
the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this
failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire
rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself
pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother.
I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly
pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling
with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after
Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her
generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met
that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly
changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and
spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with
me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up
—but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary
and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête
with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began:
`I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting
subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving
you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for
it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,'
she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose
a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred
another selection. Your dear father in his life-time
tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next
ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his
wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer
Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior
as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my
mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make
a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is
nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam,
she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne—
and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued,
`when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are
not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped
her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous
struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I
assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for
her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon
to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances
are still quivering. They shall not turn against me.
I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit,
when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne
Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still,
have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or,
I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty,
fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their
price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap
as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But,
my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men,
perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six
years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I
would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set
my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I
would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet
changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday,
I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to
justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances.
This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady,
but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence
to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps
distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember,
that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are
keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a
large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too
well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his
example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia;
you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight
to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began
my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were
deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no
great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession
on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor
House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow,
you will very much oblige me. As it is but one
day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I
imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return
by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have
come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall
we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my
brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead.
God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me
forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis'
maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said,
`it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left
the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go
in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out;
she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She
has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has
not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath,
and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes
she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating,
and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis.
Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta
Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly
beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted
blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she
looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair
matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed
me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit,
though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was
kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch,
her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her
and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me.
I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none.
I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping
cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation
she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the
shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I
know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother
started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who
is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my
arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I
have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your
child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write
that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change
of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair
to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to
speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only
thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I
shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I
shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution,
Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom,
and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of.
I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your
child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition
our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell
me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy.
Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all
empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me
off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed
her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and
by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she
would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched
to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and
laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less
anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her
hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child!
she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh—
did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall
never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I
had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour
with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed
she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never,
never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she
permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and
while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally
for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the
child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people
are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the
demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she
took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And
what was more important, she seemed comforted by my
presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned
to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long
time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she
said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that
God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was
not that what you said? My head has been so confused—
it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and
if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights
and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never
known, and resources upon which you had never drawn;
how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before
felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile
almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the
divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished
and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward
all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how
the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands
realities, while it hungers after the good and the
true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality
comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you
in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn
and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky,
and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr.
Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York
without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when
you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will
forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what
Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am
coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and
kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a
promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put
my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my
house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from
me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You
shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on
one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other.
`I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a
place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A
place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother
can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my
trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up
double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.'
Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek,
saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and
cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter,
girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother,
I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room;
you might have told me, mother, when I asked
you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new
bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing.
It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited,
May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let
him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.'
Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess,
that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked
pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains
and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored
to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow
in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the
sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh
flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike
guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become
his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling
him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent
youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree.
His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was
your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting,
in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving
soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give
it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain,
the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest
with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest
breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long
enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds
did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated
the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to
return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the
manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life
never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations.
L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected
that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects
would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then
followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would
not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself
should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'”
etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked,
every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my
dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your
disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.) | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 31 | Author: | Billings
Josh
1818-1885 | Add | | | Title: | Josh Billings, hiz sayings | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The mule is haf hoss, and haf Jackass, and then
kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake.
Tha weigh more, akordin tu their heft, than enny
other kreetur, except a crowbar. Tha kant hear
enny quicker, nor further than the hoss, yet their
ears are big enuff for snow shoes. You kan trust
them with enny one whose life aint worth enny
more than the mules. The only wa tu keep them
into a paster, is tu turn them into a medder jineing,
and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use,
just as soon as they will du tu abuse. Tha haint
got enny friends, and will live on huckel berry
brush, with an ockasional chanse at Kanada thissels.
Tha are a modern invenshun, i dont think the Bible
deludes tu them at tall. Tha sel for more
money than enny other domestik animile. Yu
kant tell their age by looking into their mouth,
enny more than you kould a Mexican cannons.
Tha never hav no dissease that a good club wont
heal. If tha ever die tha must kum rite tu life
agin, for i never herd nobody sa “ded mule.” Tha
are like sum men, very korrupt at harte; ive known
them tu be good mules for 6 months, just tu git a
good chanse to kick sumbody. I never owned one,
nor never mean to, unless there is a United Staits
law passed, requiring it. The only reason why
tha are pashunt, is bekause tha are ashamed ov
themselfs. I have seen eddikated mules in a sirkus.
Tha kould kick, and bite, tremenjis. I would not
sa what I am forced tu sa again the mule, if his
birth want an outrage, and man want tu blame for
it. Enny man who is willing tu drive a mule,
ought to be exempt by law from running for the
legislatur. Tha are the strongest creeturs on earth,
and heaviest, ackording tu their sise; I herd tell
ov one who fell oph from the tow path, on the Eri
kanawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but
he kept rite on towing the boat tu the nex stashun,
breathing thru his ears, which stuck out ov the water
about 2 feet 6 inches; i did'nt see this did, but
an auctioneer told me ov it, and i never knew an
auctioneer tu lie unless it was absolutely convenient. “Dear Augustus Sidney Bloodgood: Having a
fu spare time tew devote terestial things, i take mi
pen in hand tew rite yu a fu lines. I am well, and
hope theze fu lines will find yu enjoying the same
blessin. I hav jist returned from the gardin ov
Eden whare i hav bin with Dave Sturgiss, who was
killed at the battell ov Gettisburg bi gitting choked
with a pease ov hard tacks. The weather iz fine,
and there iz evry prospeck ov krops; I never see
the potaters look finer. Dri goods is cheap here, yu
can buy good factory cottin cloth, yard wide, for
eleven cents a yard and hav thred thrown in. I see
the Widder Bostwick yesterday, she looks as starched
up as ever. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 32 | Author: | Shillaber
B. P.
(Benjamin Penhallow)
1814-1890 | Add | | | Title: | Knitting-work | | | | 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: | Gentlemen: It has suddenly occurred to me that a preface is
altogether unnecessary, and, therefore, I positively decline writing
one, inasmuch as I have commenced five already, and been compelled
to abandon them all, from sheer inability to complete them.
Prefaces have always seemed to me like drummers for a show,
calling upon people to “come up and see the elephant,” with a
slight exaggeration of the merit of the animal to be exhibited; and
though, in the present case, such enlargement of the fact would
not be necessary, still those disposed to be captious might read our
promises with incredulity. Mrs. Partington, no less than the Roman
dame, should be above suspicion; therefore, this heralding should be
avoided, and her name left with only its olden reputation resting
about it, like the halo of cobweb and dust about an ancient vintage
of port. Her coädjutors, Dr. Spooner, Old Roger, and Wideswarth,
representing the profound, the jolly, and the sentimental, need no
endorsement among the enlightened many who will buy this book;
and we can safely leave them, as lawyers sometimes do their cases
when they have nothing to say, without argument. Again, all will
see for themselves the acid and sugar, and spirit and water, comprised
in the contents of the volume, — forming the components of a
sort of intellectual punch, of which they can partake to any extent,
without headache or heartache, as the sedate therein forms a judicious
corrective of the eccentric and gay which might intoxicate.
The illustrations, by Hoppin, tell their own story, and need no
further commendation than their great excellence. The local
meaning of many of the sayings and doings of the book will, of
course, be readily understood, without explanation or apology; and
the new matter will be distinguished from the old, by the quality of
novelty that generally attaches to that with which we are not familiar.
I thought somewhat of giving the name beneath each individual
represented in our frontispiece; but the idea was dispelled in a
moment, by the reflection that Mrs. Partington — the central sun of
our social system — could not be misinterpreted; while Dr. Spooner,
Prof. Wideswarth, Old Roger, and Ike, were equally well defined;
and the skill of the artist in depicting them needed no aid. Therefore,
all things considered, I think we had better let the book slip
from its dock quietly, and drift out into the tide of publication, to
be borne by this or that eddy of feeling to such success as it may
deserve, without the formality of prefatory bottle-breaking. I leave
the matter, then, as a settled thing, that we will not have a preface. When Mrs. Partington first moved from Beanville,
and the young scion of the Partington stock was
exposed to the temptations of city life and city associations,
it was thought advisable to appoint a “guardeen”
over him. Ike was not a bad boy, in the wicked
sense of the word bad; but he had a constant proclivity
for tormenting every one that he came in contact with;
a resistless tendency for having a hand in everything
that was going on; a mischievous bent, that led him into
continual trouble, that brought on him reproaches from
all sides, and secured for him a reputation that made
him answerable for everything of a wrong character
that was done in the neighborhood. A barber's pole
could not be removed from the barber's door and placed
beside the broker's, but it must be imputed to “that
plaguy Ike;” all clandestine pulls at door-bells in the
evenings were done by “that plaguy Ike;” if a ball or
an arrow made a mistake and dashed through a window,
the ball or the arrow belonged to “that plaguy Ike;” if
on April Fool's day a piece of paper were found pasted
on a door-step, putting grave housekeepers to the trouble
and mortification of trying to pick up an imagined
letter, the blame was laid to “that plaguy Ike;” and if a
voice was heard from round the corner crying “April
Fool!” or “sold,” those who heard it said, at once, it
was “that plaguy Ike's.” Many a thing he had thus to
answer for that he did n't do, as well as many that he
did, until Mrs. Partington became convinced of the
necessity of securing some one to look after him besides
herself. “Miss Parkinson: Your boy has been and tied a culinary utensile to
the caudle appendidge of a canine favorite of ourn, an indignity that wee
shall never submit to. He is a reproach to the neighborhood, and you
must punish him severally. Daring Outrage. — Last evening a burglarious attempt
was made to enter the house of Mr. T. Speed, in
— street; but the burglar threw down a bust of
Shakespeare in the attempt, which attracted the attention
of Mr. Muggins, passing at the time, who pursued the
ruffian over a shed, and boldly attacked him in Marsh
alley, when the villain drew a pistol and threatened to
shoot his assailant, who persistingly stuck to him until
a blow from the butt of the pistol knocked him down,
and the rascal escaped, leaving his hat on the premises,
in which was the name O. Hush. Mr. Muggins treated
him very severely, and it is believed the atrocious
wretch may be detected by the injury he received.
The police are upon his track. “Mr. Milling: Be wary of Upshur. A pitcher that
goes too often to the well may come back broken. “Mr. Milling. — Sir: You may deem me a scoundrel;
but I am to be pitied. I have been led into the
temptation of speculation, have compromised our firm
in its prosecution, and have fled, like Cain, with the
brand of disgrace on my name. But, while thus leaving
like a thief, I solemnly promise that my future shall be
devoted to a reparation of the trouble I have caused.
You shall not hear from me until I am able to wipe the
stain from the name of yours, most ungratefully, “My dear Madam: I am a man of few words — a
friend of your late husband — with means sufficient to
carry out what I propose. I wish to return a portion
of the benefit he conferred upon me, a poor boy. I am
aware of your family circumstances, and would relieve
a portion of your burden. Your youngest daughter
should receive an education. I have the ability to
secure it, and would deem it a favor to be allowed to
incur the expense attending it. The only condition I
propose is that no sense of obligation may be allowed
to overpower you, and no effort be made to discover
the writer. “Dear Partelot: Please excuse me to the family.
I am suddenly called to Mulberry-street. My sister has
arrived from the country. My regards to Mrs. M., and
Misses Matilda and Lily. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 33 | Author: | Shillaber
B. P.
(Benjamin Penhallow)
1814-1890 | Add | | | Title: | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others of the
family | | | | 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: | 677EAF. Page 013. In-line Illustration. Image of a gun, a sword, a framed profile of a man.
“Perfigis retch: — your our is cum... Mete me to-morrar
outside the Inglish lines, and Ile giv yu Jessy.
Yours respectively, “Dear Mother, — It grieves me to bid you farewell,
but longer sufferance from father's tyrannical usage is
impossible. I go to seek my fortune, and when we meet
again may it be when he and I shall have learned a
lesson from our separation, and the alienation of father
and child may be forgotten in the renewed intercourse
of man and man. Farewell, mother, and may you be
more happy than I should have been able to make you
had I lived with you a thousand years. Farewell. Remember
sometimes your poor boy, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 34 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | As good as a comedy, or, The Tennesseean's story | | | | 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: | Let us start fairly, and not on an empty stomach.
Reader, we begin with a Georgia breakfast. We are
at one of those plain, unpretending, but substantial
farm-houses, which, in the interior of Georgia, and
other Southern States, distinguished more especially
the older inhabitants; those who, from time immemorial,
have appeared pretty much as we find them now.
These all date back beyond the Revolution; the usual
epoch, in our country, at which an ancient family may
be permitted to begin. The region is one of those
lovely spots among the barrens of middle Georgia, in
which, surveyed from the proper point of view, there is
nothing barren. You are not to suppose the settlement
an old one, by any means, for it is not more than twenty
or twenty-five years since all the contiguous territory
within a space of sixty miles was rescued from the
savages. But our family is an old one; inheriting all
the pride, the tastes, and the feelings which belonged
to the old Southern “Continentaler.” This will be
apparent as we proceed; as it is apparent, in fact, to
the eye which contrasts the exterior of its dwelling with
that of the neighboring settlements among which it
harbors. The spot, though undistinguished by surprising
scenery, is a very lovely one, and not unfrequent
in the middle country of the Atlantic Southern
States. It presents a pleasing prospect under a single
glance of the eye, of smooth lawn, and gentle acclivity,
and lofty forest growth. A streamlet, or branch, as it
is here called, winds along, murmuring as it goes, at the
foot of a gentle eminence which is crowned with a luxuriant
wealth of pine and cedar. Looking up from this
spot while your steed drinks, you behold, perched on
another gentle swell of ground, as snug and handsome
an edifice as our forest country usually affords; none
of your overgrown ambitious establishments, but a trim
tidy dwelling, consisting of a single story of wood upon
a brick basement, and surrounded on three sides by a
most glorious piazza. The lawn slopes away, for several
hundred yards, an even and very gradual descent even
to the road; a broad tract, well sprinkled with noble
trees, oaks, oranges, and cedars, with here and there a
clump of towering pines, under which steeds are grazing,
in whose slender and symmetrical forms, clean legs, and
glossy skins, you may discern instant signs of those
superior foreign breeds which the Southern planter so
much affects. The house, neatly painted white, with
green blinds and shutters, is kept in admirable trim; and,
from the agreeable arrangement of trees and shrubbery,
it would seem that the place had been laid out and was
tenanted by those who brought good taste and a becoming
sense of the beautiful to the task. There was
no great exercise of art, it is true. That is not pretended.
But nature was not suffered to have her own
way entirely, was not suffered to overrun the face of
the land with her luxuriance; nor was man so savage
as to strip her utterly of all her graceful decorations—
a crime which we are too frequently called upon to deplore
and to denounce, when we contemplate the habitations
even of the wealthy among our people, particularly
in the South, despoiled, by barbarity, of all their shade-trees,
and denuded of all the grace and softness which
these necessarily confer upon the landscape. Here, the
glance seemed to rest satisfied with what it beheld, and
to want for nothing. There might be bigger houses,
and loftier structures, of more ambitious design and
more commanding proportion; but this was certainly
very neat, and very much in its place. Its white outlines
caught your eye, glinting through openings of the
forest, approaching by the road on either hand, for
some distance before you drew nigh, and with such an
air of peace and sweetness, that you were insensibly
prepared to regard its inmates as very good and well-bred
people. Nor are we wrong in these conjectures.
But of this hereafter. At this moment, you may see
a very splendid iron-gray charger, saddled, and fastened
in the shade, some twenty steps from the dwelling. Lift
your eye to the piazza, and you behold the owner. A
finer-looking fellow lives not in the country. Tall, well
made, and muscular, he treads the piazza like a prince.
The freedom of carriage which belongs to the gentlemen
in our forest country is inimitable, is not to be acquired
by art, and is due to the fact that they suffer from no
laborious occupation, undergo no drudgery, and are
subject to no confinement, which, in childhood, contract
the shoulders into a stoop, depress the spirits, enfeeble
the energies, and wofully impair the freedom and elegance
of the deportment. Constant exercise on foot
and horseback, the fox hunt and the chase; these, with
other sylvan sports, do wonders for the physique, the
grace and the bearing of the country gentleman of the
South. The person before us is one of the noblest specimens
of his class. A frank and handsome countenance,
with a skin clear and inclining to the florid; a bright,
martial blue eye; a full chin; thick, massive locks of
dark brown hair, and lips that express a rare sweetness,
and only do not smile, sufficiently distinguish his peculiarities
of face. His dress is simple, after an ordinary
fashion of the country, but is surprisingly neat and becoming.
A loose blouse, rather more after the Choctaw
than the Parisian pattern, does not lessen the symmetry
of his shape. His trousers are not so loose as to conceal
the fine muscular developments of his lower limbs;
nor does his loose negligée neckcloth, simply folded
about the neck, prevent the display of a column which
admirably sustains the intellectual and massive head
which crowns it, and which we now behold uncovered.
Booted and spurred, he appears ready for a journey,
walks the piazza with something of impatience in his
manner, and frequently stops to shade his eyes from the
glare, as he strains them in exploring the distant highway.
You see that he is young, scarcely twenty-two;
eager in his impulses, restive under restraint, and better
able to endure and struggle with the conflict than to
wait for its slow approaches. Suddenly he starts. He
turns to a call from within, and a matron lady appears
at the entrance of the dwelling, and joins him in the
piazza. He turns to her with respect and fondness. She
is his mother; a stately dame, with features like his
own; a manner at once easy and dignified; an eye
grave, but benevolent; and a voice whose slow, subdued
accents possess a rare sweetness not unmingled with
command. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 35 | Author: | Smith
Seba
1792-1868 | Add | | | Title: | My thirty years out of the Senate | | | | Published: | 2001 | | | | 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 will be seen by the date above that I wrote this little
history of my life twenty odd years ago. It was the time the
Boston folks published a little vollum of my first Letters, and
the Life was writ to head the vollum with. But I've seen a
great deal more of the world since then, and have writ a
great many more Letters, and seen a great deal more of the
workings of American Politicians. And they'll all have to
come into my Thirty Years' View. But there'll be a kind of
gap near the close of Gineral Jackson's time, and for awhile
after, because a lot of my letters, written at that time, was
lost in a fire some years afterward, and I don't suppose I can
now find the papers they was published in. But I will bridge
over the gap as well as I can, and there'll be a pretty long
road to travel both sides of it. And this reminds me how
strange the parallel runs between me and Colonel Benton;
for he lost a lot of his letters and speeches and dockyments by
fire, and had a good deal of a hard job to go over the ground
again in getting up his work. But I and Colonel Benton are
hard to beat. We generally go ahead, let what will stand in
the way. Dear Cousin Ephraim:—I now take my pen in hand to let
you know that I am well, hoping these few lines will find you
enjoying the same blessing. When I come down to Portland
I didn't think o' staying more than three or four days, if I
could sell my load of ax handles, and mother's cheese, and
cousin Nabby's bundle of footings; but when I got here I
found Uncle Nat was gone a freighting down to Quoddy, and
aunt Sally said as how I shouldn't stir a step home till he come
back agin, which won't be this month. So here I am, loitering
about this great town, as lazy as an ox. Ax handles
don't fetch nothing; I couldn't hardly give 'em away. Tell
Cousin Nabby I sold her footings for nine-pence a pair,
and took it all in cotton cloth. Mother's cheese come to
seven-and-sixpence; I got her half a pound of shushon,
and two ounces of snuff, and the rest in sugar. When
Uncle Nat comes home I shall put my ax handles aboard
of him, and let him take 'em to Boston next time he goes;
I saw a feller tother day, that told me they'd fetch a good
price there. I've been here now a whole fortnight, and
if I could tell ye one half I've seen, I guess you'd stare worse
than if you'd seen a catamount. I've been to meeting, and to
the museum, and to both Legislaters, the one they call the
House, and the one they call the Sinnet. I spose Uncle
Joshua is in a great hurry to hear something about these
Legislaters; for you know he's always reading newspapers,
and talking politics, when he can get anybody to talk with
him. I've seen him when he had five tons of hay in the field
well made, and a heavy shower coming up, stand two hours
disputing with Squire W. about Adams and Jackson—one
calling Adams a tory and a fed, and the other saying Jackson
was a murderer and a fool; so they kept it up, till the rain
began to pour down, and about spoilt all his hay. GRAND CAUCUS AT DOWNINGVILLE—THE LONG AGONY OVER, AND THE
NOMINATION OUT. My Dear Old Friend:—I've jest got the Union, containing
the broadside you fired at me, and I'm amazingly struck up,
and my feelins is badly hurt, to see that you've got so bewildered
that you seemingly don't know me. It's a melancholy
sign when old folks get so bewildered that they mistake their
oldest and best friends, one for t'other. Why, your head is
turned right round. How could you say that I was “a fictitious
Major Jack Downing?” and that my last letter to you
was a “trashy forgery?” and that you would “strip the
mask from me?” I feel bad now about writing my last letter
to you, for I'm afraid you took it too hard. I beg of you now,
my dear friend, to let all drop right where 'tis; leave Mr.
Burke to do the burkin' and the fightin', and you go right out
into the country and put yourself under the “cold-water cure”
somewhere, and see if your head won't come right again. I
“fictitious,” and you going to “strip the mask from me!”
Why, my dear friend, if you could only be up here five
minutes, and jest lift the mask off of my face one minute,
you'd know me jest as easy as the little boy knew his daddy.
Your head couldn't be so turned but what you'd know me; for
you'd see then the very same old friend that stood by you and
Gineral Jackson fifteen, sixteen, and eighteen years ago; the
same old friend that coaxed up Gineral Jackson, and made
him forgive you for calling him such hard names before he
was elected. It's very ungrateful for you to forget me now—
that is, if you was in your right mind. For I'm the same old
friend, the same Jack Downing that was born and brought up
in Downingville, away Down East, in the State of Maine, and
that drove down to Portland in Jinnerwary, 1830, with a load of
ax-handles and bean-poles, and found the Legislater in a dreadful
snarl, all tied and tangled, and see-sawin' up and down a
whole fortnight, and couldn't choose their officers. I found
my ax-handles and bean-poles wouldn't sell, so I took to polytix,
and went to writin' letters. The Legislater fout and fout
all winter; but I kept writin', and at last I got 'em straitened
out. I kept on writin' for a whole year, and got the polytix
of Maine pretty well settled. Then I see Gineral Jackson
was getting into trouble, and I footed it on to Washington to
give him a lift. And you know I always stuck by him afterward
as long as he lived. I helped him fight the battles with
Biddle's monster bank till we killed it off. I helped him put
down nullification, and showed exactly how it would work if it
got the upper hand, in my letter about carrying the raft of logs
across Sebago Pond, when Bill Johnson got mad and swore
he'd have his log all to himself, and so he cut the lashings
and paddled off on his log alone; and then his log begun to roll,
and he couldn't keep it steady, and he got ducked head over
heels half a dozen times, and come pesky near being drowned.
And that wasn't all I did to keep off nullification and help put
it down. I brought on my old company of Downingville
malitia to Washington, under the command of Cousin Sargent
Joel, and kept 'em there, with their guns all loaded, till the
danger was over. And I used to go up top of the Congress
House every day, and keep watch, and listen off toward South
Carolina, so as to be ready, the first moment nullification bust
up there, to order Sargent Joel to march and fire. The Gineral
always said the spunk I showed was what cowed nullification
down so quick, and he always felt very grateful to me for it.
Well, I stuck by the Gineral all weathers; and I kept writin'
letters from Washington to my old friend, the editor of the
Portland Courier, and kept old Hickory's popularity alive
among the people, and didn't let nobody meddle with his Administration
to hurt it. Well, then, you know, the Gineral,
in the summer of 1832, started off on his grand tower Down
East, and I went with him. You remember, when we got to
Philadelphy, the people swarmed round him so thick they almost
smothered him to death; and the Gineral got so tired
shakin' hands that he couldn't give another shake, and come
pretty near faintin' away; and then I put my hand round under
his arm, and shook for him half an hour longer, and so we
made out to get through. I sent the whole account of it to
my old friend of the Portland Courier. Well, then we jogged
along to New York; and there, you remember, we come pesky
near getting a ducking when the bridge broke down at
Castle Garden. I sent the whole account of it to my old
Portland friend. Well, the next day your “original” Major
Downing published his first original letter in a New York
paper, giving an account of the ducking at Castle Garden.
Nobody couldn't dispute but this was the true, ginuine, “original”
Downing document, although my “vile imitations” of it
had been going on and published almost every week for two
years. I say nobody couldn't dispute it, because 'twas proved
by Scripture and poetry both. For the Bible says, “The
first shall be last, and the last first;” and poetry says,
“Coming events cast their shadows before.” So the shadows,
the “vile imitations,” had been flying about the country for
more than two years before the original event got along. I
hope your head will get settled again, so that you can see
through these things and understand 'em, and know me jest
as you used to. I can't bear the idea of your not knowing
me, and thinking I'm “fictitious.” My Dear Old Friend:—I'm alive yet, though I've been
through showers of balls as thick as hailstones. I got
your paper containing my letter that I wrote on the road
to the war. The letters I wrote afterward, the guerrillas
12
and robbers are so thick, I think it's ten chances to one
if you got 'em. Some of Gineral Scott's letters is missing
just in the same way. Now we've got the city of Mexico
annexed, I think the Postmaster-General ought to have a more
regular line of stages running here, so our letters may go
safe. I wish you would touch the President and Mr. Johnson
up a little about this mail-stage business, so they may keep
all the coach makers at work, and see that the farmers raise
horses as fast as they can, for I don't think they have any idea
how long the roads is this way, nor how fast we are gaining
south. If we keep on annexin' as fast as we have done a year
or two past, it wouldn't take much more than half a dozen
years to get clear down to t'other end of South America, clear
to Cape Horn, which would be a very good stopping place;
for then, if our Government got into bad sledding in North
America, and found themselves in a dilemma that hadn't no
horn to suit 'em, they would have a horn in South America
that they might hold on to. Dear Sir:—I've done my best, according to your directions,
to get round Santa Anna, but it is all no use. He's as slippery
as an eel, and has as many lives as a cat. Trist and I
together can't hold him, and Scott and Taylor can't kill him
off. We get fast hold of him with our diplomatics, but he
slips through our fingers; and Scott and Taylor cuts his head
off in every town where they can catch him, but he always
comes to life in the next town, and shows as many heads as
if he had never lost one. I had a long talk with him in the
city, and pinned him right down to the bargain he made with
you when you let him into Vera Cruz, and asked him “why
he didn't stick to it.” He said he “did stick to it as far as
circumstances rendered it prudent.” My Dear Old Friends:—Gineral Scott and I find a good
deal of bother about getting our dispatches through to Vera
Cruz, or else you'd hear from me oftener. I do think the
President is too backward about clearing out this road from
here to Vera Cruz, and keeping it open, and introducing the
improvements into the country that we stand so much in need
of here. He and Mr. Ritchie pretends to have constitutional
scruples about it, and says the Constitution don't allow of
internal improvements; and Mr. Ritchie says the resolutions
of '98 is dead agin it, too; and, besides, Mr. Ritchie says these
internal improvements is a Federal doctrine, and he'd always
go agin 'em for that, if nothin' else. But 'tis strange to me
the President hasn't never found out yet that where there's a
will there's a way, Constitution or no Constitution. All he's
got to do is, to call all these roads round here in Mexico
“military roads,” and then he'd have the Constitution on his
side, for everbody knows the Constitution allows him to make
military roads. I know the President is very delicate about
fringing on the Constitution, so I don't blame him so much for
holding back about the internal improvements here in Mexico,
though I don't think there's any other part of the United
States where they are needed more. But there's no need of
splitting hairs about the roads; military roads isn't internal
improvements, and he's a right to make military roads as
much as he pleases. And as them is jest the kind of roads
we want here, and shall want for fifty years (for our armies
will have to keep marching about the country for fifty years
before they'll be able to tame these Mexicans, and turn 'em
into Americans), it is confounded strange to me that the
President is so behind-hand about this business. What's the
use of our going on and annexin' away down South here, if
he don't back us up and hold on to the slack? And there's
no way to hold on to it but to keep these military roads open
so our armies can go back and forth, and bring us in victuals,
and powder, and shot, and money. Dear Colonel:—Things is getting along here as well as
could be expected, considerin' the help we have, but we are all
together too weak-handed to work to profit. If you want us to
hurry along down South, we need a good deal more help and
more money. It wouldn't be no use to give that three millions
of dollars to Santa Anna now, for the people have got so out
with him that he couldn't make peace if he had six millions.
He's skulking about the country, and has as much as he can
do to take care of himself. So I think you had better give up
the notion about peace altogether, it 'll be such a hard thing
to get, and send on the three millions here to help us along
in our annexin'. It's dangerous standin' still in this annexin'
business. It's like the old woman's soap—if it don't go ahead,
it goes back. It would be a great help to us in the way of
holdin' on to what we get, if you would carry out that
plan of giving the Mexican land to settlers from the United
States, as fast as we annex it. I've been very impatient to
see your proclamation offering the land to settlers to come
out here. You've no idea how much help it would be to us if
we only had a plenty of our folks out here, so that as fast as
we killed a Mexican, or drove him off from his farm, we could
put an American right on to it. If we could only plant as we
go, in this way, we should soon have a crop of settlers here
that could hold on to the slack themselves, and leave the
army free to go ahead, and keep on annexin'. I thought
when I left Washington, you was agoing to put out such a
proclamation right away. And I think you are putting it off
a good deal too long, for we've got land and farms enough
here now for two hundred thousand at least; and, if they
would only come on fast enough, I think we could make room
for twenty thousand a week for a year to come. But I'm afraid
you're too delicate about doing your duty in this business;
you are such a stickler for the Constitution. I'm afraid you're
waiting for Congress to meet, so as to let them have a finger
in the pie. But I wouldn't do it. From all I can hear, it
looks as if the Whigs was coming into power; and if they
should, it would be a terrible calamity, for they are too narrowminded
and too much behind the age to understand the rights
of this annexin' business, and it's ten chances to one if they
don't contrive some way to put a stop to it. GREAT BATTLE IN THE COURT-MARTIAL. Dear Colonel:—I've been stumping it round all over the
lot for two or three months, tight and tight, for our American
friend, Gineral Cass, and as I s'pose you are very anxious and
uneasy to know how it's coming out, I thought I would set
down and make out a private report, and send it on to you by
the telegraph wires, for they say they go like lightening, and
give you some of the premonitory symptons, so that when the
after-clap comes you may be a little prepared for it, and not
feel so bad. As I said afore, I've been all round the lot, sometimes
by the steamboats, and sometimes by the railroads, and
sometimes by the telegraph, and when there wasn't no other
WRITING BY TELEGRAPH.
688EAF. Page 310. In-line image. A man sits upon a telephone pole writing a telegraph on a piece of paper perched on top of his tophat.
way to go, I footed it. And I'm satisfied the jig is up with
us, and it's no use in my trying any longer; and Mr.
Buchanan's speech was all throwed away, too. I'm very sure
we shall get some of the States, but I'll be hanged if I can tell
which ones. There an't a single State that I should dare to
bet upon alone, but taking 'em all in the lump, I should still
stick out strong for half a dozen at least. I see where all the
difficulty is, as plain as day. You may depend upon it, we
should elect Gineral Cass easy enough if it wasn't for Gineral
Taylor; but he stands peskily in the way, jest as much as he
stood in the way of the Mexicans at Bony Vista. As for Mr.
Van Buren, if he stood agin us alone, we should tread him all
to atoms; he couldn't make no headway at all, especially
after we got the nomination at Baltimore. Jest between you
and me, I don't think much of Mr. Van Buren now. I don't
believe he ever was a Democrat. I think he only made believe
all the time; and I'd bet two to one he's only making believe
now. I wish the Old Gineral, dear Old Hickory, that's
dead and gone, could be here now to have the handling of
him for a little while; if he didn't bring him into the traces I
wouldn't guess agin. Dear Gineral:—I'm afraid you've thought strange of it
that I haint writ to you afore now, for so long time past; but
I couldn't, I've been so busy cruising round among the fishermen
down to New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia, and the Gulf
of St. Lawrence, that I couldn't get no time to write, nor
couldn't find no Post-Office to send it. Ye see, Gineral, I didn't
accept your invitation to take a seat in your Cabinet, 'cause
I'm one of them sort that can't bear setting a great deal. I
can't stan' it without I'm up and knocking about pretty much
every day; and I understood the Cabinet had to set nigh
about half the time, so I told you I should a good deal rather
have some foreign appointment, where I could stir myself.
And you told me the foreign appointments was pretty much
all spoken for, twenty times over, but you would give me a
commission as Minister-Gineral, and I might go round and
look after the interests of the country wherever I thought
MAJOR DOWNING'S VISIT TO THE FISHING SMACKS.
688EAF. Illustration page. The Major is standing up in a rowboat, being addressed by a sailor who is standing on the deck of a larger fishing boat next to which the rowboat has drawn. The sailor points to the mast of the boat, and another sailor is bending over some ropes at the prow of the boat. In the background there are many more fishing boats. One bears an "S" on its mainsail.
best. Now that was jest what I liked; you couldn't a gin
me no appointment that would suit me better. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 36 | Author: | Spofford
Harriet Elizabeth Prescott
1835-1921 | Add | | | Title: | New-England legends | | | | 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 islands about the harbors of all our New
England rivers are so wild, and would seem to
have offered so many advantages, that they
have always been supposed, by the ruder population,
to be the hiding-place of piratical treasures,
and particularly of Captain Kidd's; and
the secretion, among rocks and sands, of chests
of jewels stripped from noble Spanish ladies
who have walked the awful plank, with shotbags
full of diamonds, and ingots of pure gold,
is one of the tenets of the vulgar faith. This
belief has ranged up and down the whole
shore with more freedom than the pirates ever
did, and the legends on the subject are legion
—from the old Frenchman of Passamaquoddy
Bay to the wild stories of the Jersey and Carolina
sandbars too countless for memory, the
Fireship off Newport, the Shrieking Woman of
Marblehead, and the Lynn Mariner who, while
burying his treasure in a cave, was sealed up
alive by a thunderbolt that cleft the rock, and
whom some one, under spiritual inspiration,
spent lately a dozen years in vain endeavor to
unearth. The parties that have equipped themselves
with hazel-rods and spades, and proceeded,
at the dead of night, in search of these
riches, without turning their heads or uttering
the Divine Name, and, digging till they struck
metal, have met with all manner of ghostly appearances,
from the little naked negro sitting
and crying on the edge of the hogshead of
doubloons, to the ball of fire sailing straight up
the creek, till it hangs trembling on the tide
just opposite the excavation into which it
shoots with the speed of lightning, so terrifying
and bewildering the treasure-seekers that
when all is over they fail to find again the place
of their late labor—the parties that have met
with these adventures would, perhaps, cease to
waste much more of their time in such pursuits
in this part of the country if they knew that
Captain Kidd had never landed north of Block
Island until, with fatal temerity, he brought
his vessel into Boston, and that every penny of
his gains was known and was accounted for,
while as to Bradish, Tew, and the rest of that
genry, they wasted everything as they went in
riotous living, and could never have had a dollar
to hide, and no disposition to hide it if they
had; and whatever they did possess they took
with them when, quietly abandoning their ships
to the officers of the law, they went up the
creeks and rivers in boats, and dispersed themselves
throughout the country. “Received of Bishop Fenwick, the sum of
seventy-nine dollars and twenty cents, the same
being taxes assessed by the Assessors of the
town of Charlestown, upon the land and buildings
of the late Convent of Mount Benedict, for
the year 1834, and which were this day demanded
by Solomon Hovey, Jr., Collector,
agreeably to instructions received by him from
the Assessors, to that effect, although said
buildings had been destroyed by a mob in August
last. “Honor Governor my friend You my friend.
I desire your worship and your power, because
I hope you can do some great matters—this
one. I am poor and naked and I have no men
at my place because I afraid allways Mohogs he
will kill me every day and night. If your worship
when please pray help me you no let
Mohogs kill me at my place at Malamake
Rever called Panukkog and Natukkog, I will
submit your worship and your power. — And
now I want pouder and such alminishun, shatt
and guns, because I have forth at my home and
I plant theare. “Now this day I com your house, I want se
you, and I bring my hand at before you I want
shake hand to you if your worship when please
then you receive my hand then shake your
hand and my hand. You my friend because I
remember at old time when live my grant
father and grant mother then Englishmen com
this country, then my grant father and Englishmen
they make a good govenant, they friend
allwayes, my grant father leving at place called
Malamake Rever, other name chef Natukkog
and Panukkog, that one rever great many
names, and I bring you this few skins at this
first time I will give you my friend. This all
Indian hand. “Please your Worship—I will intreat you
matther, you my friend now; this, if my Indian
he do you long, pray you no put your law, because
som my Indians fooll, some men much
love drunk then he no know what he do, maybe
he do mischif when he drunk, if so pray you
must let me know what he done because I will
ponis him what have done, you, you my friend,
if you desire my business then sent me I will
help you if I can. “Mr. Mason — Pray I want speake you a few
words if your worship when please, because I
com parfas. I will speake this governor but
he go away so he say at last night, and so far
I understand this governor his power that your
power now, so he speak his own mouth. Pray if
you take what I want pray come to me because
I want go hom at this day. “Honorable Sir—The Governor and Council
having this day received a letter from Major
Hinchman, of Chelmsford, that some Indians
are come into them, who report that there is a
gathering of Indians in or about Pennacook,
with design of mischief to the English. Among
the said Indians one Hawkins is said to be a
principal designer, and that they have a particular
design against yourself and Mr. Peter
Coffin, which the Council thought it necessary
presently to dispatch advice thereof, to give
you notice, that you take care of your own safeguard,
they intending to endeavor to betray
you on a pretension of trade. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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