| | 1 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The book of my lady  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Were these days of fiction, rather than of fact, and
could the popular sense be persuaded to regard that
period of exciting circumstance in past history, called
the era of romance, in any other light than that of a
pleasant dream about to be forgotten, your charms
might once again bring into exercise, not merely the
lay of the minstrel, but the valour of the knight. Instead
of the goosequill, spear and sword might, with
sufficient reason, be lifted in your service. Alas! however,
for the time—it brings forth no such offering. As
an especial rebuke to such glorious errantries as made
the middle ages the prime period of romantic adventure;
state prisons and penitentiaries frown upon us
from every quarter—instead of the warlike and stirring
blasts of the bugle, calling the watchful warder to the
turret, and arousing the sleeping porter to the approach
of the visiter, the tintinnabulary house-bell presents
itself conveniently at the portals, and the liveried servitor
opens the door at the first friendly summons. Romance
knows none of these comforts, and well may
adventure sigh after a period which left something for
achievement to do, in scaling walls and mounting windows.
Had we, my lady, been born in such a period,
doubt not that I should have done something worthy to
be named along with the daring doings of the time.
Doubt not that lance had been lifted, and bugle wound,
and battle done gallantly, in your behalf and for your
love. As the times are, however, this may not be the
case; and all that chivalry may now proffer to his ladylove,
is some little tribute of romance like this,—its
relic and remembrance—comprised in a tiny volume,
quite unworthy of your genius, but all that I can yield
from mine. Pardon me, then, dear lady, that these
pages—many of which have been already uttered in
your ears—have received a name, which, though not
fairly identified with yourself or yours, must nevertheless,
and necessarily, refer to you for that countenance and
favour, which is more than popular applause to me.
May they not prove altogether unworthy your acceptance,
nor seem to be altogether ungracious in your
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