| | 162 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Add | | | Title: | The ways of the hour  | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In one respect, there is a visible improvement in the goodly
town of Manhattan, and that is in its architecture. Of its
growth, there has never been any question, while many have
disputed its pretension to improvement. A vast expansion of
mediocrity, though useful and imposing, rarely satisfies either
the judgment or the taste; those who possess these qualities,
requiring a nearer approach to what is excellent, than can ever
be found beneath the term just mentioned. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 163 | Author: | Penfeather
Amabel
pseud | Add | | | Title: | Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Had there been a predecessor of Mr. Downing in the
country, some five-and-twenty years since, to criticise Wyllys-Roof,
the home of our friend Elinor, his good taste would
no doubt have suggested many improvements, not only in the
house itself, but also in the grounds which surrounded it.
The building had been erected long before the first Tudor
cottage was transported, Loretto-like, across the Atlantic, and
was even anterior to the days of Grecian porticoes. It was a
comfortable, sensible-looking place, however, such as were
planned some eighty or a hundred years since, by men who
had fortune enough to do as they pleased, and education
enough to be quite superior to all pretension. The house
was a low, irregular, wooden building, of ample size for the
tastes and habits of its inmates, with broad piazzas, which not
only increased its dimensions, but added greatly to the comfort
and pleasure of the family by whom it was occupied. “You will be glad to hear that Jane passed the barriers,
this morning, with the Howards. She has just finished a
letter to Mrs. Graham; and, as she dislikes writing so much,
has given me leave to announce her arrival to all at Wyllys-Roof.
As Jane enters Paris on one side, I leave it in the
opposite direction, for, the day after to-morrow, I am off for
Constantinople; a movement which will, no doubt, astonish
you, though, I am sure, you will wish me joy of such pleasant
prospects. This letter will probably be the last you
will hear of me, for some time; not but what I shall write as
usual, but these long overland mails, through countries
where they suspect revolution or plague, in every letter,
often fail to do their duty. In fact, I delayed my journey a
week or two, expressly to see Jane, and have a good supply
of Longbridge news before setting out. Everybody tells me,
I must expect to lose more than half my letters, both ways.
This is bad enough, to be sure; but a journey to Greece and
Constantinople, would be too full of delights, without some
serious drawback. I believe Jane is more tired by answering
our questions, and hearing what we have to tell her, than
by her voyage. I cannot help wishing, my dear Elinor,
that it were you who had arrived in Paris, instead of our
pretty little cousin. How I should delight in showing you
my favourite view, the quais and the island, from the Pont
Royal—the Louvre, too, and the Madeleine. As for Jane,
she will, doubtless, find her chief pleasures at Delilles', and
the Tuileries — buying finery, and showing it off: it has
often puzzled me to find out which some ladies most enjoy. “You have been so kind to me, ever since we moved into
your neighbourhood, that I hope you will excuse me for
asking your assistance, this morning. I have been a good
deal plagued in my kitchen ever since we came into the
country this spring. My cook and chamber-maid, who are
sisters, are always finding some excuse for wanting to go to
the city; and last night they got a letter, or pretended to get
one from New York, saying that their father was very sick;
and as I didn't know but it might be true, I couldn't refuse
them, and they have gone for a week—though I won't be
sure it was not for a mere frolic. As it happened, Mr.
Taylor and Adeline came back from Saratoga, last night,
and brought a house-full of company with them; an old
friend of mine whom I had not seen for years, and some new
acquaintances of Adeline's. To make matters worse, my
nurse, a faithful, good girl, who has lived with me for years,
was taken sick this morning; and John, the waiter, had a
quarrel with the coachman, and went off in a huff. You
know such things always come together. So I have now
only the coachman and his daughter, a little girl of twelve,
in the house; happily they are both willing, and can do a
little of everything. If you know of anybody that I can
find to take the place of cook, or housemaid, I shall be truly
obliged to you for giving the coachman their names and
directions. “I feel unworthy of you, Elinor, and I cannot endure
longer to deceive so generous a temper as yours. You must
have remarked my emotion this morning—Miss Wyllys now
knows all; I refer you to her. I shall never cease to reproach
myself for my unpardonable ingratitude. But painful
as it is to confess it, it would have been intolerable to play
the hypocrite any longer, by continuing to receive proofs of
kindness which I no longer deserve. It is my hope, that in
time you will forgive me; though I shall never forgive myself. “I do not blame you—your conduct was but natural; one
more experienced, or more prudent than myself, would probably
have foreseen it. Had you left me in ignorance of the
truth until too late, I should then have been miserable indeed.
My aunt will take the first opportunity of letting our mutual
friends know the position in which it is best we should continue
for the future. May you be happy with Jane. “You will not receive this letter until you have reached
the age of womanhood, years after your mother has been
laid in her grave. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 164 | Author: | Penfeather
Amabel
pseud | Add | | | Title: | Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is to be feared the reader will find fault with this chapter.
But there is no remedy; he must submit quietly to a break
of three years in the narrative: having to choose between
the unities and the probabilities, we greatly preferred holding
to the last. The fault, indeed, of this hiatus, rests entirely
with the young folk of Longbridge, whose fortunes we have
undertaken to follow; had they remained together, we should,
of course, have been faithful to our duty as a chronicler; but
our task was not so easy. In the present state of the world,
people will move about—especially American people; and
making no claim to ubiquity, we were obliged to wait patiently
until time brought the wanderers back again, to the
neighbourhood where we first made their acquaintance.
Shortly after Jane's marriage, the whole party broke up;
Jane and her husband went to New-Orleans, where Tallman
Taylor was established as partner in a commercial house
connected with his father. Hazlehurst passed several years
in Mexico and South-America: an old friend of his father's,
a distinguished political man, received the appointment of
Envoy to Mexico, and offered Harry the post of Secretary
of Legation. Hazlehurst had long felt a strong desire to see
the southern countries of the continent, and was very glad
of so pleasant an arrangement; he left his friend Ellsworth
to practise law alone, and accompanied Mr. Henley, the
Minister, to Mexico; and from thence removed, after a time,
to Brazil. Charlie had been studying his profession in
France and Italy, during the same period. Even Elinor was
absent from home much more than usual; Miss Wyllys had
been out of health for the last year or two; and, on her account,
they passed their summers in travelling, and a winter
in the West-Indies. At length, however, the party met
again on the old ground; and we shall take up the thread of
our narrative, during the summer in which the circle was
re-united. It is to be hoped that this break in the movement
of our tale will be forgiven, when we declare, that the plot
is about to thicken; perplexities, troubles, and misfortunes
are gathering about our Longbridge friends; a piece of intelligence
which will probably cheer the reader's spirits.
We have it on the authority of a philosopher, that there is
something gratifying to human nature in the calamities of
our friends; an axiom which seems true, at least, of all acquaintances
made on paper. “It may appear presumptuous in one unknown to you, to
address you on a subject so important as that which is the
theme of this epistle; but not having the honour of your acquaintance,
I am compelled by dire necessity, and the ardent
feelings of my heart, to pour forth on paper the expression
of the strong admiration with which you have inspired me.
Lovely Miss Wyllys, you are but too well known to me,
although I scarcely dare to hope that your eye has rested for
a moment on the features of your humble adorer. I am a
European, one who has moved in the first circles of his
native land, and after commencing life as a military man,
was compelled by persecution to flee to the hospitable shores
of America. Chequered as my life has been, happy, thrice
happy shall I consider it, if you will but permit me to devote
its remaining years to your service! Without your smiles,
the last days of my career will be more gloomy than all that
have gone before. But I cannot believe you so cruel, so
hard-hearted, as to refuse to admit to your presence, one
connected with several families of the nobility and gentry in
the north of England, merely because the name of Horace
de Vere has been sullied by appearing on the stage. Let
me hope—” “If the new store, being erected on your lot in Market-Street,
between Fourth and Fifth, is not already leased, you
will confer an obligation if you will let us know to whom
we must apply for terms, &c., &c. The location and premises
being suitable, we should be glad to rent. The best
of references can be offered on our part. “When shall we see you at Bloomingdale? You are
quite too cruel, to disappoint us so often; we really do not
deserve such shabby treatment. Here is the month of June,
with its roses, and strawberries, and ten thousand other
sweets, and among them you must positively allow us to hope
for a visit from our very dear friends at Wyllys-Roof. Should
your venerable grandpapa, or my excellent friend, Miss
Wyllys be unhappily detained at home, as you feared, do
not let that be the means of depriving us of your visit. I
need not say that William would be only too happy to drive
you to Bloomingdale, at any time you might choose; but if
that plan, his plan, should frighten your propriety, I shall be
proud to take charge of you myself. Anne is not only
pining for your visit, but very tired of answering a dozen
times a day, her brother's questions, `When shall we see
Miss Wyllys?'—`Is Miss Wyllys never coming?' “My mother wishes me to thank you myself, for your
last act of goodness to us—but I can never tell you all we
feel on the subject. My dear mother cried with joy all the
evening, after she had received your letter. I am going to
school according to your wish, as soon as mother can spare
me, and I shall study very hard, which will be the best way
of thanking you. The music-master says he has no doubt
but I can play well enough to give lessons, if I go on as
well as I have in the last year; I practise regularly every
day. Mother bids me say, that now she feels sure of my
Vol. II. — 5
education for the next three years, one of her heaviest cares
has been taken away: she says too, that although many
friends in the parish have been very good to us, since my
dear father was taken away from us, yet `no act of kindness
has been so important to us, none so cheering to the heart of
the widow and the fatherless, as your generous goodness to
her eldest child;' these are her own words. Mother will
write to you herself to-morrow. I thank you again, dear
Miss Wyllys, for myself, and I remain, very respectfully and
very gratefully, “I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, as
my late father was not married to you when I went to sea,
not long before his death. But I make no doubt that you
will not refuse me my rights, now that I step forward to
demand them, after leaving others to enjoy them for nearly
eighteen years. Things look different to a man near forty,
and to a young chap of twenty; I have been thinking of
claiming my property for some time, but was told by lawyers
that there was too many difficulties in the way, owing partly
to my own fault, partly to the fault of others. As long as I
was a youngster, I didn't care for anything but having my
own way—I snapped my fingers at all the world; but now
I am tired of a sea-faring life, and have had hardships enough
for one man: since there is a handsome property mine, by
right, I am resolved to claim it, through thick and thin. I
have left off the bottle, and intend to do my best to be respectable
for the rest of my days. I make no doubt but we
shall be able to come to some agreement; nor would I object
to a compromise for the past, though my lawyers advise me
to make no such offer. I shall be pleased, Madam, to pay
my respects to you, that we may settle our affairs at a personal
meeting, if it suits you to do so. “I regret that I am compelled by the interests of my client,
William Stanley, Esquire, to address a lady I respect so
highly, upon a subject that must necessarily prove distressing
to her, in many different ways.” “The letters addressed by you to Mrs. Stanley, Mr.
Wyllys and myself, of the date of last Tuesday, have just
reached us. I shall not dwell on the amazement which we
naturally felt in receiving a communication so extraordinary,
which calls upon us to credit the existence of an individual,
whom we have every reason to believe has lain for nearly
eighteen years at the bottom of the deep: it will be sufficient
that I declare, what you are probably already prepared to
hear, that we see no cause for changing our past opinions on
this subject. We believe to-day, as we have believed for
years, that William Stanley was drowned in the wreck of
the Jefferson, during the winter of 181-. We can command
to-day, the same proofs which produced conviction at the
time when this question was first carefully examined. We
have learned no new fact to change the character of these
proofs. “I left home, as everybody knows, because I would have
my own way in everything. It was against my best interests
to be sure, but boys don't think at such times, about
anything but having their own will. I suppose that every
person connected with my deceased father knows, that my
first voyage was made to Russia, in the year 18—, in the ship
Dorothy Beck, Jonas Thomson, Master. I was only fourteen
years old at the time. My father had taken to heart my
going off, and when I came back from Russia he was on the
look-out, wrote to me and sent me money, and as soon as he
heard we were in port he came after me. Well, I went
back with the old gentleman; but we had a quarrel on the
road, and I put about again and went to New Bedford, where
I shipped in a whaler. We were out only eighteen months,
and brought in a full cargo. This time I went home of my
own accord, and I staid a great part of one summer. I did
think some of quitting the seas; but after a while things
didn't work well, and one of my old shipmates coming up
into the country to see me, I went off with him. This time
I shipped in the Thomas Jefferson, for China. This was in
the year 1814, during the last war, when I was about eighteen.
Most people, who know anything about William Stanley,
think that was the last of him, that he never set foot on
American ground again; but they are mistaken, as he himself
will take the pains to show. So far I have told nothing
but what everybody knows, but now I am going to give a
short account of what has happened, since my friends heard
from me. Well; the Jefferson sailed, on her voyage to
China, in October; she was wrecked on the coast of Africa
in December, and it was reported that all hands were lost:
so they were, all but one, and that one was William Stanley.
I was picked up by a Dutchman, the barque William, bound
to Batavia. I kept with the Dutchman for a while, until he
went back to Holland. After I had cut adrift from him, I
fell in with some Americans, and got some old papers; in
one of them I saw my father's second marriage. I knew
the name of the lady he had married, but I had never spoken
to her. The very next day, one of the men I was with, who
came from the same part of the country, told me of my
father's death, and said it was the common talk about the
neighbourhood, that I was disinherited. This made me very
angry; though I wasn't much surprised, after what had
passed. I was looking out for a homeward-bound American,
to go back, and see how matters stood, when one night that
I was drunk, I was carried off by an English officer, who
made out I was a runaway. For five years I was kept in
different English men-of-war, in the East Indies; at the end
of that time I was put on board the Ceres, sloop of war, and
I made out to desert from her at last, and got on board an
American. I then came home; and here, the first man that
I met on shore was Billings, the chap who first persuaded
me to go to sea: he knew all about my father's family, and
told me it was true I was cut off without a cent, and that
Harry Hazlehurst had been adopted by my father. This
made me so mad, that I went straight to New Bedford, and
shipped in the Sally Andrews, for a whaling voyage. Just
before we were to have come home, I exchanged into another
whaler, as second-mate, for a year longer. Then I sailed in
a Havre liner, as foremast hand, for a while. I found out
about this time, that the executors of my father's estate had
been advertising for me shortly after his death, while I was
in the East Indies; and I went to a lawyer in Baltimore,
where I happened to be, and consulted him about claiming
the property; but he wouldn't believe a word I said, because
I was half-drunk at the time, and told me that I should get
in trouble if I didn't keep my mouth shut. Well, I cruized
about for a while longer, when at last I went to Longbridge,
with some shipmates. I had been there often before, as a
lad, and I had some notion of having a talk with Mr. Wyllys,
my father's executor; I went to his house one day, but I
didn't see him. One of my shipmates, who knew something
of my story, and had been a client of Mr. Clapp's, advised
me to consult him. I went to his office, but he sent me off
like the Baltimore lawyer, because he thought I was drunk.
Three years after that I got back to Longbridge again, with
a shipmate; but it did me no good, for I got drinking, and
had a fit of the horrors. That fit sobered me, though, in the
end; it was the worst I had ever had; I should have hanged
myself, and there would have been an end of William
Stanley and his hard rubs, if it hadn't been for the doctor—
I never knew his name, but Mr. Clapp says it was Dr. Van
Horne. After this bad fit, they coaxed me into shipping in a
temperance whaler. While I was in the Pacific, in this ship,
nigh three years, and out of the reach of drink, I had time
to think what a fool I had been all my life, for wasting my
opportunities. I thought there must be some way of getting
back my father's property; Mr. Clapp had said, that if I was
really the man I pretended to be, I must have some papers
to make it out; but if I hadn't any papers, he couldn't help
me, even if I was William Stanley forty times over. It is
true, I couldn't show him any documents that time, for I
didn't have them with me at Longbridge; but I made up
my mind, while I was out on my last voyage, that as soon as
I got home, I would give up drinking, get my papers together,
and set about doing my best to get back my father's
property. We came home last February; I went to work,
I kept sober, got my things together, put money by for a
lawyer's fee, and then went straight to Longbridge again. I
went to Mr. Clapp's office, and first I handed him the money,
and then I gave him my papers. I went to him, because he
had treated me better than any other lawyer, and told me if
I was William Stanley, and could prove it, he could help
me better than any other man, for he knew all about my
father's will. Well, he hadn't expected ever to see me
again; but he heard my story all out this time, read the
documents, and at last believed me, and undertook the case.
The rest is known to the executors and legatee by this time;
and it is to be hoped, that after enjoying my father's estate
for nigh twenty years, they will now make it over to his son. “Our application to the family physician proves entirely
successful, my dear Hazlehurst; my physiological propensities
were not at fault. I had a letter last evening from Dr.
H—, who now lives in Baltimore, and he professes himself
ready to swear to the formation of young Stanley's hands
and feet, which he says resembled those of Mr. Stanley, the
father, and the three children, who died before William S.
grew up. His account agrees entirely with the portrait of
the boy, as it now exists at Wyllys-Roof; the arms and hands
are long, the fingers slender, nails elongated; as you well
know, Mr. Clapp's client is the very reverse of this—his
hands are short and thick, his fingers what, in common parlance,
would be called dumpy. I was struck with the fact
when I first saw him in the street. Now, what stronger
evidence could we have? A slender lad of seventeen may
become a heavy, corpulent man of forty, but to change the
formation of hands, fingers, and nails, is beyond the reach of
even Clapp's cunning. We are much obliged to the artist,
for his accuracy in representing the hands of the boy exactly
as they were. This testimony I look upon as quite conclusive.
As to the Rev. Mr. G—, whose pupil young Stanley
was for several years, we find that he is no longer living;
but I have obtained the names of several of the young man's
companions, who will be able to confirm the fact of his dullness;
several of the professors at the University are also
living, and will no doubt be able to assist us. I have written
a dozen letters on these points, but received no answers as
yet. So far so good; we shall succeed, I trust. Mr. Wyllys
bids you not forget to find out if Clapp has really been at
Greatwood, as we suspected. The ladies send you many
kind and encouraging messages. Josephine, as usual, sympathizes
in all our movements. She says: `Give Mr. Hazlehurst
all sorts of kind greetings from me; anything you
please short of my love, which would not be proper, I suppose.'
I had a charming row on the river last evening, with
the ladies. I never managed a law-suit in such agreeable
quarters before. We are greatly distressed by a
melancholy accident which befell us scarce an hour since.
The Petrel capsized; most of our party are safe; but two
of my friends are gone, Hazlehurst and Hubbard! You
will understand our grief; mine especially! We shall return
immediately. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 166 | Author: | Duganne
A. J. H.
(Augustine Joseph Hickey)
1823-1884 | Add | | | Title: | The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was a bitter night in December. The
wind howled round the streets and lanes of
Boston, entering every crevice, and penetrating,
with cutting severity, the frail abodes of
poverty, making the shivering tenant draw
closer round the dim fire, or crawl beneath
the thin covering of his miserable bed. The
rich felt it, too!—it swept down the Backbay,
and whistled round the trees of the Common—it
murmured hoarsely as it blew adown
Beacon Street, and rattled the windows, and
caused the vanes to creak.—Yes, the rich felt
it,—but they felt it, as we perceive the acid
in our food, only to enjoy the sweetness more.
Stretched on their downy beds, or dozing
over their sea-coal fires, they thought not of
the houseless and the wanderer, or, if they
did, 'twas but to mutter “Poor wretches,”
and turn again to their downy slumbers. —for you are still dear
to me: I am unjustly suspected, and the time
will come when it shall appear so. I can no
longer serve you, or be an inmate of your
family. Circumstances are against me, but
I cannot explain them. I cannot remain. I
throw myself again upon the world. May
heaven bless you and your family. My dear Brother:—Providence has
seen fit to afflict us in a peculiar manner.—
Our dear Fanny has been abducted; carried
we know not whither. A message, purporting
to be from Henry Fowler, came to
her a few days since. The man who
brought it gave her a locket from her brother
and requesting her to meet him on the shore
not a hundred rods from our house, and receive
a letter from her brother. The thoughtless
girl, without consulting me, repaired
there. Lucia accompanied her. She will
tell you the rest. My poor Fanny! I can
write no more. Will you use every means
to regain her. Lucia tells me that Richard
Martin, your clerk, was there. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 167 | Author: | Dunlap
William
1766-1839 | Add | | | Title: | Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Whoever has been in the city of New-York, the great
centre of the commerce of the western world, must remember
the marble front of the hall of justice, or City Hall.
Standing on the highest ground which the democratic system
of filling up hollows by levelling hills, or lifting the low by removing
the superfluity of the high, has left to the great commercial
metropolis. Lifting its stainless face in the midst of
catalpas and elms, poplars and sycamores, the pride of our
forests, this structure, towers,—like the protecting genius of the
land, inviting strangers to take shelter under the guardianship of
law, and promising protection to the oppressed of all nations. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 168 | Author: | Dunlap
William
1766-1839 | Add | | | Title: | Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The wretched Williams, a slave to sensuality, and involved
in a labyrinth by his own practices, lived in perpetual fear of
losing the reward of his meanness; of being exposed to infamy
by the disclosure of that transaction which had given him the
means of indulgence. He feared to thwart the perverted inclinations,
or the frenzied whims, of his partner. She had
been long convinced that his professions of love had been false,
and that she had cause for jealousy. She knew, however, that
her hold upon him, that grasp which gave her power, was the
secret: and she had cunning enough, even in her moments of
passion or of voluntary madness, to preserve unbroken the
bonds by which she controlled him. She suspended over his
coward head the lash he feared. Often she appeared to triumph
in the power she possessed, and, in part, revealed the
cause. The ungentlemanly epithets you thought proper to
use in addressing me last evening at the theatre were passed
over, at the time, to avoid a disturbance in a public place, but
they require an ample apology. I take this method of informing
you who I am and where I am to be found, rather
than, in the first place, to trouble a friend. I shall be at
home to-morrrow at eleven o'clock, A. M. My late husband, after being sick ever since last August,
during which time I had to support him and my poor
little ones, was taken from me by death, leaving me without
any fuel for this cold winter weather, and my clothes sold
and pawned to give him necessaries and bury him. I and my
poor children are in a state of starvation. I can't work, for
the rheumatism has taken away the use of my limbs: and for
the same reason I can't go to the Alderman for help. I send
this by a neighbour's child, humbly begging your advice and
assistance, as I know, from an acquaintance of an acquaintance
of poor sick Mrs. Kent, that you are always ready to
help the unfortunate. I hope to see you, dear Miss, as soon
as possible, at No. 356 Mott-street. Sir:—I have to apologise for not meeting you at the Albany
Coffee-house at the time appointed. I was called to this
city on an affair that did not admit of delay. I will be in New-York
on any appointed day, previous to my departure for Europe,
if it shall be necessary. My friend Thomas Beaglehole,
Esq. is intrusted with the adjustment of our affair, and has received
my instructions. He will wait upon your friend and
receive your determination. If he satisfied, I am: otherwise,
on receiving a line from him, I shall wait upon you with
all speed. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 170 | Author: | Cox
William
d. 1851? | Add | | | Title: | Crayon sketches | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is a wholesome thing to be what is commonly
termed “kicked about the world.” Not literally
“kicked”—not forcibly propelled by innumerable
feet from village to village, from town to town, or
from country to country, which can be neither
wholesome nor agreeable; but knocked about,
tossed about, irregularly jostled over the principal
portions of the two hemispheres; sleeping hard
and soft, living well when you can, and learning
to take what is barely edible and potable ungrumblingly
when there is no help for it. Certes, the
departure from home and old usages is any thing
but pleasant, especially at the outset. It is a sort of
secondary “weaning” which the juvenile has to undergo;
but like the first process, he is all the healthier
and hardier when it is over. In this way, it is
a wholesome thing to be tossed about the world.
To form odd acquaintance in ships, on the decks of
steam boats and tops of coaches; to pick up temporary
companions on turnpikes or by hedge-sides;
to see humanity in the rough, and learn what stuff
life is made of in different places; to mark the
shades and points of distinction in men, manners,
customs, cookery, and other important matters as
you stroll along. What an universal toleration it
begets! How it improves and enlarges a man's
physical and intellectual tastes and capacities! How
diminutively local and ridiculously lilliputian seem
his former experiences! He is now no longer bigotted
to a doctrine or a dish, but can fall in with
one, or eat of the other, however strange and foreign,
with a facility that is truly comfortable and
commendable: always, indeed, excepting, such
doctrines as affect the feelings and sentiments, which
he should ever keep “garner'd up” in his “heart of
hearts;” and also, always excepting the swallowing
of certain substances, so very peculiar in themselves,
and so strictly national, that the undisciplined
palate of the foreigner instinctively and utterly
rejects them, such as the frog of your Frenchman—
the garlic of your Spaniard—the compounds termed
sausages of your Cockney—the haggis of your
Scotchman—the train-oil of your Russian. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 171 | Author: | Cox
William
d. 1851? | Add | | | Title: | Crayon sketches | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In few places are the “lights and shadows” of life
more strongly and vividly contrasted than in the
streets of a great metropolis; where bloated wealth
and hollow-eyed poverty trudge side by side, and
gay, fluttering vanity and squalid wretchedness
gaze strangely at each other. It is dramatic, but
unpleasant; at least until custom has produced
the callousness of heart requisite to enable a man
to look philosophically on all human sorrow, save
his own peculiar portion. Before he has arrived at
this state, however, a stroll through the streets of a
crowded city is apt to be uncommonly beneficial.
It generates a series of practical sermons, for which
every poor distressed object furnishes an eloquent
text, tending to inculcate gratitude for his own station,
charity for the miseries, and toleration for the
frailties of others. A back street in London shows
a man a few of the realities of life. To use a pugilistic
phrase, “it takes the conceit out of him.”
I am sometimes sorrier for my own disappointments
than for any person's; and occasionally pity and indulge
in the tenderest and most delicate sympathy
imaginable towards myself, on account of any trivial
inconvenience or privation to which I may
happen to be subjected; but I have never entered
a London by-lane in this frame of mind without
walking out “a wiser and a sadder man” at the
other end.” There is a vast deal of difference between
fanciful or poetical unhappiness and harsh
prose misery—plain, unvarnished, substantial misery,
arising from tangible wants and physical sufferings.
It is too much the fashion of the world
to exaggerate and swell into undue importance
half real and half imaginary mental woes, and to
sneer at and undervalue common bodily evils.
Your young poets and lady poetesses (heaven bless
them!) and indeed all persons of genteel sensibilities,
are continually plunging into the extreme
depths of desolation on what would appear to a
common-sense man rather insufficient grounds.
But going arithmetically to work, it will be a tolerably-sized
grief which produces as much pain as a
prolonged, stinging tooth-ache; and six-and-thirty
hours, or upwards, without victuals, must be almost
as bad to bear as slighted love, notwithstanding the
assertions of sensitive young ladies (who have
chicken at command) to the contrary. Indeed, it
has always struck me that going without a dinner
must be provocative of a vast deal of pathos; and
that it is rather unfair to make such an outcry
about “woes that rend the breast,” while the pangs
and twinges of the contiguous parts of the body, on
a descending scale, are never taken into consideration
by those who have never felt them. If this
view of things be correct—and it is correct—how
much intense suffering does the blessed sun look
down upon every day! Ah! who that has seen
the gaunt, shrivelled frame—the sharpened features—the
bloodless, compressed lips, and sunken
greedy eye which famine produces, but has felt sick
at heart, and inwardly prayed to be preserved,
above all things, from inanition. The omission
of even such commonplace things as victuals,
will, in an astonishingly short time, convince the
most wretchedly romantic youth that ever fell in
love, folded his arms, and turned his face moonwards,
of the excellent properties, moral and physical,
of a beef-steak. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 172 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Add | | | Title: | Norman Leslie | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | A brilliant January morning broke over the
beautiful city of New-York. Her two magnificent
rivers came sweeping and sparkling down into her
immense bay, which, bound in like a lake on every
side with circling shores, rolled and flashed in the
unclouded sunshine. The town itself rose directly
from the bosom of the flood, presenting a scene of
singular splendour, which, when the western continent
shall be better known to European tourists,
will be acknowledged to lose nothing by comparison
with the picturesque views of Florence or Naples.
Her tapering spires, her domes, cupolas, and housetops,
her forest of crowded masts, lay bristling and
shining in the transparent atmosphere, and beneath
a heaven of deep and unstained blue. The lovely
waters which washed three sides of the city were
covered with ships of all forms, sizes, and nations;
delighting the eye with images of grace, animation,
and grandeur. Huge vessels of merchandise lay
at rest, in large numbers, all regularly swayed
round from their anchors into a uniform position by
the heavy tide setting from the rivers to the sea.
Others, leaning to the wind, their swollen and
snowy canvass broadly spread for their flight over
the vast ocean, bounded forward, like youth, bright
and confident against the future. Some, entering
sea-beaten and weary from remote parts of the
globe, might be likened, by the contemplative, to
age and wisdom, pitying their bold compeers about
to encounter the roar and storm from which they
themselves were so glad to escape: and yet, to
carry the simile further, even as the human mind,
which experience does not always enlighten or adversity
subdue, ready, after a brief interval of idleness
and repose, to forget the past, and refit themselves
for enterprise and danger. Hundreds, whose
less perilous duties lay within the gates of the harbour,
plied to and fro in every direction, crossing
and recrossing each other, and enlivening with delightful
animation the broad and busy scene. Of
these small craft, indeed, the waves were for ever
whitened with an incredible number, in the midst
of which thundered heavily the splendid and enormous
steamers, beautifully formed to shoot through
the flood with arrowy swiftness, their clean bright
colours shining in the sun, bearing sometimes a
thousand persons on excursions of business and
pleasure, spouting forth fire and steam like the
monstrous dragons of fable, and leaving long tracks
of smoke on the blue heaven. Among other evidences
of a great maritime power, reposed several
giant vessels of war,—those stern, tremendous
messengers of the deep, formed to waft, on the
wings of heaven, the thunderbolt of death across
the solemn world of waters; but now lying, like
fortresses, motionless on the tide, and ready to bear
over the globe the friendly pledges or the grave
demands of a nation which, in the recollection of
some of its surviving citizens, was a submissive
colony, without power and without a name. You
might deem the magnificent city, thus extended
upon the flood, Venice, when that wonderful republic
held the commerce of the world. In a
greater degree, indeed, than London, notwithstanding
the superior amount of shipping possessed by
the latter, New-York at first strikes the stranger
entering into its harbour with signs of commercial
prosperity and wealth. In the mighty British metropolis,
the vessels lie locked in dockyards, or half
buried under fog and smoke. The narrow Thames
presents little more than that portion actually in
motion; and, in a sail from Margate to town, the
vast number are seen only in succession; but here,
the whole crowded, broad, and moving panorama
breaks at once upon the eye; and through a perfectly
pure and bright atmosphere, nothing can be
more striking and exquisite. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 174 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Add | | | Title: | Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was near the close of a gloomy and cheerless
day in November, anno domini 18—, that two ill-clad
men were seen to enter one of those minor
houses of entertainment which abound in certain
localities in the city of New-York. “The insult offered me this morning can only be
atoned by affording me the satisfaction due to a
gentleman. My friend Piercie Matthison, Esq. the
bearer of this, will arrange the necessary details on
my part. “Why, oh why am I not permitted an interview
on which the whole happiness of my future life depends?
Can it be that the lovely and just being
whose partiality and goodness hesitated to chide my
presumption in tendering vows of love and fidelity,
has joined the censorious and heartless world in imputing
to me crimes at which my soul recoils? No,
no; it cannot be; and yet thrice have I called at
your residence without succeeding in obtaining an
audience; and when I made the last abortive effort
this afternoon, although your matchless form was
seen gliding from my sight, yet your servant stated
that you were not at home. How then am I to
account for this prostration of my dearest hopes?
Surely none of Mr. Elwell's family can bear me ill-will,
for with none have I the pleasure of an acquaintance,
unless that might be termed such which was
caused by my introduction to Miss Helen through
yourself at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée. Alas, a sudden
light bursts on my vision, by whose glare I perceive
the unwelcome truth. The rival whose malice has
wrought the meshes of the fatal web in which my
character is ensnared, has, by some cunningly-devised
fable, forced an unwilling conviction of my
baseness on your mind; or, what is more probable,
has so prejudiced your relatives that they have directed
the servant to deny me the happiness of personally
exculpating myself from the charges preferred
against me. “the riter of these lines happins to bee an unfortunit
yuth whu wuld hav bin onnist and industrus
if hee hadn't hav bin siddused bi bad cumpennee
and got intu scrapes in that are way. now the reesun
that i rite this is to tel yu as hou mister sidnee
Cliftin has bin usin yur name pruttee cunsidderablee,
up to the blak hoal, as wee cal it, whear wee pla
lew and wist, and rolet, not to say nothin about a
tuch of farrow, and so on. in this hear way, yu
sea, mister Sidnee clifton got us al inter trubble last
nite; for, ses hee, arter hee had drinked plentee of
shampane, slappin his phist on the tabel, ses hee,
dam the man as ses Julee borodel ain't the bootifoolest,
and the hansimest, and the charminist gal in al
york; hear, ses hees, hur helth, and ile cramm the
glas doun annee rascils throte what won't go the
hoal bumpur. So, yu sea, one uf our larks ses, ses
hee, Mistir cliftin, yu can't stuf yur gals doun mi
throte, no hou yu can ficks it. ime a sutthern chap,
ses hee; so, stranngir, yur barkin up the rong tree.
yu think yuv got a grean horn; but mi iis, ses hee,
ime a rale missisipee roarer, tru grit to the bak boan.
i doan't car a curs for all yur Julees nor Julise. So,
yu sea, the fite wus in, and sum won called wach,
and the wach cum, and wee was al captivated like
innersint lams. nou i thot that yu shuld no hou
yur name was insultid, bein as hou ime told yu are
a nise yung ladee: so notthin moar at prissint, but
rimmains yurs til deth. “How can I convey the sad intelligence of an
event which has shipwrecked every hope connected
with you and happiness? Briefly, then:—in a
fatal hour I consented to a hostile meeting with Mr.
Julius Ellingbourne this morning, and the result is,
that my antagonist at this moment lies mortally
wounded at his lodgings, in the Astor House. That
I am in the toils of a most foul and deep-laid conspiracy
against my character; that this rash meeting
has, in its consequences, severed every hope I
might otherwise have entertained of exculpating
myself in the opinion of the world; that I have
been goaded on by some fiend or fiends in human
shape, who have too successfully accomplished my
ruin: and that life will, hereafter, be a curse rather
than a blessing, are truths which admit not of denial,
but will never, I fear, be susceptible of satisfactory
explanation. Farewell, then, my life, my love;
a long, a last farewell. “Fatal Encounter.—Our readers will recollect
the article published in our yesterday's edition, headed
`Police Court—Capture extraordinary,' in
which the arrest and examination of a knot of gamblers
were stated, together with the fact that two
citizens, hitherto considered respectable, one a clerk
in an extensive mercantile establishment, and the
other a gentleman of fashion, were implicated. Although,
on that occasion, we were induced to suppress
the names of the parties, from respect to the
feelings of their friends, yet so public has the exposure
become, in consequence of the events which
have this morning transpired, that further concealment
is neither possible nor expedient. It is therefore
our duty, as public journalists, to state that the
person first alluded to is Mr. Sydney Clifton, a confidential
clerk in the counting-room of Messrs. De
Lyle, Howard & Co., and that Julius Ellingbourne,
Esquire, a gentleman so well and favourably known
in the fashionable world, is the latter. It now appears
that circumstances connected with the arrest
of the parties led to a hostile meeting at Hoboken,
early this morning, when Mr. Ellingbourne received
the ball of Clifton in his side, near the region of the
heart. From the extremely dangerous character of
the wound, it is not expected that the life of Mr.
Ellingbourne will be protracted many hours. Thus
the vice of gaming, in which this young man indulged,
has at length been followed by the commission
of murder! What a warning does this fact
convey to the youth of our city to abstain from the
incipient stages of dissipation, in whose fatal vortex
honour, integrity, and even life, are frequently ingulfed.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 175 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Add | | | Title: | Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The elder Mr. De Lyle, whose early attachment
to Clifton was evinced by placing him in so favourable
a situation in his counting-room, that, with ordinary
application, he would speedily acquire all the
knowledge requisite to success in mercantile pursuits,
learned with the most poignant regret the conspicuous
part assigned to his protegé, both in the offences
connected with the gamblers, and the duel which
succeeded. “Aware that you are on terms of familiar incourse
with Mr. Edward De Lyle, I take the liberty
of hinting that circumstances have occurred which
may tend to inculpate either yourself or him before
the public, in relation to transactions with which you
are fully acquainted. “The writer of this note has, in happier hours,
enjoyed brief opportunities of estimating the talents
and virtues of Mr. Sydney Clifton. That the impressions
left by the slight intercourse were highly
flattering to Mr. C. may be inferred from the reception
of this unusual solicitation for its renewal.
When slander was busy with the name of Mr. Clifton,
the writer, whose station in society is inferior to
none, formed the bold plan of dragging forth his detractors
from their hiding-places, and exposing their
infamy to the eyes of an indignant world. Success
having attended her efforts, she has visited England
to lay her claims before him whose fair fame she
can re-establish. Flattering herself that the deep
interest thus manifested in Mr. Clifton's welfare will
constitute some claims to his regard, the writer is
now ready to communicate her knowledge if he
feels disposed to make a corresponding return, by
uniting his fate to hers for life. Lest the imagination
of Mr. Clifton should picture his correspondent
in the lineaments of age, it is proper to say that she
has numbered fewer years than himself; and if the
good-natured world has not descended to egregious
flattery, is not deficient in personal attractions. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 176 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Add | | | Title: | The Countess Ida | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was on a pleasant October evening, in the year
1790, that the public diligence which ran between
Hamburg and Berlin drew up in the evening at
the post of the former town preparatory to starting.
The clock struck nine. The four strong horses
clattered with their heavy hoofs against the pavement,
as if impatient to be off. The conducteur
blew an inspiring blast upon his horn, and a small
but observant circle of by-standers were collected to
gaze on the company of passengers, and the animated
scene in which they formed the principal actors.
The travellers for the night, who appeared to take
their places, were only five in number. The officer
of the post, to whom it was committed to superintend
the departure of the vehicle and its occupants,
appeared with a light, a pen behind his ear, and a
paper in his hand. “Mamma begs me to write you our address. We
have taken furnished rooms at No. 70 `sous les arbres.'
We are also in some difficulty with a horrid
man of whom papa bought some things this morning;
and mamma says, if you would call in the course
of the day, she should be particularly obliged. “Your affectionate letter is received, and I sit
down to answer it, half hesitating, notwithstanding
the sincere friendship I entertain for you, whether
I ought to comply with your wishes, and relate to
you all the adventures of my life, and all the apprehensions
which agitate my mind. You will not,
even from this confession, doubt the sincerity of my
sentiments; for you are, my dear Denham, the only
man on earth whom I consider my friend. It is
melancholy to reflect how few among all my acquaintance
I place complete reliance on. Some
who could, perhaps, appreciate the nature of true
friendship, have their affections occupied elsewhere;
and many, who exhibit a desire to become intimate,
are not recommended by qualities which alone can
make intimacy agreeable. Of the young men whom
I have here associated much with, there is one in
particular whom I have learned to esteem. Were
we together for some years, I fear you would have
a rival. But I am in this metropolis only for so
short a time, and he is so much engaged with other
avocations, that the interest we feel in each other
will probably never grow beyond mutual wishes;
for what would be the use of cultivating a connexion,
of which the short period could scarcely be more
pleasant than the inevitable termination would be
painful? I see in this young man, however, much
which resembles you. He is naturally noble and
superior, born amid all the advantages of prosperity,
and spending his life in a sphere of fashion and
pleasure, among men beneath him in intellect; and
yet, while he equals and surpasses them in the elegant
frivolities of fashion, he has the taste and resolution
to cultivate his understanding, and the wisdom
to reason with impartiality and truth upon subjects
generally the least understood in such circles.
To see him in the drawing-room, you would suppose
him only the gay and light homme du monde;
while in his study he is evidently fitting himself for
a career of usefulness. This much in reply to your
inquiry respecting `new friends.' To your entreaty
that I should leave off travelling and seek myself
out a good wife, I have also something to say. I
have many objections to marriage in my case.
They are not those which generally influence men
who remain bachelors. I have no prejudices
against women, or apprehensions of the married
state. On the contrary, I soberly believe no man
can fulfil his duty, and enjoy all the happiness intended
for him, without a family. The pleasures and
affections—even the responsibilities, restraints, and
cares which they produce, all tend to develop and
balance his character, to enlarge his mind, and to
keep his heart in a medium point of enjoyment most
favourable to health, content, and honour. An old
bachelor is almost sure to have some inaccurate notion
or loose principle, which the reflection consequent
on a family protects a husband and father from.
No, my friend, do not suspect me of such flippant
objections to matrimony; but there are others which
I cannot easily overcome. You are aware of my
general history, but I do not think I ever ventured
to tell it to you distinctly, for it has been a subject
not very agreeable for me to touch upon. I will
sketch it for you, however, and let you judge whether
it does not offer me solid arguments against marrying. “The circumstances under which we last parted
leave me only the alternative to beg you to name a
friend to arrange the terms of a meeting at your
earliest convenience. “This afternoon, when I found you soliciting from
my daughter promises of attachment incompatible
with your relations with the Countess Ida Carolan,
I used language which, if you did not deserve, the
provocation must sufficiently excuse, without other
apology from me. If, in anything which I said, you
found an acquiescence in your suggestion as to a
meeting, I must beg you to consider that I spoke
in a state of mind when a just passion predominated
over calm reason. Upon reflection, I find that my
sense of duty to my family and to my Creator will
not permit me to proceed farther in a course, where
I can see no possibility of gaining advantage or
honour, either in this world or in the next. I decline
giving you the meeting you desire, and, at the
same time, I forbid your future visits to my house.
If I have offered you any disrespect, it is more than
counterbalanced by the insult I have suffered at
your hands; and, in permitting the affair to drop
where it is, I do so, my lord, not without sacrificing
M 2
some of the feelings of a man to the duties of a citizen,
a father, a husband, and a Christian. “I am on the eve of leaving Berlin, where I shall
probably never return again. It is possible that you
may misinterpret the motives with which I send you
the enclosed letter. I received it from a person of
trust, and can vouch for its truth. Mr. Denham, as
you will perceive, offers his name also; but I beg
you to withhold it from Lord Elkington, as I am
willing, should there be any serious responsibility,
to take it upon myself. My sole object is to put
you in possession of facts which affect the interests
of your family. You are at liberty to state that you
received them from me; for, while I have nothing
to hope from your decision, I have nothing to fear
from Lord Elkington's resentment. If any passing
weakness has ever caused me to seem to swerve
from the path which I ought to pursue in relation
to yourself and everything connected with you, that
weakness is at an end. If I have ceased, as with
pain I perceive I have, to receive your esteem, I
hope I have not ceased to deserve it. “Although Lord Elkington is ignorant of the
name and existence of the writer of this note, the
latter has the most accurate knowledge of your
lordship and his affairs. It is not impossible that
your lordship may be at first incredulous on reading
it, but a few moments' conversation with your lordship's
mother will entirely convince you of its truth.
I ain't a rich or a great man like your lordship, but
fortune has made me the possessor of a secret which
has been for some time a source of profit, and which,
I freely tell your lordship, I shall use to my own
advantage. Your lordship is aware that your noble
father, the Earl of Beverly, was married before he
united himself to your mother, the present Lady
Beverly. That match was unfortunate, as the world
well knows; but—I beg to call your lordship's attention
to this fact—there is a circumstance connected
with it which neither your lordship nor the world
knows, viz., that the issue of that marriage yet survives,
in the person of a son, who is, in reality, the
heir of your father's estate. This secret exists
solely and exclusively in my bosom. The son of
the Earl of Beverly, for causes which doubtless can
be explained, should it be necessary to investigate
the matter in a court of justice, went with his mother
to the West Indies. The vessel in which they
sailed was wrecked, and all on board perished but
two persons. One was the child, who was picked
up senseless from a spar (to which the mother had
attached him, being herself washed overboard and
drowned before she could make herself fast); the
other individual saved was myself. We were picked
up by the same ship, and I was carried, with the
child, into Boston. It had happened that I knew
the Earl of Beverly having had a boyish passion for
a young female in his household, who, before I left
England, had revealed to me certain family secrets
of a highly important nature, and, among others,
that the mother of this child had fled from her husband
in consequence of charges against her honour
of the vilest kind. I had seen her in the earl's family
(then Mr. Lawson), and I recognised her on board
the ship which bore us to the New World, although
she was there under an assumed name, and was totally
unknown to all but myself. Here, then, I found
myself with this boy, whom no one in America knew
anything of. Being aware that his father had disowned
him, I thought that I might serve both the
boy and myself by keeping, for a time, the secret of
his birth. For years I kept my eye on him, for a
finer fellow never walked. His beauty and character
at length attracted the attention of a lady, who,
hearing of his desolate situation, took him with her
to England, at the age of eight years. Dying, she
bequeathed him as a legacy to a lady, who educated
him till he left the University. It was then that I
informed the Earl of Beverly of his existence. That
nobleman arranged with me never to reveal the secret,
and has paid me for my silence. “The melancholy duty has devolved upon me of
informing you of the sudden, and, I fear, fatal malady
which has attacked your father. He was reading
this morning in his library; a violent ringing of
the bell called the servants to his side, when he was
found struggling in his fauteuil in a fit of the most
alarming description. Doctor B—and Sir Richard
L—have pronounced his case incurable. It
is not impossible, they say, that he may recover so
far as to retain life for months, and perhaps a year;
but that he can never again leave his bed, or recover
his senses except as a prelude to immediate dissolution,
is quite certain. I need not say that we
deeply sympathize with the distress which this
event will occasion your amiable mother, and the
pain it will inflict upon you particularly, as I have
been told some coolness had unhappily arisen between
your esteemed parent and yourself. I need
only say, my dear Elkington, that, while I sympathize
profoundly with your grief, I am the most sincere,
as I am the first of your friends to congratulate
you upon the magnificent inheritance which is about
to descend to you, and which, I am quite certain,
could not have fallen into more worthy hands. Command
me in any way, should necessity detain you
some days longer on the Continent. “You are probably aware of the event which has
reduced your distinguished father to a bed of death,
from which I am advised by his medical attendant
he can never rise, and which precludes all idea of
his again assuming the care of his affairs. I beg
leave, therefore, my lord, to address myself to you,
and shall await your orders. “Sir: I take the liberty of addressing you, to
ask you to come to my house and visit a certain
Monsieur Rossi, a teacher of languages, who lies
at my lodgings in a very distressed state. He has
begged me to send for you, as he says, although
but slightly acquainted with you, you are the only
person in town of whom he dare ask a favour, or
who knows anything of him. You can see him at
any time. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 177 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Add | | | Title: | The Countess Ida | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was six when Claude returned to his hotel. He
was met at the door by his friend Denham, who had just
arrived from London. Of all men, he was the one he
most esteemed and loved. He was, in some respects,
the antithesis of Claude, and it was, perhaps, this very
difference which made them more attached to each
other. He was totally without Claude's contemplative
habits, but usually acted from impulses which, if
not always prudent or wise, were always noble. He
was frank, generous, and bold; full of strong affections
and quick passions; a faithful friend, and a good
hater. In one respect he differed widely from his
friend. He held duelling to be a custom, under certain
circumstances, sanctioned by necessity, and useful
in its effects upon society. Without any particularly
serious views of religion, he professed to believe
that, in the present state of the world, the meek doctrines
of Christianity were permitted at times to give
way to other considerations bearing upon individual
character and the general harmony of society; in short,
he was also a duellist, though in a far different way
from the debauched, vindictive, and cruel Elkington.
The latter adopted the principle as a mode of shielding
himself in a course of profligacy, and of acquiring
a notoriety of which a purer mind or a more generous
heart would have been ashamed; the former as a
means of protecting his person from insult and his
name from calumny, and of redressing all unjust injuries
directed either against himself or his friends.
He thought the world was thronged with persons who
might be regarded as beasts of prey, ready to attack
those not prepared with means of physical defence,
and that the same principle which permitted a traveller
to use a pistol against a highwayman, allowed a
resort to the same weapon against those who, by force
or fraud, encroached too far on the rights and feelings
of a gentleman. This subject had often been discussed
between these two young men, who each respected,
while he opposed the opinion of the other. “This will only be put into your hands in case of
my death. You will, before then, be informed on the
circumstances which produce it. I saw you struck
last night, and I lost all prudence; I interfered, and
received a blow myself. I have always been brought
up to think a blow ought not to be borne. Death is
preferable to dishonour. I know Elkington is a shot,
but I can't help it. The custom of society must be
complied with. Do not blame me, my wiser and more
thoughtful friend. You have your opinion, I mine.
I am determined to kill Elkington if I can, unless he
make me the humblest apology. This is not to be
expected, and I am prepared to fall. I need not say
that I have not called on you to arrange the thing for
me, as I know you would have taken measures to prevent
it; otherwise there is no man on earth I should
so readily have chosen. Beaufort I had a slight acquaintance
with, and he consented at once. “I am about leaving Berlin, but cannot do so without
performing a certain duty to myself, the necessity
of which imboldens me to address this request to you.
It is also proper that your generous confidence in me
should be confirmed; and I beg therefore to enclose to
you the accompanying letter from the Marquis of
E—; a gentleman, I believe, whom Count Carolan
corresponds with, and whose opinions may have some
weight. I have a kind of right to press this letter
on Count Carolan, who has openly exhibited an acquiescence
in the misstatements of Elkington. I leave
to his own sense of right the task of protecting my
name hereafter. As to my courage—a suspicion of
it can only be removed by those occasions which Providence
sends, enough to try the temper of our souls
on earth, and to furnish us an opportunity to display it
to the world when vanity requires. If circumstances
have raised a doubt of mine, it is a misfortune which,
like shipwreck or pestilence, every man is liable to,
and which, if chance does not remedy it, patience must
endure. Having deliberately adopted a principle upon
this point, I shall adhere to it and abide the consequences.
From all other doubts the letter of the Marquis
of E— rescues me; and, after perusing it, Count
Carolan will at least do me the justice to express himself
satisfied, and to acknowledge that my past life has
been as irreproachable as it has been unfortunate. “I enclose the letter of the Marquis of E—, as well
as your own, without any other reply to the `demand'
you make for an acknowledgment of `error' than
that men's opinions are their own, and differ in many
points more doubtful and important. There is an account
at my banker's of £50, which I will thank you
to settle. “We beg to inform you, for your government, that
the sum hitherto deposited in our hands on your account
has been withheld for the ensuing year, and we
are instructed that it will not hereafter be continued. “I have been now in prison two months. I am ill
—without money, without food—reduced to the common
fare of the unhappy inmates of this mournful
dwelling. I have to inform you, also, that a fatal pestilence
has broken out in the building, and carried off
three victims in two days. I request you, in the name
of humanity, to release me. I offer you my word of
honour not to leave Berlin without paying you. If
your object is to get the money, you can never succeed
by keeping me here. If your object is to humble
my pride, it is humbled as far as a man's should
be. If you desire my life—unless I can breathe the
air and take a little exercise, your desire will speedily
be gratified. My freedom—if you grant it—I shall
employ in honourable labour, of which you shall have
the first fruits. Believe me, sir, incapable of falsehood. “I have committed the account against you to my
lawyer, who has already received his instructions, and
I cannot interfere with what now belongs entirely to
him. “At the request of the Marquis of E—, and for his
account, we hereby open a credit with you in favour of
Mr. Claude Wyndham, for £1000 sterling, say one
thousand pounds sterling, which you will please to
supply him with, as he may require the same, on his
presenting to you this letter. “You, who have borne adversity with greatness, will,
I trust, meet prosperity with dignity. I have at length
succeeded in throwing back the veil which Heaven in
its wisdom had allowed to fall over us. You are, as
from the first moment my secret presentiment might
have taught me, the child of my bosom. Enclosed is
a package which I have prepared for you. It reveals
your history and mine. I would give you no intimation
of my convictions till they were confirmed. Not
from my hand should you receive a new disappointment.
The bill which accompanies this is your own.
Do not hesitate to use it. It is but a small part of the
inheritance of which you are now the master. Your
father was the Earl of Beverly. That title is now
yours. He has just expired, having previously completed
all the arrangements essential to your undisputed
assumption of his titles and estates. This great
blessing of Providence I am fain to receive as a reward
for a life spent in the path of right; but, in receiving
it, let us not forget that all earthly blessings come
mixed with calamity, and that there is no state of steady
happiness but beyond the grave. I write to you calmly,
my beloved son, from the very intensity of my feelings.
I did not put pen to paper till I had calmed
them by prayer, and sought from Him who gives and
takes away the strength necessary to support me in
this mixed hour of joy and sorrow. I have much to
tell you, and my bosom yearns to hold you again, my
son! Come to me as soon as you can, without neglecting
duties more imperative. I have seen you sorely
tried, and I know you to be equal to your own guidance;
but remember that life is short, and the greatest
happiness I can now know is your society. Everything
is arranged for you without trouble. On reaching
London you will drive to your own mansion in
Grosvenor Square, lately occupied by your father,
and just as he left it. The Marquis of E— acts as
your agent till your arrival, and begs me to say how
profoundly he rejoices at this important change in your
prospects. Come, my son! I would repeat the sacred
name, and I would repeat ever, to the Disposer
of human events, my prayer of grateful thanks for
being permitted to write myself—your affectionate, “Having just despatched a line to your father, I avail
myself of a last moment to tell you I am in London,
well and happy. I have heard all by the attentive care
of Mr. Wyndham. I know that your father's and uncle's
splendid fortunes are entirely sacrificed, but I
know also that you are safe, and that makes me happy.
Yes, my child, we are beggars—we have nothing; but
we shall meet in an hour, and this thought makes all
misfortunes supportable. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 178 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | | Title: | Francis Berrian, or, The Mexican patriot | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | The first night after the junction, I passed in the tent
of my classmate, of whom I have spoken. He gave me
a succinct, but most interesting narrative of his fortunes
since we had separated from each other in the halls of
our alma mater. As the materials, the character, and the
fate of that interesting body of young men, who were now
united with the Mexican patriots, and many of whom at
this moment fill the first offices in Louisiana, have never
yet been given to the public, and as they are henceforward
identified in the same cause with myself, I shall take
leave to digress from the thread of my narrative, to give
you a very brief outline of the rise and progress of this
expedition on Texas, as my classmate gave it to me. “I have wept over the ruin of the amiable family,
with whom you fled to the mountains, victims of a
sympathy, for which the subjects of it do not thank you.
I have a kind of right in what remains of the family, for
Wilhelmine has been my companion, and my fixed friend, and
she was very amiable and good. Now, that her father and
sisters are dead, I feel it to be a duty due to her, to claim,
that you now either marry her, or send the poor forlorn
girl to me. However you may have thought before, you
must surely feel now, that she can no longer reside with
you, as formerly. I will receive, cherish, and comfort her,
will ask no questions, and will answer for her safety. You
cannot mistake your duty, nor my right to this kind of
interference. Present her my love and condolence, and
show her this.” “I informed you in my last, of my arrival here from
Durango. My father was in a continual fret of impatience,
lest we should not arrive in season, to anticipate
the decree of confiscation. That terrible word confiscation!
There is nothing on earth I hate like Don Pedro,
and the worst name I can call him, is Confiscation. I am
wholly unable to conceive how, or why old men should
become so intensely fond of money, about the time that
they cease to be able to make any use of it. I believe,
he loves me, as the next best thing to money, and the
power he has lost, As to my dear, good mother, he may
have loved her once; but that is a thing quite gone by.
Do you begin to love your husband less, than you did at
first, Jacinta? More than once, on the way, he looked
sufficiently sternly upon me, reminding me frequently,
that if I had not been a perverse and disobedient child, I
should have been, at this time, lady of the minister of war,
and he, perhaps, prime minister! All would have been
safe, and I in a fair way to ascend the topmost round in the
ladder of eminence. I have found the advantage of
keeping up the fair ascendency that I have won, when
this hated subject is discussed. So I told him, that he
must have singular notions of the power of the said minister,
to communicate honor, for that he well knew, that he
was a coward, a liar, and an assassin; and I know not, if
I added other epithets; but I had plenty more in my
thoughts, and told him, that if it would comfort him to
have me die, I was ready to gratify him, but not in that
way. Upon the word, I had to encounter a long and bitter
philippic, by way of comfortable even ng domestic confabulation.
He rung upon the old changes, the folly and
idle romanticity of foolish girls, and the absolute necessity
of wealth, to any thing like comfortable, or respectable
existence, and that one week's endurance of real poverty,
genuine love, and a cottage, would restore my brain to
VOL. II. 16
common sense, and bring me to beg, as a boon, the favor,
which I was now, in the wildness of folly, casting
from me. Then it was easy to digress to that dear
young man, and to say, that since that ruinous acquaintance,
all other men were liars, assassins, and all that
My mother, good woman, as the conversation grew
sometimes a little warm, put in a kind of neutral interpolation,
partaking equally of assent and dissent, attempting
to smooth down my father's brow, and remind me of
the rights of paternity. Between apprehensions from
Indians, patriots, robbers and Royalists, for we seem to
be equally obnoxious to all, and this last and most
horrid evil of all, confiscation, I had but an uncomfortable
time to the city. I had travelled the same journey
before, and had seen and felt the grand and beautiful
scenery. At this time, my heart was too heavy, and too
painfully occupied for me to have any eyes for nature. Our Lady of the Pillar preserve us! I have seen him
again, and my heart beats even now so loud, that it disturbs
my thoughts, and my pen. I never needed a second
look to assure me that it was the very man. I had
been driven to the alameda, with our old duena, who
was ill, and in company with my daily tormentor. The
carriage windows were drawn up on account of the air.
He was walking in the streets, and an Irishman, formerly
a servant of my father's, was walking behind him.
How well I remember the calm and lofty port, the
countenance so animated, benevolent, and mild! I gave
a half shriek, before I recollected myself; and then it
was too late, for my countenance told the tale of what I
had seen. His prying and malignant eye soon discovered
in the group the person that had arrested mine.
He expressed ironical regret at the cause of my alarm,
and muttered something implying that he would
not have such terrible objects in the way, to annoy me.
I gave him a look that I trust he understood, and told
him that to filial regard to my father, he must be sensible
he owed all my endurance of his presence. “I know,” I
cried, “that you are equally cowardly and vindictive.
But, venture to touch a hair of his head, and I will move
heaven and earth, until an avenger of his cause shall be
found. Not that I have or expect ever to have any personal
interest in his preservation beyond the common interest,
which all ought to have in preserving the virtuous
and the good. In this country of distraction and crime,
we ought to preserve at least one good person. If you
really wish endurance from me, much more, if you
expect kindness, expect it only from using moderation
and forbearance towards him. Make no use of your bad
power towards him, and in the same proportion, you
will be sure of my taking a less active part in his favour.
If you would promise me with a pledge, on which I
might rely, that you would avail yourself of your influence
to protect him, I should be willing to promise in my
turn, never to see him again.” The standard of the Patriots is again unfurled, I am
told, and directly in view of your castle, in the city of
Vera Cruz. With how little ceremony they treat emperors,
and kings, and great men in these evil days, upon
which we are fallen. I suppose the royal cavalier, so
dear to you, sees with an equal eye the fighting of Patriots
and Imperialists. Both are alike hostile to him
and when these parties have mutually worried and
weakened each other, he, the third person, can with so
much the more ease fall upon the victor and destroy him.
To him all this fighting may be matter of indifferent regard.
Not so to me. A man dearer to me than liberty,
or country, or home, or all the world, except my
dearer parents, and, the Virgin forgive me! except my
mother, dearer than even they, is going to join himself
VOL. II. 17
to the Patriot standard. I sometimes flatter myself
that I am a Patriot by instinct. Since I have been acquainted
with this man I have learned to read English;
I have been deeply engaged in the American history.
What a great country! What a noble people! Compare
their faces and persons with those of the people
here, and what a difference! There is something independent
and severe in the appearance and person of
these people. There is not a book in my father's library
that treats of them, or their history, but what I have
thoroughly conned. But to my story; I am extremely
cautious how I indulge in the society of this man. If he
learned the half of my impatience to enjoy his society,
I fear he would hold me cheap. For they say, at least
my mother says, that men will not love too much love,
or value any thing that comes cheap. In fact I dare
not treat myself too much, or too often with that high
and intoxicating enjoyment, and I economize every
moment of it, and feel as though I had acquired
a title to enjoy it by forbearance before the
treat. I affect a distance and reserve in his presence,
that appears to give him pain, as I know it does me. It
is true, he has not complained in words. But there is
often a modest remonstrance in his manner which taxes
me with cruelty, more painfully than any words he
could utter. We had a long walk together yesterday.
To give us countenance, and to screen our purpose, Laura
started with us, and as soon as we were beyond view,
she kindly left us to ourselves. How deeply this child
has read the chapter of the heart! And what was the
fruit of this solitary ramble? the very anticipation of
which was sufficient to rouse my pulses to fever quickness!
Why, we walked side by side most lovingly indeed,
but as silent as stock doves. He sighed, poor
fellow, and I sighed. He said Yea—and I said Amen.
He looked at San Puebla, which is now casting up ruddy
flames amidst its pillars of smoke, and his eye kindled
for a moment, but he soon returned to his sighs
again. Once he met me, as I well remember, with a kind
of saucy recklessness. But now, when he steals a
glance at me, his eye quails, and when to assist me in
passing, he takes my hand, his absolutely trembles.
My heart thanks him, for I feel that these are the tremors
of a subdued heart. He came out at last with the
principal secret, and told me that he was about leaving
this city for Vera Cruz. It was now my turn to show
emotion; and it was at first too great for words. As soon
as I became collected from the first surprise, I told him
that those who wished him best, wished him nothing
better than to stay where he was, and that it was a conduct
that militated against his professions to me, to leave
a place where he could visit me at his choice. He then
informed me, that the Patriot flag was unfurled at Vera
Cruz; that his principles, his predilections, and he added,
as his cheek reddened, his detestation of Iturbide
and his minions forbade him to remain in an inglorious
pursuit here, although he could at any moment look at
the town of the Mansion of Martha, where honorable
men his compatriots were rushing to the tented field.
He added, that his determination had been approved
by the Conde de Serrea; that he expected appointment
and rank in the Patriot army; that there was but one
vista through the darkness of his prospects to the only
hope of his heart, and that he saw no way for him, but
to cut his path through it with his good sword. I know
not if I give them rightly, but at the time I thought them
pretty words, and I understood the meaning to be that,
he had no hope of gaining me, but by gaining distinction
and power at the same time. I saw that his heart sunk
at the prospect of leaving me; and as he looked dejected
and on the minor key, I believe that I threw as much
encouragement as I well could into my manner. I am
afraid that he thought me too fond, for I think that I
pressed his hand and gave him well and fully to know
that, in me he had a tried and sure friend in the garrison.
Indeed more soft things were said than there is
any use in writing. I conjured him to take care of himself
and not be rash. I cautioned him against the assassin-dagger
of Don Pedro, who is to command the imperial
forces against the Patriots; and then I placed before
him the dangers of that sultry and sickly climate.
I conjured up so many horrors in prospect that my eyes
actually filled with tears, and I was obliged to turn
away to prevent his seeing them. He had harped on the
right string, and I became talkative. I said a thousand
things, and some of them I suppose more tender than
I should have said. I am sure that he discovered that
I was a traitor, for I expressed a decided wish that the
Patriots might prevail, and that he might acquire consideration
and glory; and if they established a new government,
above all things, that he might acquire influence
enough to save my father's estate from confiscation.
He clearly understood me to mean that, whenever this
should be the case, he would be the favored man of
my father, as he was now of me. And here, the man
habitually so guarded in the expression of his feelings,
fell into a most amiable fit of raptures, and made a great
many protestations of love and respect and all that, and
he talked so fast, and so fervently, and withal managed
the thing so well, that I was obliged to let him run on.
At seven in the evening I was obliged to tear myself
away from him and see my persecutor. I told him so;
and told him moreover that when he saw with how
much patience I bore this torture, I wished him to
copy it. I envy you, for you are daily near him, who occupies
all my thoughts. And yet such are the horrible barriers
of party and opinion, your noble minds must be at
variance, and you cannot meet him, for he is a Patriot
and you are a Royalist. So once was I, and I think fiercer
than you. See this man, and but for your husband you
would be a Patriot too. But you are married, and for
your loyalty to your husband and your king you had
best not see him. We have had a large pacquet from
the Patriots, that is, the Conde has had one, and they
have had a battle, the Patriots and Imperialists, and the
latter had the advantage. Heaven be praised, my beloved
is safe, and Sant' Anna writes that, he behaved
gloriously. He was every where in the thickest of he
fight, hunting, I dare say, for his Excellency, my admirer.
They have appointed him a Colonel, and he has gained
influence and respect far beyond his nominal command.
Every despatch is full of his conduct and his praises.
I rejoice in his glory with trembling. Angels and the
blessed Virgin preserve him, and bring him back in safety
with his glory! To be admired and promoted in a
cause which the Conde espouses, must be real glory.
Then I read his own letter to the Conde written in Spanish.
The purity of the language and style, would have
done credit to the Royal Academy. Of himself he writes
with the perfect modesty and simplicity of a great man.
There was a chasm in the letter, and there, thought I,
had he dared, would have been love for me. I kissed
the white interval at the thought. He says, that Sant'
Anna is full of courage, that the Patriots are no ways
disheartened, and that the people are every day flocking
to their standard. Indeed the emperor himself looks
in doubt, and his eternal simper was this evening exchanged
for a look of anxiety, and he appeared the better
for it. He had a great deal to say about his Excellency,
and his being the firmest prop of his throne, and how
impatient I must be to hear from the army, and how
anxious for his return! This man of the muddy head
has not yet been admitted to the secret of my likes and
dislikes; and he is too destitute of penetration to see
what is most palpably passing immediately under his
eye. And then, having praised his Excellency, thick
and three fold, he began to anoint me in the same way.
There are certain little liberties which he thinks it a
great honor to bestow upon his favorites. He seemed
disposed to take them with me. I repelled them, and
in a manner, which could not be mistaken. I will aver,
that the man is not wholly destitute of good feeling; for
he blushed even to his red whiskers. You have made my heart glad with your letter. You
say, that you espouse no cause, that blinds your understanding,
or takes away the power of discriminating
truth from error, pretension from reality. That is like
you. You have taken interest enough in him from his
being dear to me, to inquire him out. You delight me
by saying, that his deportment has won all praise, triumphed
over envy, and even gained the applauses of
your husband. Every generous heart ought to feel the
difference between an unprincipled adventurer, and the
partizan, whose private life and deportment show, that
his heart and his principles are in the cause he espouses;
and who in private pities, relieves, and spares those
men for whose cause he professes to have taken up
arms. It is only necessary to look at him, to see that
the motives that have carried him to the field are neither
interest nor to take side with the strongest. There
is something that speaks out when the heart is in earnest.
I have never seen a man whose manner so strongly
evinces that every thing he does, is matter of conscience
and principle. I have this day received a package of your letters at
once. I do not wonder at your astonishment that you
have had no news of me for a long time. It is a miracle
that you should ever hear of me again as an inhabitant
of this earth. Oh! what have I not suffered? I have
lived fifty years in a month, and I have performed, Oh!
such a penance for my sins. Surely, I must have sinned
deeply. But I hope my trials have not been without
their use. I am sure that I am more sober; that I have
acquired some practical philosophy, and that my pulses
will never beat so tumultuously again. But you shall
have the sad story of my sufferings. The evening after
my mother had at last come out with that decided preference
for Mr. Berrian, that I mentioned to you; too
happy to sit still, and in a frame of mind to muse in the
moon-light and inhale the delicious evening breeze, and
think upon that man, I bade the dueña walk with me
and I took the direction of the lake, for we live near that
extremity of the city. It was very imprudent I grant
you, in these times of distraction and misrule. But I
felt so happy and in such a delightful frame of mind to
enjoy the evening! and I felt too as if I was strong in the
strength of his protecting arm. We had cleared the
city and were approaching the lake before we remarked
that a carriage with servants wearing the Imperial livery
followed us. An apprehensive suspicion flashed across
my mind, but was instantly driven out by a pleasanter
train of thought. We continued to walk on for nearly
half a league, and the dueña remarked to me that the
carriage followed at the same pace and kept the same
distance. Ashivering terror of some unknown danger pervaded
my mind, as I perceived that she remarked rightly.
We immediately turned on our steps for the city. The
carriage stopped in a notch of the causeway. Petrified
with terror, I stopped too; but not long, for a man muffled
in a cloak and followed by two servants made towards
me. I shrieked and ran as fast as the unwiedly
dueña could follow me. I was overtaken in a moment.
The stranger grasped me in his arms, and the servants
at the same moment caught the screaming and struggling
dueña Indignation and the spirit of my father returned
upon me. I sternly asked him what he wanted, for
that if it was my money and jewels they were at his
service. He replied that he was aware that I had not
so mistaken his object; that I could not but have conjectured
by whom, and for what purpose he was employed.
Lest I should still doubt, he told me that he was
ordered to convey me safely and respectfully, if I would
allow him, to Xalapa, there to meet my affianced husband;
that he was instructed to explain so much of his
object in order to allay any unfounded apprehensions,
and to set my mind at ease as to my destination. That
for the rest, he hoped I would enter the carriage that
waited for me, cheerfully, when I knew his purpose;
for in that case he was charged to use his best and most
respectful exertions to render the journey pleasant.
But that his commands were positive, and his business
urgent, admitting neither hesitation nor delay; and that
his instructions were to bring me to his Excellency at
Xalapa, respectfully, if I would, or forcibly if he must;
and he begged me to fix upon the alternative. I am too happy to write to any being but you, and I
begin to credit the old saw, which asserts that happiness
makes us selfish. I left myself at the close of my last,
along with my general, at Xalapa. Instead of two
hours which he promised me, he staid until late at night.
Before he left me, he arranged the terms by a message,
on which I might stay at the Carmelite convent in that
city, as long as he occupied it with his troops. Protestant
and heretic as they held him, he has present power,
and, I fear me, that is the divinity most devoutly worshipped
here, as elsewhere. He promises the sisterhood
protection. He stations a guard without the walls, and
is to be admitted within them at any hour that he
chooses. They are to afford the shelter of their sanctuary
to me, until he carries me back in triumph to Mexico.
The convent is a sweet place, the exact retirement
for a mind and a heart like mine. It is in valley,
like a sweet isle sheltered in a sea of mountains. Here
are fine oaks, the sure indications of health. It has
orange groves, and the delicious fruits and flowers of
every clime. Amidst its bowers run a number of beautiful
and limpid brooks, chafing over pebbles. Hither I
was removed, escorted by the youthful general and a
select body of troops. At midnight he retired and left
me to the notes of the pealing organ, the midnight
prayers of the sisters, and to communion with my own
thoughts. He returned next day in safety to Xalapa. Don
Pedro was too far in advance of him, to be overtaken.
He immediately selected a garrison and appointed a
commander for this city. He has had news from Sant'
Anna, who has captured Queretaro. Having settled his
arrangements for leaving this city, he spent the greater
part of the day alone with me, in the charming gardens
and groves of the convent, and such a day! A
year of such days would be too much for a state of trial.
The next morning he started with his whole force,
except the garrison, for Mexico. It was a cheering, and
heart-stirring sight, the ceremonial of our leaving,
and I think, intended as a kind of fête for me. The troops
appeared to be in their gayest attire and in high spirits
They filed off in front of the convent gate. The piazza
of the convent was filled with all the gaiety and beauty
of the city. My general rode a spirited white charger,
and many an encomium did the ladies pass upon him
little knowing how my heart concurred in all their
praises. They all admitted he was the finest looking
man they had ever seen. This with ladies is no small
praise. As he came up in front and doffed his military
cap and waved his plumes, there was a corresponding
waving of handkerchiefs, and fair hands, and a general
shout of Viva la Republica, and Viva el Capitan Liberador.
He dismounted and came up to the gate, which
was thrown open for the occasion, kissed the hand of
the prioress and other religious sisters, and asked their
prayers for the success of his cause. The prioress presented
him with a consecrated handkerchief. which
received with a respectful address, and what surpris
them most, was not his uncommon beauty of form and
person, nor his gallant and dignified bearing as an officer,
but that he bowed like a king, spoke the true Castilian,
and kissed the hand of the prioress, like a devout
catholic. I confess, that a little pride mixed with the
love in my heart, when he came to me in the presence
of such a concourse, and begged the honor of escorting
me to Mexico, and to my mother. Some in my case, and feeling as I do, would odiously
affect indifference and tranquillity and all that. But I
confess I am impatient with the tedious progress of these
miserable negotiations. The cities and the provinces
are all leaving the standard of the Emperor, and my
father's countenance brightens daily, for he too, has become
a Patriot; and it is quite amusing to hear one of
the most ancient grandees of the Spanish monarchy,
talking about liberty and the rights of man, as if a thing
of very recent discovery. The Emperor has made the
Patriot general proposals, and the papers are all brought
to my future husband. I tremble even now, as I read
the hated name of the minister of war, signed at the bottom.
How everlastingly tedious are these miserable
politicians; and they will spin out the simplest trifle to a
volume. I have the satisfaction, however, to perceive
that the good man is as impatient and as much vexed at
this delay, as I am. He says nothing about it, and sturdily
continues the air of self-control and the affectation
of philosophy. But I see by his manner that he will be
glad when all this business is settled. I am glad that it
vexes him. We love to see that others have no more
philosophy than ourselves. Why should I complain
we constantly pass the day together, and we chat like
old acquaintances. Instead of fighting the enemy with
guns and swords, we fight with proclamations and long
speeches. It is a hard thing to keep these stupid gen
erals from quarrelling among themselves. My general
is constantly throwing water on their fire. Sant' Ann
confessed to my father to-day, that but for the North
American general, they would all fall together by the
ears, and the cause would fail. This evening is to see me no longer Doña de Alvaro.
My hand trembles, and if the characters which I trace
are a little flurried, I hope you will pardon me, for you
have passed through the same ordeal. Let me tell you
something about these important arrangements. I well
remember and can produce your account of this same
business to me in three whole sheets. I will have more
conscience with you. First then, the Bishop of Mexico
is to solemnize the wedding. He is a venerable man,
dignified and unblameable in the discharge of his holy
functions, and has retained the confidence and respect
of all parties. He could never be prevailed on to take
any part in the usurpation of the Emperor. He has always
been a friend of my father's, and is known to incline
in his feelings towards the Patriots. Secondly, we
are to be publicly married in the church of `Nuestra
Senora de Guadaloupe,' my patroness, and Laura is to
be bridemaid. Poor little thing, her bosom beats almost
as mine! The day, too, is my birth-day! What a singular
coincidence! Thirdly, my father being president
of the provincial junta, there is to be a general illumination.
Fourthly, immediately after my return to my father's
house, Bryan is to be married to a pretty Irish
girl, whom he has found here in the city. Lastly, the
first and last wish of my duena's heart is to be gratified
in her being immediately after married to Matteo
Tonato, the stoutest man in my father's establishment,
and the bridegroom and the bride have charged
themselves with the expense of a shanty for the one
and a casa for the other. The whole is to conclude
with a splendid tertulia and fandango. I shall wish
all this matter in the Red sea. It is all over. I will give you the details in their order.
Just as the sun was setting, my mother and Laura,
and two other distinguished young ladies of the city,
were assisted by the bridegroom into the state coach.
Thirty coaches of invited guests followed. The whole
was escorted by a select body of troops, lately under
the command of my husband. At the head of the procession
was my father accompanied by the Conde de
Serra and the first officers of the Junta. Military
music, firing of cannon, and ringing of bells marked the
commencement of the procession. At the door of the
magnificent church we were received by the Bishop
and the priesthood of the city, all in their most solemn
robes of office. The church, was full to overflowing,
and adorned with evergreens, and covered quite to the
centre of its vaulted dome with that profusion of splendid
flowers in which our city abounds. We walked on
flowers up to the altar. The bridegroom conducted himself
with his usual dignity and calmness, and, after all, the
ceremony was so imposing, and the duties assumed of a
character so formidable, that I felt myself trembling and
faint, and should have conducted myself foolishly but for
the sustaining manner and countenance of my husband.
Amidst clouds of incense, the pious minister, dressed in
robes of the purest white, performed the solemn services
of this Sacrament, and we both pronounced our vows in
a firm and decided voice, after the manner of those who
had meditated the duties of this relation, and resolved to
be faithful to them. The moment the vows were pronounced,
we were literally covered with flowers, and
saluted with vivas from every quarter of the church.
My mother and father embraced and kissed me; and
my husband, you know, had now acquired the right to do
so. Laura too, kissed me, and whispered me, when
returned from the States, to bring her just such a husband,
as mine. The Bishop led me back through the
aisle of the church, and gave me his benediction at the
door. The organ was pealing its grand symphonies, a
I was assisted into my carriage. The city, as we drove
back, was one dazzling mass of illumination. On all
sides was the gaiety of fête, and I much fear of drunk
enness. To my great relief after a night of so much fête and
gaiety, we were entirely en famille in the morning. I
dreaded to see company, and could have chosen to spend
the day alone with my husband. But immediately after
breakfast drove up the Conde's coach. A card was
handed me from Laura, requesting the pleasure of a
drive with me. I sent her for word, that, unless she was
disposed to give a place to my husband, she must positively
excuse me. The message back was, that if he
chose to accompany me back, so much the better. He
consented to accompany me, and the drive was a pleasant
one, except that occasionally when my husband
looked another way, Laura gave me looks so wickedly
and impertinently inquisitive, that I was obliged to assume
matronly airs, look grave, and show her all the
difference in deportment, between a wife and a spinster.
But she is really a most forward child, and answered me
by looks of such merry defiance back again, that I see
nothing will cure her but to be able to put on the same
official dignity herself. I have received your kind letter and the beautiful
rosary accompanying it. I thank you a thousand times
for your kind wishes. I have no apprehension on the
score on which you warn me. I have no terrors of the
weather getting duller after honey moon, as you call it,
VOL. II. 22 *
I only fear that this more intimate view of things will
inspire an idolatry too blind, and that I shall only be
too much tempted to surrender my judgment and my reason
to the keeping of another. When I loved him at a
distance, I knew but the half of his deserts. You must
see the manner, and the motive, that he carries with him
to the sanctuary of our privacy; you must walk and
ride with him, as I do; you must catch his eye as we
scramble together up the mountains, or listen to his conversation
as we sail together on these sweet lakes; in
short you must find him, as I do most full, and rich, and
delightful in that “dear spot, our home,” to do full justice
to his character. Let the Stoics preach that this
life never does, or can yield any thing, but satiety and
disappointment. I know better on experience. I could
live happily on the treasured recollection of the few days
we have had together, for a whole year. If I ever hear
foolish girls affecting to be witty again, as I have so often
heard them before, in declaiming against the wedded
life—by the way, you and I know, with how much
sincerity they do it—I will say to them, “Foolish girls, this
talk is all stuff.” Be married to worthy men as soon as
possible. I have experienced more enjoyment in a day
since marriage, than in a year before. Indeed my
duena seems another sort of person, she is so happy; and
Bryan too, in his strange way, eulogizes matrimony,
and his red-cheeked and yellow-haired spouse blushes
her consent. I am so much the more delighted with the regularity
of your correspondence, as I know you have so many
important occupations. You still express curiosity to
hear from me, though I have passed that dread bourne
where all curiosity and interest generally cease. But I
feel that the energies of my affections, so far from having
become paralyzed by having passed this bourne, have
become more unchanging and more powerful. My conscience
tells me it is a duty to write to you so long as
you feel any desire to hear from me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 179 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | | Title: | The life and adventures of Arthur Clenning, in two volumes | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Having obtained the ensuing adventures for
publication, as the reader will see, a circumstance,
which I am about to relate, gave me serious alarm,
lest this volume should be classed with the common
novels and made up stories of the day. It would
give me pain to have it lose the little interest which
might appertain to it, as a recital of plain and
simple matters of fact. My apprehension that such
might be its fate, was excited by hearing, the very
evening after I had completed this compilation
from the notes of Mr. Clenning, a critical dialogue
between two old, spectacled, female, novel-reading,
tea-drinking cronies, as they discussed the merits
of a recently published novel over their evening tea.
I seemed to them to be absorbed in reading the
newspapers; but in truth my ears drank every word.
The incidents of the story upon which they sat in
judgment, were as nearly like this biography of
mine as fiction may approach to fact. I considered
their opinions a kind of forestalling of my doom.
The sprites of the lower country did not pitchfork
the fictitious Don Quixotte with more hearty good
will to the burning depths, as the real Don Quixotte
related their management, than did these excellent
old ladies dispose of this book. “The wretch!”
said the first; “he has removed the landmarks
between history and fable.” “The fool!” said the
other; “he does not know how to keep up the appearance
of probability.” “My husband inquired
on the spot,” said the first, “and the people had
never even heard of such a man.” “The block-head!”
said the second; “he should have laid the
scene just four hundred years back.” “He caricatures
nature horribly,” said the first. “He is
wholly deficient in art and polish,” said the second.
“It is a poor affair from the beginning,” said the
first. “The author is only fit to write for the newspapers,”
said the second. “He has been an exact
and humble copyist of Sir Walter Scott, though
he is just a thousand leagues behind him,” said the
first. “He is nine hundred miles behind Mr. Cooper,
dear man,” said the second. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 180 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | | Title: | George Mason, the young backwoodsman, or, 'Don't give up the ship" | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Widow, who weepest sore in the night, and whose
tears are on thy cheeks, because thy young children are
fatherless, and the husband of thy bosom and thy youth
in the dust, dry thy tears. Remember Him, who hath
promised to be the husband of the widow, and take
courage. Orphan, who hast seen thy venerated father
taken from thee by the rude hand of death, and whose
thought is, that in the wide world, there is none to love,
pity, or protect thee, forget not the gracious Being, who
has promised to be a father to the orphan, and remember,
that thy business in life is, not to give up to weak
and enervating despondence, and waste thy strength in
sorrow and tears. Life is neither an anthem nor a
funeral hymn, but an assigned task of discipline and
struggle, and thou hast to gird thyself, and go to thy
duty in the strength of God. I write for the young,
the poor, and the desolate; and the moral and the maxim
which I wish to inculcate is, that we ought never to
despond, either in our religious or our temporal trials.
To parents I would say, inculcate the spirit, the duties,
and the hopes of religion upon your children in the
morning and the evening, in the house and by the way.
Instil decision and moral courage into their young bosoms.
Teach them incessantly the grand maxim—self-respect.
It will go farther to gain them respect, and
render them deserving of it, than the bequeathed stores
of hoarded coffers. A child, deeply imbued with self-respect,
will never disgrace his parents. The inculcation
of this single point includes, in my view, the best
scope of education. If my powers corresponded to my
wishes, I would impress these thoughts in the following
brief and unpretending story. The reader will see, if
he knows the country, where it is laid, as I do, that it
is true to nature. He will comprehend my motive for
not being more explicit on many points; and he will not
turn away with indifference from the short and simple
annals of the poor, for he will remember, that nine in
ten of our brethren of the human race are of that class.
He will not dare to despise the lowly tenants of the valley,
where the Almighty, in his wisdom, has seen fit to
place the great mass of our race. It has been for ages
the wicked, and unfeeling, and stupid habit of writers,
in selecting their scenery and their examples, to act as
if they supposed that the rich, the titled, and the distinguished,
who dwell in mansions, and fare sumptuously
every day, were the only persons, who could display
noble thinking and acting; that they were the only characters,
whose loves, hopes, fortunes, sufferings, and
deeds had any thing in them, worthy of interest, or
sympathy. Who, in reading about these favorites of
fortune, remembers that they constitute but one in ten
thousand of the species? Even those of humble name
and fortunes have finally caught the debasing and enslaving
prejudice themselves, and exult in the actions,
and shed tears of sympathy over the sorrows of the
titled and the great, which, had they been recorded of
1*
those in their own walk of life, would have been viewed
either with indifference or disgust. I well know that
the poor can act as nobly, and suffer as bitterly and
keenly as the rich. There is as much strength and
force and truth of affection in cottages as in palaces.
I am a man, and as such, am affected with the noble
actions, the joys and sorrows, the love and death of the
obscure, as much as of the great. If there be any difference,
the deeds, affections, fortunes, and sufferings of
the former have more interest; for they are unprompted
by vanity, unblazoned by fame, unobscured by affectation,
unalloyed by pride and avarice. The actings of
the heart are sincere, simple, single. God alone has
touched the pendulum with his finger, and the vibrations
are invariably true to the purpose of Him who
made the movement. If, therefore, reader, you feel
with me, you will not turn away with indifference from
this, my tale, because you are forewarned, that none of
the personages are rich or distinguished. You will believe,
that a noble heart can swell in a bosom clad in
the meanest habiliments. You will admit the truth as
well as the beauty of the poet's declaration, respecting
the gems of the sea, and the roses that “waste their
sweetness on the desert air;” and you will believe,
that incidents, full of tender and solemn interest, have
occurred in a log cabin in the forests of the Mississippi. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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