| | 2 | Author: | Hall
James
1793-1868 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Legends of the West  | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | The beautiful forests of Kentucky, when first
visited by the adventurous footsteps of the pioneers,
presented a scene of native luxuriance, such as has
seldom been witnessed by the human eye. So vast
a body of fertile soil had never before been known
to exist on this continent. The magnificent forest
trees attained a gigantic height, and were adorned
with a foliage of unrivalled splendour. The deep
rich green of the leaves, and the brilliant tints of the
flowers, nourished into full maturity of size and
beauty by the extraordinary fertility of the soil,
not only attracted the admiration of the hunter, but
warmed the fancy of the poet, and forcibly arrested
the attention of the naturalist. As the pioneers
proceeded step by step, new wonders were discovered;
and the features of the country, together with
its productions, as they became gradually developed,
continued to present the same bold peculiarities and
broad outlines. The same scale of greatness pervaded
all the works of nature. The noble rivers,
all tending towards one great estuary, swept through
an almost boundless extent of country, and seemed
to be as infinite in number as they were grand in
size. The wild animals were innumerable. The
forests teemed with living creatures, for this was the
paradise of the brute creation. Here were literally
“the cattle upon a thousand hills.” The buffaloe,
the elk, and the deer roamed in vast herds, and
all the streams were rich in those animals whose fur
is so much esteemed in commerce. Here lurked
the solitary panther, the lion of our region, and here
prowled the savage wolf. The nutritious fruits of
the forest, and the juicy buds of the exuberant
thickets, reared the indolent bear to an enormous
size. Even the bowels of the earth exhibited stupendous
evidences of the master hand of creation.
The great limestone beds of the country were perforated
with spacious caverns, of vast extent and
splendid appearance, many of which yielded valuable
minerals; while the gigantic bones found buried
in the earth, far exceeding in size those of all known
animals on the globe, attested the former existence
in this region, of brutes of fearful magnitude. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 3 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The brothers | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | It has been a day of storm and darkness—the
morning dawned upon the mustering of the elements—vast
towering clouds rose mass upon
mass, stratum above stratum, till the whole horizon
was over-canopied. Then there was a stern
and breathless pause, as if the tempest-demon
were collecting his energies in silent resolution;
anon its own internal weight appeared to rend the
vaporous shroud asunder, and the big rain poured
down in torrents. At moments, indeed, the sunbeams
have struggled through the driving rack,
and darted down their pensiles of soft light, showing
even more blithely golden than their wont,
from the very contrast of the surrounding gloom.
Still—noon arrived, and there was no cessation of
the strife. At that hour, the blue lightning was
splitting the tortured clouds in twain, and the
thunder roaring and crashing close above our
heads. The melancholy wailing of the winds
among the sculptured pinnacles and ivyed turrets
of our Elizabethan mansion—the sobbing and
creaking of the immemorial oak-trees, their huge
branches wrestling with the gale—the dashing and
pattering of the heavy rain—and, deeper and more
melancholy than all, the gradually increasing moan
of the distant river, have conspired all day long to
cast a gloom alike upon the face of nature and the
heart of man. Yet now evening has brought back
peace, and calm delicious sunshine. “They have prevailed, and we are torn asunder
—when, oh when to meet? They dragged me from
your bleeding body—they bound me on a horse—
they bore me—Oh God! Oh God!—that I should
VOL. I.—Q
not dare to tell you whither!—No, my beloved, I dare
not—such is the sole condition on which the miserable
satisfaction of writing these few lines is granted.
They tell me that your wounds are slight—that you
will have regained your strength ere this shall reach
you; they tell me that you will again be in the
field of glory: but they tell me that I shall never
see you more—they tell me that death—your death,
Harry, shall follow on the slightest effort at my
rescue—and they tell me truly! You know not—
oh! may you never know—the boundless wickedness,
the wellnigh boundless power of my persecutor.
Never have I done aught, planned aught, for my
deliverance, but it has been revealed to him, and
blighted in the very bud, almost before I had conceived
it. And he—this fearful and malignant being—he
has sworn an oath, which I have never
heard him break, or bend from, that you shall not
have well put foot in stirrup to search out my prison,
ere the assassin's knife shall reach your heart! Oh,
my beloved, mine is a hard, a miserable duty—my
heart overflowing with deep unutterable love, I am
compelled to hide myself from him whom to see
were the very acme of imagined happiness. I am
compelled—I am compelled to pray you, as you
value—not life, for what noble spirit ever thinks of
life save as of a loan that must be one day repaid—
but as you value all that is more dear than life—all
that ennobles it, and makes it holy—as you value
your ancestral name—your own untarnished fame
—ay! and—I will write it, though it chokeme—as
you value me, I do beseech you to forget—Oh never!
never! think not I meant to say forget me!—
but to forego me—to be patient—to bear, as I now
bear, in silence—and in hope! Were there a
chance—a possibility, however slight or desperate,
of your success—I would write, Gird yourself up
for the task like a warrior for the battle-field—and
follow me to the very ends of the earth; but now I
know that so to do could not in aught aid our hopes
—aid them, did I say!—aid!—them!it would sever
them for ever by the pitiless steel—it would bury
them in the darkness of an untimely tomb. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 4 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The brothers | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | Hastily springing to my feet, I had already
donned my clothes, and was buckling on my Milan
corslet, when old Martin entered my chamber,
fully equipped as a supernumerary subaltern of
my regiment. It was one of those customs of the
day, which has, since the time of which I write,
fallen completely into disuse, that every corps,
independent of its regular stands of national
and regimental colours, was distinguished by a
smaller standard, bearing the coat-armorial of its
commanding officer. This usage—which had
probably originated during the civil wars, wherein
each regiment was, for the most part, raised by its
colonel from among his own territorial and feudatory
dependants—I was particular to maintain in
my own instance the more scrupulously, as being
a stranger in a foreign land, and of course conscious
that, unless asserted by myself, my personal
dignity would not be much regarded by others.
It was partly with a view to this, as well as to
secure to myself a bold and trusty follower in the
field, that I had solicited for the foster-brother of
my father an appointment which certainly would
appear more suitable for a far younger man. But
no one, who had seen Martin Lydford on that
morning, would have deemed it possible that nearly
two-thirds of a century had passed over the head
of the erect and powerful veteran, who unfolded,
with a smile of daring exultation, the tattered and
time-honoured banner of my ancient house. He
wore a heavy antique helmet, with breast and back-pieces
of bright steel; immense jack-boots, and
high buff gauntlets reaching nearly to his elbows.
A long broadsword of English manufacture—
which, by-the-way, had done good service in its
time on many a stricken field—with a poniard of
formidable dimensions, completed his personal
equipment. But in addition to these he carried,
slung transversely across his shoulders, my petronel,
a choice piece of Spanish workmanship,
with an exceedingly small bore, and an indented,
or, as it is now termed, a rifled[1]
[1]The rifle, though a weapon of great rarity, was in use at
this period; as is evident from the piece with which the regent
Murray was shot, nearly a century earlier than the date of this
narrative. It is preserved in the gallery of the Duke of Hamilton,
and has a brass barrel slightly but distinctly rifled.
barrel. It was
not the fashion for officers to carry so cumbersome
a weapon, but I was, at the same time, unwilling
to lose a friend that had in several instances
served my turn, and perhaps saved my
life. The old man's eyes were full of tears as he
unfurled the colours, which had not floated for
many a day in action; but a sunny smile played on
his lips. “Harry”—it ran thus—“once more, my own,
own Harry! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 5 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Marmaduke Wyvil, or, The maid's revenge | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | In a sequestered vale of merry England, not many miles from the county town of
Worcester, there stands, in excellent preservation, even to the present day, one of those
many mansions scattered through the land, which—formerly the manor houses of a
race, now, like their dwellings, becoming rapidly extinct, the good old English squires—
have, for the most part, been converted into farm-houses; since their old-time proprietors
have, simultaneously with the growth of vaster fortunes, and the rise of loftier
dignities, declined into a humbler sphere. In the days of which we write, however,
Woolverton Hall was in the hands of the same family, which had dwelt there, father
and son, for ages. It was a tall, irregular edifice, of bright red brick, composed of two
long buildings, with steep flagged roofs and pointed gables, meeting exactly at right
angles so as to form a letter L; the longer limb running due east and west, the shorter
abutting on the eastern end, and pointing with its gable, southerly. In this south gable,
near the top, was a tall, gothic, lanceolated window, its mullions and casings wrought
of a yellowish sand-stone, to match the corner stones of all the angles, which were
faced with the same material; beneath this window, which, as seen from without,
appeared to reach nearly from the floor to the ceiling of the second story, was the date,
1559—the numerals, several feet in length, composed of rusty iron; and above it, on
the summit of the gable, a tall weather-cock, surmounted by a vane shaped like a dolphin,
which had once been fairly gilded, but now was all dim and tarnished by long
exposure to the seasons. To this part of the house there were no chimneys, which
was the more remarkable, that the rest of the building was somewhat superfluously
adorned with these appendages, rising like columns, quaintly wrought of brickwork in
the old Elizabethan style. Corresponding to the gothic window in position, though by
no means so lofty, a range of five large square-topped latticed windows, divided each
into four compartments by a cross-shaped stone transom, ran all along that front of the
other wing, which, with the abutting chapel—for such it seemed to be—formed the
interior angle of the L. From the point of the western roof, to match, as it were, the
weathercock which crowned the other gable, projected a long beam or horn of stone,
at an angle of about ninety degrees, curiously wreathed with a deep spiral groove,
not much unlike the tusk of that singular animal, the sword-fish. “I know not, cousin Alice, that I should have written at all by this present opportunity,
the barque `Good Providence,' about to sail this morning from Tower Stairs, I
being at this time in London; but that some matters came to my ear last night, which
I judge all-important to be made known to you forthwith; and should it seem to you,
that I am overbold in touching on them, you will, I think, excuse me, seeing that I
write only for your personal advantage; and further, that I once unwittingly misled
you in relation to one, of whom you have thought favorably. To be brief, cousin
Alice, I learned yesternight that the report which Cromwell sent to me at first, was not
the truth at all; he not as yet having perused the papers! There was, indeed, a letter
to Sir Edward Vavasour from Captain Wyvil; but it related solely to a projected rising
in the north, which Wyvil, it would seem, discouraged; and contained not one word
touching yourself, or his escape from Woolverton. All that affected you or Master
Selby, was written in a long epistle, addressed to yourself, and marked on the outside,
`to be delivered privately by Master Bartram.' What more it contained I know not,
for it was burnt by the lord general at once, who rated, as I hear, the council very
roundly for breaking private seals, and troubling their heads with women's matters.
This I conceived it my duty to let you know forthwith, as you, I know, drew false conclusions
from the rumor; and I, to my shame be it said, strengthened, so far as in me
lay, instead of seeking to allay your indignation. I deem it therefore my bounden duty
to let you know these facts; and that although it may have been indiscreet in Captain
Wyvil to commit such things at all to writing, he certainly is quite exonerated from all
charge of anything base or dishonorable. I am rejoiced to have it in my power to add,
that something in the style and tenor of his letter, had affected the lord general so
favorably, that I have been able to obtain his promise of a full pardon for yourself, and
your father, within the space of six months, and a reversal of the decree of sequestration:
so that, by the next spring at farthest, you may return to Woolverton. I have
no doubt, moreover, so much was Cromwell gratified by the tone of Captain Wyvil's
letter to Sir Edmund, deprecating any partial risings, which could but tend to bloodshed
and fresh miseries, without effecting anything to aid the royal cause, and speaking with
indignant condemnation of those infamous schemes which we hear of—that, if at any
future period he should feel disposed to return to England, a ready abrogation of his
outlawry could be obtained; he only binding himself on parole of honor, to take no
hostile steps against the existing government. Should you meet with him, as you
doubtless will in Paris, whither I fancy, by all we hear of Monsieur Turenne's successes,
you will proceed ere long; pray say to him, should he entertain such views, he
will at all times find in me, one anxious to assist him by all means in my power. I
may add here, that every post that has reached us from the armies, speaks of his gallantry
and conduct, as a partisan commander, in the highest terms of commendation.
I have inclosed herewith bills on Parisian goldsmiths for one thousand pounds, made
payable to your name; which you will indorse upon them, on receiving their value,
but not sooner, as in case of loss they are useless until your name is signed upon them.
I have preferred this mode, to sending them to my kind friend and cousin, Master
Selby, fearing that his secluded habits and tastes for literary occupation, may render
him averse, or at least indisposed, to the details of business. Praying you, my dear
Mistress Alice, to hold me ever in your remembrance, and to commend me to your
good father's friendship, I subscribe myself, “I charge thee come to me, on the very instant.
“Thine, “Marmaduke”—thus ran the letter which cost her so much pains—“or, for the first and
last time, dear Marmaduke, I have thought much and deeply on our last meeting; and
if I cannot quite acquit you of having sinned against me, I must confess that in some
sort I have wronged vou; this—for we two shall never meet again in this world—I
wish to repair. I do not believe that you have wilfully, or with a preconceived determination,
wronged me as you have done. Your constancy was not of that enduring
quality—your mind not of that vigorous and resolute stamp to resist absence and brave
temptation. This perhaps was not, and should not be esteemed your fault; but the misfortune
rather, and frailty of your nature. I have, moreover, seen and learned to know,
since we two parted, her who has been happier than I in gaining your affections—may
she be happier, likewise, in retaining them! and having seen and known her, I recognize
in her free soul and fearless spirit, a spell more potent than any I possess to hold
dominion over the love of a mind like yours; to bring out your excellencies—for you
have many such—to their brightest lustre, and to inhibit and restrain your foibles.
That you should love her, therefore, and that your love for her should surpass that—
perhaps but a fancy, born of circumstances and gratitude—which you once entertained
for me, I do not marvel. Had you dealt uprightly by me, and candidly, all had been
well. Now mark me—if I have anything for which to forgive, I do so—how freely and
how happily! and if my words, wrung from me by passion, have wronged you anything,
forgive me likewise! But do not, Marmaduke, from this that I write, deceive yourself,
or vainly fancy that I repent of my late decision. No! I am fixed—and fixed for ever!
Nay! but a thousand times more firmer since I have learned to love that beautiful and
noble creature whom I give to you for your wife. Yes—start not as you read—I give
to you! Cherish her, love her, honor her! for she is worthy of all cherishing, all love, all
honor! Treasure her as the apple of your eye—cleave to her as your sweetest stay in
time of trouble. Thus, and thus only can you now show the love that once you felt—
the kindness that I hope you will feel for ever—to poor, poor Alice Selby. Yes, Marmaduke,
I give her to you! may you be happy! and to be so you must be virtuous and
true! I send you, herewith, what will enable you to perform the conditions of Henry
Oswald. It is my own to bestow, and with my whole soul do I bestow it. Do not
shrink back, do not refuse my gift, Marmaduke—do not, I beseech you. If your proud
heart disdain it, think and remember, I am proud likewise; yet I humble myself to
entreat you, if ever I have done you aught of unkindness—if you now owe me anything
of love, or gratitude, or reparation—refuse not my poor boon! It is now the only
thing that can make her, who was once your Alice, happy! By the life which I gave
you! by the love which I bore you! by the affections squandered on you! the hopes
blighted by you! by your own happiness, and hers to whom the gift shall unite you! I
adjure you—hard though the task be to your haughty soul—refuse me not! No, Marmaduke,
you will not! The old man, the good old man who loved you—he is dead. I tell
you not this to grieve you, for he knew nothing which had passed from me, nor, I
believe, suspected anything. His last words were a blessing upon me, and, I doubt not,
upon you likewise; and in this knowledge I rejoice daily. I would not for the world,
that he had thought me wronged, for that would bitterly have grieved him; and, perhaps,
good and forgiving as he was, he would not have then blessed you. He is gone,
Marmaduke, and I shall, ere long, follow him! and you will give us both a tear and a green
spot in your memory! And you too, Marmaduke—you must one day go hence, and your
bright Isabella; and we shall one day meet and know each other, not as now, through
a glass darkly, but face to face. And then—then, Marmaduke, let Isabella thank me
for having made her yours, and tell me you have made her happy; and that will well
9
repay me for all my transient sorrows. Fear not then—scruple not to accept this my
parting gift; two persons only in the wide world besides myself know of it, and trust me,
their mouths will be for ever silent. Farewell, then, my beloved! for so in this last
parting—so I must call you. Peace, and prosperity, and love, and blessings be about
you! Farewell! and when you think of Alice Selby, think of her as one who loved you
to the very last, and prayed for you, and blessed you, and will bless you dying! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 6 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Ringwood the rover | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | The earliest dawning of a lovely summer day,
in the year 1659, was pouring its sweet light, unclouded
yet with that fierce heat which renders
almost insupportable the noontide hours, over the
forests which encircled, with a belt of ever-during
verdure, the Spanish city of St. Augustine. It
was already in those days a place of much importance,
with nunneries, and steepled churches,
and terraced dwellings, with white walls and jalousies
peeping from out the foliage of dark orange
groves, and all those beautiful peculiarities of
semi-Moorish taste, which lend so much of poetry
and of romance to the old towns of Spain. It had its
flanking walls, its ditches, and its palisades, presenting
their impregnable resistance to the fierce
and wily Indian, whom the relentless cruelty of
the white colonist, of whatsover nation, had at
length goaded into systematic and continual hostility;
in seaward bastions, with water-gate and
demilune, mounted with heavy cannon, and garrisoned
by old Castilians, under an officer who
bore the style of royal governor. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 7 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The village inn, or, The adventure of Bellechassaigne | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | On the western outskirts of a little hamlet, situated on the verge
of a great forest, not many miles from Vitry, on the high-road
leading from Bar le Due to Paris, there stood in the summer of
1653, a large old-fashioned inn, which has long since yielded,
like all things earthly, to the consuming hand of time, but which
in its day possessed no limited or narrow reputation. So excellent
indeed was its accommodations, so celebrated its cuisine, and
so remarkable the courtesy of the aubergist, that the cerf blanc
of Lagny la Forêt, was known so well to all who journeyed in
that district, that travellers would often turn aside from the direct
line of their route in order to enjoy its far-famed hospitality. It
was a solitary building of considerable size, situated in a spot of
singular and romantic loveliness at the foot of three soft green
hills, which sloped down easily on every side except the south,
with two small glens between them, each watered by a bright and
sparkling rivulet, which meeting at their base, swept off in easy
curves through a rich level meadow, and joined a more considerable
stream at the distance of a quarter of a mile, or perhaps less,
to the southward. The summits of two of these green knolls,
for they were indeed little more—those to the north and west, were
crowned by the tall trees of the neighboring forest which covered
the whole face of the country for miles in that direction, and many
scattered oaks and ashes grew straggling down their sides, the
outposts as it were and sentinels of the vast verdant host. The
third or eastern hill, unlike its neighbors, was cleared almost entirely
of wood and very richly cultivated in meadow-land and pastures,
divided from each other by lines of thriving fruit-trees,
among which wound a narrow sandy road toward the village,
lying just out of sight beyond the summit—its tall and lance-like
spire standing out clear and sharp against the sky, above the
rounded brow. Just in the hollow where the streams blended
their bright waters, stood the old inn, a large irregular rambling
edifice, with steep projecting gables and latticed windows, no two
of them alike; of every shape and size that can be fancied, and a
huge oaken porch all overrun with jessamine and woodbine,
facing the yellow road. Four or five weeping-willows of vast
size grew on the margin of the stream, quite overarching the stone
bridge, which spanned it close to the western gable, and bathed
the old moss-grown roof with cool and grateful umhrage; while
a small strip of garden on either side the door, fenced by a rustic
paling and thickly set with sweet-briars and many-colored rose-bushes,
completed the attractions of the spot. The stables and
out-buildings were all behind the house, concealed from view by
the nature of the ground, nor were there any indications that the
house itself was one for public entertainment, unless it were an
antiquated sign representing the White, Stag whence the inn's
name, which swung from a cross-piece morticed into the trunk of
one of the great willows, and a long horse-trough supplied with
living water by a little aqueduct from a spring in the hill-side,
with a stone horseblock by its end. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 8 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Guarica, the charib bride | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | The heavy dew of the tropics was yet
lying bright and unexhaled on every herb
and flower; myriads of which, in most
profuse variety of odor and bloom, strewed,
like one gorgeous carpet, the beautiful savannahs,
and wild forest glades of the fair
province of Cahay. The sun had not fairly
risen, although the warm and rosy light
which harbingered his coming, was tinging,
with its fairy dyes, the small and fleecy
clouds that floated, like the isles of some
enchanted sea, over the azure skies. The
faint sea-breeze, which murmured still
among the fresh green leaves, though it
was fast subsiding, was laden with perfumes
of such strange richness, that while
they gratified they almost cloyed the
senses; birds of the most superb and gorgeous
plumage were glancing, meteor-like,
among the boughs; but the innumerable
insect tribes, which almost rival
them in beauty, had not as yet been called
forth to their life of a day, by the young
sunbeams. The loveliness of those sequestered
haunts, which had but recently
been opened to the untiring and insatiate
avarice of the Europeans, exceeded the
most wild conceptions, the most voluptuous
dreams, of the romancer or the poet. The
solemn verdure of the mighty woods thick
set with trees, more graceful than the
shades of those ægean Isles, where the
Ionian muse was born to witch the world
for ages—the light and feathery mimosas,
the fan-like heads of the tall palms, towering
a hundred feet above their humbler, yet
still lofty brethren—the giant oaks, their
whole trunks overgrown with thousands of
bright parasites, and their vast branches
canopied with vines and creepers—masses
of tangled and impervious foliage—the natural
lawns, watered by rills of crystal—
the rocks, that reared themselves among
the forests, mantled not as the crags of the
cold northern climes, with dark and melancholy
ivy, but with festoons of fruits and
flowers that might have graced the gardens
of the fabulous Hesperides. It was
upon such a scene, as is but imperfectly
and feebly shadowed forth, in the most
glowing language, that the sweet dawn
was breaking, when, from a distance,
through the lovely woodlands, the mellow
notes of a horn, clearly and scientifically
winded, came floating on the gentle air;
again it pealed forth its wild cadences,
nearer and louder than before—and then
the deep and ringing bay of a full mouthed
hound succeeded. Scarcely had the first
echo of the woods replied to the unwonted
sounds, before a beautiful, slight hind, forcing
her way through a dense thicket of
briers, dashed with the speed of mortal terror
into the centre of a small savannah,
through which stole almost silently a broad
bright rivulet of very limpid water. Pausing
for a second's space upon the brink, the
delicate creature stood, with its swan-like
neck curved backward, its thin ear erect,
its full black eye dilated, and its expanded
nostrils snuffing the tainted breeze. It was
but for a second that she stood; for the next
moment a louder and more boisterous crash
arose from the direction whence she had
first appeared—the blended tongues of
several hounds running together on a hot
and recent trail. Tossing her head aloft,
she gathered her slight limbs under her,
sprung at one vigorous and elastic bound
over the rivulet, and was lost instantly to
view among the thickets of the further
side. A few minutes elapsed during which
the fierce baying of the hounds came quicker
and more sharply on the ear; and then,
from the same brake out of which the bind
had started, rushed, with his eyes glowing
lika coals of fire, his head high in the air,
and his long feathery tail lashing his tawny
sides, a formidable blood hound, of that savage
breed which was, in after times, so
brutally employed against the hapless Indians
by their Christian conquerors. Another,
and another, and a fourth succeeded,
making the vaulted woods to bellow with
the deep cadences of their continuous cry.
Hard on the blood hounds, crashing through
the tangled branches with reckless and impetuous
ardor, a solitary huntsman followed
splendidly mounted on a fiery Andalusian
charger, of a deep chestnut color, with four
white legs, and a white blaze down his
face, whose long thin mane, and the large
cord-like veins that might be seen meandering
over his muscular, sleek limbs, attested,
as surely as the longest pedigree,
the purity of his blood. The rider was a
young man of some four or five-and-twenty
years, well, and rather powerfully made
than otherwise, though not above the middle
stature; his long dark hair, black eye,
and swarthy skin told of a slight admixture
of the Moorish blood; while the expression
of his features, though now excited somewhat
by the exhilaration of the chase,
grave, dignified and noble, bespoke him
without a doubt a polished cavalier of
Spain. His dress, adapted to the occupation
which he so gallantly pursued, was a
green doublet belted close about his waist
by a girdle of Cordovan leather, from which
swung, clinking at every stride of his
horse, against the stirrup, a long and basket-hilted
bilboa blade, in a steel scabbard,
which was the only weapon that he wore,
except a short two-edged stiletto, thrust
into the belt at the left side. A broad
sombrero hat, with a drooping feather,
breeches and gloves of chamois leather,
laced down the seams with silver, and russet
buskins drawn up to the knee, completed
his attire. He sat his horse gracefully
and firmly; and the ease with which
he supported him, and wheeled him to and
fro among the fallen trees and rocks, notwithstanding
the fiery speed at which he
rode, bespoke him no less skillful than intrepid
as a horseman. The chase continued
for above an hour, during which
every species of scenery that the level portions
of the isle contained was traversed by
the hunter; the open forest, the dense
swampy brake, the wide luxuriant savannah—and
each at such hot speed, that
though he turned aside neither for bush,
nor bank, though he plunged headlong
down the steepest crags, and dashed his
charger, without hesitation, over every fallen
tree that barred his progress, and every
brook or gulley that opposed him, still it
was with no little difficulty that he contrived
to keep the hounds in hearing. And
now the hapless hind, worn out by the sustained
exertions which had at first outstripped
the utmost pace of her pursuers,
but which availed her nothing to escape
from foes against whose most sagacious instinct
and unerring scent she had but fleetness
to oppose—was sinking fast, and must,
as the rider judged by the redoubled speed
and shriller baying of his hounds, soon turn
to bay, or be run down without resistance.
Her graceful head was bowed low toward
the earth; big tears streamed down her
hairy cheeks; her arid tongue lolled from
her frothing jaws; her coat, of late so
sleek and glossy, was all embossed with
sweat and foam, and wounded at more
points than one by the sharp thorns and
prickly underwood through which she had
toiled so fruitlessly. Still she strove on,
staggering and panting in a manner pitiful
to witness, when the deep bay of the blood
hounds was changed suddenly into a series
of sharp and savage yells, as they caught
view of their destined prey. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 11 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | My shooting box | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | It wanted scarce an hour of sunset, on a calm,
bright October evening—that season of unrivalled glory
in the wide woodlands of America, wherein the dying
year appears to deck herself, as it is told of the expiring
dolphin, with such a gorgeousness of short-lived
hues as she had never shown in her full flush of summer
life and beauty—it wanted, as I have said, scarce
an hour of sunset, and all the near and mountainous
horizon was veiled as it were by a fine gauze-like
drapery of filmy yellow mist, while every where the
level sunbeams were checkering the scenery with lines
of long rich light and cool blue shadow, when a small
four-wheeled wagon with something sportsmanlike and
rakish in its build, might have been seen whirling at a
rapid rate over one of the picturesque uneven roads,
that run from the banks of the Hudson, skirting the
lovely range of the Western Highlands, through one—
the fairest—of the river counties of New York. This
little vehicle, which was drawn by an exceedingly
clever, though somewhat cross-made, chesnut cob, with
a blaze on his face, and three white legs, contained two
persons, with a quantity of luggage, among which a
couple of gun-cases were the most conspicuous, and a
brace of beautiful and high-bred English pointers. The
driver was a smart natty lad, dressed in a dark gray
frock, with livery buttons, and a narrow silver cord for
a hat-band; and, while he handled the ribbons with
the quick finger and cool head of an experienced whip,
he showed his complete acquaintance with the way, by
the readiness and almost instinctive decision with which
he selected the right hand or the left of several acute
and intricate turns and crossings of the road. The
other was a young gentleman of some five or six and
twenty years, finely and powerfully made, though not
above the middle height, with curly light-brown hair
and a fair bright complexion, indicative of his English
blood. Rattling along the limestone road, which followed
the course of a large rapid trout stream, that
would in Europe have been termed a river, crossing it
now and then on rustic wooden bridges, as it wound
in broad devious curves hither and thither through the
rich meadow-land, they reached a pretty village, embosomed
in tall groves and pleasant orchards, crowning
a little knoll with its white cottages and rival steeples;
but, making no pause, though a neat tavern might well
have tempted the most fastidious traveller, they swept
onward, keeping the stream on their right hand, until,
as they came to the foot of a small steep ascent, the
driver touched his hat, saying—“We have got through
our journey now, sir; the house lies just beyond the
hill.” He scarce had finished speaking, before they
topped the hillock, and turning short to the right hand
pulled up before a neat white gate in a tall fence, that
separated the road from a large piece of woodland,
arrayed in all the gorgeous colors wrought by the first
sharp frost of autumn. The well-kept winding lane,
to which the gate gave access, brought them, within a
quarter of a mile, to a steep rocky bank feathered with
junipers, and here and there a hickory or maple
shadowing the dense undergrowth of rhododendrons,
kalmias and azalias that sprung in rich luxuriance from
every rift and cranny of the gray limestone ledges.
Down this the road dived, by two rapid zig-zags, to
the margin of the little river, which foamed along its
base, where it was spanned by a single arch, framed
picturesquely of gnarled unbarked timber; and then
swept in an easy curve up a small lawn, lying fair to
the southern sun, to the door of a pretty cottage, which
lay midway the northern slope of the valley, its rear
sheltered by the hanging woodlands, which clothed the
hills behind it to their very summit. A brilliant light
was shining from the windows to the right of the door,
as if of a merry fire and several candles mingled; and,
in a minute or two after the wheels of the wagon rattled
upon the wooden bridge, it was evident that the
door was thrown open; for a long stream of mellow
light burst out on the fast darkening twilight, and the
next moment a tall figure, clearly defined against the
bright background, was seen upon the threshold. A
minute more and the chesnut cob was pulled up in
front of the neat portico, and the young Englishman
leaped out and darted up the steps. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 12 | Author: | Herbert
Henry William
1807-1858 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The miller of Martigne | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | | | | Description: | Upon a pleasant knoll or hillock, not very far from Rennes, in
that most beautiful department of France, which takes its name
from the Vilaine, on the post-road from Chateaubriant to La
Guerche, the traveller passes through the little hamlet of Martignè.
It is but a small place, even now, and in the times of which
I write—the dark and bloody days of Mazarin—it was little more
than a cluster of white washed cottages, grouped round an old
gray church, the spire of which rose sharp and slender, above the
foliage of the dense forest, that lay stretched for many a mile
around it. About two miles to the northward of the village, the
causeway, having scaled a steep and rocky hill, descends almost
precipitously toward a strong copious brook, too large to be termed
a rivulet, and, at the same time, too small to aspire to the name of
river; across which it is carried at the height of two hundred feet
above the water, upon a one-arched bridge of Roman brick, the
work of those world-conquerors of old. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 13 | Author: | Bird
Robert Montgomery
1806-1854 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Hawks of Hawk-hollow | | | | 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 has been seen how the rejoicings at the
promontory were interrupted in their very beginning,
by the sudden discovery of the refugee, so
Drad for his derring-doe and bloody deed,
that his mere name had thrown all present into
confusion. The crowning climax was put to the
general panic, when some of the late pursuers were
seen returning, early in the afternoon, whipping
and spurring with all the zeal of fear, and scattering
such intelligence along the way as put to flight
the last resolution of the jubilants. The news immediately
spread, that Oran Gilbert had burst into
existence, not alone, but with a countless host of
armed men at his heels; that he had attacked and
routed the pursuers, hanging all whom he took
alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now,
in the frenzy of triumph, marching against the
devoted Hillborough, with the resolution of burning
it to the ground. Such dreadful intelligence
was enough to complete the terror of the revellers;
they fled amain—and long before night, the flag
waved, and the little piece of ordnance frowned in
utter solitude on the top of the deserted head-land.
It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with
happier news, but too late to arrest the fugitives;
and as these riders made their way towards the
village, expressing some anxiety lest it should be
attacked, they rather confirmed than dispelled the
fears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From
one of the coolest and boldest, Captain Loring, who
fastened on him at the park-gate, learned that there
had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive
had made his escape; but, on the other hand, it
appeared that there were refugees in the land,—
that they had hanged a soldier named Parker, and
made good their retreat from the place of execution—that
the greatest doubt existed among the
pursuers in relation to the route they had taken
and the objects they had in view, some believing,
on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been
their prisoner, that they were marching by secret
paths against the village, while others insisted that
this was a feint designed only to throw the hunters
off the scent, and to secure their escape,—that, in
consequence, the party had divided, pursuing the
search in all directions, in the hope of discovering
their route,—and, finally, that it was now certain,
the band, whose number was supposed to be very
considerable, was really commanded by the notorious
Oran Gilbert. From this man also, Captain
Loring learned a few vague particulars in relation
to the two greatest objects of his interest, namely
Henry Falconer and the young painter, who had
fallen into a quarrel in consequence of some misunderstanding
about their horses, the officer having
used harsh language not only in regard to the
unceremonious seizure by Herman of his own
steed, but in reference to a similar liberty the refugee
had previously taken with the painter's,
which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy
and intercourse betwixt Mr. Hunter and the
outlaw it behooved the former to explain, before
thrusting himself into the company of honest men
and gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed, had been
allayed by the interference of Falconer's brother
officers; and the informant had heard something
said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl.
As for the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared,
that his spirited assistance during the chase, and
especially his success in exposing the secret haunt
of the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of
Parker's execution, had not only removed all suspicion
in relation to his character, but had highly
recommended him to the favour of his late
captors. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 15 | Author: | Brown
Charles Brockden
1771-1810 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Edgar Huntly, Or, Memoirs of a Sleep-walker | | | | Published: | 2005 | | | | 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: | I sit down, my friend, to
comply with thy request. At length
does the impetuosity of my fears, the
transports of my wonder permit me to
recollect my promise and perform it. At
length am I somewhat delivered from
suspence and from tremors. At length
the drama is brought to an imperfect
close, and the series of events, that absorbed
my faculties, that hurried away
my attention, has terminated in repose. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 16 | Author: | Child
Lydia Maria Francis
1802-1880 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Rebels, Or, Boston Before the Revolution | | | | 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: | There was hurrying to and fro through the principal
streets of Boston on the night of the 14th of August,
1765. A brilliant bonfire was blazing on Fort Hill.
Column after column of light died away to rise again
with redoubled grandeur, and at each succeeding burst
of flame, the loud shouts of the rabble were heard with
dreadful distinctness. “A friend of mine, who has lately returned to England,
accidentally mentioned meeting Miss Fitzherbert
at your house. May I ask who this Miss Fitzherbert
is? I have been in my native country but a short time,
—I am a bachelor,—and my health is exceedingly precarious.
It is therefore important that I should know
her history and connexions immediately. “Lieutenant-Governor, Member of the Council,
Commander of the Castle, Judge of Probate, and Chief
Justice of the Supreme Court! you are hereby commanded
to appear under the Liberty-tree within one
hour, to plight your faith, that you will use no more
influence against an injured and an exasperated people. “I hardly know how to account for the diffidence
I feel in addressing you. The usual exaggerated language
of affection would, I well know, appear ridiculous
to you; and coldness or reserve is but ill suited to the
present state of my feelings. The declaration that I
have been for years most sincerely and devotedly attached
to you, may not perhaps be entirely unexpected;
and I once hoped it would not be entirely disagreeable.
You do not owe your influence over me to a
sudden freak of fancy; it results from a long and intimate
knowledge of your character. Yet I will not flatter
you, by saying I consider you faultless;—on the
contrary, I think you have defects, which may prove
very dangerous to yourself and friends, unless timely
corrected. But I cannot imagine a character more
elevated than might be formed from a mind so vigorous,
and a heart so generous and candid as yours. “I have only time before this vessel sails, to tell you,
that the important papers,—certificate of marriage,
birth, &c., came duly to hand. Evidence is ample and
satisfactory. There is no doubt that your father was my
dear, but very headstrong nephew,—though your miniature
shows not a shadow of family likeness. I rejoice
to see by your letter, that you have been educated as a
Fitzherbert should be. As a trifling acknowledgement
of this kindness, present the articles that accompany
this, to Governor Hutchinson and his sister. A voyage
at this season would be cold and dangerous, but as soon
as the spring opens, you must make for England. “This flower, pure and beautiful as yourself, was
purchased for you. Will you accept it from your faithful
lover? Will you cherish it for his sake, during the
tedious absence to which he is doomed? “Here I am, in the favoured land of the brave, the
intelligent, and the free. Yet even while I now repeat
it, I scarcely credit it. I feel as if I were walking in
my sleep; and it is only when I look out upon the
princely buildings around me, that I can realize I am indeed
in London. Our voyage was very pleasant, with
the exception of sea-sickness. That, however, is a tax
we must all pay to lord Neptune for rocking us in his
cradle somewhat too roughly. (Pardon me. I forget
that the odious word tax is banished from the American
vocabulary.) “We last week received your long and affectionate
letter. I was delighted, but not dazzled, with your picture
of London. I love my own quiet chamber better
than I should marble saloons or Corinthian piazzas.
Yet our humble mansion has been sad enough since you
left us. My father's health fails daily; and long, long
before you return to us, Lucretia, I fear the dear venerable
old man will have gone to his last home. It
grieves me to think of it. Yet why should they whose
lives have been stainless, and their purposes all holy,
shrink from the hand that enrobes them with immortality.
Young as I am, there are times when I would lay
down my weary, aching head, and sleep, never more
to wake in this cold world, as cheerfully as the tired
infant presses the soft pillow of its cradle. “My dear Child, “I delivered your letters according to their directions;
and I do not hesitate to say that the general opinion here
is entirely in favour of your views. It is, however,
very difficult to ascertain what course will be taken, for
never was there such a heterogeneous, unintelligible
mass as the present ministry. They are made up of the
shreds and patches of all political opinions,—a confused
jumble of every shade and hue of whiggism. “How very seldom you write; and how wo-begone
are your epistles. Do not think me heartless with regard
to your father's sickness. Indeed, I have felt most
keenly for you and for him; but I have not the least
doubt that the fine, clear climate of Canada will restore
him; and even if the event should be the worst that we
can fear, you must not thus mourn away your young
existence. When you wrote last, you were just on the
point of starting for Montreal; and I assure you I envied
you the excursion. I wish I could have visited
Gertrude before I came to England. Not only because
I loved her more than I ever loved any one in so short a
time; but I am really ashamed when asked about Niagara
and the Lakes, to say that I have never seen them.
People here are not aware how very unusual it is for
American ladies to go out of sight of their own chimnies;
and as for space, they do not seem to imagine
there is such a thing on the other side of the Atlantic.
They would ask a Vermontese about the Blue Ridge,
or a Georgian about Niagara, as readily as I should
question a Londoner about St. Paul's, or beg a description
of Snowdon from a Welchman born and bred within
sight of its cloud-kissing peak. “I found your letter dated November 15th, waiting our
arrival, when we returned from Canada. Gertrude and
I wrote you a crowded epistle last autumn; I wonder
you had not received it before you wrote. She is very
happy. Indeed her affectionate heart deserves it. Had
she been a sister in very truth, she could not have
loved me more, or been more kindly attentive to my
father. “I last week received a package from Boston, containing
letters from uncle Hutchinson, Grace Osborne,
and yourself. “How mutable are all human prospects! My last
lines were written on the 14th; and uncle Fitzherbert
was then in fine health, and animated to a remarkable
degree. On the night of the 15th, he was suddenly attacked
by violent convulsions. The fits continued with
increasing power until the third day,—when, with anguish
that cannot be described, I saw the only relative I
had on earth stretched on the bed of death. I have never
before seen Mrs. Edgarton subdued by emotion; but now
I am obliged to exert all my fortitude to support her.
Alas! I shall never again be idolized as I was by that
dear old gentleman. He seemed to consider me the
prop of his house,—the stay and support of his age.
Why did my heart ever accuse him of coldness and
formality? “Silly Girl, “If the frank avowal that you are still very dear to
my widowed heart, requires any apology, let approaching
death be my excuse. “It is long since I have written to you,—longer than
I once thought it ever would be; but heart-trying scenes
prevented it, after my return from England; and when
their bitterness had passed away, I was too much depressed
to make any mental exertion. “Much respected Madam, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 18 | Author: | Clark
Willis Gaylord
1808-1841 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | | | | 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: | `I have not sooner replied to your letter of the eighteenth of June, communicating
the intelligence of the untimely death of your brother, because in
fact I was at a loss how to reply. It is one of those cases in which all ordinary
attempts at consolation are apt to appear trite and cold, and can never reach
the deep-seated affliction. In such cases, it always appears to me better
to leave the heart to struggle with its own sorrows, and medicine its own ills;
and indeed, in healthful minds, as in healthful bodies, Providence has beneficently
implanted self-healing qualities, that in time close up and almost obliterate
the deepest wounds. `Of the several excellent writers whose names we have placed upon our
catalogue as worthy of the honor we intend to do them (a series of portraits
of popular Philadelphia authors, accompanied by suitable notices of their
lives and works,) the first we select is that of Willis Gaylord Clark, whose
rare abilities as a poet, and whose qualities as a man, justify this distinction.
The life of a student is usually, almost necessarily, indeed, uneventful. Disinclined
by habit and association, and generally unfitted by temperament, to
mingle in the ruder scenes, the shocks and conflicts that mark the periods
of sterner existence, his biography furnishes but few salient points upon
which an inquirer can take hold. In the little circle which his affections
have gathered around him, he finds abundant sources of enjoyment and interest;
and though the world without may ring with his name, he pursues his
quiet and peaceful way, undisturbed by, if not insensible to, its praises. Such
has been eminently the case with the subject of this notice. With feelings
peculiarly fitted for social and domestic intercourse, and a heart overflowing
with the warmest and most generous impulses; and a shrinking sensitiveness
to obtrusive public regard, Mr. Clark has always sought those scenes in
which, while his talents found free scope, his native modesty was unwounded,
and he could exercise without restraint the Joftier charities of his nature. `With the exception of a small volume published some years since, we believe that
Mr. Clark's effusions have not been collected. They have appeared at irregular and
often remote intervals; and though their beauty and pathos have won the applause of
the first writers of this country and England, they have not made that impression
which if united they could not fail to produce. Mr. Clark's distinguishing traits are
tenderness, pathos, and melody. In style and sentiment he is wholly original, but if
he resemble any writer, it is Mr. Bryant. The same lofty tone of sentiment, the
same touches of melting pathos, the same refined sympathies with the beauties and
harmonies of nature, and the same melody of style, characterise, in an almost equal
degree, these delightful poets. The ordinary tone of Mr. Clark's poetry is gentle,
solemn, and tender. Ilis effusions flow in melody from a heart full of the sweetest affections,
and upon their surface is mirrored all that is gentle and beautiful in nature,
rendered more beautiful by the light of a lofty and religious imagination. He is one
of the few writers who have succeeded in making the poetry of religion attractive.
Young is sad, and austere, Cowper is at times constrained, and Wordsworth is much
too dreamy for the mass; but with Clark religion is unaffectedly blended with the
simplest and sweetest affections of the heart. His poetry glitters with the dew, not
of Castaly, but of heaven. No man, however cold, can resist the winning and natural
sweetness and melody of the tone of piety that pervades his poems. All the voices
of nature speak to him of religion; he
`Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.'
There is not an effusion, and scarce a line in his poetical writings that is not replete
with this spirit. The entire absence of affectation or artifice in Mr. Clark's poetry
also deserves the highest commendation. Though always poetical he is always natural;
he sacrifices nothing for effect, and does not seek his subjects or his figures from
the startling or the extravagant. There is an uniform and uninterrupted propriety in
his writings. His taste is not merely cultivated and refined, but sensitively fastidious,
and shrinks, with instinctive delicacy, from anything that could distort the tranquil
and tender beauty of his lines. His diction is neither quaint nor common-place, bloated
nor tame, but is natural, classic, and expressive. In the art of versification, he appears
to be nearly perfect; we know no poet in the language who is more regular, animated,
and euphonious. `Our brother is no more!' Death, the pale messenger, has beckoned
him silently away; and the spirit which kindled with so many elevated
thoughts; which explored the chambers of human affection, and awakened
so many warm sympathies; which rejoiced with the glad, and grieved with
the sorrowing, has ascended to mansions of eternal repose. And there is
one, reader, who above all others feels how much gentleness of soul, how
much fraternal affection and sincere friendship; how much joyous bilarity,
goodness, poetry, have gone out of the world; and he will be pardoned for
dwelling in these pages, so often enriched by the genius of the Departed,
upon the closing scenes of his earthly career. Since nearly a twelve-month
the deceased has `died daily' in the eyes of the writer of this feeble tribute.
He saw that Disease sat at his heart, and was gnawing at its cruel leisure;
that in the maturity of every power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty;
`when experience had given facility to action and success to endeavor,'
he was fast going down to darkness and the worm. Thenceforth were treasured
up every soul-fraught epistle and the recollection of each recurring
interview, growing more and more frequent, until at length Life like a spent
steed `panted to its goal,' and Death sealed up the glazing eye and stilled
the faltering tongue. Leaving these, however, with many other treasured
remains and biographical facts for future reference and preservation in this
Magazine, we pass to the following passages of a letter recently received
from a late but true friend of the lamented deceased, Rev. Dr. Ducachet,
Rector of St. Stephen's Church, Philadelphia; premising merely, that the
reverend gentleman had previously called upon him at his special instance,
in the last note he ever penned; that `his religious faith was manifested in
a manner so solemn, so frank, and so cordial,' as to convince the affectionate
pastor that the failing invalid, aware that he must die of the illness under
which he was suffering, had long been seeking divine assistance to prepare
him for the issue so near at hand: `He was, so far as his character revealed itself to me, a man of a most
noble, frank, and generous nature. He was as humble as a little child. He
exhibited throughout most remarkable patience. He never complained.
But once, while I was on bended knees, praying with him for patience to be
given him, and acknowledging that all he had suffered was for the best, he
clasped his hands together, and exclaimed, `Yes! right, right—all right!'
... He was one of the most affectionate-hearted men I ever saw. Every
moment I spent with him, he was doing or saying something to express to me
his attachment. He would take my hand, or put his arm around my neck,
or say something tender, to tell me that he loved me. He showed the same
kind feeling to his attendants, his faithful nurse, Rebecca, and to the humblest
of the servants.... He was of course, with such a heart, grateful
for the smallest attentions. He received the most trifling office with thanks.
I observed this most remarkably on the evening of his death. I had taken
my son with me, that he might sit up with him on Saturday night, if occasion
should require. When I mentioned that the youth was in the room, he
called for him; welcomed him most kindly, thanked him over and over for
his friendly intentions; and in fact, broke out into the warmest expressions of
gratitude for what his sensitive and generous heart took to be a high act of
favor. All this was within an hour and a half of his death.... Finally,
I believe he was a truly religious man. I have no doubt that he was fully
prepared for his end; and that through the sacrifice of the cross, and the
Saviour who died there for sinners, he was pardoned and accepted. He has
gone, I feel persuaded, to the abodes of peace, where the souls of those who
sleep in the Lord Jesus enjoy perpetual felicity and rest.' Good Reader, let us have a talk together. Sit you down
with benevolent optics, and a kindly heart, and I doubt not that
we shall pass an hour right pleasantly, one with another. Pleasantly,
in part, but in part it may be, sadly; for you know it is
with conversation, as with life; it taketh various colors, and is
changing evermore. So we will expect these changes, and meet
them as they come. Sometimes we shall be in the cheerful vein,
and at others, in that subjunctive mood which conquers the jest on
the lip, and holds Humor in bonds. But for `gude or ill,' I
shall desire you to sit with me. In the voices of Mirth, there
may be excitement, but in the tones of Mourning there is consolation. Congregere in Pons Cayuguum, Februarius Sexdecim, nox media, pro
jocus et exercitatio, et animi relaxatio. `Sithence that love, which is the lightest bird in the world, hath
nestled in my bosom, it hath proved so full of egg, that I have been forced
to suffer him to lay there. But sithence he hath laid it, he hath sate upon
it a long tyme, and at length hath hatched this little pullet which I now
send you. The breeding of it will cost you little; all the food it will require
will be caresses and kisses. And withal, it is so well taught that it
speaks better than a paraqueto, and so will tell you my sufferings for you.
It hath in charge to inquire of you whether or no you are yet displeased
with me, and to let me know your mind, not by a pullet so big as this, but
by the least chicken you please, if I may have your favor; with this promise,
that if you have laid aside your rigor, I shall send you no more pullets, but
present you with full-grown birds, full of valor and affection. Will you allow me to correct a slight statement in your
last, with reference to my death? I am grateful for the compliments to my
character in your obituary notice, and I believe them deserved. That I
tried to do the handsome thing while I lived, is most true; true, too, is it, that
I never backed out of a fight, and never saw the man that could whip me,
when alive; and I say the same yet, `being dead,' according to your story.
But when you state, that I left my affairs unsettled, and my widow and
those eleven children unprovided for, I have only to state, that you lie in
your throat! I mean no offence in what I say; I speak in the aggregate
sense of the term. Being a dead man, and printed down as such in your
columns, I am incapable of mortal resentments; but I leave as my avengers,
Cain, Abel, and Simpkins, printers and publishers of the Occidental
Trumpet and Mississippi Battle-Axe. To the editor of that paper, I submit
my fame. To his indomitable coolness, never yet ruffled by repeated contumely,
and invulnerable to contempt, I confide my reputation: feeling
certain that one who has never found satisfaction for an insult, (nor sought
it indeed,) can fail to be a champion in my cause. That he may be in peril
in my advocacy, is possible; but he knows how to shun it. He is independent,
for he is unknown; he is fearless, for no man will touch a hair of
his head. To that important Gulliven, in whatsoever cave or fastness he
may dwell, I surrender my fame. I have had an interview with Mr. Biddle, and truly lament
my inability to communicate satisfactory results. I fear that until the
resolution of the Senator from Ohio, in regard to the repeal of the Treasury
order, is finally disposed of, the trading interests will materially suffer. `I have seen a piece which you made and put into a perryoge published
down into the city of New York, to which I am a-going to indict a reply.
My indictment will be short, as some of the parties is not present to which
you have been allusive. But with respect of that there diwine person you
spoke of, I am sorry to remark, that he is uncommonly dead, and wont
never give no more lectures. He was so onfortnight as to bu'st a blood-vessel
at a pertracted meeting; and I han't hearn nothing onto him sence.
His motives was probable good; but in delivering on 'em, it struck me forcibly
that he proximoted to the sassy. However, I never reserves ill will,
not ag'inst nobody; and I authorize you to put this into printing, ef'so be
that you deem it useful. That's what Smith used to say, when he published
his self-nominations in the newspapers, that a man with a horn (they
tell me that he has a very large circle of kindred) used to ride post about
and distribit. `I have taken your new hat, but I leave you my eternal gratitude. `It becomes our painful but imperative and extraordinary duty, to promulgate
the facts of a disaster which reached us to-day, by the mail from
Thebes, via the perpendicular railroad. As a party were ascending, with
the locomotive playing a lively tune, assisted on the piana-forte by another
locomotive, that had been hired by Signor Goitini, preparatory to his first
concert in New-Babylon, some religious persons of the `United States' Established
Mormon Church,' insisted that the tune, being irreverent, should
be changed. This offensive tune was no less than the well known and
popular song, (supposed to have been written in England, previous to the
subjugation of that place by the Russians,) entitled `Proceed it, ye Crippled
Ones, Babylon's Nigh.' This complimentary course on the part of
the locomotive, and the gentlemanly engineer with whom it associates, was
hissed by the Mormons, until they were overcome by the encores of the
majority. The locomotive was of course embarrassed, but we understand,
continued to play. One of the Mormons, enraged beyond measure at this
circumstance, rushed forward through the door-ways of the train, and wantonly
turned the stop-cock of `What's become of Good Old Daniel?' one
of the slowest tunes of the day. The consequence was, that the train proceeded
with the greatest discord, because the latter tune was for the backtrack,
in descending the mountain. The result was, the cars were thrown
off the rails, down a precipice of nearly three hundred feet; but owing to
the exertions of Mr. Inclination Plain, first engineer, they were got
back by his Upward Impulse Screw, which has thus far answered admirably,
stopping cars in mid-air, if they run off a precipice, and returning them
safely, by means of the patent steam wind-bags, which extend beneath the
trains, and destroy their gravity. I met with a good article the other day in a native magazine,
on the subject of whiskers—a pilosus and prolific theme. Talking
of whiskers reminds me of cats. The transition is natural.
Feline quadrupeds are justly celebrated for their claims to admiration
in respect of whiskers. In the conformation of his mandibular
appendages, Nature has been generous with the cat. Not
only do they stand out from his face like the elongated mustaches
of old Shah Abbas of Persia, but there is within them a
sleepless spirit, a shrewd and far reaching sense, which puts to
shame the similar ornaments on the faces of bipeds of the genus homo. They, indeed, can make their whiskers look well, by
baptizing them with eau de Cologne, and Rowland's Macassar
Oil, or peradventure, the unctuous matter won from the `tried
reins' of defunct bears; but where is the intelligence, the discernment,
of their rivals? Then I release my dear soul from her promise about today.
If you do not see that all which he can claim by gratitude, I doubly
claim by love, I have done, forever. I would purchase my happiness at any
price but at the expense of yours. Look over my letters, think over my
conduct, consult your own heart, read these two long letters of your own
writing, which I return you. Then tell me whether we love or not. And
if we love (as witness both our hearts), shall gratitude, cold gratitude, bear
away the prize that's due to love like ours? Shall my right be acknowledged,
and he possess the casket? Shall I have your soul, and he your
hand, your lips, your eyes? Your two letters of the day before yesterday, and
what you said to me yesterday, have drove me mad. You know how such
tenderness distracts me. As to marrying me, that you should not do upon
any account. Shall the man I value, be pointed at and hooted for selling
himself to a lord for a commission? * * * My soul is above my situation.
Beside, I will not take advantage of what may be only, perhaps,
(excuse me), a youthful passion. After a more intimate acquaintance of
a week or ten days, your opinion of me might very much change. And
yet you may love me as sincerely as I— My Life and Soul! But I will never more use any
more preface of this sort, and I beg you will not. A correspondence begins
with dear, then my dear, dearest, my dearest, and so on, till, at last, panting
language toils after us in vain. Let me give you joy of having found such kind and
agreeable friends in a strange land. The account you gave me of the lady
quite charmed me. Neither am I without my friends. A lady from whom
I have received particular favors, is uncommonly kind to me. For the
credit of your side of the water, she is an Irish woman. Her agreeable
husband, by his beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this country.
He is remarkable also for his feelings. When this reaches you I shall be no
more, but do not let my unhappy fate distress you too much. I strove
against it as long as possible, but now it overpowers me. You know where
my affections were placed; my having by some means or other lost hers,
(an idea which I could not support,) has driven me to madness. God bless-you
, my dear F—. Would I had a sum of money to leave you to convince
you of my great regard! May Heaven protect my beloved woman,
and forgive the act which alone could relieve me from a world of misery I
have long endured! Oh! should it be in your power to do her any act of
friendship, I am alive, and she is dead. I shot her and
not myself. Some of her blood is still upon my clothes. I dont ask you
to speak to me. I don't ask you to look at me. Only come hither, and
bring me a little poison; such as is strong enough. Upon my knees I beg,
if your friendship for me ever was sincere, do, do bring me some poison!' If the murderer of Miss—wishes
to live, the man he has most injured will use all his interest to procure his
life.' `The murderer of her whom he preferred, far preferred, to life, suspects
the hand from which he has just received such an offer as he neither desires
nor deserves. His wishes are for death, not for life. One wish he has:
Could he be pardoned in this world by the man he has most injured! Oh
my lord, when I meet her in another world, enable me to tell her, (if departed
spirits are not ignorant of earthly things,) that you forgive us both,
and that you will be a father to her dear infants! I am gone to spend a fortnight, in a Christmas festival, with
some friends in Virginia. I enclose a regular division of our
joint funds. I have spoken to my uncle about our hotel bills
here, and he will fix them. It is all understood. You can stay
a fortnight if you like; though how you'll get back to Philadelphia,
after that, the Lord only knows. Perhaps you may accomplish
the transit without trouble: if so, I shall be, (as I was
last night, when I thought I knew you,) mistaken. We do not know each other well, for we have been
thwarted by the presence of untoward circumstances; but surely, my dear,
my only John, the language of my eyes must have convinced you that
since we first met, my heart has been wholly yours. Come to-morrow
evening at eight, and in a walk of a few moments, I will convince you, if
words can do it, of the unalterable affection of your devoted | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 19 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Home as Found | | | | 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: | When Mr. Effingham determined to return home,
he sent orders to his agent to prepare his town-house
in New-York for his reception, intending to pass a
month or two in it, then to repair to Washington for a
few weeks, at the close of its season, and to visit his
country residence when the spring should fairly open.
Accordingly, Eve now found herself at the head
of one of the largest establishments, in the largest
American town, within an hour after she had landed
from the ship. Fortunately for her, however, her father
was too just to consider a wife, or a daughter, a mere
upper servant, and he rightly judged that a liberal portion
of his income should be assigned to the procuring
of that higher quality of domestic service, which can
alone relieve the mistress of a household from a burthen
so heavy to be borne. Unlike so many of those around
him, who would spend on a single pretending and comfortless
entertainment, in which the ostentatious folly
of one contended with the ostentatious folly of another,
a sum that, properly directed, would introduce order
and system into a family for a twelvemonth, by commanding
the time and knowledge of those whose study
they had been, and who would be willing to devote
themselves to such objects, and then permit their wives
and daughters to return to the drudgery to which the
sex seems doomed in this country, he first bethought
him of the wants of social life before he aspired to its
parade. A man of the world, Mr. Effingham possessed
the requisite knowledge, and a man of justice,
the requisite fairness, to permit those who depended on
him so much for their happiness, to share equitably in
the good things that Providence had so liberally bestowed
on himself. In other words, he made two people
comfortable, by paying a generous price for a
housekeeper; his daughter, in the first place, by releasing
her from cares that, necessarily, formed no
more a part of her duties than it would be a part of
her duty to sweep the pavement before the door; and,
in the next place, a very respectable woman who was
glad to obtain so good a home on so easy terms. To
this simple and just expedient, Eve was indebted for
being at the head of one of the quietest, most truly
elegant, and best ordered establishments in America,
with no other demands on her time than that which
was necessary to issue a few orders in the morning,
and to examine a few accounts once a week. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 20 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Home as Found | | | | 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: | Though the affair of the Point continued to agitate
the village of Templeton next day, and for many days,
it was little remembered in the Wigwam. Confident
of his right, Mr. Effingham, though naturally indignant
at the abuse of his long liberality, through which
alone the public had been permitted to frequent the
place, and this too, quite often, to his own discomfort
and disappointment, had dismissed the subject temporarily
from his mind, and was already engaged in his
ordinary pursuits. Not so, however, with Mr. Bragg.
Agreeably to promise, he had attended the meeting;
and now he seemed to regulate all his movements by
a sort of mysterious self-importance, as if the repository
of some secret of unusual consequence. No one
regarded his manner, however; for Aristabulus, and
his secrets, and opinions, were all of too little value,
in the eyes of most of the party, to attract peculiar
attention. He found a sympathetic listener in Mr.
Dodge, happily; that person having been invited,
through the courtesy of Mr. Effingham, to pass the
day with those in whose company, though very unwillingly
on the editor's part certainly, he had gone
through so many dangerous trials. These two, then,
soon became intimate, and to have seen their shrugs,
significant whisperings, and frequent conferences in
corners, one who did not know them, might have fancied
their shoulders burthened with the weight of the
state. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
|
