| | 41 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Mary Hollis  | | | | 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: | Many persons, in the village of ———, in Massachusetts,
remember Mary Lowe, a diligent, ingenious
little girl of a respectable family, who was left an orphan
when quite young, with a very slender provision,
which her guardians wisely expended, in obtaining for
her a decent education and the tayloring trade. She
went from house to house, eating her bread in singleness
of heart. She was approved by the elderly and
judicious, for her prudent, industrious, and quiet ways;
and she made herself the delight of all the children, by
her obliging disposition and good humour. The little
boys said, “Mary would always put pockets in their
clothes;” and the older boys, who longed to be emancipated
from the indignity of having their clothes made
by a woman-taylor, were still conciliated by Mary's
gentle manners, and a little, too, by the smart look
which she contrived to give to their apparel. I think
I can see her now bending over her goose, and as it
heavily trod the seams, singing some playful song to
the little group around her; and smiling and blushing
as she caught the approving glances of the elders of
the family. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 42 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Redwood | | | | 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: | On the last day of June, in the
year —, a small vessel, which traversed
weekly the waters of Lake Champlain,
was seen slowly entering one of the
most beautiful bays of that most beautiful
lake. A travelling carriage with
handsome equipments, a coachman in
livery and an outrider, were drawn up
on the shore, awaiting the approach of
the vessel. On the deck stood a group
of travellers for whom the equipage
was destined: a beautiful young woman,
and her attendant, a female slave, were
surveying it with pleased and equal
eagerness, while the father of the young
lady seemed quite absorbed in the contemplation
of a scene which poetry and
painting have marked for their own.
Not a breeze stirred the waters; their
mirror surface was quite unbroken, save
where the little vessel traced its dimpled
pathway. A cluster of islands lay in
beautiful fraternity opposite the harbour,
covered with a rich growth of wood,
and looking young, and fresh, and
bright, as if they had just sprung from
the element on which they seemed to
repose. The western shore presented
every variety of form; wooded headlands
jutting boldly into the lake, and
richly cultivated grounds sloping gently
to its margin. As the traveller's delighted
eye explored still farther, it
B 2
rested on the mountains that rise in four
successive chains, one above the other,
the last in the far distance dimly defining
and bounding the horizon. A cloud
at this moment veiled the face of the
sun, and its rich beams streamed aslant
upon the mountain tops, and poured
showers of gold and purple light into
the deep recesses of the valleys. Mr.
Redwood, a true admirer of nature's
lovely forms, turned his unsated gaze to
the village they were approaching,
which was indicated by a neat church
spire that peered over the hill, on the
height and declivities of which were
planted several new and neat habitations.
“Oh Caroline, my child,” exclaimed
the father, “was there ever
any thing more beautiful!” “Some months have elapsed, dear
Alsop, since we parted, and parted with
a truly juvenile promise to keep up
an unremitting epistolary intercourse.
And this I believe is the first essay made
by either of us; a fair illustration of the
common proportion which performance
bears to such promises. You, no doubt,
have been roving from pleasure to pleasure,
with an untiring impulse, and your
appetite, like the horse-leech, has still
cried, `give, give.' If one of your
vagrant thoughts has strayed after me,
you have doubtless fancied me immured
in my study, pursuing my free inquiries,
abandoning the fallen systems of vulgar
invention, and soaring far over the
misty atmosphere of imposture and credulity.
Or, perhaps, you deem that I
have adopted your sapient advice, have
returned to my home a dutiful child,
gracefully worn the chains of filial obedience,
made my best bow to papa, and
with a, `just as you please, Sir,' fallen,
secundum artem, desperately in love
with my beautiful, and beautifully rich
cousin; have rather taken than asked
her willing hand, and thus opened for
myself the path of ambition, or the
golden gates that lead to the regions of
pleasure, and which none but fortune's
hand can open, But, alas! the most
reasonable hopes are disappointed by
our fantastic destiny. We are the sport
of chance; and as we confess no other
deity, you are bound not to deride any
of the whimsical dilemmas into which
his votaries are led. Alsop, you have
often commended the boldness of my
mind, while you laughed at a certain
involuntary homage I paid to the beautiful
pictures of goodness, which some
dreaming enthusiasts have presented to
us, or to the moral beauty which among
all the varieties of accidental combination,
is sometimes exhibited in real
life. “I am grateful for your interest, and
convinced by your arguments that I
ought no longer to doze away my brief
existence in this retirement. I have obtained
my father's consent to the arrangement
you propose; and what is still
more indispensable, an ample supply in
consideration of a promise I have given
to him, that I will solicit the hand of my
cousin immediately after my return. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 43 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Redwood | | | | 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: | Those only who have observed the
magical effect produced upon a young
lady by the presence of a candidate for
her favour, whom she deems it worth
her efforts to obtain or retain, can have
an adequate notion of the change wrought
on Caroline Redwood since the arrival
of the Westalls. Instead of the listless,
sullen girl, who yawned away her days
in discontent or apathy, she became spirited,
active, and good-humoured. Even
her interest in the concerns of Ellen
Bruce, and her suspicions of that artless
girl's designs, were suspended in the
ardour of her present pursuit, and she
seemed to think of nothing and to care
for nothing but how she should secure
the triumph of her vanity. Every one
noticed the change; (excepting Ellen,
who had of late almost wholly withdrawn
from the family circle) indeed, it
was so manifest that Miss Deborah, who
had taken a decided dislike to Caroline,
and who was rather remarkable for the
inveteracy of her opinions, was heard to
say, that “since the girl's sweetheart
had come, she was as bright as a September
day after the fog was lifted; but
for her part she liked to see people have
sunshine within them like Ellen.” This
declaration was made by Miss Debby in
an imprudently loud tone of voice, as
she stood at a window gazing on Mr.
Redwood's carriage that had been ordered
for an afternoon's drive. Mr. Redwood,
Caroline, and Mrs. Westall were
B 2
already in the carriage, and Charles
Westall had returned to the parlour in
quest of some article Mr. Redwood had
forgotten; while he was looking for it,
Deborah's comment fell on his ear, and
probably gave a new direction to his
thoughts, for during the ride Caroline
rallied him on his extraordinary pensiveness;
and finally perceiving that his
gravity resisted all her efforts to dissipate
it, she proposed that if he had not lost
the use of his limbs as well as of his
tongue, he should alight from the carriage
with her and walk to a cottage, to
which they perceived a direct path
through a field, while the carriage approached
by the high road which ran
along the lake shore and was circuitous.
Westall assented rather with politeness
than eagerness; but when he was alone
with Caroline, when she roused all her
powers to charm him, he yielded to the
influence of her beauty and her vivacity.
Never had she appeared so engaging—
never so beautiful—the afternoon was
delicious—their path ran along the skirts
of an enchanting wood—its soft shadows
fell over them, the birds poured forth
their melody; and, in short, all nature
conspired to stimulate the lover's imagination
and to quicken his sensibility.
Charles forgot the sage resolutions he
had made to withhold his declaration till
he had satisfied certain doubts that had
sometimes obtruded on him, that all in
Caroline was not as fair and lovely as it
seemed; he forgot Miss Deborah's hint
—forgot every thing but the power and
the presence of his beautiful companion,
and only hesitated for language to express
what his eyes had already told her.
At this moment both his and Miss Redwood's
attention was withdrawn from
themselves to a little girl who appeared
at the door of the cottage, from which
they were now not many yards distant.
On perceiving them she bounded over
the door step, then stopped, put up her
hand to shade her eyes from the sun,
and gazed fixedly on them for a moment,
then again sprang forward, again stopped,
covered her eyes with both her
hands, threw herself at full length on the
grass, laid her ear to the ground and
seemed for a moment to listen intently;
she then rose, put her apron to her eyes
and appeared to be weeping, while she
retraced her way languidly to the cottage.
Caroline and Westall, moved by
the same impulse, quickened their pace,
and in a few moments reached the cottage
door, to which a woman had been
attracted by the sobs of the child, and
was expostulating with her in an earnest
tone. “God help us, Peggy, you'll just
ruin all if you go on in this way;” she
paused on perceiving that the child had
attracted the attention of the strangers;
and in reply to Westall's asking what
ailed the little girl, she said, “it's just
her simplicity, Sir; but if you and the
lady will condescend to walk into my
poor place here, I will tell you all about
it, or Peggy shall tell it herself, for when
she gets upon it her tongue runs faster
than mine: but bless me, here comes a
grand coach—look up, Peggy, you never
saw a real coach in your life.” Peggy
now let fall the apron with which she
had covered her face—a face if not
beautiful, full of feeling and intelligence.
She seemed instantly to forget her affliction,
whatever it was, in the pleasure of
gazing on the spectacle of the real coach.
“Ah, aunt Betty,” she exclaimed, “it
is the grand sick gentleman that is staying
at Mr. Lenox's.” The carriage drew
up to the door, and Mrs. Westall and
Mr. Redwood, attracted by the uncommonly
neat appearance of the cottage,
alighted and followed Caroline and
Charles, who had already entered it.
The good woman, middle-aged and of a
cheerful countenance, was delighted with
the honour conferred on her, bustled
around to furnish seats for her guests—
shook up the cushion of a rocking chair
for Mr. Redwood, and made a thousand
apologies for the confusion and dirt of
her house, which had the usual if not the
intended effect of calling forth abundance
of compliments on its perfect order
and neatness. “And now, Peggy,” she
said, as soon as they were all quietly
seated, “take the pitcher and bring some
cold water from the spring, that's what
the poor have, thank God, as good as
the rich, and it is all we have to offer.”
The little girl obeyed, and as soon as she
was out of hearing, the woman turned to
Westall. “It was your wish, Sir, to
know what ailed the child; the poor
thing has just got the use of her eyesight,
and she has been expecting some
one that she loves better than all the
world; and when she saw this young
lady with you, she thought it was her
friend—though to be sure she is shorter
than this lady; but then Peggy, poor
thing, does not see quite right yet, and
then when she is puzzled she just lies
down to the ground as you saw her, for
that was her way to listen, and she knows
Miss Ellen's step, for as light as it is,
when my poor ear can't hear a sound.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 44 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Redwood | | | | 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 fine afternoon in the month
of August when our travellers passed
the romantic road which traverses the
mountain that forms the eastern boundary
of the valley of Hancock. The
varied pleasures they had enjoyed during
the day, and the excitement of drawing
near to the object of their long journey,
animated them both with unusual spirits.
Deborah's tongue was voluble in praise
of the rich farms that spread out on the
declivities of the hills, or embosomed in
the protected vallies, called forth, as
they deserved, the enthusiastic commendations
of our experienced rustic. Ellen
listened in silence while she gazed with
the eye of an amateur upon this beautiful
country, which possesses all the elements
of the picturesque. Green hills
crowned with flourishing villages—village
spires rising just where they should
rise; for the scene is nature's temple, and
the altar should be there—lakes sparkling
like gems in the distant vallies—Saddle
mountain lifting his broad shoulders to
the northern sky, and the Catskills defining
with their blue and misty outline
the western horizon. “I guess you will be surprised to see
my pot-hooks and trammels, and puzzled
enough you will be to read them;
but I could not let so good an opportunity
pass without letting you know that
the Lord has spared our lives to this date,
and that all your friends at Eton are
well, except the minister, who enjoys
a poor state of health. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 45 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The Travellers | | | | 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 the month of June, (the jubilee month
of poets and travellers) in the year eighteen
hundred and eighteen, Mr. Sackville,
his wife, and their two children, Edward
and Julia, made the grand tour of Niagara,
the lakes, Montreal, Quebec, &c. Both
parents and children kept journals, in
which they recorded with fidelity whatever
they observed which they deemed worthy
of note. We have been favored with the
perusal of them all, and have been permitted
to make a few extracts from them, which
we intend to combine into a brief narrative,
that we are sure will amuse our young
readers, provided their delicate essence
does not escape our unskilful hands. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 47 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Clarence, Or, a Tale of Our Own Times | | | | 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 one of the brightest and most beautiful
days of February. Winter had graciously yielded
to the melting influence of the soft breezes
from the Indian's paradise—the sweet southwest.
The atmosphere was a pure transparency, a perfect
ether; and Broadway, the thronged thoroughfare
through which the full tide of human existence
pours, the pride of the metropolis of our western
world, presented its gayest and most brilliant aspect. “My dear Madam—A severe pressure of pub
“lic business (private concerns I should have put
“aside) has prevented my expressing in person, the
“deep sympathy I feel in your late bereavement.
“The loss of a husband, and such a husband is
“indeed a calamity; but we must all bow to the
“dispensations of an all-wise Providence. “Tell me, my dear friend, if you love the coun
“try, (to borrow your legal phrase,) per se? Here
“I am surrounded by magnificent scenery, in the
“midst of `bowery summer,' in the month of flowers,
“and singing-birds, the leafy month of June, and
“yet I am sighing for New York. It is Madame
“de Staël, I think, who says that `love and religion
“only can enable us to enjoy nature.' The first,
“alas! alas! is (for is read ought to be,) passé to
“me; and the last I have exclusively associated with
“the sick-chamber and other forms of gloom and
“misery. “My dear Madam—It is I believe canonical to
“answer first the conclusion of a lady's letter. My
“reply to your queries about the Clarences will ac
“count for Mr. C.'s interest in me, without involv
“ing any reason so flattering as that you have sug
“gested. My uncle, Gerald Roscoe, was one of
“that unlucky brotherhood that have fallen under
“your lash, and so far from being a `dropped link,
“not missed, and soon forgotten,' he had that
“warmth and susceptibility of heart, that activity
“and benevolence of disposition, that strengthen
“and brighten the chain that binds man to man,
“and earth to heaven. Blessed be his memory!
“I never see an old bachelor that my heart does
“not warm to him for his sake. But to my story.
“My uncle—a Howard in his charities—(you
“touched a nerve, my dear Mrs. Layton, when
“you satarised old bachelors)—my uncle, on a
“visit to our city alms-house, espied a little boy,
“who, to use his own phrase, had a certain some
“thing about him that took his heart. This certain
“something, by the way, he saw in whoever needed
“his kindness. The boy too, at the first glance
“was attracted to my uncle. Children are the
“keenest physiognomists—never at fault in their first
“loves. It suddenly occurred to my uncle, that an
“errand-boy was indispensable to him. The child
“was removed to my grandfather's, and soon made
“such rapid advances in his patron's affections that
“he sent him to the best schools in the city, and
“promoted him to the parlor, where, universal
“sufferance being the rule of my grandfather's
“house, he was soon as firmly established as if he
“had equal rights with the children of the family.
“This child was then, as you probably know,
“called Charles Carroll. He was just graduated
“with the first honors of Columbia College, when,
“within a few days of each other, my grandfather
“and uncle died, and the house of Roscoe & Son
“proved to be insolvent. Young Carroll, of course,
“was cast on his own energies. He would have
“preferred the profession of law, but he had fallen
“desperately in love with a Miss Lynford, who
“lived in dependence in her uncle's family. He
“could not brook the humiliations which, I suspect,
“he felt more keenly than the subject of them,
“and he married, and was compelled, by the actual
“necessities of existence, to renounce distant ad
“vantages for the humble but certain gains of a
“clerkship. These particulars I had from my mo
“ther. You may not have heard that at the moment
“of his accession of property he suffered a calamity
“in the death of an only son, which deprived
“him of all relish, almost of all consciousness, of
“his prosperity. He would gladly have filled
“the boy's yawning grave with the wealth which
“seemed to fall into his hands at that moment, to
“mock him with its impotence. The boy was a
“rare gem. I knew him and loved him, and hap
“pened to witness his death; and being then at the
“impressible season of life, it sunk deeply into
“my heart. It was a sudden, and for a long time,
“a total eclipse to the poor father. The shock
“was aggravated by a bitter self-reproach, for
“having, in his engrossing anxiety for the result of
“his pending lawsuit, neglected the child's malady
“while it was yet curable. “On looking over your letter a second time, my
“dear Mrs. Layton, I find there is enough of it
“unanswered to give me a pretence for addressing
“you again; and as I know no more agreeable
“employment of one of my many leisure hours
“than communicating with you, I will contrast
“your picture of the miseries of rustic hospitality
“and rustic habits, with the trials of a poor devil,
“condemned to the vulgarity and necessity of drag
“ging through the summer months in town. We
all look at our present, petty vexations, through
“the magnifying end of the glass, and then turning
“our instrument, give to the condition of others, the
“softness and enchantment of distance. “Madam—I enclose you a remittance, according
“to the conjugal request you did me the honor to
“transmit through Gerald Roscoe, Esq.; and at the
“same time, I take the liberty to forewarn you, that
“unless you second—energetically second, my
“views and wishes in the — affair, I shall lose
“the ability, as I have long ago lost the inclination,
“to answer the demands arising from your habits of
“reckless expense. I expect you to be at Trenton
“by the first of next month. Pedrillo will follow
“you there; and there, or at Utica (he leaves all
“minor points to her decision) he expects to re
“ceive Emilie's hand. He loves Emilie—upon
“my soul I believe de does—devotedly. “It is with inexpressible sorrow, my sweetest
“friend, that I am compelled to bid you adieu with
“out again seeing you. We take our departure
“early in the morning. Poor Em' is quite heart“broken
about it. We are both under the tyranny
“of destiny. I resign all to the despot, save my
“affections; and of those, you, dearest, have taken
“complete possession. It is not because you are
“a heroine of the nineteenth century; that is, prac
“tical, rational, dutiful, and all the tedious et ceteras
“that I admire you. No, these are qualities that, like
“bread and water, are the gross elements of every
“day life, but they have nothing to do with that
“fine accord of finely touched spirits that common
“minds can no more attain than common senses can
“take in the music of the spheres. There is no
“describing it, but we understand it; do we not?
“Dear Gertrude, you must be my friend, you must
“love me; you will have much to forgive in me. I
“am a wayward creature. Oh, heavens! how infe
“rior to you! but there have been crosses in my
“destiny. Had I known you sooner, your bland
“influence would have given a different color to
“my life. You understand me. I disdain the
“Procrustes standard of pattern ladies who admit
“none to the heaven of their favor, but those
“who can walk on a mathematical line, like that
“along which a Mahometan passes to his paradise. “My dear Miss Clarence—I have forborne to
“disturb your repose after your perilous adventure,
“to announce our abrupt departure. Accident in
“troduced you into our family cabinet, and as you
“are apprised of its secrets, you will not wonder at
“poor Randolph's feelings, in consequence of the
“disclosures of to-day. My heart pleads for Emi
“lie, but my reason tells me, that it is wisest,
“discretest, best, to shun any farther intercourse
“with so beautiful a creature, who is so careless of
“obligations and consequences. Depend on it,
“Miss Clarence, I am right in my opinion of the
“mother; and though I grieve to say it, poor Emi
“lie has bad blood in her veins. I am sustaining
“the part of a rigid moralist with Randolph, while
“my womanish heart is melting within me. I can
“not regard the sweet girl in any other light, than
“as a victim—the faults of seventeen are not deli
“berate—but I talk as sternly to Randolph, as if I
“were Junius Brutus. In compliance with a kind
“invitation from your father, we have promised to
“visit Clarenceville, on our return from Niagara. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 48 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Clarence, Or, a Tale of Our Own Times | | | | 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: | Pedrillo's detention at Trenton was protracted
day after day, and week after week. His inflammatory
constitution, and impatient temper, acted reciprocally
upon each other ; and a wound, that
with a tranquil temperament would, by the process
of nature, have been cured in a week, produced a
suffering and languishing sickness. So surely and
dreadfully are physical evils aggravated by moral
causes, that those who would enjoy a sound body,
should cherish a sound mind. “Sir,—As duelling is, in my estimation, a viola
“tion of the immutable law of God, and can never
“be a reparation, or an atonement for an injury, I
“should in every supposable case avoid giving, and
“decline receiving, the `satisfaction of a gentleman,'
“in the technical acceptation of that phrase. Any
“other mode of satisfaction which a just and honor
“able man may give or require, for real or fancied
“injuries, I am ready to afford you, and shall de
“mand from you. “My dear friend—It is almost cruel of you to
“enforce your kind invitation with such glowing
“pictures of the variety and excitement of a winter
“in New York, and quite barbarous to ask me if I
“do not begin to feel the ennui of country life, when
“I am obliged to confess that I do. Since my return
“from Trenton, I have felt a craving that `country“contentments'
do not satisfy. I used to go round
“and round in the same circle, and experience nei
“ther satiety nor deficiency. I read and study as
“usual with my father, but the spirit is gone. I
“used to find amusement in the occasional visits of
“our simple village friends, and could, without
“effort, manifest the expected interest in the suc
“cess of an application for a new bank, or turn
“pike-road, or the formation of a new `society.'
“I could listen with becoming attention to Col.
“Norton's stories of the revolution, though I knew
“them all by heart—to good old Mrs. Wyman's
“graphic details of her anomalous diseases, and
“even to your friend Mrs. Upton's domestic chro
“nicles. I have ridden half a dozen miles to find
“out whether our pretty little busy bee, Sally Ellis,
“or her bouncing notable rival obtained the pre
“mium for the best flannel at the fair, and—dare I
“confess it to you, Mrs. Layton?—I have been as
“eager to know which of our rustic friends re
“ceived the premiums of the Agricultural Society
“—premiums for rich crops and fat bullocks—as if
“they were the crowns decreed in Olympian games.
“But, alas! it is all over now—these things move
“me no longer. I have not opened my piano since
“the Marions left us, and my drawing, my former
“delight, I have abandoned. It is too indissolubly
“associated with the sad memory of Louis Seton.
“If you love me, my dear Mrs. Layton, spare me
“any farther raillery on this subject—I cannot
“bear it. I have known nothing in my short life,
“so painful as being the accidental cause of suffer
“ing to a mind, pure, elevated, and susceptible as
“Louis Seton's, and certainly nothing so perplex
“ing to my faith, as that such a mind should be
“doomed to misery! My father, who is my ora
“cle in all dark matters, says these are mysteries of
“which we must quietly await the solution—that we
“are here as travellers in a strange and misty
“country, where objects are seen obscurely, and
“their relations and dependencies are quite hidden.
“But we are safe while we fix the eye of faith on
“the goodness of Providence—His perfect, illimit
“able, and immutable goodness. This is the bea
“con-light—the central truth of the moral universe.
“I am announcing high speculations in a very
“metaphysical sort of a way; but I am as the
“humble cottager who receives through her narrow
“window a few rays of light—few, but sufficient to
“brighten her small sphere of duty, and to preserve
“her from either faltering or fear. “My dear Madam—I have just received a letter
“from Mr. Clarence, who was a particular friend
“of my father.” Ha! ha! Gertrude, love plays
strange things with chronology—Morley is full five
and forty, which I take to be half a lustre in advance
of your father; but allons! “He recommends a
“friend of his, Mr. Randolph Marion, for the office
“of—, and says, what may be true though flatter
“ing, that my influence will decide who shall
“be the successful candidate. Nothing in life
“would give me greater pleasure than to oblige Mr.
“Clarence, but I am unfortunately in a degree
“committed to a very zealous and useful member of
“our party. If however your fair friend, Miss C.
“is interested in Marion, (I do not mean en amante,
“for I understand there is no interest of a delicate
“nature in question,) I shall make every effort and
“sacrifice to oblige her. Will you assure her of
“this, after ascertaining her wishes in the most re
“cherchée manner imaginable. Your sex are born
“diplomatists. Oh that you, my dear Madam,
“would vouchsafe to be my minister plenipoten“tiary
`dans les affaires du cœur!' “Respected lady: `If a man would thrive, he
“should wive,' therefore, as agent, and acting for
“my son, (John Smith,) I have the satisfaction of
“proposing an alliance (matrimonial) between you
“and him, (that is, my son.) He is a remarkable
“genteel young man in a drawing-room, (John is)
“—quite up to any thing, but as that is where you
“have seen him, (chiefly,) I shall say no more
“about it, only observing that my son (John) always
“goes for the first, (he can afford it,) i. e. Wheeler's
“coats—Whitmarsh's pantaloons—Byrne's boots—
“&c. &c.—which is, (I take it,) the reason he has
“made you, valued lady, his choice; you being
“the first match in the city (at present). John
“(my son) has been a healthy lad from the egg,
“and cleanly, (his mother says,) thorough cleanly.
“A touch of the intermittent, that he is taken down
“with, (this evening,) makes nothing against it (i. e.
“against his constitution). As I have found pro
“crastination (in all kinds of business) a bad thing,
“and to strike while the iron's hot, a safe rule
“(without exceptions), and as the doctor says my
“son (John) may be down for a week, I concluded
“(knowing his mind) not to delay, for fear of acci
“dents. As I have not writ a love-letter since I
“married my wife, I hope you will, ma'am, excuse
“all mistakes and deficiencies. As soon as I re
“ceive a punctual answer, (to the above,) we will ar
“range all matters of business, (there I'm at home,)
“to your, and your honored father's wishes. (Er
“rors excepted,) your obedient servant to command,
“ma'am, “Dear girl—I hope you will not deem my ad
17*
“dress to you at this time premature. I assure you
“the sentiment that prompts my pen was begun in
“esteem, and has ripened into love. I declare to
“you upon my honor, Miss Clarence, that I have
“never seen a lady, whom my head and heart both
“so wholly approved as yourself; and I feel very
“sure that no change of circumstances, or fortune,
“could ever make any difference in my feelings, but
“that in all the vicissitudes of this sublunary scene,
“I should show you every attention which man
“owes to the weaker sex. “My dear child—I have just received your last
“two letters. I trust no evil will ensue from the de
“lay of the first. “My dear Pedrillo,—It is with infinite pain that
“I find myself compelled to announce to you, my
“daughter's unconquerable aversion to yield to
“your wishes, and her father's prayers and com
“mands. It is in vain to contend longer. I have
“done every thing that the warmest friendship and
“the deepest and most heartily acknowledged obli
“gations could exact from me. Her mother too has
“argued, pleaded, and remonstrated in vain. But,
Vol. II. 18
“console toi, mon ami, even Cæsar's fortunes yield
“ed to fate, and there are others as young and as
“fair as my ungrateful girl, who will be proud to
“give you both heart and hand. You are too
“much of a philosopher to repine because the wind
“blows north, when you would have it south—shift
“your sails, and make for another port. “My dear sister—Last Tuesday evening invest
“ed me with the right to address you by this en
“dearing name; but no rights can add to the gra
“titude and affection your Emilie has long borne
“to you. “My dear friend—You conclude your last letter
“with a request that I will write you a `womanish
“epistle, full of feminine details; such as, what
“house I live in, how it is furnished and garnished,
“whom I visit, &c. &c.' I have quoted the pas
“sage, that if I answer it à la lettre, you may re
“member that you called forth my egotism. Mr.
“Roscoe was so fortunate as to be able to repur
“chase his father's house, a fine old family mansion,
“not far from our beautiful battery, and command
“ing a view of our animated bay, which, if equalled,
“we the untravelled believe is not surpassed, by the
“happiest combinations of land and water on this
“fair earth. The house is somewhat old-fashioned,
“but we have given it the most modern and conve
“nient arrangement of which it was susceptible,
“without an entire and therefore, as we think, sacri
“legious alteration. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 50 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Tales and 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: | A calm observer who has scarcely lived half the
age of man, must look back with a smile at human
frailty, rather than with a harsher feeling upon the
subjects that have broken the world in which he has
lived, (be it a little or a great one,) into opposed and
contending parties. The stream for a while glides on
with an unbroken surface, a snag interposes, and the
waters divide, and fret, and foam around it till chance
or time sweep it away, when they again commingle,
and flow on in their natural unruffled union. This is
the common course of human passions. The subject
in dispute may be more or less dignified; the succession
to an empire, or to a few acres of sterile land;
the rival claims of candidates to the Presidency, or
competitors for a village clerkship; the choice of a
minister to England, or the minister of our parish; the
position of a capital city, or of an obscure meeting
house;[1]
[1]This fruitful subject of dispute has rent asunder many a village
society in New England.
the excellence of a Catalini, or of a rustic
master of psalmody; a dogma in religion or politics;
in short anything, to which, as with the shield in the
fable, there are two sides. “Dear Randolph—I thank you a thousand times and
so does C—, for the gold eagles. There never was
anything in the world so beautiful, I do'nt believe.
They are far before the grown up ladies. We shall
certainly wear them to meeting next Sabbath, and fix
them so every body in the world can see them, and not
let the bow of ribbon fall down over them, as Miss
Clarke did last Sabbath, cause she has got that old
democrat, Doctor Star, for a sweetheart; but I managed
her nicely, Randolph. In prayer time when she did
not dare move, I whirled round the bow so the eagle
stood up bravely, and flashed right in Doctor Star's
eyes. I did not care so very much about having an
eagle for myself, (though I do now since you have
given it to me,) but I thought it very important for
C— to wear the federal badge, because her father is
a senator in Congress. Father is almost as pleased as
we are. I see Clover coming and I must make haste;
poor old fellow! I heard his tread when it stormed so
awfully last night, and I got father to put him up in our
stable. Was not he proper good? It was after prayers,
too, and his wig was off and his knee buckles out. There,
they all go out of Deacon Garfield's to read Clover's
papers. Good by, dear, dear Randolph. “Honoured Sir—It is with no little grief of mind
and sadness of heart, that I am necessitated to be so
bould as to supplicate your honoured self, with the
honourable assembly of your General Court, to extend
your mercy and favour once again, to me, and my
children. Little did I dream, that I should have occasion
to petition in a matter of this nature; but so it
is, that through the divine providence and your benignity,
my sonn obtayned so much pity and mercy at
your hands, to enjoy the life of his mother. Now my
supplication to your honours is, to begg affectionately
the life of my dear wife. 'Tis true, I have not seen
her above this half yeare, and cannot tell how, in the
frame of her spirit, she was moved thus againe to run
so great a hazard to herself, and perplexity to me and
mine, and all her friends and wellwishers. “It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of the true
church, that confession of a sin is the first step towards
its expiation. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 51 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The Linwoods; Or, "sixty Years Since" in America | | | | 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: | Some two or three years before our revolutionary
war, just at the close of day, two girls were seen
entering Broadway through a wicket garden-gate,
in the rear of a stately mansion which fronted on
Broad-street, that being then the court-end of the
city—the residence of unquestioned aristocracy—
(sic transit gloria mundi!) whence royal favour
and European fashions were diffused through the
province of New-York. “You must love me, or you could not endure my
stupid letters—you that can write so delightfully
about nothing, and have so much to write about,
while I can tell nothing but what I see, and I see
so little! The outward world does not much interest
me. It is what I feel that I think of and
ponder over; but I know how you detest what you
call sentimental letters, so I try to avoid all such
subjects. Compared with you I am a child—two
years at our age makes a great difference—I am
really very childish for a girl almost fourteen, and
yet, and yet, Isabella, I sometimes seem to myself
to have gone so far beyond childhood, that I have
almost forgotten that careless, light-hearted feeling
I used to have. I do not think I ever was so light-hearted
as some children, and yet I was not
serious—at least, not in the right way. Many a
time, before I was ten years old, I have sat up in
my own little room till twelve o'clock Saturday
night, reading, and then slept for an hour and a
half through the whole sermon the next morning.
I do believe it is the natural depravity of my
heart. I never read over twice a piece of heathen
poetry that moves me but I can repeat it—and
yet, I never could get past `what is effectual calling?'
in the Westminster Catechism; and I always
was in disgrace on Saturday, when parson Wilson
came to the school to hear us recite it:—oh dear,
the sight of his wig and three-cornered hat petrified
me!” “I have been enjoying a very pretty little episode
in my college life, passing the vacation at
Westbrook, with your old friends the Lees. A
month in a dull little country town would once
have seemed to me penance enough for my worst
sin, but now it is heaven to get anywhere beyond
the sound of college bells—beyond the reach of
automaton tutors—periodical recitations—chapel
prayers, and college rules. —Never say another word to
me of what you hinted in your last letter: indeed,
I am too young; and besides, I never should feel
easy or happy again with Jasper, if I admitted
such a thought. I have had but one opinion since
our visit to Effie; not that I believed in her—at
least, not much; but I have always known who
was first in his thoughts—heart—opinion; and besides,
it would be folly in me, knowing his opinions
about rank, &c. Mother thinks him very proud,
and somewhat vain; and she begins not to be
pleased with his frequent visits to Westbrook. She
thinks—no, fears, or rather she imagines, that Jasper
and I—no, that Jasper or I—no, that I—
it is quite too foolish to write, Isabella—mother
does not realize what a wide world there is between
us. I might possibly, sometimes, think he loved
(this last word was carefully effaced, and cared
substituted) cared for me, if he did not know you. “Thanks, dear Isabella, for your delightful letter
by Jasper—no longer Jasper, I assure you to his
face, but Mr. Meredith—oh, I often wish the time
back when I was a child, and might call him Jasper,
and feel the freedom of a child. I wonder if
I should dare to call you Belle now, or even Isabella?
Jasper, since his last visit at home, tells me
so much of your being `the mirror of fashion—
the observed of all observers' (these are his own
words—drawing-room terms that were never heard
in Westbrook but from his lips), that I feel a sort of
fearful shrinking. It is not envy—I am too happy
now to envy anybody in the wide world. Eliot is
at home, and Jasper is passing a week here. Is it
not strange they should be so intimate, when they
differ so widely on political topics? I suppose it
is because Jasper does not care much about the
matter; but this indifference sometimes provokes
Eliot. Jasper is very intimate with Pitcairn and
Lord Percy; and Eliot thinks they have more influence
with him than the honour and interest of
his country. Oh, they talk it over for hours and
hours, and end, as men always do with their arguments,
just where they began. Jasper insists that
as long as the quarrel can be made up it is much
wisest to stand aloof, and not, `like mad boys, to
rush foremost into the first fray;' besides, he says
he is tied by a promise to his uncle that he will
have nothing to do with these agitating disputes
till his education is finished. Mother says (she
does not always judge Jasper kindly) that it is very
easy and prudent to bind your hands with a promise
when you do not choose to lift them. —The world seems turned
upside down since I began this letter—war (war,
what an appalling sound) has begun—blood has
been spilt, and our dear, dear Eliot—but I must
tell you first how it all was. Eliot and Jasper were
out shooting some miles from Cambridge, when, on
coming to the road, they perceived an unusual commotion—old
men and young, and even boys, all
armed, in wagons, on horseback, and on foot, were
coming from all points, and all hurrying onward in
one direction. On inquiring into the hurly-burly,
they were told that Colonel Smith had marched to
Concord to destroy the military stores there; and
that our people were gathering from all quarters to
oppose his return. Eliot immediately joined them,
Jasper did not; but, dear Isabella, I that know
you so well, know, whatever others may think, that
tories may be true and noble. There was a fight
at Lexington. Our brave men had the best of it.
Eliot was the first to bring us the news. With
a severe wound in his arm, he came ten miles that
we need not be alarmed by any reports, knowing,
as he told mother, that she was no Spartan mother,
to be indifferent whether her son came home with
his shield or on his shield. Miss Linwood to Bessie Lee. —A week—a stormy, miserable
week has passed since I wrote the above, and it
has ended in Herbert's leaving us, and dishonouring
his father's name by taking a commission in the
rebel service. Papa has of course had a horrible
fit of the gout. He says he has for ever cast
Herbert out of his affections. Ah! I am not skilled
in metaphysics, but I know that we have no power
whatever over our affections. Mamma takes it all
patiently, and chiefly sorroweth for that Herbert
has lost caste by joining the insurgents, whom she
thinks little better than so many Jack Cades. “You say, my dear madam, that you have
heard `certain reports about me, which you are not
willing to believe, and yet cannot utterly discredit.'
You say, also, `that though you should revolt with
horror from sanctioning your son in those liaisons
that are advised by Lord Chesterfield, and others
of your friends, yet you see no harm in' loverlike
attentions `to young persons in inferior stations;
they serve' you add, `to keep alive and cultivate
that delicate finesse so essential to the success
of a man of the world, and, provided they
have no immoral purpose, are quite innocent,' as the
object of them must know there is an `impassable
gulf between her and her superiors in rank, and
is therefore responsible for her mistakes.' I have
been thus particular in echoing your words, that I
may assure you my conduct is in conformity to
their letter and spirit. Tranquillize yourself, my
dear madam. There is nothing, in any little fooleries
I may be indulging in, to disquiet you for a
moment. The person in question is a divine little
creature—quite a prodigy for this part of the
world, where she lives in a seclusion almost equal to
that of Prospero's isle; so that your humble servant,
being scarce more than the `third man that e'er
she saw,' it would not be to marvel at `if he
should be the first that e'er she loved'—and if I am,
it is my destiny—my conscience is quite easy—
I never have committed myself, nor ever shall:
time and absence will soon dissipate her illusions.
She is an unaspiring little person, quite aware of
the gulf, as you call it, between us. She believes
that even if I were lover and hero enough to play
the Leander and swim it, my destiny is fixed on
the other side. I have no distrust of myself, and I
beg you will have none; I am saved from all responsibility
as to involving the happiness of this
lily of the valley, by her very clear-sighted mother,
7*
and her sage of a brother, her natural guardians. “I have arrived thus far, my dear mother, on
my journey; and, according to my promise, am
beginning the correspondence which is to soften
our separation. “My sweet sister Bessie, nothing has afflicted
me so much in leaving home as parting from you.
I am inclined to believe there can be no stronger
nor tenderer affection than that of brother and
sister; the sense of protection on one part, and
dependance on the other; the sweet recollections
of childhood; the unity of interest; and the communion
of memory and hope, blend their hearts
together into one existence. So it is with us—is
it not, my dear sister? With me, certainly; for
though, like most young men, I have had my
fancies, they have passed by like the summer
breeze, and left no trace of their passage. All the
love, liking (I cannot find a word to express the
essential volatility of the sentiment in my experience
of it) that I have ever felt for all my
favourites, brown and fair, does not amount to one
thousandth part of the immutable affection that I
bear you, my dear sister. I speak only of my
own experience, Bessie, and, as I well know,
against the faith of the world. I should be told
that my fraternal love would pale in the fires of
another passion, as does a lamp at the shining of
the sun; but I don't believe a word of it—do you,
Bessie? I am not, my dear sister, playing the
inquisitor with you, but fearfully and awkwardly
enough approaching a subject on which I thought
it would be easier to write than to speak; but I
find it cannot be easy to do that, in any mode,
which may pain you. —I arrived safely at
headquarters on the 22d. Colonel Ashley received
me with open arms. He applauded my
resolution to join the army, and bestowed his curses
liberally (as is his wont on whatever displeases him)
on the young men who linger at home, while the
gallant spirits of France and Poland are crossing
the ocean to volunteer in our cause. He rubbed
his hands exultingly when I told him that it was
your self-originating decision that I should leave
you. `The only son of your mother—that is, the
only one to speak of' (forgive him, Sam and Hal),
`and she a widow!' he exclaimed. `Let them talk
about their Spartan mothers, half men and demimonsters;
but look at our women-folks, as tender
and as timid of their broods as hens, and as bold
and self-sacrificing as martyrs! You come of a
good stock, my boy, and so I shall tell the gin'ral.
He's old Virginia, my lad; and looks well to blood
in man and horse.' —I write under the inspiration
of the agreeable consciousness that my letter may
pass under the sublime eye of your commander-in-chief,
or be scanned and sifted by his underlings.
I wish to Heaven that, without endangering your
bright orbs, I could infuse some retributive virtue
into my ink to strike them blind. But the deuse
take them. I defy their oversight. I am not discreet
enough to be trusted with military or political
secrets, and therefore, like Hotspur's Kate, I
can betray none. As to my own private affairs,
though I do not flatter myself I have attained a
moral eminence which I may challenge the world
to survey, yet I'll expose nothing to you, dear Belle,
whose opinion I care more for than that of king,
lords, and commons, which the whole world may
not know without your loving brother being dishonoured
thereby: so, on in my usual `streak o'
lightning style,' with facts and feelings. “No, no, my dear Belle, I cannot remove to the
city—it must not be; and I am sorry the question
is again mooted. `A woman, and naturally born
to fears,' I may be; but because I have that inconvenient
inheritance, I see no reason why I
should cherish and augment it. Your imagination,
which is rather an active agent, has magnified
the terrors of the times; and it seems just
now to be unduly excited by the monstrous tales
circulated in the city, of the atrocities the Yankees
have committed on the tories. I see in Rivington's
Gazette, which you wrapped around the
sugarplums that you sent the children (thank you),
various precious anecdotes of Yankee tigers and
tory lambs, forsooth! that are just about as true
as the tales of giants and ogres with which your
childhood was edified. The Yankees are a civilized
race, and never, God bless them! commit
gratuitous cruelties. If they still `see it to be
duty' (to quote their own Puritan phrase), they will
cling to this contest till they have driven the remnant
of your Israel, Belle, every tory and Englishman,
from the land; but they will commit no
episodical murders: it is only the ignorant man
that is unnecessarily cruel. They are an instructed,
kind-hearted, Christian people; and of this there
will be abundant proof while the present war is remembered.
Remember, Belle, these people have
unadulterated English blood in their veins, which
to you should be a prevailing argument in their favour;
and believe me, they have a fair portion of
the spirit of their freedom-loving and all-daring ancestors.
Our English mother, God bless her, too,
should have known better than to trammel, scold,
and try to whip her sons into obedience, when
they had come to man's estate, and were fit to
manage their own household. Thank Heaven, I
have outlived the prejudices against the people of
New-England which my father transmitted to his
children. `There they come,' he used to say,
when he saw these busy people driving into the
manor; `every snow brings them, and, d—n them,
every thaw too!' | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 52 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The Linwoods; Or, "sixty Years Since" in America | | | | 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 reasonable to suppose that the disclosures
which occurred in Sir Henry Clinton's library
would be immediately followed by their natural
sequences: that love declared by one party, and
betrayed by the other, would, according to the
common usages of society, soon issue in mutual
affiancing. But these were not the piping times
of peace, and the harmony of events was sadly
broken by the discords of the period. —I could have huged
you before we parted, I have been so pleased with
you from the beginin to the end of this biznes. I
felt for you in the loss of your hors, and I can't
bear the thots of your riden that sorry jade, that's
only been used to prouling about o' nights, on all
sorts of diviltry; so I've ordered Gurden to put
into your hands a likely oretur, that our fokes at
home has sent up to be sold to the ofisers in camp.
Take it, my boy, and don't feel beholden to me; for
when the war is at end, and it's conveneyent, we'll
settle for it. —I perceive by your letters of
the first, which, thanks to a kind Providence, have
duly come to hand, that it is now nearly three
months since you have heard from us. Much good
and much evil may befall in three months! Much
good have I truly to be grateful for: and chiefly
that your life and health have been thus precious
in the sight of the Lord, and that you have received
honour at the hand of man (of which our good Dr.
Wilson made suitable mention in his prayer last
Sabbath); and, as I humbly trust, approval from
Him who erreth not. “I have read your letters over and over again, till
they have fallen to pieces with the continual dropping
of my hot tears; but every syllable is imprinted
on my heart. You did not believe your
`sister would waste her sensibility, the precious
food of life, in moping melancholy.' Oh, Eliot,
how much better must I have appeared to you than
I was! I have been all my life a hypocrite. You
believed `my mind had a self-rectifying power,'
and I imposed this belief on you! I am ready,
now, to bow my head in the dust for it. `Love,'
said your letter, `can never be incurable when it is
a disease: that is to say, when its object is unworthy.'
Ah, my dear brother, there was your
fatal mistake. It was I that was unworthy—it
was your simple sister that, in her secret, unconfessed
thoughts, believed he loved her, knowing
all the while that his lot was cast with the high,
the gifted, the accomplished—with such as Isabella
Linwood, and not with one so humble in condition,
so little graced by art as I am. I do not blame
him. Heaven knows I do not. `Self-rectifying
power!' Eliot, talk to the reed, that has been uprooted
and borne away by the tides of the ocean,
of its `self-rectifying power!' ” Eliot's maliness was vanquished, and he wept
like a child over his sister's letter. He reproached
himself for having left home. He bitterly reproached
himself for not having foreseen the danger
of her long, exclusive, and confiding intercourse
with Meredith. He was almost maddened when
he thought of the perils to which she must have
been exposed, and of his utter inability to save her
from one of them. The only solacing thought that
occurred to him was the extreme improbability
that her fragile and exhausted frame could support
the fatigues she must encounter, and that even
now, while he wept over her letter (a fortnight had
elapsed since it was written), her gentle spirit
might have entered upon its eternal rest. —I have just chanced
to call at a poor blacksmith's, who, with his worthy
family, is at death's door with a protracted intermittent.
It seems to me that port, like that I
drank with you yesterday, might restore them.
As the man looks like too independent an American
to beg a favour, I have taken the liberty to give
him this order for a bottle or two, telling him, with
a poetic truth, that I had wine in your cellar. It is
your own fault if all your friends feel that they
have a property in your possessions. Adieu.” —Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in the service
of your king, has been taken in my camp as a
spy, condemned as a spy, and will be hung as a spy. “I have received your note, Jasper; I do not
reply to it hastily; hours of watchfulness and reflection
at the bedside of my friend have given the
maturity of years to my present feeling. I have
loved you, I confess it now; not by a treacherous
blush, but calmly, deliberately, in my own handwriting,
without faltering or emotion of any sort.
Yes, I have loved you, if a sentiment springing
from a most attachable nature, originating in the
accidental intercourse of childhood, fostered by
pride, nurtured by flattery, and exaggerated by an
excited imagination, can be called love. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 53 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Live and Let Live, Or, Domestic Service Illustrated | | | | 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 one of the coldest days felt in New-York,
during the winter of 182-, that a baker's cart made
its accustomed halt before a door in Church-street.
It was driven by Charles Lovett, the baker's son,
whose ruddy cheeks, quick movement, and beaming
eye bespoke health, industry, and a happy
temper. This latter attribute seemed somewhat
too severely tested by the tardiness of his customer,
for in vain had he whistled, clapped his
hands, stamped, and repeated his usual cry of
“Hurry! hurry!” He at last leaped from his cart
on to the broken step of the wretched dwelling,
when the upper half of the door was slowly opened,
and a thinly-clad girl appeared, who, in answer to
his prepared question, “Why, what ails you? are
you all asleep?” replied, “Mother does not wish
any bread this morning.” “After deliberating and advising with Mrs. Hyde,
who has been like the kindest of mothers to us,
we have come to a decision which only waits for
your approbation. The bakery is sold to Mr.
Werner, a German, who, when a stranger and quite
destitute, came to the Lovetts, as it seemed, accidentally.
Werner was honest and industrious; he
understood the business thoroughly, and introduced
some improvements. For the last two years he
has been a partner, and now he has bought out
Charles. His two sisters and their old parents
arrived a few weeks since, and a happier family
I never saw. How strange that such a train of
consequences should come from Werner just coming
in to breakfast with us one morning at Mr.
Lovett's. This is what Mrs. Hyde says we should
call providential. Our Father in heaven provides
the opportunity for doing good, and his faithful
children improve it. But to our own affairs: it is
not five years since Mr. Lovett went to Ohio, and
there are already four thousand inhabitants in the
village. The people, he says, are very anxious to
have the bakery going; the bakehouse is built on
the lot Mr. Lovett set off to Charles for his services
when he was apprentice to him. Our house
is nearly done, and large enough for us all. The
ladies in the village will have plenty of work for
the girls' millinery and dressmaking establishment,
and dear Jemmie will keep Charles's books, and
all of us will be in a way to earn an honourable
living; all but you, dear mother; the remainder of
your life must be rest. You shall be our queen-bee,
and we will be your workers. Mrs. Hyde wishes
you to consent to the wedding being here; she
says it will save time (as we must return here on
our way to Pittsburgh) and save the expense of
a journey to Massachusetts. Charles likes this
plan, and I want you to know our family before I
leave it. Mrs. Hyde says she will provide lodgings
for you all at a boarding-house near to us. Is
not this most kind? Oh, mother, you will like her so
much! She has such beautiful manners, not only
in the drawing-room and to ladies, but to all, down to
the man that sweeps off the flagging, and the poor
that beg at her door. She truly seems to see the
image of God in every human creature; it makes
people civil to speak to her; her manners inspire
them with self-respect. She never lowers herself,
but raises them. If some people looked as differently
as they act to those above and those below
them, they would sometimes appear like the “loathly
ladie” in the ballad. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 54 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The Boy of Mount Rhigi | | | | 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 is a certain portion of the Tahconnick range
of mountains, in the western part of Massachusetts,
called Rhigi, said to have been thus named by
Swiss emigrants who settled there, and who probably
came from the neighborhood of Mount Rhigi, in Switzerland,
one of the beautiful resorts of that most beautiful
land.[1]
[1]There are other similar traces of Swiss settlement in this
neighborhood. Bash Bish, the lovely fall now becoming known
and celebrated, is a corruption of a very common Swiss name of
their minor falls. The love of the father-land is expressed by
the names the emigrant gives to the land of his adoption. The
Pilgrim bestowed on the New England settlements the names
of his old England home — Norfolk, Suffolk, Boston, Northampton,
Stockbridge, &c., and the New Englander repeats
them in his new home in the far west.
“Firstly, I enclose the two dollars
you gave me for travelling expenses. I met
Mr. Lyman on board the steamboat, and he gave me
five dollars, which he said he owed me for my aid in
the drawings he made for the New York architect.
Fine! After the wet time of parting was over, I was
in luck. Mr. Porter would not take any thing for
bringing me to the boat, — thirty good miles, — because
I helped him pick up apples one day after Jesse Porter
broke his arm. I was pretty hungry; but hearing they
charged half a dollar for supper, I bought some
crackers and cheese before I went on board. So I
came to the city for fifty cents. Such bustle and
confusion as there was on the wharf where we landed!
I made my way through it as well as I could, and
inquired the way to Chambers Street, not far, No. —,
where Mrs. Dawson lives. I saw the windows were
all closed, and so I sat my box of clothes down, and
sat on it. I began to feel both lonesome and hungry;
nothing seemed like morning — the fresh, beautiful
morning of the country. The sun shining on
chimneys and brick walls, instead of hill-tops and
sparkling waters; not a solitary bird singing; not
even a cock crowing. After a while, milkmen began
to appear. There was a different one for almost every
house, and each made a horrid outcry; and, after
a while, a woman came out of a cellar, and took a
measure of milk. Though they live in great houses,
this seems poverty to me. By and by, there came a
lively little driver with baskets full of bread. I remembered
Dr. Franklin's account of his buying a loaf
of bread and eating it as he walked through the
streets of Philadelphia, when first he went there;
and, though I do not expect to eat bread in kings'
houses, as he afterwards did, I thought there would
be no harm in following his example; so I bought a
sixpenny loaf of bread, and, with a draught of milk
from a milkman, I made a good breakfast. You see,
mother, I am determined to make my money last, if
possible, till I can earn more, and not call on you or
trouble our kind friend Mrs. Dawson. As soon as
her blinds were opened, I rung. The man who opened
the door smiled when I asked for Mrs. Dawson, and
said she would rise in about two hours. How long
those two hours were! But when they were over,
and I was summoned to her, she was as kind as ever.
She told me she had procured for me an excellent
place in a retail shop in Broadway, where, if I did as
well as my employer expected from her account of
me, I should receive enough, even the first year, to
pay my board. Before going there, she advised me to
secure a boarding-place; she had made inquiries for
this, and gave me references, and off I set. I went
from one to another. At one there was a multitude
of clerks, and a coarse, slatternly housekeeper; at
another there was a set of low traders. I went in
while they were at dinner, and a very slight observation
13
of their vulgar manners and conversation convinced
me they were not associates that I should
relish or you would approve. The next was full,
and the last was too filthy for any thing. As I
came off the steps quite discouraged, there was a
little fat lady walking before me in a gray silk
gown, and a white shawl, looking as neat as a new
pin. Two dirty shavers of boys had filled a squirt-gun
in the gutter, and had taken aim at the lady's
nice gown. I sprang upon them just in time,
wrenched the squirt-gun from their hands, and sent
it off out of sight. They began kicking and bawling;
and she, turning round, learned the mischief
they had intended. She was very thankful to me,
very good natured, and talkative. She told me the
gown was new, just come home, and she had put it
on for a wedding-visit, — a visit to her niece's husband's
first cousin; it was her best gown, too; she
had heard of the boys playing such tricks; boys
would be boys, &c., &c. O, mother dear! her
tongue goes by machinery. (Not father's!) She had
such a friendly way, and did not seem a very great
lady, and asked me so many questions, — my name,
where I came from, &c., — that I thought I would tell
her what I was in search of. This silenced her
for a moment; then she said, “Come home with me,
and we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to Plenty,
— Plenty is my sister, — and perhaps — but I won't
raise expectations yet. We live in Mercer Street,
retired and central too.” “It seems to me, dear mother, that I have lived a
year in the last fortnight. On the very Monday that
I sent you an account of the upshot at Holson's, Mr.
Nevis obtained the promise of an excellent situation
for me with Messrs. James Bent & Co., where his
son, my friend, already is. Mr. Bent is respected as
a man of strict integrity, and every part of his establishment
is well conducted; and I am to have a salary
of $150. Only imagine how rich I shall be! `It
never rains, but it pours!' Coming out of Mr. Bent's,
who should I meet but Mr. Lyman! He has more
work on hand than he can do, — making plans and
drawings for the first architect in the city, — and he
wanted me to help him. Never was any thing more
opportune. The place I am to have at Mr. Bent's
will not be vacant till next month, and now I can be
earning something; and, to tell the truth, mother, I do
need a little fitting up for summer.” “Your present, my dear son, was very acceptable,
as a proof of your abiding and ever-thoughtful love;
but do not send me any thing more at present.
Keep your earnings for your summer's outfit. We
want for nothing. Thanks to a kind Providence, my
health is good, and Annie's. There is never lack
of work for willing hands; and our wants, except
for your afflicted father, are small. His cough is
severe, and he declines daily, so that the doctor says
he should not be surprised if he dropped away at
any minute. His appetite continues remarkably. I
might find it difficult to satisfy it, but our kind
neighbors send in daily of their best. We have
plenty of fresh. To-day, dear old Mrs. Allen sent a
quarter of a roaster, and your father ate nearly the
whole of it. You know he was always remarkably
fond of pig. Our neighbors never let him be out of
custards, pies, and preserves. You know, Harry, I
never liked to call on my neighbors for watchers in
sickness, and think that, in most cases, it's much
better doing without them; but father feels different.
He likes company, he says, when he is awake, and I
am no talker. He is able yet to engage his own
watchers. He borrows the sheriff's old horse, and
jogs round after them. I don't oppose, though I
sometimes fear he will die on the road; but it serves
to divert him. “My dear cousin, — I am proud to call you so, —
Harry Davis, your visit to me has done me, as I
humbly hope, great good. I had lived here ten years,
within a stone's throw of this jail, and never seen
the inside of it. I call myself a Christian. I am
a professor. I pray daily in my family for those
who are in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity,
and yet I have never, till you came here, lifted
one of my fingers to loosen these bonds. I pray that
missionaries, preaching the good news of salvation,
may be sent to the whole human family. I subscribe
to charitable societies, — and so I should, as God has
prospered me, — and yet I have not done the duty
nearest to me. If I had, or if my Christian neighbors
had, the scenes of filth, idleness, and iniquity in that
jail would never have existed to witness against us.
I have taken measures to have that rascally jailer
removed. They talk of a disinfecting fluid. There
should be a moral disinfection in the character of the
man who has the care of the tenants of a jail — morally
diseased creatures. It is now three months since
I have been with Mr. Bent; and, excepting
my poor father's death, life has been all smooth sailing
with me. You have been getting on so nicely!
Clapham Hale giving such complete satisfaction to
Mr. Norton, and you and Annie — as appears by
your last letter — surprised with his improved appearance
and manly bearing. Does he not seem like one
of us? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 55 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Martin Faber | | | | 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: | “This is a fearful precipice, but I dare
look upon it. What, indeed, may I not
dare—what have I not dared! I look before
me, and the prospect, to most men full
of terrors, has few or none for me. Without
adopting too greatly the spirit of cant
which makes it a familiar phrase in the
mouths of the many, death to me will prove
a release from many strifes and terrors. I do
not fear death. I look behind me, and though
I may regret my crimes, they give me no
compunctious apprehensions. They were
among the occurrences known to, and a necessary
sequence in the progress of time and
the world's circumstance. They might have
been committed by another as well as by myself.
They must have been committed! I
was but an instrument in the hands of a power
with which I could not contend. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 58 | Author: | Kirkland
Caroline M.
(Caroline Matilda)
1801-1864 | Add | | | Title: | Forest Life | | | | 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: | If any body may be excused for writing a book,
it is the dweller in the wilderness; and this must, I
think, be evident to all who give the matter a moment's
reflection. My neighbor, Mrs. Rower, says,
indeed, that there are books enough in the world,
and one too many; but it will never do to consult
the neighbors, since what is said of a prophet is
doubly true of an author. Indeed, it is of very
little use to consult any body. What is written
from impulse is generally the most readable, and
this fact is an encouragement to those who are conscious
of no particular qualification beyond a desire
to write. People write because they cannot help
it. The heart longs for sympathy, and when it
cannot be found close at hand, will seek it the
world over. We never tell our thoughts but with
the hope of an echo in the thoughts of others.
We set forth in the most attractive guise the treasures
of our fancy, because we hope to warm into
life imaginations like our own. If the desire for
sympathy could lie dormant for a time, there would
be no more new books, and we should find leisure
to read those already written. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 59 | Author: | Kirkland
Caroline M.
(Caroline Matilda)
1801-1864 | Add | | | Title: | Forest Life | | | | 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 year and a half had elapsed since the abstraction
of the grapes, and the skin had grown over
Seymour's knuckles, and also the bark over certain
letters which he had carved in very high places on
some of Mr. Hay's forest-trees; and, sympathetically
perhaps, a suitable covering over the wounds
made in his heart by the scornful eyes of the unconscious
Caroline. His figure had changed its
proportions, as if by a wire-drawing process, since
what it had gained in length was evidently subtracted
from its breadth. The potato redness of
his cheeks had subsided into a more presentable
complexion, and his teeth were whiter than ever,
while the yawns which used to exhibit them unseasonably
had given place to a tolerable flow of
conversation, scarcely tinctured by mauvaise honte.
In short, considering that he was endowed with a
good share of common sense, he was really a handsome
young man. Not but some moss was still
discoverable. It takes a good while to rub off
inborn rusticity, especially when there is much
force of character. The soft are more easily
moulded. Is it possible, my dear Williamson, that after your
experience of the world's utter hollowness—its
laborious pleasures and its heart-wringing disappointments—you
can still be surprised at my preference
of a country life? you, who have sounded to its
core the heart of fashionable society in the old
world and the new, tested the value of its friendship,
and found it less than nothing; sifted its
pretensions of every kind, and expressed a thousand
times your disgust at their falseness—you think it
absurd in me to venture upon so desperate a plan
as retirement? You consider me as a man who has
taken his last, worst step; and who will soon deserve
to be set aside by his friends as an irreclaimable
enthusiast. Perhaps you are right as to the folly
of the thing, but that remains to be proved; and
I shall at least take care that my error, if it be one,
shall not be irrevocable. * * * Since my last we have taken up our
abode in the wilderness in good earnest,—not in
“sober sadness,” as you think the phrase ought to
be shaped. There is, to be sure, an insignificant
village within two or three miles of us, but our
house is the only dwelling on our little clearing—
the immense trunks of trees, seemingly as old as
the creation, walling us in on every side. There
is an indescribable charm in this sort of solitary
possession. In Alexander Selkirk's case, I grant
that the idea of being “monarch of all I survey,”
with an impassable ocean around my narrow empire,
might suggest some inconvenient ideas. The
knowledge that the breathing and sentient world
is within a few minutes' walk, forms, it must be
owned, no unpleasant difference between our lot
and his. But with this knowledge, snugly in the
background, not obtrusive, but ready for use, comparative
solitude has charms, believe me. The
constant sighing of the wind through the forest
leaves; the wild and various noises of which we
have not yet learned to distinguish one from the
other—distinct yet softly mingled—clearly audible,
yet only loud enough to make us remark
more frequently the silence which they seem scarcely
to disturb, such masses of deep shade that even
in the sunny spots the light seems tinged with
green—these things fill the mind with images of
repose, of leisure, of freedom, of tranquil happiness,
untrammelled by pride and ceremony;—of unbounded
opportunity for reflection, with the richest
materials for the cultivation of our better nature. Why have I not written you a dozen letters
before this time? I can give you no decent or
rational apology. Perhaps, because I have had
too much leisure—perhaps too many things to
say. Something of this sort it certainly must be,
for I have none of the ordinary excuses to offer
for neglect of my dear correspondent. Think
any thing but that I love you less. This is the
very place in which to cherish loving memories.
But as to writing, this wild seclusion has so many
charms for me, this delicious summer weather so
many seductions, that my days glide away imperceptibly,
leaving scarcely a trace of any thing accomplished
during their flight. I rise in the morning
determined upon the most strenuous industry. I hoped to have been before this time so
deeply engaged with studs and siding, casings and
cornice, that letter-writing would have been out of
the question. But my lumber is at the saw-mill, and
all the horses in the neighborhood are too busy to
be spared for my service. I must have, of course,
horses of my own, but it is necessary first to build
a stable, so that I am at present dependent on
hiring them when necessary. This, I begin to
perceive, will cause unpleasant delays, since each
man keeps no more horses than he needs for his
own purposes. Here is a difficulty which recurs
at every turn, in the country. There is nothing like
a division of labor or capital. Every body tills the
ground, and, consequently, each must provide a
complete equipment of whatever is necessary for
his business, or lose the seasons when business
may be done to best advantage. At this season,
in particular, this difficulty is increased, because
the most important business of the year is crowded
into the space of a few months. Those who hire
extra help at no other period, now employ as much
as they are able to pay, which increases much the
usual scarcity of laborers. It is the time of year,
too, when people in new countries are apt to be attacked
by the train of ills arising from marsh miasmata,
and this again diminishes the supply of able
hands. I studied your last in the cool morning
hour which I often devote to a ramble over the
wooded hills which rise near our little cottage. I
seated myself on a fallen tree, in a spot where I might
have mused all day without seeing a human face,
or hearing any sound more suggestive of civilization
than the pretty tinkling of the numerous bells
which help to find our wandering cattle. What a
place in which to read a letter that seemed as if it
might have been written after a stupid party, or in
the agonies which attend a “spent ball.” (Vide T.
Hood.) Those are not your real sentiments, my
dear Kate; you do not believe life to be the scene
of ennui, suffering, or mere endurance, which you
persuaded yourself to think it just then. If I
thought you did, I should desire nothing so much
as to have your hand in mine for just such a ramble
and just such a lounge as gave me the opportunity
for reflecting on your letter; I am sure I could
make you own that life has its hours of calm and
unexciting, but high enjoyment. With your capabilities,
think whether there must not be something
amiss in a plan or habit of being that subjects
you to these seasons of depression and disgust.
Is that tone of chilling, I might say killing
ridicule, which prevails in certain circles, towards
every thing which does not approach a particular
arbitrary standard, a wholesome one for our
mental condition? I believe not; for I have never
known one who adopted it fully, who had not at
times a most uneasy consciousness that no one could
possibly be entirely secure from its stings. Then
there is a restless emulation, felt in a greater or less
degree by all who have thrown themselves on the
arena of fashionable life, which is, in my sober
view, the enemy of repose. I am not now attempting
to assign a cause for that particular fit of
the blues which gave such a dark coloring to the
beginning of your letter. I am only like the physician
who recalls to his patient's mind the atmospheric
influence that may have had an unfavorable
effect upon his symptoms. You will conclude I
must have determined to retort upon you in some
degree the scorn which you cannot help feeling for
the stupidity of a country life, by taking the first
opportunity to hint that there are some evils from
which the dweller in the wilds is exempt. On the
other hand, I admit that in solitude we are apt to
become mere theorists, or dreamers, if you will.
Ideal excellence is very cheap; theory and sentiment
may be wrought up to great accuracy and perfection;
and it is an easy error to content ourselves
with these, without seeking to ascertain whether we
are capable of the action and sacrifice which must
prove that we are in earnest. You are right, certainly,
in thinking that in society we have occasion
for more strenuous and energetic virtues; but yet,
even here, there is no day which does not offer its
opportunities for effort and self-denial, and in a very
humble and unenticing form too. But we shall
never settle this question, for the simple reason that
virtue is at home every where alike; so I will
spare you further lecture. Next to seeing yourself, my dear Williamson,
I can scarcely think of any thing that would have
afforded me more pleasure than the sight of a friend
of yours bearing credentials under your hand and
seal. And over and above this title to my esteem,
Mr. Ellis brings with him an open letter of recommendation
in that very handsome and pleasing
countenance of his, and a frank and hearty manner
which put us quite at ease with him directly, notwithstanding
a certain awkward consciousness of
the narrowness of our present accommodations,
which might have made a visit from any other
stranger rather embarrassing. His willingness to be
pleased, his relish for the amusing points of the
half-savage state, and the good-humor with which
he laughed off sundry rather vexatious contre-temps
really endeared him to us all. Half a dozen
men of his turn of mind for neighbors, with wives
of “kindred strain,” would create a paradise in
these woods, if there could be one on earth. A letter is certainly your due, my dear Catharine;
but yours of some fortnight since,—all kind,
and lively, and sympathizing, and conceding, as it
is,—deserves a better reply than this dripping sky
will help me to indite. Why is it that I, who ever
loved so dearly a rainy day in town, find it suggestive
of—not melancholy—for melancholy and
I are strangers—but of stupid things, in the country?
To account for the difference drives me into
the region of small philosophies. In the one case
there is the quiet that bustle has made precious,
the leisure which in visiting weather one is apt to
see slip from one's grasp unimproved; a contrast
like that which we feel on turning from the dusty
pathway into the cool shade—a protected shade,
as of a garden, where one locks the gate and looks
up with satisfaction at high walls, impassable by
foot unprivileged. In the other—the contrary
case—we have leisure in sunshine as well as leisure
in the rain; we have abundance of quiet at all
seasons, and no company at any, so that when the
rain comes it can but deprive us of our accustomed
liberty of foot. The pattering sound so famed for
its lulling powers is but too effectual when it falls
on roofs not much above our heads; and the disconsolate
looking cattle, the poor shivering fowls
huddled together under every sheltering covert, and
the continuous snore of cat and dog as they doze
on the mats—all tend towards our infectious
drowsiness, that is much more apt to hint the
dreamy sweetness of a canto or two of the Faery
Queene, than the duteous and spirited exercise of
the pen, even in such service as yours. Yet I have
broken the spell of
“Sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin.”
by the magic aid of a third reading of your letter.
And now I defy even the
“Ever drizling raine upon the lofte,
Mixt with a murmuring winde.”
* * * Ought a letter to be a transcript of
one's better mind, or only of one's present and
temporary humor? If the former, I must throw
away the pen, I fear, for some time to come. If
the latter, I have only to scrawl the single word
AGUE a thousand times on the face of my paper,
or write it once in letters which would cover the
whole surface. I have no other thought, I can
no longer say,
“My mind my kingdom is.”
Didn't I say something, in one of my late
letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet
seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid
coloring of those days has been toned down by
some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended
into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of
the delicious period here called “Indian summer,”
Florella and I have done little else but wander
about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could
share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves.
If the Indians named this season, it must
have been from a conviction that such a sky and
such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging
sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven,
where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested.
If you can imagine a view in which the
magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened
to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this
seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you
may form some notion of our November landscape. I have grown very lazy of late,—so much so,
that even letter-writing has become quite a task.
Perhaps it is only that I so much prefer flying over
this fine, hard, smooth snow in a sleigh, that I feel a
chill of impatience at in-door employment. I make
a point of duty of Charlotte's daily lessons, but beyond
that I am but idle just now. The weather
has been so excessively cold for some days that we
have had much ado to keep comfortably warm, even
with the aid of great stoves in the hall and kitchen,
and bountiful wood fires elsewhere. These wood
fires are the very image of abundance, and they are
so enlivening that I am becoming quite fond of
them, though they require much more attention than
coal, and will, occasionally, snap terribly, even to the
further side of the room, though the rug is generally
the sufferer. An infant of one of our neighbors was
badly burned, a day or two since, by a coal which
flew into the cradle at a great distance from the
fire. I marvel daily that destructive fires are not
more frequent, when I see beds surrounded with
light cotton curtains so near the immense fires
which are kept in log-houses. How much more
rational would be worsted hangings! Once more, with pen in hand, dearest Catharine;
and oh, how glad and how thankful to find
myself so well and so happy! I could have written
you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed
a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked
up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving
me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other
important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken
off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I
shall not have said forth half my say before I shall
be reduced to my dormouse condition again. I have examined the sheets you put into my hands, and am happy to say, that I
think your work will be found, both by teachers and pupils a valuable auxiliary
in the acquisition of the French language. The manner in which you have
obviated the principal difficulties in the first lessons, and the general plan of the
work, make it a very useful first book for those who are old enough to study with
some degree of judgment and discrimination. I have examined the sheets of the New Practical Translator, and believe that
the work will be very useful as an introduction to the translating French into
English, as it affords an easy explanation of most of the difficulties that are apt to
embarrass beginners. I have long felt the want of a “First Book” for beginners in the French Language,
upon the progressive principles which you have adopted, and shall show
how sincere I am in this recommendation of your undertaking, by the immediate
introduction of the “New Practical Translator” into my school. I have looked over the sheets of your “New Practical Translator,” and am
much pleased both with the plan of the work, and with the style of its execution.
It must form a valuable accession to the means already within the reach of the
young for acquiring a knowledge of the French Language; and, if it finds with
the public that measure of favour which it merits, I am satisfied that you will
have no cause to complain that your labours, in this department of instruction,
have not been well received or well rewarded. I have examined attentively the plan of your “New Practical Translator,” and,
to some extent, the mode in which the plan has been executed. The work appears
to me to be well adapted to promote the improvement of those who are commencing
the study of the French Language. The real difficulties, in the progress of
the student, he is furnished with the means of overcoming, while such as will
yield to moderate industry, he is judiciously left to surmount by his own efforts. I have examined, with care, “The New Practical Translator,” by Mr. Bugard.
The plan and execution of the author appear to me judicious, and I am acquainted
with no elementary work, so well adapted for communicating a knowledge of the
French language. I have examined with much pleasure the sheets of the French Practical Translator,
which you were kind enough to send me. As far as I am able to judge, I
should think it would be found a very useful auxiliary to the French instructer. I
concur fully in the opinion of the work, expressed by Mr. T. B. Hayward. —It gives me much pleasure to express the high opinion I entertain of the
“New French Practical Translator,” as an introduction to the study of the French
language. The plan of it is very judicious. While those difficulties are removed
which perplex and discourage young learners, it demands sufficient exercise of the
pupil's own powers to keep alive the interest arising from the consciousness of
successful effort. I should be happy if I could from my own knowledge give you a recommendation
of your book, the Practical Translator. But, from my own little knowledge
and from the most thorough information I can obtain, I am satisfied that we have
no so valuable book of its kind for the study of the French language, and have
therefore introduced it into my school. I have examined with much pleasure the new French Practical Translator,
which you were so kind as to send me. I consider it a very valuable book for beginners,
as it removes many difficulties, which have heretofore embarrassed them.
I shall immediately introduce it into my school. —It gives me great pleasure to add my testimonial in favour of your
“New Practical Translator,” to the many you have already received. I have
used the work with a great many pupils in this institution, and find it a very excellent
and interesting manual. It is of great service in removing the difficulties
which beginners encounter at the commencement of their French Studies. I wish
you much success in introducing it into our Schools and Academies. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 60 | Author: | Allston
Washington
1779-1843 | Add | | | Title: | Monaldi | | | | 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: | Among the students of a seminary at Bologna
were two friends, more remarkable for their attachment
to each other, than for any resemblance
in their minds or dispositions. Indeed there was
so little else in common between them, that hardly
two boys could be found more unlike. The character
of Maldura, the eldest, was bold, grasping,
and ostentatious; while that of Monaldi, timid
and gentle, seemed to shrink from observation.
The one, proud and impatient, was ever laboring
for distinction; the world, palpable, visible, audible,
was his idol; he lived only in externals, and could
neither act nor feel but for effect; even his secret
reveries having an outward direction, as if he
could not think without a view to praise, and
anxiously referring to the opinion of others; in
short, his nightly and his daily dreams had but one
subject — the talk and the eye of the crowd. The
other, silent and meditative, seldom looked out of
himself either for applause or enjoyment; if he
ever did so, it was only that he might add to, or
sympathize in the triumph of another; this done,
he retired again, as it were to a world of his own,
where thoughts and feelings, filling the place of
men and things, could always supply him with
occupation and amusement. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
|
