Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text Dukesborough Tales.
Old Mark Langston.
Two Gray Tourists.
Collection of Stories.
Mr. Absalom Billingslea and other Georgia Folks.
Widow Guthrie.
History of English Literature;
Life of Alex. H. Stephens: (both with Prof. W. H. Browne.)
Ogeechee Cross-Firings.
Mr. Bill Williams.
Primes and their neighbors.
Pearce Amerson's Will.
The following extract is a true story of an old gentleman who was
Alexander H. Stephens' first client.
MR. HEZEKIAH ELLINGTON'S RECOVERY.
(_From Life of Alexander H. Stephens._[22])
The old gentleman was brought very low with malarious fever, and his
physician and family had made up their minds, that, notwithstanding
his extreme reluctance to depart from this life,--a reluctance
heightened no doubt by his want of preparation for a better,--he would
be compelled to go. The system of therapeutics in vogue at that time
and in that section included immense quantities of calomel, and
rigorously excluded cold water. Mr. Ellington lingered and lingered,
and went without water so long and to such an extent that it seemed to
him he might as well die of the disease as of the intolerable thirst
that tormented him. . . . . . . .
At last, one night, when his physicians, deeming his case hopeless,
had taken their departure, informing his family that he could hardly
live till morning, and the latter, worn down by watching, were
compelled to take a little rest, he was left to the care of his
constant and faithful servant, Shadrach, with strict and solemn charge
to notify them if any change took place in his master's condition,
and, above all, under no circumstances to give him cold water.
When the rest were all asleep, Mr. Ellington, always astute and
adroit in gaining his ends, and whose faculties at present were highly
stimulated by his extreme necessity, called out to his attendant in a
feeble voice, which he strove to make as natural and unsuggestive as
possible,--
"Shadrach, go to the spring and fetch me a pitcher of water from the
bottom."
Shadrach expostulated, pleading the orders of the doctor and his
mistress.
"You Shadrach, you had better do what I tell you, sir."
Shadrach still held by his orders.
"Shadrach, if you don't bring me the water, when I get well I'll give
you the worst whipping you ever had in your life!"
Shadrach either thought that if his master got well he would cherish
no rancor towards the faithful servant whose constancy had saved him,
or, more likely, that the prospect of recovery was far too remote to
justify any serious apprehension for his present disobedience; at all
events, he held firm. The sick man, finding this mode of attack
ineffectual, paused awhile, and then said, in the most persuasive
accents he could employ,
"Shadrach, my boy, you are a good nigger, Shadrach. If you'll go now
and fetch old master a pitcher of nice cool water, I'll set you free
and give you _Five Hundred Dollars_!" And he dragged the syllables
slowly and heavily from his dry jaws, as if to make the sum appear
immeasurably vast.
But Shadrach was proof against even this temptation. He only admitted
its force by arguing the case, urging that how could he stand it, and
what good would his freedom and five hundred dollars do him, if he
should do a thing that would kill his old master?
The old gentleman groaned and moaned. At last he bethought him of one
final stratagem. He raised his head as well as he could, turned his
haggard face full upon Shadrach, and glaring at him from his hollow
blood-shot eyes, said,
"Shadrach, I am going to die, and it's because I can't get any water.
If you don't go and bring me a pitcher of water, after I'm dead I'll
come back and HAUNT you! I'll HAUNT you as long as you live!"
"Oh Lordy! Master! You shall hab de water!" cried Shadrach; and he
rushed out to the spring and brought it. The old man drank and
drank,--the pitcherful and more. The next morning he was decidedly
better, and to the astonishment of all, soon got well.
FOOTNOTE:
[22] By permission of authors, and publishers, J. B. Lippincott Co.,
Philadelphia.
JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON.
~1823=1873.~
JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON was born at Richmond, and educated at the
University of Virginia. He studied law, but practised little, and in
1847 became editor of the "Southern Literary Messenger." This position
he filled with great success for twelve years and he exerted a fine
influence on the literary taste and effort of his times. In this
magazine first appeared the writings of Donald G. Mitchell ("Dream
Life" and "Reveries of a Bachelor"), the early pieces of John Esten
Cooke, Philip Pendleton Cooke, Paul Hamilton Hayne, Henry Timrod, and
others.
His delicate health induced him to resign his place in 1859 and to go
farther south to Augusta, Georgia, as editor of the "Southern Field
and Fireside." In 1863 he travelled in Europe and his descriptive
letters are very bright and interesting. He later became literary
editor of the "Evening Post," N. Y.; in 1872 he went to Colorado in
one last but vain effort to restore his health. He died in 1873 and is
buried in Hollywood Cemetery at Richmond.
His writings, consisting of poems, letters, sketches, and editorials,
are found mainly in the "Southern Literary Messenger" and "The Land We
Love."
ASHBY.
To the brave all homage render,
Weep, ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
Shine, oh saddened moon!
"Dead upon the field of glory,"
Hero fit for song and story,
Lies our bold dragoon.
Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,
Braver, knightlier foe
Never fought with Moor nor Paynim,
Rode at Templestowe;
With a mien how high and joyous,
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us
Went he forth we know.
Never more, alas! shall sabre
Gleam around his crest;
Fought his fight; fulfilled his labour;
Stilled his manly breast.
All unheard sweet Nature's cadence,
Trump of fame and voice of maidens,
Now he takes his rest.
Earth that all too soon hath bound him,
Gently wrap his clay;
Linger lovingly around him,
Light of dying day;
Softly fall the summer showers,
Birds and bees among the flowers
Make the gloom seem gay.
There, throughout the coming ages,
When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages,
Mindful of her trust,
Shall Virginia, bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
Keep above his dust!
MUSIC IN CAMP.
Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.
And now, where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there came
A strain--now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's dePrevious Next |