The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 68, June, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
Science
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 68, June, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
"It is not for me to judge in this matter," she said, with some reserve.
"The girl is a good girl, however, and I will try and take the place of
a mother to her. You have reasons for this haste unknown to me,
probably. When do you wish the ceremony, and where, Doctor? The church
up yonder," sliding into her easy, dogmatic tone again; "it's one of the
few whole roofs in the place. That is best,--yes. And for time, say
sunset. That will suit me. I must go write to that do nothing M'Key
about the trousers for Pratt's men. They're boxed up in New York yet:
and then I've to see to getting a supply of blue pills. If you'll only
give one to each man two nights before going into battle, just enough to
stir their livers up, you'll find it work like a charm in helping them
to fight. Sundown,--yes. I cannot attend to it possibly before."
"It was the time I had fixed upon, if Grey consents."
"Pah! she's a bit of linen rag, that child. You can turn her round your
finger, and you know it. You will find her down on the shore, I think. I
must go and tell my young parson he had better read over the ceremony
once or twice to be posted up in it."
"To be sure, Pratt," she said, a few moments after, as she detailed the
intended programme to the Colonel, farther down the street,--"to be
sure, it's too hasty. I have not had time to give it consideration as I
ought. These wartimes, my brain is so thronged night and day. But I
think it's a good match. There's an honest, downright vein in young
Blecker that'll make a healthy life. Wants birth, to be sure. Girl's got
that. You needn't sneer, Pratt. It is only men and women that come of
the old rooted families, bad or good, that are self-poised. Made men
always have an unsteady flicker, a hitch in their brains
somewhere,--like your Doctor, eh? Grey's out of one of the solid old
Pennsylvania stocks. Better blooded the mule, the easier goer, fast or
not."
She shut her porte-monnaie with a click, and repinned her little veil
that struck out behind her, stiff, pennant-wise, as she walked.
"Well, I've no time now. I'm going to drop in and see that Gurney, and
tell him he's exchanged. And the sooner he's up and out, the better for
him. Dyspepsia's what ails _him_. I'll get him out for a walk to-day. 'S
cool and bracing."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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