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301Author:  Lippard George 1822-1854Add
 Title:  Legends of Mexico  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Sir—In reply to your note of this date, summoning me to surrender my forces at discretion, I beg leave to say, that I decline acceding to your request.
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302Author:  Lippard George 1822-1854Add
 Title:  The Rose of Wissahikon, or, The Fourth of July, 1776  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: A hale old man, leaning on his rifle, with an iron frame, a bronzed visage, and snow-white hair! Ere you receive this, you will have learned that the prominent members of the Rebel Congress have been seized and made prisoners, by certain gentlemen who have proclaimed George Washington, the Rebel General, King. At this hour, Hancock, Jefferson, Adams, with other Delegates, are prisoners at my house, near Philadelphia. Thus have we introduced dissension among the ranks of the rebels; while one party prate about a republic, another talk of returning to their allegiance, and a third—I know your excellency will smile—prate of King Washington. How this has been accomplished, will be made known at the proper time. Enough to say, that this Declaration, about which they whispered so deeply, for a month back, this Proclamation of Independence, is now crushed—quite forgotten in the public clamor. Permit me to hope, that in announcing these facts to his Majesty, you will neither forget the services, nor promised reward of
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303Author:  Lippard George 1822-1854Add
 Title:  'Bel of Prairie Eden  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: `Come brother, it is a beautiful view—look yonder.' It was an interesting thing to observe the face and form of this escaped sailor, while he stood by the torch, engaged in deciphering the somewhat mysterious epistle which we have given above.
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304Author:  Lippard George 1822-1854Add
 Title:  The man with the mask  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: At this moment let us change the scene. Passing through the thick walls which divide the rooms of Brother Caleb's house, let us enter yonder large chamber, on the first floor, where the light of wax candles falls upon the faces of Brother Caleb and his midnight guests. My Dear Friend: — In answer to your enquiries, I hasten to state the following facts which I have gained, after some trouble, and not a little research.
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305Author:  Lippard George 1822-1854Add
 Title:  Washington and his men  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “I was born of a noble ancestry,” said a great man who had risen from the kennel where Poverty hides its hopeless face—“True, my parents were poor, but three hundred years ago, the blood which flows in my veins, coursed in the veins of Lords, Archbishops, Counts, Dukes and Kings.”
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306Author:  Longstreet Augustus Baldwin 1790-1870Add
 Title:  Georgia scenes  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: If my memory fail me not, the 10th of June, 1809, found me at about 11 o'clock in the forenoon, ascending a long and gentle slope, in what was called “The Dark Corner” of Lincoln. I believe it took its name from the moral darkness, which reigned over that portion of the county, at the time of which I am speaking. If in this point of view, it was but a shade darker than the rest of the county, it was inconceivably dark. If any man can name a trick, or sin, which had not been committed at the time of which I am speaking, in the very focus of all the county's illumination, (Lincolnton) he must himself be the most inventive of the tricky, and the very Judas of sinners. Since that time, however, (all humor aside) Lincoln has become a living proof “that light shineth in darkness.” Could I venture to mingle the solemn with the ludicrous, even for the purposes of honorable contrast, I could adduce from this county instances of the most numerous and wonderful transitions, from vice and folly, to virtue and holiness, which have ever perhaps been witnessed since the days of the apostolic ministry. So much, lest it should be thought by some, that what I am about to relate, is characteristic of the county in which it occurred. “Dear Sir:—I send you the money collected on the notes you left with me. Since you left here, Polly has been thinking about old times, and she says, to save her life she can't recollect you.”
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307Author:  Mathews Cornelius 1817-1889Add
 Title:  Behemoth  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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308Author:  Mathews Cornelius 1817-1889Add
 Title:  Big Abel, and the little Manhattan  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Whoever has sailed up or down the East River in a fog, or driven to Hallet's Cove, Long Island, on a dusty day, or walked the Third Avenue in the moonlight, has been beset by the vision of a great white tower, rising, ghost-like, in the air, and holding all the neighborhood in subjection to its repose and supernatural port. The Shot-Tower is a strange old fellow, to be sure! 'Spite of that incessant buzzing in his head, he holds himself as high and grandly, as though he hadn't the trouble of making shot for the six-and-twenty United States. He never dozes or nods, even in the summer noon; nor does he fall asleep in the most crickety nights, but winks, with that iron top of his, at all the stars, as they come up, one by one; and outwatches them all. There he is, gaunt and clean, as a ghost in a new shroud, every day in the year. Build as you may, old Gotham! Hammer and ding and trowel on all sides of him, if you choose,—you cannot stir him an inch, nor sully the whiteness in which he sees himself clothed, in that pure glass of his of Kipp's Bay! If you have seen him once, you know him always. A sturdy Shot-Tower to be sure!—and go where you will, you carry him with you. He is the Ghost of New York, gone into the suburbs to meditate on the wickedness of mankind, and haunt the Big City, in many a dream of war, and gun-shot wounds, and pattering carnage, when he falls asleep.
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309Author:  Mathews Cornelius 1817-1889Add
 Title:  Chanticleer  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I SEE old Sylvester Peabody—the head of the Peabody family—seated in the porch of his country dwelling, like an ancient patriarch, in the calm of the morning. His broad-brimmed hat lies on the bench at his side, and his venerable white locks flow down his shoulders, which time in one hundred seasons of battle and sorrow, of harvest and drouth, of toil and death, in all his hardy wrestlings with old Sylvester, has not been able to bend. The old man's form is erect and tall, and lifting up his head to its height, he looks afar, down the country road which leads from his rural door, towards the city. He has kept his gaze in that direction for better than an hour, and a mist has gradually crept upon his vision; objects begin to lose their distinctness; they grow dim or soften away like ghosts or spirits; the whole landscape melts gently into a pictured dew before him. Is old Sylvester, who has kept it clear and bright so long, losing his sight at last, or is our common world, already changing under the old patriarch's pure regard, into that better, heavenly land?
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310Author:  McHenry James 1753-1816Add
 Title:  O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Perhaps no where in the British Islands, will the admirer of the grand and sublime, in the works of nature, find more gratification than along the northern shores of the county of Antrim. From the Gabbon precipices, near the entrance of Larne Harbour, to Port Rush, near Colerain, a long range of rocky coast, extending upwards of fifty miles, exhibits, in some places, the boldest promontories jutting into the sea, and perforated with numerous caverns, into many of which the raging waters pour with reverberating noise. In other places, small bays, occasioned by the mouths of the rivers and rivulets that there seek a junction with the ocean, interrupt the continuity of the rocky chain, and by affording to the visiter the view of towns and villages, surrounded by the fertility of nature, and the conveniences of art, produce a striking and pleasing contrast to the prevailing wildness of the coast, and make its grandeur still more grand.
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311Author:  McHenry James 1753-1816Add
 Title:  O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was on the evening of the fourth of June, that a messenger arrived from Belfast, at O'Halloran Castle. He delivered to its owner the following note, and passed on to circulate others of a similar import throughout the country. “The signal is given. The mail coach has not arrived. Our informant says it was stopped yesterday at Swords. The south is in arms—Wexford is taken. Let the rising be on the 7th inst. The general rendezvous for this county is Donegore hill. The small parties of the military quartered in the country towns must be captured, if possible, by surprise. The bearer will proceed with intelligence along the coast. You will despatch messengers through the interior, by Ballynure, Ballyclare, Ballyeaston, Ballymena, &c. Expedition is requisite. “I am now a prisoner in the hands of the insurgents; and you may be sure I am well treated, when I inform you that I have had influence enough to persuade them to postpone an attack, which, just as I was brought here, they were on the point of making upon you. “Sir, we are to the number of sixteen hundred men in arms, prepared to attack the garrison under your command. But to give you an opportunity of saving your soldiers from destruction, we have thought proper, first, to apprize you of our intention, and to summon you in the name of our country, to surrender your party, both military and others, with all your warlike stores, into our hands. As our prisoners your lives will be safe, and as much attention as possible paid to your comforts. The lives, families and properties of such of our town's-men as have joined you, shall also remain unmolested. Our attack shall be suspended, in expectation of your compliance, for three quarters of an hour, but no longer. “Sir, enclosed is my reply to the rebel chieftains. By it you will see that you anticipated truly, when you supposed that I would not agree to an unconditional surrender. I am sorry that you are in their power; but it is pleasing to find that they are not disposed to abuse their good fortune, by acts of wantonness or cruelty. It may yet be in my power to show that I can esteem humanity, even in such an enemy. “In answer to your message, I have to inform you that rather than comply with your demands, my party and myself are resolved to meet destruction amidst the ruins of the place, which it is our duty to defend. Do not, however, suppose that we shall fall an easy prey. It is true, your number exceed ours by ten to one; but were they a hundred to one, as we are fully supplied with the means of defence, we know too well how to use them, not to make our enemies deplore the dearness of any victory they may gain over us. In your case, it is apparent that victory is at least doubtful. Some traits of humanity displayed by you have been communicated to me, in consideration of which I give you my promise, and all the gentlemen of the town, who have so gallantly come to my assistance, will guarantee its performance, that if you lay down your arms, and return peaceably to your allegiance, all that you have yet done shall be overlooked, and pardoned, and the full and free protection of the laws of your country shall once more be extended towards you. Should you reject this offer, I can only deplore your infatuation; I must resist you unto destruction, and the blood of those who may fall on both sides, be upon your heads. “Dear Sir—It has fallen to my lot to communicate to you the unfortunate news of the forces we assembled this morning, being completely defeated and dispersed, after a severe conflict with a large body of the king's troops, near Ballynahinch, in which it is supposed, that we lost upwards of one thousand men. “Sir, being informed that you have the rebel chief, O'Halloran, in custody, I am induced, in consequence of some representations made to me in his favour, by a person well acquainted with him, to pardon his offence, on condition that he shall pay a fine to be assessed by you to any amount, not exceeding ten thousand pounds, which sum shall be appropriated to the relief of those royalists who have suffered from the rebellion in the county of Antrim. “Dear Barrymore—I have at length followed you. Excited by my ardent desire to see the peerless beauty, who could so completely subdue a heart which was impregnable to all the attacks of the Dublin fair, I eagerly embraced the first moment, in which I could, with propriety, undertake the journey. The day before I left the city, I waited on the Lord Lieutenant, with the letter you enclosed from the Recluse, who, I understand, is to be no longer a mendicant, but is to appear in society in his own proper character of Francis Hamilton, Esq. of Hamilton-hall, in the county of Tyrone. His excellency was much pleased to hear from him; and, without delay, not only granted to him his request, but wrote to him a long letter, which on finding I was about to take a Northern trip, he entrusted to my care. “Dear Sir—It is with great satisfaction that I acknowledge the receipt of your's of this morning, covering the commands of his excellency, the Lord Lieutenant, respecting you, which, of course, it is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to obey. I shall make the agreeable communication known without delay to all the justices of the peace, jailers, and other officers, whom it concerns, so that you will be in no danger of personal molestation; and may appear in public whenever you think proper. “My Son—A few days ago, I received from you a very foolish letter, requesting me to consent to your marriage with a woman I never saw, nor, until that very moment, ever heard of. I took, of course, some pains to inquire concerning her, and her connexions. The only person from whom I could obtain much information, is your old mendicant protagee, who praises her in a style that I cannot well understand; but from which I can gather that she is a great beauty. I presume, therefore, that in the ardour of your admiration, you have endowed her with angelic qualities, for in the eyes of every love-sick young man who has a handsome mistress, she cannot be aught else than an angel. “* * * * * * * * * At what an awful crisis,” said he, “have I been entrusted with the government of this unfortunate country? Treason, rebellion, massacre, and invasion, have shaken her to pieces, and have prostrated her into the depth of misery.
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312Author:  McHenry James 1753-1816Add
 Title:  Meredith, or, The mystery of the Meschianza  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I know not whether any philosopher has ever made the observation, that, the heart which is the most susceptible of gratitude, is also the most readily excited to revenge. But it is a truth which, for its confirmation, requires not the testimony of philosophers. It has human nature for its foundation, and experience for its support. Indeed it is reasonable to suppose that he who is very sensible of kindness will be equally so of injuries. Both feelings spring from the same source, acuteness of sensation. Hence the frequent saying in relation to a man of sensibility, that he is either a very warm friend, or a very bitter enemy. There are indeed exceptions. But to what rule is there not? There may be, nay, there actually are, kind and amiable people whose sensibilities are altogether on the side of good nature. But these are generally tame and inefficient beings, who are either devoid of sagacity to see when they are injured, or destitute of courage to show resentment. “I can live no longer. My life has been for some months but one continued paroxysm of mental agony. My existence much longer would bring upon you the most indelible and unmitigable disgrace that could, by a daughter, be inflicted on a father. My last interview with Harris proved fatal to my honour. He ruined me, and then abandoned me for ever.—That interview! alas, it was a stolen one, unknown to you, and granted at his entreaty contrary to your injunctions. Oh! how I have been punished for my disobedience! No one has as yet perceived the effects of my guilt in the alteration of my person. But in a short time it would become too apparent for concealment. Then, then, my father, you would be disgraced for ever; and were I to live, I would see you dying broken-hearted— and I the cause! But I will not live to witness such a calamity. In opium there is power to destroy life, by lulling the senses into lethargy and dissolving the springs of animation. I have provided myself with the precious drug which is to relieve me for ever from that load of earthly misery which has become too great for me longer to endure. Farewell, my beloved father. Oh! do not curse me when I shall be dead, for my last prayer to Heaven shall ascend for thee.” “You were once the object of my fond attachment. I addressed you sincerely Q with a view to our final alliance, and we became engaged. Circumstances have lately given another direction to my views. It is, therefore, my duty to release you from your engagement. I do this the more readily and promptly, because I am aware that my cousin, Captain Harris, of the British army, has placed his affections upon you, and I am desirous of being no longer considered an obstacle to the success of his suit.
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313Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Add
 Title:  Mardi  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: We are off! The courses and topsails are set: the coral-hung anchor swings from the bow: and together, the three royals are given to the breeze, that follows us out to sea like the baying of a hound. Out spreads the canvas— alow, aloft—boom-stretched, on both sides, with many a stun' sail; till like a hawk, with pinions poised, we shadow the sea with our sails, and reelingly cleave the brine.
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314Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Add
 Title:  Mardi  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: We were now voyaging straight for Maramma; where lived and reigned, in mystery, the High Pontiff of the adjoining isles: prince, priest, and god, in his own proper person: great lord paramount over many kings in Mardi; his hands full of scepters and crosiers. “Attend my lord:—`Anno Mardis 50,000,000, o. s. I, Bardianna, of the island of Vamba, and village of the same name, having just risen from my yams, in high health, high spirits, and sound mind, do hereby cheerfully make and ordain this my last will and testament.
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315Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Add
 Title:  Redburn, his first voyage  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Wellingborough, as you are going to sea, suppose you take this shooting-jacket of mine along; it's just the thing —take it, it will save the expense of another. You see, it's quite warm; fine long skirts, stout horn buttons, and plenty of pockets.”
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316Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Add
 Title:  White-Jacket, or, The World in a man-of-war  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was not a very white jacket, but white enough, in all conscience, as the sequel will show. “Sir, you will give the people pickles to-day with their fresh meat. Grand Celebration of the Fourth of July.
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317Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Add
 Title:  Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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318Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Add
 Title:  The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: You know, my dear Fritz, that I am not unused to the handling of a glass; and that I have amused myself for a considerable number of years in looking about the world, as carelessly and freely as I chose. Now, it has occurred to me, in the opening of this new half-century, (may you live to the end of it!) that in common justice, I ought to make such return as lies in my power, by attempting to amuse some little portion of that world, which has so long and gratuitously amused me. Dear Sir,—I wish you would send me, soon as convenient, the card of your friend Tophanes. I think he must be a `stick;' and I rather imagine he can give me the right sort of advice. For you must know that I've been hanging on the town nearly the whole winter, and yet the d—l of an invitation have I got. With this, my dear Fritz, I leave you to your quiet country avocations, until the mail of another week shall light up your solitude with a glowing No. V. It has been hinted to me that you are an old friend of my former husband; if you are, I wish you would do me the favor to call; any little remembrances of the dear, good man are most satisfying. I want to tell you, too, how much I approve your work; your judicious remarks upon taste, I cannot praise high enough. I have long felt the want of just such a book as you propose. As for the polka, you've said just what you ought to say; it's a positive shame, the way our young folks do go on in these matters! Only to think that my little cousin Polly went so far the other evening as to lay her head outright on a gentleman's shoulder, out of sheer exhaustion; why, Sir, it made all the blood boil in my body! I wish you would let me know who you are:— do; I think I could give you some capital hints; you know a lady knows a great deal that a gentleman never can know, try as hard as he may. Besides, I should like amazingly to dance a polka with you; I know from the way you write about it, that you must understand it a great deal better than the fussy little fellows who almost pull me over, and havn't got an idea of the spirit of the thing. A lady wants some sort of support,—doesn't she? I think you could give it, and not be pushing one about against the wall-flowers, and getting dizzy and stupid. Sir,—In some of your papers you have made flippant, and I think I may say, indelicate allusions to a Mr. Browne. A gentleman bearing that name, though differently spelled, has called my attention to the fact, and has consulted me (an advocate and attorney at law) upon the propriety of instituting an action for damages. “Mr. Timon:—I am astonished at you, my dear sir; why do you speak so harshly of the town ladies, and present them in so unfavorable lights? I have been all along a most excellent friend to your paper, and have, time and again, defended you against most merciless assaults; but if you do not speedily amend, and speak better of us, I shall leave you to defend yourself. Dear Sir,—I do not know but a serious letter will be out of place amid the ironical talk, and only half-earnest tone of your paper; at any rate, I have determined to tell you what I think and feel—a thing I scarce ever do even to my husband. For I have been married, you must know, nearly three years; and for the last seven years we have been trying (my Mamma and I) to `get up' in New York society. And now (Papa got rich four years ago last May) we have done it.
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319Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Add
 Title:  The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Well, Fritz, it is even true, that notwithstanding my rusticity, I find myself approaching, little by little, to a state of town domestication; and at the earnest solicitation of my worthy bookseller, I am led to resume my weekly observations, and even to extend their influence, if influence they have, by association with a large publishing house, which will give to them a wide country circulation. It is quite possible, therefore, that this may fall under your eye at the house of your parson (if a liberal-minded person), or of your village attorney (if a man of progress), even before you shall have broken my private seal. Mr. Timon:—I have read all you have written, and like it very much. My mamma (for a wonder) likes it too: so does Aunt Sophy. But they have forbid my polking with strange gentlemen, at least those who are introduced to me at the balls. Is not this ridiculous?—one meets such nice young men at the balls, and nowhere else! I wish you would persuade mamma so; if you could, you would greatly oblige your true friend, Sir:—I can't say that I like altogether the tone of your remarks about Washingtonians. You seem to have looked only at such stray individuals as have lost character at home, (which it is possible to do,) and gone to your city to set up. As for the members, I shall not defend them, as they are at best but a shabby set of fellows, who bother us amazingly in the winter-time, and have no more gratitude for favors, personal or domestic, than so many office-holders. Here we are at length, and what a charming place!—such trees, and dinners, and then the bowling alley; (do you ever bowl?) if you do, get a pair of those pretty gaiters at what-d'ye-call-him's. Papa has taken two rooms for us in the east wing, and Marie sleeps in a little alcove just out of mine. The galleries stretch around inside the wing, and several gentlemen—married gentlemen, ma says—(but very handsome) pass very often. You don't know how pleasant it is to sit in the window, in that deshabille you said was so becoming. Ma begins to think so too, for Miss Figgins has got one just like it. My Dear Timon:—Though your paper has rarely reached me, yet I have seen enough of its spirit, to believe that some little account of my country life will serve your turn, and give you some hints, that you may possibly work over to good account. I had made in town, by dint of jobbing, what they call hereabouts a fortune; and not having gained much footing in genteel society,—partly because we didn't care about it, and partly because wife is principled against low necks, and the opera, I determined to set up in the country. A year ago I was married to a belle of the town, and am beginning now fairly to sorrow over my bargain: nor is this because she has lost her beauty; for to tell the truth, I think she is more of a belle now than ever; and is as complacent in her action toward all the beaux, as I ever knew a woman in my life. I can scarce come up a single day, from my business in the city, but I meet her walking with some spruce fellow of her acquaintance, with whom she appears to be enjoying herself as well as she ever did in my company. As you have taken upon yourself to be the censor of modes and proprieties, which office I must say, you have filled quite respectably so far, I want to draw your attention to the developments in a recent work by a distinguished lady, called (I speak of the book, and not the lady)—Truth Stranger than Fiction. Such barbarity as is disclosed in this book, and such extraordinary defence as is made of these barbarities, by the officers of a time-honored Institution, ought to meet with a strong rebuke from every humane person (as I think you are) and to make every woman of maidenly sentiments quiver with indignation and horror.
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320Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Charlotte  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “ARE you for a walk,” said Montraville to his companion, as they arose from table; “are you for a walk? or shall we order the chaise and proceed to Portsmouth?” Belcour preferred the former; and they sauntered out to view the town, and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned from church. “As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wishes of a maternal heart, I have requested your governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I know you to be a good affectionate child, and make it your study to improve in those branches of education which you know will give most pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward for your diligence and attention I have prepared an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your grand-father, eager to embrace the darling of his aged heart, will come in the chaise for you: so hold yourself in readiness to attend him by nine o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender wish for your health and future felicity, which warms the heart of my dear Charlotte's affectionate mother, And am I indeed fallen so low,” said Charlotte, “as to be only pitied? Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will wear a sinile of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! I know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion, which is depicted in the various countenances of my own sex: they are both equally humiliating. Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly loved, a poor solitary being, without society, here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no woman of character will appear in my company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy.” “Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother, deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her remembrance? Alas! thou much injured mother! shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain, because I know I have deserved it: but yet, believe me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed the hopes of the fondest parents, that ever girl had, even in the moment when, forgetful of my duty, I fled from you and happiness, even then I loved you most, and my heart bled at the thought of what you would suffer. Oh! never, never! whilst I have existence, will the agony of that moment be erased from my memory. It seemed like the separation of soul and body. What can I plead in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing! That I loved my seducer is but too true! yet powerful as that passion is when operating in a young heart glowing with sensibility, it never would have conquered my affection to you, my beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay, urged to take the fatally imprudent step, by one of my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship, drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your Charlotte was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life of infamy; no, my dear mother, deceived by the specious appearance of my betrayer, and every suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promises of marriage, I thought not those promises would so easily be forgotten. I never once reflected that the man who could stoop to seduction, would not hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion, whenever his capricious heart grew weary of her tenderness. When we arrived at this place, I vainly expected him to fulfil his engagements, but was at last fatally convinced he had never intended to make me his wife, or if he had once thought of it, his mind was now altered. I scorned to claim from his humanity what I could not obtain from his love: I was conscious of having forfeited the only gem that could render me respectable in the eye of the world. I locked my sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in silence. But how shall I proceed? This man, this cruel Montraville, for whom I sacrificed honour, happiness, and the love of my friends, no longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the credulous girl whom his art has made miserable. Could you see me, my dear parents, without society, without friends, stung with remorse, and (I feel the burning blush of shame die my cheeks while I write it) tortured with the pangs of disappointed love; cut to the soul by the indifference of him, who, having deprived me of every other comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to sooth the heart where he has planted the thorn of never-ceasing regret. My daily employment is to think of you and weep, to pray for your happiness and deplore my own folly: my nights are scarce more happy, for if by chance I close my weary eyes, and hope some small forgetfulness of sorrow, some little time to pass in sweet oblivion, fancy, still waking, wafts me home to you: I see your beloved forms, I kneel and hear the blessed words of peace and pardon. Extatic joy pervades my soul; I reach my arms to catch your dear embraces; the motion chases the illusive dream; I wake to real misery. At other times I see my father angry and frowning, point to horrid caves, where, on the cold damp ground, in the agonies of death, I see my dear mother and my revered grand-father. I strive to raise you; you push me from you, and shrieking cry—“Charlotte, thou hast murdered me!” Horror and despair tear exery tortured nerve; I start, and leave my restless bed, weary and unrefreshed. “Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to the task; yet, however painful the endeavour, I could not resolve upon leaving you for ever without one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before you saw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination paints the scene, when, torn by contending passions, when, struggling between love and duty, you sainted in my arms, and I lifted you into the chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you sound yourself on the road to Portsmouth: but how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solicitations of Belcour? “When we left our native land, that dear happy land which now contains all that is dear to the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the same; we both, pardon me, Madam, if I say, we both too easily followed the impulse of our treacherous hearts, and trusted our happiness on a tempestuous ocean, where mine has been wrecked and lost for ever; you have been more fortunate—you are united to a man of honour and humanity, united by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, and admired, and surrounded by innumerable blessings of which I am bereaved, enjoying those pleasures which have fled my bosom never to return; alas! sorrow and deep regret have taken their place. Behold me, Madam, a poor forsaken wanderer, who has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to supply the wants of nature, or to shield her from the inclemency of the weather. To you I sue, to you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received as an intimate or an equal; only for charity's sweet sake receive me into your hospitable mansion, allot me the meanest apartment in it, and let me breath out my soul in prayers for your happiness; I cannot, I feel I cannot long bear up under the accumulated woes that pour in upon me; but oh! my dear Madam, for the love of heaven suffer me not to expire in the street; and when I am at peace, as soon I shall be, extend your compassion to my helpless offspring, should it please heaven that it should survive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy breaks in on my benighted soul while I reflect that you cannot, will not refuse your protection to the heart-broken
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