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81Author:  Irving Washington 1783-1859Requires cookie*
 Title:  Tales of a Traveller  
 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 
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82Author:  Paulding James Kirke 1778-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  A Sketch of Old England  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I am now comfortably and quietly settled in lodgings, with an elderly lady, who has good blood in her veins; that is to say, if blood be an hereditary commodity, which some people doubt, but which I do not, for there are diseases bodily and mental in most of the old families here that have descended through half-a-score of wealthy generations. She claims descent from Tudors and Plantagenets to boot, and combines the conflicting claims of both York and Lancaster. Though too well bred to boast, she sometimes used to mention these matters, until one day I advised her, in jest, to procure a champion to tilt against young parson Dymoke for the broom at the ensuing coronation. The good old soul took the joke ill, and I was sorry for it. What right had I to ridicule that which, to her, was an innocent source of happiness? I despise the cant of sentiment, but I promise never to do so again.
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83Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man  
 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: Just out of the little village of Essex, in New England, and just at the entrance of a rustic bridge, there is a favourite resting-place for loiterers of all ages. One of a line of logs that have been laid down to enable passengers at high water to reach the bridge dry-shod, affords an inviting seat under the drooping limbs of some tall sycamores. There the old sit down to rest their weary limbs, and read with pensive eye the fond histories that memory has written over the haunts of their secluded lives. There, too, the young pause in their sports, and hardly know why their eyes follow with such delight the silvery little stream that steals away from them, kissing the jutting points of the green meadows, and winding and doubling its course as if, like a pleased child, it would, by any pretext, lengthen its stay;—nor, certainly, why no island that water bounds will ever look so beautiful to them as that little speck of one above the bridge, with its burden of willows, elders, and clematis; of a summer evening, their every leaf lit with the firefly's lamp;—nor why their eye glances from the white houses of the village street, glimmering through the trees, and far away over the orchards and waving grain of the uplands, and past the wavy line of hills that bound the horizon on one side, to fix on the bald gray peaks of that mountain wall whose Indian story the poet has consecrated. Time will solve to them this why. “Honoured Sir—As father and I have concluded to leave to-morrow, will be much obliged if you will send in your bill this afternoon, if convenient. As, from all that's passed, sir, you may conclude that I ain't in circumstances to pay down, I would make bold to say that you need not scruple, as I have a large sum of money by me, given to me by my best friend, father and Susan excepted. Father sends his respectful duty to you, sir, and I mine, with many thanks; but neither money nor thanks can pay your kindness; and daily, respected sir, shall I ease my heart by remembering you in my prayers at the throne of grace, where we must all appear alike poor and needy, but where may you ever come with a sure foundation of hope, through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. “My good friend Charlotte—I shall preface my answer to your note with letting you a little into my professional affairs. I do not make it a rule to attend the poor gratuitously, for many reasons; but principally because I have observed that what is got for nothing is seldom valued. I only take care to charge them according to their ability to pay. You, my child, are an exception to most of my patients—you have given me a lesson of meek and cheerful submission that is inestimable—I am your debtor, not you mine. Besides, strictly, I have no doctor's account against you. I have prescribed no medicine, and given you no advice that any man of sense and experience might not have given; therefore, my good girl, I have no claim on that `large sum of money,' which, God bless your `best friend' for having given you. But forget not, my friend, your promise to remember me in your prayers; I have much faith in the `prayers of saints.' My parting regards to your good father, and please deliver the accompanying parcels as directed. They are from my son and daughter, who hastily join me in esteem for you and yours. God bless you, my dear child. “My dear Susan—It is a long time since I have written to you; but I have been in much perplexity and anxiety, and have been waiting to see daylight. We have failed, Finley and I, as might have been expected; neither of us having any experience in the business we undertook. As soon as I found we could not meet our notes, I made a thorough examination into our affairs, and found we could just pay our debts and no more. So to-morrow we close the concern. I have many times regretted I did not take Charlotte's advice, and not enter into a business for which I was not qualified. I would now gladly return to my trade, but confinement to business, and anxiety, have had an unfavourable effect on my health, and I am more than ever troubled with that old pain in my breast. I sometimes think, Susan, a sight of your sunny face would cure me; that and all good things I trust will come; in the meantime, patience. In prosperity and adversity, my heart ever turns towards my dear Essex friends, who must believe me their friend and brother, “Dear Susan—My prospects, since the breakup last spring, are much improved; but particulars in my next. All I want to know is, whether you will share my lot with me? Pray write by return of post, and believe me now, as you well know I have ever been, though I never put it into words before, your friend and true lover, “P. S.—Dear Harry—I wrote this letter last evening, and shall send it; for why should I, if I could, conceal my real feelings from you? Since we were playfellows at school, I have loved you best, and you only, Harry; for the time to come, I must love you only as a brother. Oh, how strange it is, that the black and the white threads are always twisted together in human life. Last evening I was so happy writing this letter; but, when I went into the bedroom, Lottie's face was covered with tears; and she spoke of our separation, and all flashed upon me at once. What could she and father do without me? They do now their full part towards keeping the family together, but they can neither of them bring in any thing, and they would be obliged to look to the town for support. Is not that awful to think of? So you see, dear Harry, I cannot leave them—our path is plain, and, as dear Lottie would say, may we have grace to walk therein. It is very dark now, Harry; but, if we only try to do right, the day will soon break, and grow brighter and brighter. Please don't say one word to persuade me off my resolution, for we are weak creatures at best, and we should stand together, and strengthen and uphold one another. Above all, don't say a word about my reasons to father and Lottie; and believe me, dear Harry, not a bit less your affectionate friend because I can't forsake them. “Dearest Susan—Forsake `father and Lottie!' that you never shall. When I wrote my last, it was only to get that blessed little word yes from you, for I must make sure of my title before I laid out the future. One thing only I am a little hurt at. Could you think I could leave out Charlotte in my plans?—a dear sister, counsellor, and friend she has ever been to me—and your good father, who so much needs some one to care for him? Ah, Susan, I have had my reflections too; and I think our path is plain before us, and, with good resolution on our part, and Charlotte's prayers to help us, we shall have grace to walk therein. But I must tell you all, and then look for your final answer. “My Dear Father: — On the bed of death, and with my little girl, who will soon be an orphan, beside me, I write this. My hand is stiff, and a racking cough interrupts me. I can write but a few lines at a time. Till last week I hoped to get well, consumption is so flattering.
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84Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Tales of City 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: It is about the middle of November— a bright, soft day, when the genial spirit of the year looks back with one of his farewell smiles. His warm breath has spread a silver haze over the rugged hill sides. The mountain tops are shining —the dried leaves bitten off by the frost, turn round and round, and drop without a sound. A rather narrow, brisk stream runs rapidly, descending as it goes, till it reaches the rear of a one story house, where, being set back by a dam below, it seems like a plate of burnished steel from which a soft vapor is rising. Around its edges is a thin coating of ice, indicating the cold of the preceding night. The house stands on the declivity of a hill that slopes gradually from the road, (a hundred yards from it,) with one end to the river, the other to the road, and fronting south. Behind it is a little garden patch, which, in its winter adversity, shows signs of being cared for and loved; some plants being carefully tied up, and a few covered with old boxes and barrels. There are some other signs of refinement, not too common about the humble dwellings of our country parts; vines trained about the low door, and rose bushes so nicely fitted around the old windows, that they seem to have come to stay there of their own accord. Neatness, that good angel of an humble home, keeping all right with her ever-rustling wings, hover round this pretty dwelling. A small woodpile is laid up as if by mathematical rule. No litter of any kind is any where to be seen, and one wonders what the splendid cock, with his pedestrian harem, can find to make them pick so busily around the sunny doorway. “Dear mother, and father,—Don't feel too bad. I shall be on my way to New York when you get this. Miss Emma Gardner has lent me ten dollars, and what clothes I shall want. Father can't go; and you can't leave father, mother; and I—I can't stay. Father, you will keep up mother's spirits, won't you? I know it will all come right. “Dear father, and mother, and Ruth,— I have got into some trouble. I ask of you all not to feel anxious or distressed. I expect (expect was erased, and hope substituted,) “to get out well, but if I don't, I shall still keep `right side up,' as father would say. Now be calm, mother, dear. Just before we locked up last night, I observed a stranger come into the shop; the doors were closed, and all the clerks called into the middle of the shop, away from the counters. Otis Jackson was standing close to me at the time we were spoken to. I heard him mutter, `d—n it,' but I had not the least thought of what was coming. Mr. Brown stood one side of the stranger, Mr. Wilson the other. Mr. Brown spoke: `We have been missing,' says he, `fine goods for the last month; a shawl was taken last week; two yards of costly lace, and one of the five dollar pocket handkerchiefs are gone to-day. We have a police man here, and you must all be searched. One of you must be guilty. I am sorry for the innocent, but no disgrace will rest upon them — do your duty, Rushton.' The policeman began the search. Some of our young men laughed and joked; I could not, I was afraid it would prove to be Otis. He was the fourth searched, nothing was found on him. My turn came next; the things were found in my coat pocket, atop of my handkerchief and every thing, just as if they had been put there. How the truth is to be found out, I don't know, but I feel as if it would. All I ask is, that father will keep up mother's spirits, and dear Ruth, only think how you would all feel if I had taken the things. I shall write daily, so don't be anxious.
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85Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Richard Hurdis, Or, the Avenger of Blood : a Tale of Alabama  
 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: Of the hardihood of the American character there can be no doubts, however many there may exist on the subject of our good manners. We ourselves seem to be sufficiently conscious of our security on the former head, as we forbear insisting upon it; about the latter, however, we are sore and touchy enough. We never trouble ourselves to prove that we are sufficiently able and willing, when occasion serves, to do battle, tooth and nail, for our liberties and possessions; our very existence, as a people, proves this ability and readiness. But let John Bull prate of our manners, and how we fume and fret; and what fierce action, and wasteful indignation we expend upon him! We are sure to have the last word in all such controversies. Our hardihood comes from our necessities, and prompts our enterprise; and the American is bold in adventure to a proverb. Where the silken shodden and sleek citizen of the European world would pause and deliberate to explore our wilds, we plunge incontinently forward, and the forest falls before our axe, and the desert blooms under the providence of our cultivator, as if the wand of an enchanter had waved over them with the rising of a sudden moonlight. Yankee necessities, and southern and western curiosity will probe to the very core of the dusky woods, and palsy, by the exhibition of superior powers, the very souls of their old possessors.
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86Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Richard Hurdis, Or, the Avenger of Blood : a Tale of Alabama  
 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: Matthew Webber was no trifler. Though represented by his comrades, as we have seen in a previous dialogue, as unwilling to shed blood, it may be added that his unwillingness did not arise from any scruples of humanity which are always unnecessary to the profession of the outlaw. He was governed entirely by a selfish policy, which calmly deliberated upon its work of evil, and chose that course which seemed to promise the greatest return of profit with the greatest security. To avoid bloodshed was simply to avoid one great agent of detection. Hence his forbearance. To the moral of the matter none could have been more thoroughly indifferent. We beheld him giving instructions to an associate the moment that William Carrington fell by an unknown hand, to pursue the murderer, not with a view to his punishment, but with a desire to secure a prompt associate. It was not the wish of the fraternity of robbers, herding on the Choctaw frontier, that any body should take up the trade in that region, of which they desired the monopoly. When the fellow, thus instructed, had gone, Webber with his remaining associates at once proceeded to examine the body, which was lifeless when they reached it. They wasted no time in idle wonder, and gave but a single glance at the wound, which they saw was inflicted by a rifle bullet; then lifting the inanimate form into the wood, they rifled it of the large sum of money which Carrington had concealed in his bosom, and taking it into a little crevice in the hill-side which could not hide it, they threw it down indifferently, trusting to the wolves, of which that neighbourhood had numerous herds, to remove it in due season. Poor youth! with such a heart—so noble, so brave—with affections so warm, and hopes so full of promise, to be shot down in the sun-light—in the bloom of manhood—by an obscure ruffian, and be denied a grave!
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87Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Wigwam and the Cabin  
 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 
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88Author:  Bacon Delia Salter 1811-1859Requires cookie*
 Title:  Tales of the Puritans  
 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: —We, according to your honor's order, departed in search after Colonels Goffe and Whalley (persons declared traitors to his Majesty) from Boston, May 27th, 1661, about six o'clock at night, and arrived at Hartford the 10th day, and repaired to Governor Winthrop, and gave him your honor's letter and his Majesty's order for the apprehending of Colonels Whalley and Goffe, who gave us an account that they did not stay there, but went directly for New-Haven, but informed us that one Symon Lobden guided them to the town. The honorable governor carried himself very nobly to us, and was very diligent to supply us with all manner of conveniences for the prosecution of them, and promised all diligent search should be made after them in that jurisdiction, which was afterwards performed. The 11th day we arrived at Guilford, and repaired to the deputy governor, William Leet, and delivered him your honor's letter and the copy of his Majesty's order for the apprehending of the aforesaid persons, with whom at that time were several persons. After the perusal of them, he began to read them audibly, whereupon we told him it was convenient to be more private in such concernments as that was; upon which withdrawing to a chamber, he told us he had not seen the two colonels not in nine weeks. We acquainted him with the information we had received that they were at New-Haven since that time he mentioned, and there-upon desired him to furnish us with horses, &c. which was prepared with some delays, which we took notice of to him, and after parting with him out of his house and in the way to the ordinary, came to us one Dennis Scranton, and told us he would warrant that Colonels Goffe and Whalley at the time of his speaking were harbored at the house of one Mr. Davenport, a minister at New-Haven, and that one Goodman Bishop, of the town of Guilford, was able to give us the like account, and that, without all question, Deputy Leet knew as much, and that Mr. Davenport had put in ten pounds worth of fresh provisions at one time into his house, and that it was imagined it was purposely for the entertainment of them.
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89Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  Kate Clarendon, Or, Necromancy in the Wilderness  
 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 banks of the beautiful Ohio, some five or six miles above the large and flourishing city of Cincinnati, can be seen the small and pleasant village of Columbia, once laid out and designed to become the capital of the great West. This village stands on a beautiful plain, which stretches away from the Ohio in a north-easterly direction, between two ridges, for a goodly number of miles, and at the base of what is termed Bald Hill— a hill of a conical shape, from the summit whereof you can command every point of compass, and some of the most delightful views in the western country.
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90Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  Leni Leoti, Or, Adventures in the Far West  
 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 the last day of May, in the year of our Lord 1843. Already the earth felt the genial air of summer, and looked as smiling as a gay maiden in her teens. The blade had covered the ground with a carpet of matchless green, amid which, their lovely faces half concealed, bright flowers of a hundred varieties, peeped modestly forth to render the landscape enchanting, giving their sweet breath to a southern breeze that softly stole over them. The trees in every direction were in full foliage, and already among them could be seen green bunches of embryo fruits. It was in fact a delightful day, a delightful season of the year, and a delightful scene upon which I gazed, with feelings, alas! that had more in them of sadness than joy.
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91Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  Oliver Goldfinch, Or, the Hypocrite  
 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 dark and stormy night in the month of November, 18—. To simply say it was dark and stormy, conveys but a faint idea of what the night was in reality. The clouds were pall black, and charged with a vapor which, freezing as it descended, spread an icy mantle over every thing exposed. The wind was easterly and fierce, and drove the sleety hail with a velocity that made it any thing but pleasant to be abroad. Signs creaked, windows rattled, lamps flickered and became dim, casting here and there long ghostly shadows, that seemed to dance fantastically to the music of the rushing winds, as they whistled through some crevice, moaned down some chimney, or howled along some deserted alley on their mad career. It was, take it all in all, a dismal night, and such an one as, with a comfortable shelter over our heads and a cheerful fire before us, is apt to make us thank God we are not forced to be abroad like the poor houseless wretches who have no place to lay their heads. It is too much the case at such times, that we congratule ourselves on being far better off than they, without taking into consideration it is our duty, as humane beings, to render them as comfortable as our circumstances will permit. But who thinks of the poor? God cares for them, say the rich, and that is enough.
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92Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  Calavar, Or, the Knight of the Conquest  
 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: The day that followed after the flight of Abdoul-al-Sidi, beheld the army of Cortes crossing that ridge which extends like a mighty curtain, between the great volcano and the rugged Iztaccihuatl; and many a hardy veteran shivered with cold and discontent, as sharp gusts, whirling rain and snow from the inhospitable summits, prepared him for the contrast of peace and beauty which is unfolded to the traveller, when he looks down from the mountains to the verdant valley of Mexico. Even at the present day, when the axe has destroyed the forest; when the gardens of flowers—the cultivation of which, with a degree of passionate affection that distinguished the Mexicans from other races, seemed to impart a tinge of poetry to their character, and mellow their rougher traits with the hues of romance,—when these flower gardens have vanished from the earth; when the lakes have receded and diminished, and, with them, the fair cities that once rose from their waters, leaving behind them stagnant pools and saline deserts; even now, under all these disadvantages, the prospect of this valley is of such peculiar and astonishing beauty as, perhaps, can be nowhere else equalled among the haunts of men. The providence of the Spanish viceroys in constructing a road more direct and more easy of passage, to the north of the great mountains, has robbed travellers of the more spirit-stirring impressions which introduced them to the spectacle, when pursuing the ancient highway of the Mexicans. It ascends among gloomy defiles, at the entrance of which stand, on either hand, like stupendous towers guarding the gate of some Titan strong-hold, the two grandest pinnacles of the interior. It conducts you among crags and ravines, among clouds and tempests, now sheltering you under a forest of oaks and pines, now exposing you to the furious blasts that howl along the ridges. A few dilapidated hamlets of Indians, if they occasionally break the solitude, destroy neither the grandeur nor solemnity of the path. You remember, on this deserted highway, that you are treading in the steps of Cortes.
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93Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  Nick of the Woods, Or, the Jibbenainosay  
 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 we can believe the immortal poet, from whom we have taken the above lines, to serve as our letter of introduction to the gentle reader, the grief of our first parents for the loss of Paradise was not so deep and overwhelming but that they almost immediately found comfort, when they reflected they had exchanged it for the land of Eden,—itself a paradise, though an earthly and unsanctified one:
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94Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  Peter Pilgrim, Or, a Rambler's Recollections  
 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: “Travellers,” quoth Rosalind, the wise and the witty, “have great reason to be sad;” an assurance to which I know not whether I feel inclined to subscribe assent or not; the opinion of the world, (and to the opinions of the world I always endeavour, as a modest man, to square my own,) judging from the world's practice, being directly the reverse. To travel is to gain experience, (so runs the argument;) and to have experience is to have that which makes us sad.
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95Author:  Briggs Charles F. (Charles Frederick) 1804-1877Requires cookie*
 Title:  Bankrupt Stories  
 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 with emotions of peculiar gratification to our Heavenly Father, and his son, the Lord Jesus, that I take up my pen to address you a few lines; as, but for his merciful interposition in answer to the prayers of his servant, his unworthy servant, there is but too much cause to believe that you would now be lying in the dark prison house of death, where, by his inscrutable Providence, she that should have been the sharer of your troubles and the promoter of your pleasures now lies. Blessed be her spirit. But it is my office to heal and not to open up afresh the wounds of my people. I bless God that you arrived safely at home, and I trust my very dear young friend, that your thoughts will be directed to the church, that you may be inclosed in its broad fold, and that you may be made free by its bondage. For the blessed privilege that we enjoy in this land, where there is none to make us afraid, and where we have liberty in Christ, in his church and ourselves, always excepting the slavery of sin, let us be ever grateful and magnify his name. “Will you have the goodness to call and see me at the earliest moment possible? I have something to communicate of great importance to yourself and others in whom you are interested. Do not fail to call.
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96Author:  Brooks Maria Gowen 1794 or 5-1845Requires cookie*
 Title:  Idomen, Or, the Vale of Yumuri  
 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: Various misfortunes had determined me to visit the new world. Far advanced in the path of life, my wishes were few. I sought only gold enough to retire to some humble recess; and hoped for no other pleasure, than to find at last, some being capable of friendship, that I might sometimes unburthen my heart, by expressing my real sentiments.
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97Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Wieland, or the Transformation  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I Feel little reluctance in complying with your request. You know not fully the cause of my sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet the tale that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not dildain to contribute what little I can to the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right to be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. Make what use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be communicated to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.
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98Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Arthur Mervyn, Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793  
 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: Here ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its incidents were of no common kind. During this season of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been numerous, and I had not suffered them to pass unimproved. The occurrences which fell within my own experience bore a general resemblance to those which had just been related, but they did not hinder the latter from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty. They served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of the tale. Where does this letter you promised me, stay all this while? Indeed, Arthur, you torment me more than I deserve, and more than I could ever find it in my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so, though I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve that I should, and though I fear I am in a humor not very fit for writing. I had better go to my chamber and weep: weep at your—unkindness, I was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness: and yet what can be more unkind than forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you. Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings you nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly.
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99Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Clara Howard  
 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: What could excite in you any curiosity as to my affairs? You once knew me a simple lad, plying the file and tweezers at the bench of a watchmaker, with no prospect before me but of labouring, for a few years, at least, as a petty and obscure journeyman, at the same bench where I worked five years as an apprentice. I was sprung from obscurity, destitute of property, of parents, of paternal friends; was full of that rustic diffidence, that inveterate humility, which are alone sufficient to divert from us the stream of fortune's favours. Why do I write? For whose use do I pass my time thus? There is no one living who cares a jot for me. There was a time, when a throbbing heart, a trembling hand, and eager eyes were always prepared to read, and ruminate on the scantiest and poorest scribble that dropped from my pen, but she has disappeared. The veil between us is like death. I need not tell you, my friend, what I have felt, in consequence of your silence. The short note which I received, a fortnight after you had left me, roused my curiosity and my fears, instead of allaying them. You promised me a longer account of some mysterious changes that had taken place in your condition. This I was to receive in a few days. At the end of a week I was impatient. The promised letter did not arrive. Four weeks passed away, and nothing came from you. I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I am weary of traversing hills and dales; and my detention in Virginia being longer than I expected, shall go on board a vessel in this port, bound for New-York. Contract, in my name, with your old friend, for the present accommodation of the girls, and repair to New-York as soon as possible. Search out No......., Broadway. If I am not there to embrace you, inquire for my wife or niece, and mention your name. Make haste; the women long to see a youth in whose education I had so large a share; and be sure, by your deportment, not to discredit your instructor, and belie my good report.
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100Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Jane Talbot  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt to wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to lavish all my affections upon one object; to doat upon a human being, who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself for his sake. “If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives A a for doing so, entitle you to nothing but compassion, while your present conduct lays claim, not only to forgiveness, but to gratitude. The letter you entrust to me, shall be applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Inclosed, is the paper you request, the seal unbroken and its contents unread. In this, as in all cases, I have no stronger wish than to act as
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