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UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 (104)
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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 (104)
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81Author:  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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82Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Mentoria, or The young lady's friend  
 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: Marian listened attentively to the affecting recital of her mother's sorrow, but every syllable sunk deep into the heart of Lydia. I will daily think of your distresses, my dear mother, said she, and they will serve as a shield to my heart, and render it invulnerable to the attacks of vanity or the illusion of passion.
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83Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Trials of the human 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 
 Description: Will you believe me, Celia, when I tell you, I wish I was at Bologne again; that I am dissatisfied and unhappy. You are surprised. It is nevertheless certainly true. We formed erroneous opinions of the world; we thought it a paradise compared to the solemnity and gloom of our convent. Trust me, my dear, I have as yet found nothing, in this gay, busy world, half so pleasing, as that sweet retirement. But I forget that this is my first letter, and that you naturally wish to know every incident which has happened since our separation. This innocent curiosity shall be gratified, and to begin: Looking over some papers which were lately in possession of my son, I found some letters which I think proper to return to you; and am very sorry if any thing has passed between you that may occasion you future uneasiness. I am obliged to you for the very generous sentiments expressed in those letters, towards my whole family, and beg leave to inform you, that your kind wishes, respecting my son's happiness, are amply fulfilled, as he was yesterday married to a very amiable woman, possessing a fortune of twenty thousand pounds.
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84Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Trials of the human 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 
 Description: This is a charming romantic place, my dear Celia. There is room for solitude and deep reflection. Oak-hall is situated in a very retired part of the country, and has been the family mansion of the Rooksby's from time immemorial. The house is antique, and inspires one's mind with the true spirit of the days of chivalry. You cannot think, how often I amuse myself with surveying its antique battlements, the massy gates, and deep moat, that surround it; and while I gaze with a kind of reverential awe, I fancy, I am perhaps retracing the steps of many a gallant knight and beauteous dame who formerly have been inhabitants of this ancient dwelling. I am a great admirer of every thing, that wears the face of antiquity not that I would, were I possessed of ever so large a fortune, lay out my money in purchasing a heap of trumpery, that are really of no intrinsie value, only as the fancy of the virtuoso stamps them with the appellation of excellence, because they were made some hundred years before we were born. I cannot deny, that I like to examine any little piece of antiquity, which tends to shew us the progress of the arts or manufactures, and when I enjoy the benefit of any thing useful or convenient I feel a kind of veneration for the genius, who first invented it, let it be ever so mean or trifling. I continued in this situation but a few moments—when I heard a faint voice call “Meriel,” I turned my head and saw Kingly emerging from the sea and holding by part of the wreck—“Oh, Heavens!” said I, “are you alive then, and is there any chance of escaping?”—“Some little chance,” said he, coming near me and beginning to nutie the cord that was round me.
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85Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Reuben and Rachel  
 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 about the middle of the fifteenth century that the lovely and amiable Isabelle found herself a widow, reduced from ease and affluence to a very confined income. Though her circumstances were altered; her mind elevated, her spirit noble and independent, was still the same. Isabelle was a native of Spain, of noble parentage, expanded heart, superior sense, and highly finished education. The beauty and elegance of her person, though striking, were but secondary objects of the esteem and admiration she was sure to excite wherever she was seen or known. I AM parted from you, my adored Beatina; but painful as the parting is, I feel it is for our suture advantage. I am convinced, my beloved wife, that there are worlds beyond the narrow bounds which our natural philosophers at present prescribe. I have studied much, my lovely friend, and am almost certain, that were I supplied with vessels, men, provisions, and every thing necessary, I should make discoveries that would occasion my name to be revered in after ages; and those who blamed my lovely Beatina for giving herself to her Columbus, shall say, “You did right, Beatina; Columbus has an enterprising spirit that will carve out a fortune, even from a barren waste. For is not the ocean a barren waste? and yet even from that do I mean to carve out for my soul's idol an empire, where she shall reign queen over all, as she does over my heart. I HAVE been disappointed, my sweet friend, but be not you disheartened. Thanks be to Heaven, I left you and my darling boy in a safe retreat, where, though not enjoying all the advantages your rank in life might demand, you have at least all the comforts necessary to the real pleasures of life. CONGRATULATE me, my lovely friend; I am at length successful! How have I counted the tedious months that kept me from my soul's idol; and how often have I feared that my perseverance would be of no avail, and that I had sacrificed ages of real happiness (for hours are ages to the heart that loves as mine does) to the visionary hopes of future greatness. But I am successful. I shall explore those distant seas, with which my studies have so well acquainted me, and in some unknown world seek out a kingdom of which my Beatina shall be queen. Yes, you shall be queen; for whatsoever world I find, be it the fairest, greatest, or the best the sun ever shone on, no man should ever claim a right to govern it. For it is to a woman I owe the means of making the great attempt. I am so overjoyed I cannot proceed methodically; yet I know you languish to learn every particular that concerns your Columbus. THOU besom friend of the bravest man that ever lived, thy queen now claims thee as her friend and sister. Isabelle is in affliction, and calls on Beatina to comfort her. Yet how can I ask comfort from you, when I have none to offer in return? I cannot see you, lest you curse the hand that supplied the means for this ill-starred voyage. Our Columbus, the man whose name shall be revered while time endures, is no more! He sleeps in the vast ocean; but his memory shall live forever. THE most humble and grateful of your fervants addresses you at a moment, when he much fears he shall never again behold you. I am, with my little convoy, in a boisterous and almost unknown sea, at a season of the year when storms prevail, and the inclemency of the weather renders our safety extremely precarious. The clouds hang low; the atmosphere is thick; the hollow murmuring sea, and bleak wind that whistles through the rigging, portends an approaching storm. THY father is returned, my dear son, returned to his native land. But how? Not as an enterprising spirit whose plans had proved successful, should return; but as a traitor to his king, loaded with ignominious chains. Oh! my brave boy, I see thy noble spirit fire at the intelligence. But beware; conceal the workings of thy honest soul. To prosper in this ungrateful world, you must wear the mask of hypocrisy; wear the semblance of humility, honesty, patriotism, till you have obtained some favourite point, then throw them aside as useless, and glory in the success of your stratagems. HAD I a conveyance, swift as my own impatience, to forward to my revered mother the joyful tidings of my father's triumph over his enemies, the wings of the wind would be too tardy to bear this to your hands. Yes, my dear mother, Columbus, the great, the enterprizing Columbus, is restored to all his former dignity, and even fresh honours are heaped upon him. But I know you wish me to be particular; and how can I be more pleasingly employed than in recounting the noble conduct of a father, and obeying the commands of the best of mothers? AS the perusal of the inclosed letters and papers will no doubt awaken in the bosom of my dear Isabelle, a curiosity to learn the events that followed this triumph of Columbus over his enemies; and as I think it necessary to inform her, not only of her descent from the native kings of Peru, but also of the sate of her parents, who now, alas! are no more, I have taken up my pen to trace every circumstance that may tend to prove your right to the sovereignty of Quito, and the surrounding territories, if hereafter you should think it worth contending for. But as I leave you, my dear child, in the protection of my own family; and am fully sensible that my nephew, the marquis Guidova, will take such care of your fortune, (now ample) that by the time you are of age to peruse these papers, you will be one of the richest heiresses in Spain; I fondly hope you will not suffer the vain ambition of bearing the empty title of queen to influence your conduct, or tempt you to throw away the real blessings of life in pursuit of shadows and toys. a “IT is with satisfaction of the purest kind, that I take up my pen to inform my dear aunt Rachel and my beloved children, that the business which brought me to this place is at length finished, and the completion of it is equal to my most sanguine expectations. WHEN the altar is decorated, the priests at hand, and the knife is raised, that will terminate existence, who can blame the poor victim devoted to sacrifice, if it break the chain by which it is held, asserts the privilege of nature, and, bounding over the plain, secures at once both life and liberty? Brother, beloved brother, they have prepared the altar, but the destined victim will escape their snares. WILL my dear friend pardon me that I intrude myself upon her, and by explaining my sorrows, make her a party in my concerns? I have suffered much persecution, dear Rachel, since we parted; and to avoid rushing at once into guilt and misery, I have taken a step for which the world will censure me. But what is the world to me? Had I voluntarily assumed the splendid shackles prepared for me, had I become a titled wretch, and promised faith and truth to one man, whilst every wish, every tender thought of my heart was devoted to another, would the approving smiles of that misjudging world, the adulation it is ever ready to pay to splendor and nobility, have compensated for the sacrifice I should have made of internal peace, of conscious integrity? No.—Admired, courted, envied, I should still have been miserable. The baseness of my conduct would be my daily reproach; I should have sought to banish reflection by dissipation, and who can tell where the career of guilt and folly might have stopped? THERE is such an appearance of candour and sincerity throughout your whole letter, that I cannot but believe you innocent; prove yourself so, and on the receipt of this come immediately to London, and prepare to follow my fortunes to foreign climes. Our marriage is no longer a secret; my aunt has discarded me. I have sold my commission, and in the despair I felt at your perfidy, have taken passage on board a vessel bound for Philadelphia. If you love me as you say, and as I would fain think you do, you will not hesitate to leave England forever, since it is for my peace of mind that I should do so. I cannot submit to live in it below the rank I have been accustomed to fill. If your affection leads you to be the companion of my voyage, the sharer and soother of all my cares, I shall regret neither fortune nor country. If not, if some stronger attachment binds you to this spot, Oh Rachel! I cannot bear the thought; but should it be so, why the farther we are divided the better.
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86Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Sarah  
 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: YES! Anne, the die is cast—I am a wife. But a less cheerful bride, one who looks forward with less hope, perhaps never existed. You were surprised, you say, to hear to whom I had relinquished my hand and heart—leave out the latter, Anne, it had nothing to do with the transaction. Why were you not here, you say, to have prevented a union which you are morally certain will not conduce to my happiness? You cannot be more certain of it, than I am; but what could I do? Frederic gone to India; hemmed round with persuasive meddlers, who, I am more than half convinced, urged me to this measure, fearful I should be burthensome to them; and I was also told it was necessary for the preservation of my reputation that I should accept Darnley. I had no natural protector; my father so far distant he was the same as dead to me; Frederic gone; my health not sufficiently established to enable me to undertake the journey I meditated before you left England; my finances reduced to a very small portion, and though most earnestly entreated to forbear, Darnley continuing his visits. I found I must accede to his proposals, or be thrown on the world, censured by my relations, robbed of my good name, and being poor, open to the pursuits and insults of the profligate. One thing which encouraged me to hope I might be tolerably happy in the union was—though my heart felt no strong emotions in his favor, it was totally free from all partiality towards any other. He always appeared good humored and obliging; and though his mind was not highly cultivated, I thought time might improve him in that particular. However, I was candid with him; told him the situation of my heart, and asked if he could be content with receiving attentions which would be only the result of principle. He seemed to think this only maidenish affectation, and perfectly convinced within himself that I loved him already. “Madam, a personal interview is not sought from any expected pleasure it may afford, but because I think it necessary to speak a few words to you. I must insist on seeing you; if you cannot come down, I will come to you. “It is certainly painful to me, Mr. Darnley, to find you voluntarily avoid my society. Perhaps I can divine the cause, and by removing it the effect may happily cease. You think my sex and situation will lead me, when we meet, to recapitulate some late events, and make disagreeable remarks thereon. Such a recapitulation is by no means necessary. Let us meet as though no such events had ever taken place: let the whole pass into eternal oblivion: trust 4* me, it shall not be my fault if it does not. I hope you will dine at home to day; Anne is engaged, and if you should dine out also, I shall dine alone. “You are very much mistaken, Mrs. Darnley, if you suppose I dread your reproaches: I know, with all your boasted forbearance, you dare not utter any, or it is not your regard to me would prevent you; but pray understand, madam, if I am not master of my own house, I am of my actions and person, and shall go out when and where I please, without consulting your pleasure; mind your own business, and don't trouble yourself about me; you have got a comfortable home, and may go out or come in, as you please. But you cannot suppose, after the very polite method which you took to turn Jessey out of doors, that I can see you with any degree of temper; and since you have withdrawn from her your protection, I feel doubly bound to afford her mine. She is a woman whom I esteem; she loves me with her whole soul; she has given incontestable proofs, that her affection for me supersedes all other considerations; and had she sooner been freed from her matrimonial shackles, you would never have been the wife of “That I am your wife, Mr. Darnley, is more my misfortune, than my fault. But you are under a mistake, in supposing Jessey loves you. No woman can be under the influence of that sacred passion, (whose power I can conceive, though as yet I have never felt its influence) who degrades herself below even the pity of a man of principle, and for self gratification plunges the object of her pretended adoration into infamy, by inciting him to repeated breaches of every sacred and moral obligation. You say I have a comfortable home; can that home be so, from whence domestic peace is banished? You are your own master—It is well you are so. Would to God I was as free. I AM exceedingly concerned, my dear Mrs. Darnley, at the little brulee which has taken place between my mother and yourself, especially as she tells me you talk of leaving her; this I lament, because I think Caroline very much improved since you have had the entire management of her; not but that it has been a matter of surprise to me, that a woman so young, lovely, and accomplished as yourself, should voluntarily submit to the humiliation of being subject to the humor and caprices of any one, and live in a state of dependence, when they might command affluence on the very easy terms of sharing it with an agreeable man, who would think himself honored by her acceptance of his protection: and this I know to be your case. The marquis of H—, who is an intimate friend of lord Linden's, and whom you have seen at my house and at my mother's, has often expressed his fervent admiration of your person, manners and accomplishments. He was present when my mother told us of your quarrel; I do assure you he took your part very highly, called you a persecuted angel; raved at my mother, and was setting off post haste, to offer you consolation, in the form of a young handsome lover and a settlement; but I stopped him, told him he must conduct himself with prudence and delicacy, if he wished to succeed with you—so while he is writing his amorous epistle, I have scrawled these hasty lines, to intreat you to give his proposal a fair perusal, and take it into serious consideration. Only reflect, my dear, on the unprotected state, in which you now are, in a strange place, without friends or money. You will perhaps say, you have reputation; but, child, will reputation pay your lodging, or buy you a new gown when you want one? No, believe me, poor reputation is many a time left naked in the street, while those who have disclaimed and turned her out of doors, are sumptuously clothed, inhabit palaces, and ride in splendid equipages. But I will say no more; your own good sense will direct you; and surely I think you cannot be so wilfully blind to your own interest, as to refuse the offers of the marquis. Do, child, be wise for once, and take the advice of a friend, though I am arguing against myself to persuade you to do so. But if you are romantic enough to prefer dependence; why, if you must leave ma, come and live with me, and I will take Caroline home; at any rate, pray do not, in a flight of elevation, run from those evils which you know, to those of which at present you can have no conception. THOUGH I have but a few times enjoyed the pleasure of being in your company, those few have been enough to awaken in my mind sentiments of the highest esteem for your talents and virtues. I have understood from my friend, lord Linden, that you have connected yourself in marriage, with a man who knows not how justly to appreciate your worth; and who has permitted you to come unprovided and unprotected into this country, that by the exertion of your abilities, you may obtain means of subsistence; this, madam, being the case, prevents my having the honor of laying myself and fortune at your feet. But as from the treatment you have experienced from your husband, every tie must be broken between you, every obligation dissolved—permit me to offer you protection and independence; allow me to hope to be admitted among the chosen few, whom you may honor with esteem. I have a neat house, ready for your reception, a few miles from Dublin, whether you can retire, until one can be prepared in the city, should you prefer residing there; a carriage and servants shall attend your order, free of expense, and a settlement of five hundred pounds a year during your life, awaits your acceptance; only allow me the privilege of passing some hours of every day in your society, and by studying your charmingly intelligent countenance, discover and prevent your wishes, before you have time to give them utterance. I have desired the person who brings you this, not to wait for an answer. I will not hurry your gentle and delicate nature; take your own time to consider my proposals; only to give me one comforting gleam of hope, allow me to see you for five minutes this evening, at Mrs. Bellamy's; I will call about nine o'clock; I will not say one word on the subject of this letter; my visit shall be confined to the period mentioned; if it is your wish, only receive me without a frown, and I will live in the hope, that my future visits (when you are settled in your own house) will be welcomed with a smile. I am, madam, with the utmost respect, your sincere adorer, IN pursuance of your advice, I sought out Mrs. Bellamy, and waited on her to inquire after Mrs. Darnley, who I perceived, by your letter, was a person in whose fate either yourself, or some of your friends, were particularly interested. When I discovered who this Mrs. Bellamy was, I will confess I was surprised how you could be any way engaged in an inquiry after a woman who had resided in her family; as she is the mother of the celebrated Mrs. O'Donnell, who has alienated the affection of the (otherwise) worthy lord Linden, from his amiable lady and her lovely children; and this Mrs. Bellamy was always supposed to be the vile agent who instigated the daughter to attempt to ensnare, and whose counsel afterwards assisted her to bind fast, the fetters which hold his lordship in his unworthy bondage. However, I presumed you had some very good reason for desiring me to be particular in my inquiry, and I set in earnest about it. The old gentlewoman received me with politeness, regretted that it was not in her power to give me the desired information where Mrs. Darnley was to be found; said she had been much deceived in her; that she had brought her from England with her, to superintend the education of her grand-daughter; but that very soon after their arrival in Dublin, she, Mrs. Darnley, made acquaintance with some low people in the neighborhood; and one day when she was out, she had taken her trunk and gone off, without leaving any message whatever; and that she imagined she was gone with a kind of sailor-looking man, who used frequently to come after her. While she was speaking, a servant came in to bring a note; of whom she inquired whether any of the people below had heard or seen any thing of Darnley, since she went away? The young woman replied, that Mrs. O'Donnell's John had said, he saw her a few days since go into a house in an alley at the lower end of the town. `It is no great matter where she is,' replied Mrs. Bellamy, `for what is she good for? She imposed on me, when she applied for employment, by telling an artful tale of her husband's misfortunes; said necessity had obliged her to separate herself from him; but I rather think, from what I have since heard, that he had good reasons for separating from her.' After this intelligence, my good sir, you may be sure I felt no very great curiosity to hear any more about your fair adventurer; but as you had expressed so ardent a desire for information, I took down the name of the alley where the woman said she had been seen, and went immediately there; inquired at every house where I thought it was likely I might find her, describing her person according to the description given in your letter; I had almost given up all hope, when going into a house that stood a little more back than the rest, I found she was known to the mistress of it, and had lived there several weeks. THE trouble I am about to give your lordship may, perhaps, be deemed an impertinent intrusion; and an apologizing introduction, might by some, be thought indispensible; but I trust your lordship will admit the cause, when I have explained it, of itself a sufficient excuse for the liberty I take, without my offering any other. I WAS honored with your favor of July 17, and feel myself impelled to admire a friendship so ardent and sincere, as that which you profess to feel for the charming Mrs. Darnley. You were right in your conjecture, that I should make instant inquiry after the lovely fugitive, who had taken such alarm at my letter, and fled from what she termed my persecution. In that letter, I told her I would see her in the evening; and at the hour I had appointed, I repaired to Mrs. Bellamy's house. Judge of my surprize at hearing she was gone, and had taken her trunks with her, leaving no message I inquired how she was conveyed from the house; and learning that she went in a hackney coach, on my return home, I employed one of my servants to inquire at the stands around, for the man who had taken up a fare at such an hour, in such a street—by this man I discovered where he had taken her, and went in the evening of the following day, to the lane where he directed me; intending, if I could not prevail on your fair friend to favor my suit, to insist upon being her banker, and serve her even against her will. “THOUGH Lady Bourke has not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with Mrs. Darnley, she knows and respects her character; she begs Mrs. D. to consider the furniture, &c. which she will find at Woodland Cottage, as her own; and use it as such, as long as the situation Mr. Darnley holds, may render a residence there agreeable. Lady B. hopes Mrs. D. will find every accommodation, and enjoy much happiness in her new habitation.”
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87Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Add
 Title:  Charlotte's daughter  
 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: “What are you doing there Lucy?” said Mrs. Cavendish to a lovely girl, about fifteen years old. She was kneeling at the feet of an old man sitting just within the door of a small thatched cottage situated about five miles from Southampton on the coast of Hampshire. “What are you doing there child?” said she, in rather a sharp tone, repeating her question. I am sensible you will blame the step I am about to take, but I cannot be happy unless as the wife of Sir Stephen Haynes. Before you will receive this, I shall be considerably advanced on the road to Scotland, not that, being my own mistress, any one has a right to control me, but I dreaded expostulation, shuddered at the idea of published banns, or a formal wedding by license, with settlements, lawyers, and parchments. These things have, I believe, little to do with love.—” You cannot be surprised, Theresa, after the explanation which took place between Lady Mary and myself yesterday, that I should declare my utter inability to make those settlements which I talked of before our excursion to the north. I must beg you to make my acknowledgments to the dear generous girl for all marks of favour and kindness bestowed by her on her unworthy, humble servant, but my finances are in such a state, that it is totally impossible for me to take a journey to Wilts, as proposed, or to solicit her company to France, whither I must repair as speedily as possible, to rusticate; whilst my affairs in England are put in train to restore me to some comparative degree of affluence. My friend, Richard Craftly, Esq. has offered the cottage to you and your lovely friend as long as you may please to occupy it. He is, Miss Brenton, a man of good abilities, amiable disposition, and possessed of a small but genteel and unincumbered estate, which upon the death of his mother will be augmented. He will call on you this afternoon, I recommend him to your notice. My best wishes attend you and your fair associate Lady Mary. “From the hour when I closed the eyes of your beloved, ill fated mother, you, my dear Lucy, have been the delight and solace of your grandmother and myself. And your amiable disposition has led us to hope, that you may in future be the happy inheritress of the estate and property on which we have lived above thirty-five years: happy, my child, in bestowing 11* comfort on others, and doubly happy in the enjoyment of reflected joy from grateful hearts. “I have sat down, my dear sir, to fulfil a most unpleasant task in communicating to you by the desire of our lovely and esteemed friend, Miss Blakeney, a copy of her grandfather's letter, which I inclose, thinking it best to keep the original in my possession.
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88Author:  Royall Anne Newport 1769-1854Add
 Title:  The Tennessean  
 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: MY ancestors came from England. They were part of the persecuted dissenters, who sought an asylum in the wilds of America—of those enterprising few, who landed at Plymouth, in sixteen hundred and twenty. Dear Friend—You complain, in your last, of the violent proceedings of your town on the old subject; but it is trifling, compared to the zeal of our minister.— Though my health is little improved, since I wrote you last, yet I went to hear Mr. Williams, last Sabbath. I was shocked at the discourse; but, dear Thomas, it would cost me my life, if this were known. He raged, he stamped, he foamed at the mouth, and all this for a mere phantom—a shadow. Strange, that our teachers should set such examples of wrath. I am sure, Christ enjoins it upon us, to be meek and lowly. But I will try to give you a plain account of some of the sermon. He said that “the cross of St. George, in the English colours, was a downright popish relict; that it was Idolatry, and popish whoredom, to retain this ensign of hellish superstition.” But his language would be too tiresome to you, and withal, not edifying. So much did his discourse affect the congregation, that they held a meeting, that same evening, and passed a decree, that it should be publicly cut out of the colours, and should never be seen amongst God's people.” I am very doubtful that this is not the right way—moreover, our minister and another one, by the name of Roberts, had some very uncivil talk that same evening. This cannot be the right way—we have lost it, somehow. We are, in truth, without teachers; for I would put no more faith in this madman, Williams, than I would in Satan. It puts me in mind of a saying of Luther's friend, Mclancthon, of Wittemberg. He said “that he longed to be dissolved, and that for two reasons—first, that he might enjoy the much desired presence of Christ, and the heavenly church—secondly, that he might be freed from the cruel and implacable discords of divines.”— But I shall not, I trust, be long in this turbulent world. I am heart-sick of it. What a monster is man! Better had we remained in England:—I could laugh, there; here I dare not smile. Adieu, dear friend, &c. &c. Dear Charles—So soon as thee receives this letter, thee will proceed home without delay.—I am ruined!— All my effects were seized yesterday, to satisfy Clark & Co. of Liverpool, vs. Burlington & Co. I do not understand this; I am bewildered; something is wrong in this business. I did not know that I owed that house aught, except part of the last importation; but I know nothing, nor can I do any thing. Haste thee home with all speed. I am very much indisposed—thy mother is distracted; we need thy presence and assistance. The family send their greeting to thy young friend. Very Dear Friend—Your situation is one that admits of little relief—nothing but time can heal the wounds of the heart. But permit me to mingle my tears with yours—permit me to say that I feel for your sufferings, and that on a double account; but this is too tender a subject, and yet I cannot forbear. Dear Charles, forgive me, for in your breast alone I would repose the secret of my heart; but I dare not name it—cannot you guess, oh, dearest Charles? Write to me, quickly, and let me know. But I am raving—I sat down to console you, whilst I need consolation myself. I shall see you, at the end of the term, at all hazards—in the mean time, 2* let me know whether I may dare to hope—you understand me. Say to your sister, that her sorrows are mine. You say she weeps incessantly.—Oh, God! tell her it wounds me to the heart—never again write to me thus. Dear Charles, you have pierced my soul. Say something to relieve me.—Accept the trifle I send you, until you can make it convenient to return it. Do not let this mark of my eternal regard for you, wound your delicacy—you know my heart—you know if I were in your situation, and you in mine, that I would be proud to give you this proof of our friendship. Know, from henceforth, that what is mine is yours. Your very distressed friend, Sir—Agreeable to your request I waited on Mr. Hunter and demanded a settlement: he said he was ready, and forthwith we proceeded to the place where his books were kept. Upon examining the accounts between him and your father I am sorry to inform you that he brings your father in debt. Upon presenting the account you sent me, he denied the whole; and made use of language that is useless to repeat to you. I do think myself that your account is just; but you can get nothing of Hunter. The property you spoke of was sold a few days since for the benefit of “Clark & Co.:” therefore Hunter is insolvent. It is thought, pretty generally, that the goods were purchased by his friends and with his own money. You ask of Hunters reputation—he has hitherto been esteemed an honest man and a fair dealer; but since your affair, he has fallen very much in the esteem of the public. It is hinted here that he laid this plan of treachery when last in Liverpool; the agent for that house says he failed for the sum for which the seizure was made. I am very sorry for your situation, and have no comfort for you but the very poor ones of patience and resignation. Should you have any farther commands in this city I will attend to them with pleasure.—Yours, respectfully, &c. “Dear Henry.—You will receive this by Captain T., who has undertaken to visit you and learn your true situation. Your captivity has afflicted us with the deepest sorrow; your mother is unconsolable and refuses to be comforted. Our Government is negociating your ransom, which is attended with much difficulty; but I expect it will soon be brought about: if them Spanish dogs don't cut your throat or something worse, you will receive one thousand dollars. If that will set you at liberty I shall think it well laid out. I am in too much trouble to say more. “You will recollect, said she, that my father promised to see the Vice Roy and ask his permission for your friend to deliver the letter; he promised you he would go that evening and accordingly he went, but was unable to get an audiance that evening. After his return he came into my parlour, as he always does when he concludes the business of the day. Whilst he was talking in a careless manner, and growing sleepy he yawned and observed, “Your friend is still here, he has been with me often. He is disguised in the habit of an Indian, and has two fleet horses ready, and now the nights being dark, you may expect him. Heaven grant you may get safe to your country, where you will sometimes deign to think of I received your kind letter of November last, in which you congratulated me on my happy asylum—alas, my dear brother! this proves how little you know of the world—much better, had it pleased Divine Providence, that I had followed my parents to the grave! Much better for me, had I been destitute of those advantages, to which alone, perhaps, I owe my present distress. But I will try and compose myself, if it be possible, for the purpose of acquainting you with the principal incidents which have happened to me of late. What has become of you? Have you forgot your Mary? Are you alive? Oh, for heaven's sake send me but one line, but one word—I ask no more. But it is in vain—you cannot be living—what has become of Wilson? has he too forgot me? Alas then, I have no friend! ye cannot both be dead!—but I will cease to complain— Oh that God would take me to himself! There was but two—but no matter—and yet I cannot think that if living, you would forget me. My last letter you never answered—I heeded that not, as I expected to see yourself. I looked not for a letter, but I looked in vain for either. This is the last I shall trouble you with; I shall ask no more for help, where no help is to be found. I received your favour this day: I am truly glad to hear that you have returned, and that Mary is at length happy. I have never heard of Dupon since Mrs. Cary left here—old Mr. Simpson is dead. His oldest daughter, Clarissa, ran away with Hunter, it is supposed, as she was missing the night he escaped from prison, and has never been heard of since. I hasten to reply to both yours of this instant. Hunter owns the property mentioned in your letter. You refer to me for information respecting its value: this I would wish to decline.—In the first place I am not a judge; and in the second place the price of property is so fluctuating that it is not easy to say. It might sell to day six per cent higher than it would to-morrow. “Dear Sir.—Agreeably to my promise, I communicate the following particulars relative to Miss Simpson.
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89Author:  Sargent Epes 1813-1880Add
 Title:  What's to be done?  
 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: On a dark and chilly evening in the last month of the year, a young portrait-painter named Stanford was sitting alone in the room where he practised his art. An easel was before him, and on it was a painting, although so dim was the light shed by a solitary candle from an adjoining table, that it was difficult to distinguish the figures on the canvass. There was a fireplace in the apartment, but it no longer emitted a cheerful warmth, for the last spark upon the hearth-stone had expired, and the air was growing colder and colder.
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90Author:  Sigourney L. H. (Lydia Howard) 1791-1865Add
 Title:  Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since  
 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: Not far from where the southern limits of Connecticut meet the waters of the sea, the town of N— is situated. As you approach from the west, it exhibits a rural aspect, of meadows intersected by streams, and houses overshadowed with trees. Viewed from the eastern acclivity, it seems like a citadel guarded by parapets of rock, and embosomed in an ampitheatre of hills, whose summits mark the horizon with a waving line of dark forest green. Entering at this avenue, you perceive that its habitations bear few marks of splendour, but many of them, retiring behind the shelter of lofty elms, exhibit the appearance of comfort and respectability. Travelling southward about two miles, through the principal road, the rural features of the landscape are lost, in the throng of houses, and bustle of men. The junction of two considerable streams here forms a beautiful river, which, receiving the tides of the sea, rushes with a short course into its bosom. “With the circumstances of my escape you were undoubtedly made acquainted, at the return of my pursuers. The bearer will inform you that my reception on board the gallies, and at this place, has been favourable to our wishes. I am able confidently to assure you, that the suspicions excited by Arnold are false as himself. Not one of our officers is supposed by the British to be otherwise than inimical to their cause. Only one has fallen, one son of perdition. To have the pleasure of doing this justice to fidelity, balances the evils of my situation. I was yesterday compelled to a most afflicting step, but one indispensable to the completion of our plan. It was necessary for me to accept a commission in the traitor's legion, that I might have uninterrupted access to his house. Thither he usually returns at midnight, and previously to retiring, walks a short time in his garden. There I am to seize, and gag him, and with the assistance of this trusty spy, bear him to a boat, which will be in readiness. In case of interrogation, we shall say, that we are carrying an intoxicated soldier to the guard-house. Some of the pales from the garden fence are to be previously removed, that our silent passage to the alley may be facilitated. On the night, which the bearer is commissioned to appoint, meet me at Hoboken, with twenty of the Virginia cavalry, those brothers of my soul, and there, God willing, I will deliver to your hand, the troubler of Israel.
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91Author:  Sigourney L. H. (Lydia Howard) 1791-1865Add
 Title:  Sketches  
 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 in the full tide of a laborious and absorbing profession,—of one which imposes on intellect an unsparing discipline, but ultimately opens the avenues to wealth and fame. I pursued it, as one determined on distinction,—as one convinced that mind may assume a degree of omnipotence over matter and circumstance, and popular opinion. Ambition's promptings were strong within me, nor was its career unprosperous.—I had no reason to complain that its promises were deceptive, or its harvest tardy.
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92Author:  Sigourney L. H. (Lydia Howard) 1791-1865Add
 Title:  Water-drops  
 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: In the environs of one of the large towns of New-England, a pleasant dwelling attracted the eye of the traveller. It was a kind of Gothic cottage, whose face of brown stucco, and pointed windows, were adorned with clustering vines. Its lawn of green turf was smoothly shaven, while occasional borders, and circles of dark, weedless mould, gave nutriment to a multitude of flowers. Louisa is worthy of you.—Return.
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93Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  The book of my lady  
 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: Were these days of fiction, rather than of fact, and could the popular sense be persuaded to regard that period of exciting circumstance in past history, called the era of romance, in any other light than that of a pleasant dream about to be forgotten, your charms might once again bring into exercise, not merely the lay of the minstrel, but the valour of the knight. Instead of the goosequill, spear and sword might, with sufficient reason, be lifted in your service. Alas! however, for the time—it brings forth no such offering. As an especial rebuke to such glorious errantries as made the middle ages the prime period of romantic adventure; state prisons and penitentiaries frown upon us from every quarter—instead of the warlike and stirring blasts of the bugle, calling the watchful warder to the turret, and arousing the sleeping porter to the approach of the visiter, the tintinnabulary house-bell presents itself conveniently at the portals, and the liveried servitor opens the door at the first friendly summons. Romance knows none of these comforts, and well may adventure sigh after a period which left something for achievement to do, in scaling walls and mounting windows. Had we, my lady, been born in such a period, doubt not that I should have done something worthy to be named along with the daring doings of the time. Doubt not that lance had been lifted, and bugle wound, and battle done gallantly, in your behalf and for your love. As the times are, however, this may not be the case; and all that chivalry may now proffer to his ladylove, is some little tribute of romance like this,—its relic and remembrance—comprised in a tiny volume, quite unworthy of your genius, but all that I can yield from mine. Pardon me, then, dear lady, that these pages—many of which have been already uttered in your ears—have received a name, which, though not fairly identified with yourself or yours, must nevertheless, and necessarily, refer to you for that countenance and favour, which is more than popular applause to me. May they not prove altogether unworthy your acceptance, nor seem to be altogether ungracious in your sight.
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94Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  Guy Rivers  
 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: In the upper part of the State of Georgia, extending into the country of the Cherokee Indians— a region, at this period, fruitful of dispute—lying at nearly equal distances between the parallel waters of the Chatahoochie river, and that branch of it which bears the name of the Chestatee, from a now almost forgotten but once formidable tribe— will be found a long reach of comparatively barren lands, interspersed with hills, which occasionally aspire to a more elevated title, and garnished only here and there with a dull, half-withered shrubbery, relieved at intervals, though even then but imperfectly, by small clumps of slender pines that fling out their few and skeleton branches ruggedly and abruptly against the sky. The entire face of the scene, if not absolutely desolate, has, at least, a dreary and melancholy expression, which can not fail to elicit, in the bosom of the most indifferent spectator, a feeling of gravity and even gloom. The sparse clusters of ragged woods, and thin undergrowth of shrivelled herbage, gave token of the generally steril character of that destiny, which seemed to have taken up its abode immediately within, while presiding over, the place. All around, as far as the eye could reach, a continual recurrence of the same objects and outline arrested and fatigued the gaze; which finally sickened of long levels of sand, broken with rude hills of a dull species of rock, and a low shrubbery from which all living things had taken their departure. Though thus barren to the eye, this region was not, however, utterly deficient in resources; and its possessions were those of a description not a little attractive to the great majority of mankind. It was the immediate outpost—the very threshold of the gold country, now so famous for the prolific promise of the precious metal; far exceeding, in the contemplation of the knowing, the lavish abundance of Mexico and of Peru, in the days of their palmiest and most prosperous condition. Nor, though only the frontier and threshold as it were to these swollen treasures, was the portion of country now under our survey, though bleak, steril and to the eye uninviting, wanting in attractions of its own; it contained the signs and indications which denoted the fertile regions, nor was it entirely deficient in the precious mineral itself. Much gold had been gathered already, with little labour, and almost upon its surface; and it was perhaps only because of the little knowledge then had of its wealth, and of its close proximity to a more productive territory, that it had been suffered to remain unexamined and unexplored. Nature, thus, we may remark, in a section of the world seemingly unblessed with her bounty, and all ungarnished with her fruits and flowers, appeared desirous, however, of redeeming it from the curse of barrenness, by storing its bosom with a product, which, only of use to the world in its conventional necessities, has become, in accordance with the self-creating wants of society, a necessity itself; and however the bloom and beauty of her summer decorations may refresh the eye of the enthusiast, it would here seem, that, with an extended policy, she had created another, and perhaps a larger class, which, in the attainment of those spoils which are of less obvious and easy acquisition, would even set at nought those which have at all times been the peculiar delight and felicity of the former. Nothing is entirely barren in her dominions; and, to some spirits, her very solitude and sterility seem as inviting and grateful, as to others may appear her rich landscapes and voluptuous flowers. “I guess I am pretty safe now from the regulators, and saving my trouble of mind, well enough, and nothing to complain about. Your animal goes as slick as grease, and carried me in no time out of reach of rifle shot—so you see it's only right to thank God, and you, lawyer; for if God hadn't touched you, and you hadn't lent me the nag, I guess it would have been a sore chance for my bones, in the hands of them savages and beasts of prey.
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95Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  Guy Rivers  
 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: The night began to wane, and still did Lucy Munro keep lonely vigil in her chamber. How could she sleep? Threatened herself with a connexion so dreadful as to her mind was that proposed with Guy Rivers—deeply interested as she now felt herself in the fortunes of the young stranger, for whose fate and safety, knowing the unfavourable position in which he stood with the outlaws, she had every thing to apprehend—it can cause no wonder when we say sleep grew a stranger to her eyes, and without retiring to her couch, though extinguishing her light, she sat musing by the window of her chamber upon the thousand conflicting and sad thoughts that were at strife in her spirit. She had not been long in this position when the sound of approaching horsemen reached her ears, and after a brief interval, during which she could perceive that they had alighted, she heard the door of the hall gently unclosed, and footsteps, as if set down with a nice caution, passing through the passage. A light danced for a moment fitfully along the chamber, as if borne from the sleeping apartment of Munro to that adjoining the hall in which the family were accustomed to pursue their domestic avocations. Then came an occasional murmur of speech to her ears, and then silence. Perplexed with these circumstances, and wondering at the return of Munro at an hour something unusual—prompted too by a presentiment of something wrong, and apprehensive on the score of Ralph's safety—a curiosity, not surely under these circumstances discreditable, to know what was going on, determined her to ascertain something more of the character of the nocturnal visitation. She felt assured from the strangeness of the occurrence that evil was afoot, and solicitous for its prevention, she was persuaded to the measure solely with the view to good. Hastily, yet cautiously, but with trembling hands, undoing the door of her apartment, she made her way into the long and dark gallery, with which she was perfectly familiar, and soon gained the apartment already referred to. The door fortunately stood nearly closed, and she was therefore enabled to pass it by and gain the hall, which immediately adjoined, and lay in perfect darkness; without herself being seen, she was enabled, through a crevice in the partition dividing the two rooms, to survey its inmates, and to hear distinctly at the same time every thing that was uttered. As she expected, there were the two conspirators, Rivers and Munro, earnestly engaged in discourse; to which, as it concerns materially our progress, we may well be permitted to lend our attention. They spoke on a variety of topics entirely foreign to the understanding of the half-affrighted and nervously-susceptible, but still resolute young girl who heard them; and nothing but her deep anxieties for one, whose own importance in her eyes at that moment she did not conjecture, could have sustained her while listening to a dialogue full of atrocious intention and development, and larded throughout with a familiar and sometimes foul phraseology that certainly was not altogether unseemly in such association.
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96Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  The partisan  
 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: Our narrative begins in South Carolina, during the summer of 1780. The arms of the British were at that time triumphant throughout the colony. Their armies overran it. Charlestown, the chief city, had stood a siege, and had fallen, after a protracted and honourable defence. One-half of the military strength of the lower country, then the most populous region, had become prisoners of war by this disaster; and, for the present, were thus incapacitated from giving any assistance to their brethren in arms. Scattered, crushed, and disheartened by repeated failures, the whigs, in numerous instances, hopeless of any better fortune, had given in their adhesion to the enemy, and had received a pledge of British protection. This protection secured them, as it was thought, in their property and persons, and its conditions simply called for their neutrality. Many of the more firm and honourably tenacious, scorning all compromise with invasion, fled for shelter to the swamps and mountains; and, through the former, all Europe could not have traced their footsteps. In the whole state, at this period, the cause of American liberty had no head, and almost as little hope: all was gloomy and unpromising. Marion, afterward styled the “Swamp Fox,” and Sumter, the “Game Cock”—epithets aptly descriptive of their several military attributes—had not yet properly risen in arms, though both of them had been engaged already in active and successful service. Their places of retreat were at this time unknown; and, certainly, they were not then looked to, as at an after period, with that anxious reliance which their valour subsequently taught their countrymen to entertain. Nothing, indeed, could be more deplorably prostrate than were the energies of the colony. Here and there, only, did some little partisan squad make a stand, or offer a show of resistance to the incursive British or the marauding and malignant tory—disbanding, if not defeated, most usually after the temporary object had been obtained, and retreating for security into shelter and inaction. There was no sort of concert, save in feeling, among the many who were still not unwilling for the fight: they doubted or they dreaded one another; they knew not whom to trust. The next-door neighbour of the stanch whig was not unfrequently a furious loyalist—as devoted to George the Third as the other could have been to the intrinsic beauty of human liberty. The contest of the Revolution, so far as it had gone, had confirmed and made tenacious this spirit of hostility and opposition, until, in the end, patriot and loyalist had drawn the sword against one another, and rebel and tory were the degrading epithets by which they severally distinguished the individual whose throat they strove to cut. When the metropolis fell into the hands of the British, and their arms extended through the state, the tories alone were active and formidable. They now took satisfaction for their own previous trials; and crime was never so dreadful a monster as when they ministered to its appetites. Mingled in with the regular troops of the British, or forming separate bodies of their own, and officered from among themselves, they penetrated the well-known recesses which gave shelter to the fugitives. If the rebel resisted, they slew him without quarter; if he submitted, they hung him without benefit of clergy: they spoiled his children of their possessions, and not unfrequently slew them also. But few sections of the low and middle country escaped their search. It was only in the bald regions of North Carolina that the fugitives could find repose; only where the most miserable poverty took from crime all temptation, that the beaten and maltreated patriots dared to give themselves a breathing-space from flight. In the same manner the frontier-colony of Georgia had already been overrun and ravaged by the conquerors; and there, as it was less capable of resistance, all show of opposition had been long since at an end. The invader, deceived by these appearances, declared in swelling language to his monarch, that the two colonies were properly subjugated, and would now return to their obedience. He knew not that,
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97Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  The partisan  
 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: The clouds were gathering fast—the waters were troubled—and the approaching tumult and disquiet of all things in Carolina, clearly indicated the coming of that strife, so soon to overcast the scene—so long to keep it darkened—so deeply to impurple it with blood. The continentals were approaching rapidly, and the effect was that of magic upon the long prostrated energies of the South. The people were aroused, awakened, stimulated, and emboldened. They gathered in little squads throughout the country. The news was generally abroad that Gates was to command the expected army—Gates, the conqueror at Saratoga, whose very name, at that time, was a host. The successes of Sumter in the up-country, of Marion on the Peedee, of Pickens with a troop of mounted riflemen—a new species of force projected by himself—of Butler, of Horry, James, and others, were generally whispered about among the hitherto desponding whigs. These encouraging prospects were not a little strengthened in the parishes by rumours of small successes nearer at hand. The swamps were now believed to be full of enemies to royal power, only wanting imbodiment and arms; and truly did Tarleton, dilating upon the condition of things at this period in the colony, give a melancholy summary of those influences which were crowding together, as it was fondly thought by the patriots, for the overwhelming of foreign domination.
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98Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  The Yemassee  
 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: There is a small section of country now comprised within the limits of Beaufort District, in the State of South Carolina, which, to this day, goes by the name of Indian Land. The authorities are numerous which show this district, running along, as it does, and on its southern side bounded by, the Atlantic Ocean, to have been the very first in North America, distinguished by an European settlement. The design is attributed to the celebrated Coligni, Admiral of France,[1] [1]Dr. Melligan, one of the historians of South Carolina, says farther, that a French settlement, under the same auspices, was actually made at Charleston, and that the country received the name of La Caroline, in honour of Charles IX. This is not so plausible, however, for as the settlement was made by Huguenots, and under the auspices of Coligni, it savours of extravagant courtesy to suppose that they would pay so high a compliment to one of the most bitter enemies of that religious toleration, in pursuit of which they deserted their country. Charleston took its name from Charles IL, the reigning English monarch at the time. Its earliest designation was Oyster Point town, from the marine formation of its soil. Dr. Hewatt— another of the early historians of Carolina, who possessed many advantages in his work not common to other writers, having been a careful gatherer of local and miscellaneous history—places the first settlement of Jasper de Coligni, under the conduct of Jean Ribaud, at the mouth of a river called Albemarle, which, strangely enough, the narration finds in Florida. Here Ribaud is said to have built a fort, and by him the country was called Carolina. May river, another alleged place of original location for this colony, has been sometimes identified with the St. John's and other waters of Florida or Virginia; but opinion in Carolina settles down in favour of a stream still bearing that name, and in Beaufort District, not far from the subsequent permanent settlement. Old ruins, evidently French in their origin, still exist in the neighbourhood. who, in the reign of Charles IX., conceived the project with the ulterior view of securing a sanctuary for the Huguenots, when they should be compelled, as he foresaw they soon would, by the anti-religious persecutions of the time, to fly from their native into foreign regions. This settlement, however, proved unsuccessful; and the events which history records of the subsequent efforts of the French to establish colonies in the same neighbourhood, while of unquestionable authority, have all the air and appearance of the most delightful romance.
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99Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  The Yemassee  
 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: Some men only live for great occasions. They sleep in the calm—but awake to double life, and unlooked-for activity, in the tempest. They are the zephyr in peace, the storm in war. They smile until you think it impossible they should ever do otherwise, and you are paralyzed when you behold the change which an hour brings about in them. Their whole life in public would seem a splendid deception; and as their minds and feelings are generally beyond those of the great mass which gathers about, and in the end depends upon them, so they continually dazzle the vision and distract the judgment of those who passingly observe them. Such men become the tyrants of all the rest, and, as there are two kinds of tyranny in the world, they either enslave to cherish or to destroy.
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100Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  Mellichampe  
 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: The battle of Dorchester was over; the victorious Partisans, successful in their object, and bearing away with them the prisoner whom they had rescued from the felon's death, were already beyond the reach of their enemies, when Colonel Proctor, the commander of the British post, sallied forth from his station in the hope to retrieve, if possible, the fortunes of the day. A feeling of delicacy, and a genuine sense of pain, had prompted him to depute to a subordinate officer the duty of attending Colonel Walton to the place of execution. The rescue of the prisoner had the effect of inducing in his mind a feeling of bitter self-reproach. The mortified pride of the soldier, tenacious of his honour, and scrupulous on the subject of his trust, succeeded to every feeling of mere human forbearance; and, burning with shame and indignation, the moment he heard a vague account of the defeat of the guard and the rescue of Walton, he led forth the entire force at his command, resolute to recover the fugitive or redeem his forfeited credit by his blood. He had not been prepared for such an event as that which has been already narrated in the last pages of “The Partisan,” and was scarcely less surprised, though more resolute and ready, than the astounded soldiers under his command. How should he have looked for the presence of any force of the rebels at such a moment, when the defeat and destruction of Gates's army, so complete as it had been, had paralyzed, in the minds of all, the last hope of the Americans? With an audacity that seemed little less than madness, and was desperation, a feeble but sleepless enemy had darted in between the fowler and his prey—had wrested the victim of the conqueror from his talons, even in the moment of his fierce repast; and, with a wild courage and planned impetuosity, had rushed into the very jaws of danger, without shrinking, and with the most complete impunity. “`Dare Gin'ral—There's a power of red-coats jist guine down by the back lane into your parts, and they do tell that it's arter you they're guine. They're dressed mighty fine, and has a heap of guns and horses, and as much provisions as the wagons can tote. I makes bold to tell you this, gin'ral, that you may smite them, hip and thigh, even as the Israelites smote the bloody Philistians in the blessed book. And so, no more, dare gin'ral, from your sarvant to command,
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