| | 221 | Author: | Thompson
Daniel P.
(Daniel Pierce)
1795-1868 | Add | | | Title: | The doomed chief, or, Two hundred years ago  | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | 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 an anxious, as well as a stirring day with the colonists
at New Plymouth. The public mind, for the last few months,
had been laboring under a very unusual, and a constantly increasing
excitement. Among all classes of men there evidently
existed a deep, though unacknowledged consciousness,
that the calculations of selfishness, craft, and fraud, instead of
obedience to the simple dictates of justice and honesty, had
latterly characterized their intercourse with the Indians.
This, as in most other cases of conscious wrong doing, had
made them, especially the leading men of the colony, peculiarly
sensitive respecting the relations in which they stood
with the red men, filling them with jealousies, suspicions, and
apprehensions, lest the latter, impressed doubtless with the
same or livelier convictions of their wrongs, should be secretly
nourishing thoughts and schemes of redress and retribution.
The colonists were also fully conscious that the injured race
were now no longer the comparatively harmless and contemptible
foes they were in times past, when bows and arrows and
war-clubs were their most formidable weapons, whole scores
of which were scarcely good against a single musket in battle;
but that they had, at this period, almost universally supplied
themselves with fire arms, in the fatal use of which, when
occasion required, they had no superiors, even among the most
expert sharp-shooters of the old world. And especially and
painfully conscious were likewise the leading colonists, that
in addition to the advantages thus possessed by their apprehended
foes, there had now sprung up among them a Master
Spirit who was believed to be fully capable of combining, and
giving direction to all the various elements of their disaffection
with fearful effect. That Master Spirit was Metacom, the
King Philip of subsequent historic renown. And it was not
without reason they feared that he, insulted, fined, and dragooned
as he had been into hollow treaties of peace, would not
long remain inactive or forego—unless prompt and decided
measures were taken to prevent the execution of what was
believed to be his bold and settled design—a war of extermination
against the colonists of New England. “As soon as Captain Willis is able to travel, which I trust
is now, his late captor, or prisoner, or nurse in the woods,
would be gratified to see him at Providence. Enquire of
Governor Williams for | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 222 | Author: | Thompson
Daniel P.
(Daniel Pierce)
1795-1868 | Add | | | Title: | Gaut Gurley, or, The trappers of Umbagog | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | So wrote the charming Cowper, giving us to understand, by
the drift of the context, that he intended the remark as having
a moral as well as a physical application; since, as he there
intimates, in “gain-devoted cities,” whither naturally flow “the
dregs and feculence of every land,” and where “foul example
in most minds begets its likeness,” the vices will ever find their
favorite haunts; while the virtues, on the contrary, will always
most abound in the country. So far as regards the virtues, if
we are to take them untested, this is doubtless true. And so
far, also, as regards the mere vices, or actual transgressions of
morality, we need, perhaps, to have no hesitation in yielding
our assent to the position of the poet. But, if he intends to
include in the category those flagrant crimes which stand first
in the gradation of human offences, we must be permitted to
dissent from that part of the view; and not only dissent, but
claim that truth will generally require the very reversal of the
picture, for of such crimes we believe it will be found, on
examination, that the country ever furnishes the greatest proportion.
In cities, the frequent intercourse of men with their
fellow-men, the constant interchange of the ordinary civilities
of life, and the thousand amusements and calls on their attention
that are daily occurring, have almost necessarily a tendency
to soften or turn away the edge of malice and hatred, to divert
the mind from the dark workings of revenge, and prevent it
from settling into any of those fatal purposes which result in
the wilful destruction of life, or some other gross outrage on
humanity. But in the country, where, it will be remembered,
the first blood ever spilled by the hand of a murderer cried up
to Heaven from the ground, and where the meliorating circumstances
we have named as incident to congregated life are almost
wholly wanting, man is left to brood in solitude over his
real or fancied wrongs, till all the fierce and stormy passions
of his nature become aroused, and hurry him unchecked along
to the fatal outbreak. In the city, the strong and bad passions
of hate, envy, jealousy, and revenge, softened in action, as we
have said, on finding a readier vent in some of the conditions
of urban society, generally prove comparatively harmless. In
the country, finding no such softening influences, and no such
vent, and left to their own workings, they often become dangerously
concentrated, and, growing more and more intensified as
their self-fed fires are permitted to burn on, at length burst
through every barrier of restraint, and set all law and reason
alike at defiance. “Thinking something unusual to be brewing overhead, we
are off for the lake about 10 A. M. “Dear Claud, — You do not know, you cannot know, what
the effort costs me to write this. You do not know, you cannot
know, what I have felt, what I have suffered since I became
fully apprised of the painful circumstances under which
your late expedition was brought to a close; and especially
since I became apprised of the lamentable scenes that occurred
in the court, growing out of that unfortunate — O how unfortunate,
expedition! Before that court was held, and during the
doubtful days which intervened between it and your escape from
the terrible perils that attended your return, the hope that all
would, all must turn out right, in some measure relieved my
harrowing fears and anxieties; though even then the latter was
to the former as days of cloud to minutes of sunshine. But,
when I heard what occurred at the trial, — the bitter crimination
and recrimination, the open rupture, the menaces exchanged,
and the angry parting, — and, more alarming than all,
when I saw my father return in that fearful mood, from which
he still refuses to be diverted, the last gleam of hope faded, and
all became cloud, all gloom, — dark, impenetrable, and forbidding.
My nights, when sleep at length comes to close my
weeping eyes, are passed in troubled dreams; my days in more
troubled thoughts, which I would fain believe were dreams
also. O, why need this be? I have done nothing, — you
have done nothing; and I have no doubt of your faith and
honor for performing all I shall ever require at your hands.
But, Claud, I love you, and all
`Know love is woman's happiness;'
and all know, likewise, that the ties of love are but gossamer
threads, which a word may rupture, a breath shake, and even
the power of unpleasant associations destroy. Still, is there
not one hope, — the hope that this thread, hitherto so blissfully
uniting our hearts, subtle and attenuated as it is, may yet
be preserved unbroken, if we suffer no opinion, no word, no
syllable to escape our lips, respecting the unfortunate affair
that is embroiling our parents; if we wholly deny ourselves
the pleasure of that social intercourse which, to me, at least,
has thus far made this wilderness an Eden of delight? But
can it be thus preserved, if we keep up that intercourse, as in
the sunshine of our love, — those pleasant, fleeting, rosy months,
when I was so happy, O so very happy, in the feelings of the
present and the prospects of the future? No, no, it is not possible,
it is not possible for you to come here, and encounter my
father in such a mood, and then return and receive the upbraidings
of your own, that you are joining or upholding the house
of his foes. It is not possible for you to do this, and your
heart receive no jar, and mine no fears or suspicions of its continued
fealty. I dare not risk it. Then do not, dearest Claud,
O do not come here, at least for the present. Perhaps my
dark forebodings, that our connection is not to be blessed for our
future happiness, may be groundless. Perhaps the storm that
now so darkly hangs over us may pass harmlessly away.
Perhaps this painful and perplexing misunderstanding — as I
trust in Heaven's mercy it only is — may yet be placed in a light
which will admit of a full reconciliation between our respective
families. But, till then, let our relations to each other stand, if
you feel disposed to let them, precisely as we left them at our
last mournfully happy parting; for, till then, though it break
my heart, I could never, never consent to a renewal of our
intercourse. Have I said enough, and not too much? I could
not, under the almost insupportable weight of grief, fear, and
anxiety, that is distracting my brain, and crushing my poor
heart, — I could not say less, I dare not say more. O Claud,
Claud, why has this dreadful cloud come over us? O, pray that
it may be speedily removed, and once more let in, on our pained
and perplexed hearts, the sunshine of their former happiness.
Dearest Claud, good-by; don't come, but don't forget “Mrs. Elwood, my Friend, — Our Mr. Phillips has been
here, and told us all that has happened in your settlement.
Mrs. Elwood, I am greatly troubled at the loss your family
suffer, with the rest of the hunters, but still more troubled and
fearful for your husband and your noble son, about what may
grow out of the quarrel with that dark man. My father knew
him, time long past, and said there would be mischief done the
company, when we heard he was going with them. I hope Mr.
Elwood will keep out of his way; and I hope, Claud, — O, I
cannot write the thought. Mrs. Elwood, I am very unhappy.
I sometimes wish your brave and noble son had suffered me to
go down and be lost in the dark, wild waters of those fearful
rapids. By the goodness of my white father, whom I am proud
22
to hope you may some time see with me in your settlement, I
have all the comforts and indulgences that a heart at ease could
desire; warm, carpeted rooms, dress, books, company, smooth
flatterers, who mean little, it may be, together with real friends,
who mean much, and prove it by actions, which do not, like
words, ever deceive. And yet, Mrs. Elwood, they are all
now without any charms for me. My heart is in your settlement.
The grand old forest, and the bright lake, were always
things of beauty for me, before I saw him; but now, when associated
with him, — O, Mrs. Elwood, if I did not know you
had something of what I meant should forever be kept secret
from all but the Great Eye, in your keeping, and if you had
not made me feel you would be my discreet friend, and keep it
as safe from all as an unspoken thought, I would not for worlds
write what I have, and what I every moment find my pen on
the point of writing more fully. O, how I wish I could make
you understand, without words, what I feel, — how I grieve
over what I almost know must be vain hopes, and vainer visions
of happiness! You have sometimes had, it may be, very
bright, delightful dreams, which seemed to bring you all your
heart desired; and then you suddenly awoke, and found all had
vanished, leaving you dark and sad with disappointment and
regret. If you have, you may fancy what my thoughts are
undergoing every hour of the day. O, how my heart is drawn
away towards you! I often feel that I must fly up, like a bird,
to be there. I should come now, but for what might be thought.
I shall certainly be there in early spring. I can't stay away,
though I may come only to see what I could bear less easy
than these haunting, troubled fancies. Mrs. Elwood, adieu.
You won't show this, or breathe a word about it, — I know you
won't; you could not be so cruel as that. Mrs. Elwood, may
I not sign myself your friend? “To Claud Elwood:— My career is ended, at last. Well,
I have the satisfaction of knowing that I have been nobody's fool
nor nobody's tool. Early perceiving that nine out of ten were only
the stupid instruments of the tenth man, the world over, I resolved
to go into the system, and did, and improved on it so as to make
nineteen out of twenty tools to me, — that is all. I have no great
fault to find with men generally, though I always despised the
whole herd; for I knew that, if they used me well, it was only
because they dared not do otherwise. I don't write this, however,
to preach upon that, but to let you know another thing, to chew
upon. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 223 | Author: | Thompson
Daniel P.
(Daniel Pierce)
1795-1868 | Add | | | Title: | The rangers, or, The Tory's daughter | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Towards night, on the twelfth of March, 1775, a richly-equipped
double sleigh, filled with a goodly company of well-dressed
persons of the different sexes, was seen descending from
the eastern side of the Green Mountains, along what may now
be considered the principal thoroughfare leading from the upper
navigable portions of the Hudson to those of the Connecticut
River. The progress of the travellers was not only slow, but
extremely toilsome, as was plainly evinced by the appearance of
the reeking and jaded horses, as they labored and floundered
along the sloppy and slumping snow paths of the winter road,
which was obviously now fast resolving itself into the element of
which it was composed. Up to the previous evening, the dreary
reign of winter had continued wholly uninterrupted by the advent
of his more gentle successor in the changing rounds of the
seasons; and the snowy waste which enveloped the earth would,
that morning, have apparently withstood the rains and suns of
months before yielding entirely to their influences. But during
the night there had occurred one of those great and sudden
transitions from cold to heat, which can only be experienced in
northern climes, and which can be accounted for only on the supposition,
that the earth, at stated intervals, rapidly gives out large
quantities of its internal heats, or that the air becomes suddenly
rarefied by some essential change or modification in the state of
the electric fluid. The morning had been cloudless; and the
rising sun, with rays no longer dimly struggling through the
dense, obstructing medium of the dark months gone by, but, with
the restored beams of his natural brightness, fell upon the smoking
earth with the genial warmth of summer. A new atmosphere,
indeed, seemed to have been suddenly created, so warm and
bland was the whole air; while, occasionally, a breeze came over
the face of the traveller, which seemed like the breath of a
heated oven. As the day advanced, the sky gradually became
overcast — a strong south wind sprung up, before whose warm
puffs the drifted snow-banks seemed literally to be cut down,
like grass before the scythe of the mower; and, at length, from
the thickening mass of cloud above, the rain began to descend
in torrents to the mutely recipient earth. All this, for a while,
however, produced no very visible effects on the general face of
nature; for the melting snow was many hours in becoming
saturated with its own and water from above. Nor had our
travellers, for the greater part of the day, been much incommoded
by the rain, or the thaw, that was in silent, but rapid
progress around and beneath them; as their vehicle was a covered
one, and as the hard-trodden paths of the road were the last
to be affected. But, during the last hour, a great change in the
face of the landscape had become apparent; and the evidence
of what had been going on unseen, through the day, was now
growing every moment more and more palpable. The snow
along the bottom of every valley was marked by a long, dark
streak, indicating the presence of the fast-collecting waters beneath.
The stifled sounds of rushing streams were heard issuing
from the hidden beds of every natural rill; while the larger
brooks were beginning to burst through their wintry coverings,
and throw up and push on before them the rending ice and
snow that obstructed their courses to the rivers below, to which
they were hurrying with increasing speed, and with seemingly
growing impatience at every obstacle they met in their way.
The road had also become so soft, that the horses sunk nearly to the
flank at almost every step, and the plunging sleigh drove heavily
along the plashy path. The whole mass of the now saturated
and dissolving snow, indeed, though lying, that morning, more
than three feet deep on a level, seemed to quiver and move,
as if on the point of flowing away in a body to the nearest
channels. Vermont was ushered into political existence midst storm and
tempest. We speak both metaphorically and literally; for it is
a curious historical fact, that her constitution, the result of the
first regular movement ever made by her people towards an
independent civil government, was adopted during the darkest
period of the revolution, at an hour of commotion and alarm,
when the tempest of war was actually bursting over her borders
and threatening her entire subversion. And, as if to make the
event the more remarkable, the adoption took place amidst a
memorable thunder-storm, but for the happening of which, at that
particular juncture, as will soon appear, that important political
measure must have been postponed to a future period, and a
period, too, when the measure, probably, would have been defeated,
and the blessings of an independent government forever
lost, owing to the dissensions, which, as soon as the common
danger was over, New York and New Hampshire combined to
scatter among her people. The whole history of the settlement
and organization of the state, indeed, exhibits a striking anomaly,
when viewed with that of any other state in the Union. She
may emphatically be called the offspring of war and controversy.
The long and fierce dispute for her territory between the colonies
above named had sown her soil with dragon teeth, which
at length sprang up in a crop of hardy, determined, and liberty-loving
men, who, instead of joining either of the contending parties,
soon resolved to take a stand for themselves against both.
And that stand, when taken, they maintained with a spirit and
success, to which, considering the discouragements, difficulties,
and dangers they were constantly compelled to encounter, history
furnishes but few parallels. But although every step of her progress,
from the felling of the first tree in her dark wilderness to
her final reception into the sisterhood of the states, was marked
by the severest trials, yet the summer of 1777 — the period to
which the remainder of our tale refers — was, for her, far the most
gloomy and portentous. And still it was a period in which she
filled the brightest page of her history, and, at the same time, did
more than in any other year towards insuring her subsequent
happy destiny. “You are hereby appointed by the Council of Safety to go
through this and the neighboring towns, bordering on the British
line of march; to spy out the resorts of the tories; to mark
and identify all inimical persons; to gain all the information
that can be obtained respecting the movements of the enemy at
large; and make report, from time to time, to this council or
some field officer of our line.*
* Those who may doubt the probability that such a commission would
be issued by this body, would do well to consult that part of the journal
of their proceedings, at this period, which has been preserved and published,
in which will be found several similar ones, to serve as specimens
of the many contained in the part that was lost, and to show how
searching were the operations of these vigilant guardians of the cause of
liberty in Vermont, and how various the instruments they made use of
to effect their objects.
“You remember your promise, Sabrey, to visit me the first
opportunity. That opportunity now occurs. Captain Jones and
other friends have presented your father's name at head-quarters
for promotion; and he has now, I am informed, received an
appointment. If he accepts, as I am sure he will, I hope you will
accompany him, and remain with me. I have just received one
of those letters so precious to me: he says the army will probably
move on to Fort Edward next week, the obstructions in
the road being now mostly removed; so that, by the time you
arrive, I shall probably be enabled to introduce you to the beautiful
and accomplished ladies of whom he has so much to say, —
such as the Countess of Reidesel, Lady Harriet Ackland, and
others, who accompany their husbands in the campaign. But
you will perhaps say that he is interested in praising these ladies
for the love and heroism which prompt them to brave such
fatigues and dangers for the sake of their lords, since he is
warmly urging me to consent to an immediate union, that I may
follow their example. He says, in his last letter, — and I think
truly, — that I cannot long remain where I am, in a section which,
he evidently anticipates, will soon become a frightful scene of
strife and bloodshed; and that I must therefore go away with
my friends, and leave him, perhaps forever, or put myself under
his protection in the army. And he seems hurt that I hesitate in
a choice of the alternatives. On the other hand, my connections
and friends here think it would be little short of madness in me
to yield to my lover's proposal. The people about here are
greatly alarmed at the expected approach of the British army,
which is known to be accompanied by a large body of Indians.
Many are already removing, and nearly all preparing to go.
The crisis hastens, and yet I am undecided. Prudence points
one way, love the other. What shall I do? O Sabrey, what
shall I do? Should you come on with your father, I think I
should feel a confidence in going with you to the British encampment.
Come then, my friend, come quickly; for I feel as if I
could not go without friends, and especially a female friend, to
accompany me; while, at the same time, I feel as if some irresistible
destiny would compel me to the attempt. And yet why
should I hesitate to take any step which he advises? Why refuse
to share with him any dangers which he may encounter? And
why should my anticipations of the future, which have ever, till
recently, during my happy intimacy with Mr. Jones, been so
bright and blissful, be clouded now? I know not; I know not
why it should be so; but lately my bosom has become disturbed by
strange misgivings, and my mind perplexed by dark and undefined
apprehensions. I must not, however, indulge them; and
your presence, I know, would entirely dissipate them. I repeat,
therefore, come, and that quickly. Adieu. “I am at the British head-quarters — not exactly a prisoner,
but evidently a closely-watched personage, having reached here,
with my captors, after a forced and fatiguing journey, which,
however, was not made unpleasant by any disrespectful treatment.
9 *
Although the party, to whom I became a prisoner, have
been frightened back or recalled, and the expedition, of which
they were the advance, given up, yet I think it my duty to say,
that another, and much more formidable one, is in agitation against
Bennington. I hope our people will be prepared for it, and
show these haughty Britons that they do not deserve the name of
the undisciplined rabble of poltroons and cowards by which I here
daily hear them branded. “This is a work I can cheerfully recommend, for in my estimation it
is the best collection of Hymn Tunes that has appeared for several years,
and one of the best ever published in this country. In style, the Music is
very chaste and pleasing, and in its arangement excellent. Being generally
plain and easy of performance, it is admirably adapted to the wants
of Country Choirs. I shall be glad to see the work more extensively
used, and shall take much pleasure in introducing it in my Schools. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 224 | Author: | Thompson
Maurice
1844-1901 | Add | | | Title: | Hoosier mosaics | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | No matter what business or what pleasure
took me, I once, not long ago, went to Colfax.
Whisper it not to each other that I was seeking
a foreign appointment through the influence
of my fellow Hoosier, the late Vice-President
of the United States. O no, I didn't go
to the Hon. Schuyler Colfax at all; but I went
to Colfax, simply, which is a little dingy town,
in Clinton County, that was formerly called
Midway, because it is half way between Lafayette
and Indianapolis. It was and is a place
of some three hundred inhabitants, eking out
an aguish subsistence, maintaining a swampy,
malarious aspect, keeping up a bilious, nay,
an atra-bilious color, the year round, by sucking
like an attenuated leech at the junction,
or, rather, the crossing of the I. C. & L., and
the L. C. & S. W. railroads. It lay mouldering,
like something lost and forgotten, slowly
rotting in the swamp. “Come to see us, even if you won't stay but
one day. Come right off, if you're a Christian
girl. Zach Jones is dying of consumption and
is begging to see you night and day. He says
he's got something on his mind he wants to
say to you, and when he says it he can die
happy. The poor fellow is monstrous bad off,
and I think you ought to be sure and come.
We're all well. Your loving uncle, Mr. Editor—Sir: This, for two reasons, is
my last article for your journal. Firstly: My
time and the exigencies of my profession will
not permit me to further pursue a discussion
which, on your part, has degenerated into the
merest twaddle. Secondly: It only needs, at
my hands, an exposition of the false and fraudulent
claims you make to classical attainments,
to entirely annihilate your unsubstantial and
wholly underserved popularity in this community,
and to send you back to peddling your
bass wood hams and maple nutmegs. In order
to put on a false show of erudition, you lug
into your last article a familiar Latin sentence.
Now, sir, if you had sensibly foregone any attempt
at translation, you might, possibly, have
made some one think you knew a shade more
than a horse; but “whom the gods would destroy
they first make mad.” “Editor of the Star—Dear Sir: In answer
to your letter requesting me to decide between
yourself and Mr. Blodgett as to the
correct English rendering of the Latin sentence
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” allow me to
say that your free translation is a good one, if
not very literal or elegant. As to Mr. Blodgett's,
if the man is sincere, he is certainly
crazy or wofully illiterate; no doubt the latter. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 225 | Author: | Trowbridge
J. T.
(John Townsend)
1827-1916 | Add | | | Title: | Lucy Arlyn | | | | Published: | 2003 | | | | 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 a proud day for Archy Brandle and
his mother when Lucy Arlyn came out to their
house to make a friendly visit and to drink tea. “You promised to grant me a favor. This is
what I am directed to require of you. Find yourself at Dr.
Biddikin's to-morrow at three, P.M. There you will meet a
disagreeable little old woman, with yellow hair and a sour
temper, named “Miss Lucy Arlyn. Respected Madam, — The reason
you saw the undersigned a-fishing to-day, and which you may
have seen him on previous occasions passing with rod and line
by the brook which meandures beyond the house which has
the honor of being your residence (viz., Jehiel Hedge's), the
undersigned might explain, and would astonish you, if you
would but grant an interview which he has sought in this way
in order to get a word with you; not venturing to call openly,
fear of offence: though he has in his possession facts of the
most utmost importance to you, whom I fear have been
wronged by a man I have long served faithfully, and blinded
my eyes to his misdeeds, but whom I now suspect is a villain
of the darkest calibre” — “I can no longer be of use to you, and I go; having
already staid a day too long. My spiritual gift — for which
alone you valued me — went before. I lost it when I lost
myself. It will return to me only when my tranquillity returns;
which can never be with you. I loved you, Guy
Bannington. There, take my heart; tread it beneath your
proud feet. I neither hate nor love you now. I am ice.
The universe wails around me; but I hear it with dull ears.
Farewell! I am weary, and wish to sleep.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 228 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | | Title: | Francis Berrian, or, The Mexican patriot | | | | 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 autumn of this year I set out from Massachusetts
for the remote regions of the southwest on the
Spanish frontier, where I reside. When I entered the
steam-boat from Philadelphia to Baltimore, having taken
a general survey of the motley group, which is usually
seen in such places, my eye finally rested on a young
gentleman, apparently between twenty-five and thirty,
remarkable for his beauty of face, the symmetry of his
fine form, and for that uncommon union of interest,
benevolence, modesty, and manly thought, which are
so seldom seen united in a male countenance of great
beauty. The idea of animal magnetism, I know, is
exploded. I, however, retain my secret belief in the
invisible communication between minds, of something
like animal magnetism and repulsion. I admit that this
electric attraction of kindred minds at first sight, and
antecedent to acquaintance, is inexplicable. The world
may laugh at the impression, if it pleases. I have,
through life, found myself attracted, or repelled at first
sight, and oftentimes without being able to find in the
objects of these feelings any assignable reason, either
for the one or the other. I have experienced, too,
that, on after acquaintance, I have very seldom had
occasion to find these first impressions deceptive. It is
of no use to inquire, if these likes and dislikes be the
result of blind and unreasonable prejudice. I feel that
they are like to follow me through my course. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 229 | Author: | Flint
Timothy
1780-1840 | Add | | | Title: | The Shoshonee Valley | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | At Length the south breeze began once more to
whisper along the valley, bringing bland airs, spring
birds, sea fowls, the deep trembling roar of unchained
mountain streams, a clear blue sky, magpies and orioles,
cutting the ethereal space, as they sped with
their peculiar business note, on the great instinct errand
of their Creator to the budding groves. The
snipe whistled. The pheasant drummed on the fallen
trunks in the deep forest. The thrasher and the
robin sang; and every thing, wild and tame, that had
life, felt the renovating power, and rejoiced in the retraced
footsteps of the great Parent of nature. The
inmates of William Weldon's dwelling once more
walked forth, in the brightness of a spring morning,
choosing their path where the returning warmth had
already dried the ground on the south slopes of the
hills. The blue and the white violet had already
raised their fair faces under the shelter of the fallen
tree, or beneath the covert of rocks. The red bud
and the cornel decked the wilderness in blossoms; and
in the meadows, from which the ice had scarcely disappeared,
the cowslips threw up their yellow cups
from the water. As they remarked upon the beauty
of the day, the cheering notes of the birds, the deep
hum of a hundred mountain water-falls, and the exhilarating
influence of the renovation of spring, William
Weldon observed in a voice, that showed awakened
remembrances—`dear friends, you have, perhaps,
none of you such associations with this season,
as now press upon my thoughts, in remembrances
partly of joy and sadness. Hear you those million
mingled sounds of the undescribed dwellers in the
spring-formed waters? How keenly they call up the
fresh recollections of the spring of my youth, and my
own country! The winter there, too, is long and severe.
What a train of remembrances press upon me!
I have walked abroad in the first days of spring.—
When yet a child, I was sent to gather the earliest
cowslips. I remember my thoughts, when I first dipped
my feet in the water, and heard these numberless
peeps, croaks, and cries; and thought of the countless
millions of living things in the water, which seemed
to have been germinated by spring; and which appeared
to be emulating each other in the chatter of
their ceaseless song. How ye return upon my
thoughts, ye bright morning visions! What a fairy
creation was life, in such a spring prospect! How
changed is the picture, and the hue of the dark brown
years, as my eye now traces them in retrospect.—
These mingled sounds, this beautiful morning, these
starting cowslips, the whole present scene brings back
1*
the entire past. Ah! there must be happier worlds
beyond the grave, where it is always spring, or the
thoughts, that now spring in my bosom, had not been
planted there.' Minister of Jesus—A wretch in agony implores you
by Him, who suffered for mankind, to have mercy
upon him. He extenuates nothing. The vilest outrage
and abandonment were his purpose. He confesses,
that he deserves the worst. His only plea is,
that he was ruined by the doting indulgence of his
parents. Luxury and pleasure have enervated him,
and he has not the courage to bear pain. Death is
horror to him, and Oh, God! Oh, God!—the terrible
death of a slow fire. Christ pitied his tormentors.
Oh! let Jessy pity me. The agony is greater, than
human nature can bear. Oh! Elder Wood, come,
and pray with, and for `They have unbound my hands, and furnished me
with the means of writing this. They are dancing
round the pile, on which I am to suffer by fire. My
oath, that I would possess thee, at the expense of
death and hell, rings in my ears, as a knell, that would
awaken the dead. Oh God! have mercy. Every
thing whirls before my eyes, and I can only pray, that
you may forget, if you cannot forgive | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 238 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | The American lounger, or, Tales, sketches, and legends, gathered in sundry journeyings | | | | 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 am a bachelor, dear reader! This I deem necessary
to premise, lest, peradventure, regarding me as
one of that class whose fate is sealed,
— “As if the genius of their stars had writ it,”
you should deem me traitor to my sworn alliance.
For what has a Benedict to do with things out of the
window, when his gentle wife—(what sweet phraseology
this last! How prettily it looks printed!) his
“gentle wife” with her quiet eye, her sewing and
rocking chair on one side, and his duplicates or triplicates,
in the shape of a round chunk of a baby, fat as
a butter-ball; two or three roguish urchins with tops
and wooden horses, and a fawn-like, pretty daughter
of some nine years, with her tresses adown her neck,
and a volume of Miss Edgworth's “Harry and Lucy”
in her hand, which she is reading by the fading
twilight—demand and invite his attention on the
other. “How I yearn to be once more folded in your sisterly
embrace, to lean my aching head upon your bosom,
and pour my heart into yours. It is near midnight.
Edward has gone out to seek some means of earning
the pittance which is now our daily support. Poor
Edward! How he exists under such an accumulation
of misery, I know not. His trials have nearly broken
his proud and sensitive spirit. Since his cruel arrest,
his heart is crushed. He will never hold up his head
again. He sits with me all day long, gloomy and desponding,
and never speaks. Oh how thankful I feel
that he has never yet been tempted to embrace the
dreadful alternative to which young men in his circumstances
too often fly! May he never fly to the
oblivious wine cup to fly from himself. In this, dear
Isabel, God has been, indeed, merciful to me. Last
night Edward came home, after offering himself even
as a day laborer, and yet no man would hire him, and
threw himself upon the floor and wept long and bitterly.
When he became calmer, he spoke of my sufferings
and his own, in the most hopeless manner, and
prayed that he might be taken from the world, for Pa
would then forgive me. But this will never be. One
grave will hold us both. I have not a great while to
live, Isabel! But I do not fear to die! Edward! 'tis
for Edward my heart is wrung. Alas his heart is hardened
to every religious impression—the Bible he
never opens, family prayers are neglected, and affliction
has so changed him altogether, that you can no
longer recognise the handsome, agreeable and fascinating
Edward you once knew. Oh, if pa would relent,
how happy we might all be again. If dear Edward's
debts were paid, and they do not amount to
nine hundred dollars altogether, accumulated during
the three years of our marriage, he might become an
ornament to society, which none are better fitted to
adorn. Do, dearest Isabel, use your influence with pa,
for we are really very wretched, and Edward has been
so often defeated in the most mortifying efforts to obtain
employment—for no one would assist him because
he is in debt—(the very reason why they should) that
he has not the resolution to subject himself again to
refusals, not unfrequently accompanied with insult,
and always with contempt. My situation at this time,
dearest sister, is one also of peculiar delicacy, and I
need your sisterly support and sympathy. Come and
see me, if only for one day. Do not refuse me this,
perhaps the last request I shall ever make of you.
Plead eloquently with pa, perhaps he will not persevere
longer in his cruel system of severity. Edward
is not guilty—he is unfortunate. But alas, in this
world, there is little distinction between guilt and misery!
Come, dearest Isabel—I cannot be said “No.”
I hear Edward's footstep on the stair. God bless and
make you happier than your wretched sister, “I have learned the extremity of your anger against
Edward. Your vindictive cruelty has cast him friendless
upon the world, and I fly to share his fortune. I
must ask your forgiveness for the step I am about to
take. I am betrothed to Edward by vows that are
registered in Heaven.—Alas! it is his poverty alone that
renders him so hateful to you—for once you thought
there was no one like Edward. God bless you, my
dear father, and make you happy here and hereafter. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 239 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | Morris Græme, or, The cruise of the Sea-Slipper | | | | 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 the original intention of the author of the “Dancing Feather”
to have extended that work to fifty chapters, or the usual length of a novel
of two volumes. But the editor of the paper to whom it was communicated
in weekly numbers, requested, after six chapters had been published,
that it should be limited to ten chapters. This desire of the publisher the
author complied with, though with injury both to the plot and the harmonious
construction of the Romance. The favorable reception of “The
Dancing Feather,” even in this abridged character, induced its publisher to
reprint and re-issue it in a cheap octavo form. Its unlooked for popularity
in this shape, and the frequent calls for it even now, has induced the writer
to carry out, in some degree, his first intention, and to present the public
with a Sequel, commencing with the night of the mysterious departure
from her anchoring ground of the schooner “The Dancing Feather”—to
the story with which title the reader is referred. I am now near my end—but, as I believe death to be an
everlasting sleep, I feel no alarm. The grave is rest. I envy the
clod and the rock which are dead and feel not; and rejoice that
I shall soon be their fellow! But I would say a word to you before
I am annihilated. I wish you to know what you are ignorant of
respecting me. I am an Englishman descended of a noble family.
My grand-father was an Earl, my mother a Countess. A step-mother
made my parental roof a hell, and at the age of sixteen I fled
from it. I shipped as a common seaman; and having a naturedly
vicious turn, (I conceal nothing now) I soon contracted the worst
vices. In my twentieth year, enraged by a blow inflicted by the
Captain, Iconspired, and heading a mutiny took possession of the
brig, killing the Captain with my own hands and so wiping out the
foul stain he had blackened me with. We steered for the coast
of Africa; and, tempted by the great wealth realized by slave-stealing,
we engaged in the traffic and took a cargo to the West Indies.
The immense returns by the way of profit, with the absence of all
principle, led me to engage in it for a long period, till at length,
after several years, my name was known throughout the West Indies
and inspired terror all along the African coast. The wealth
I accumulated was enormous; and the guilt with which it was obtained
was equally vast. But what is guilt but a name? The
grave hides alike evil and good: at least this is my belief, and at
this hour it is a consoling one. If there were a God I know
there would be a hell for me. But my conscience is calm and
gives me no warning of a hereafter; and so I die without fear. A
peaceful state, my son! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 240 | Author: | Ingraham
J. H.
(Joseph Holt)
1809-1860 | Add | | | Title: | Caroline Archer, or, The miliner's apprentice | | | | 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: | CAROLINE ARCHER Was the most beautiful
milliner's apprentice that tripped along
the streets of Philadelphia. She was just
seventeen; with the softest brown hair, that
would burst into a thousand ringlets over the
neck and shoulders, all she could do to teach
it to lay demurely on her cheek, as a milliner's
apprentice should do. Her eyes were of
the deepest blue of the June sky after a fine
shower, not that showers often visited her
brilliant orbs, for she was as happy-hearted
as a child, and to sing all day long was as
natural to her as to the robin red-breast—at
least it was until she became a milliner's apprentice,
when she was forbid to sing by her
austere mistress, as if a maiden's fingers
would not move as nimbly with a cheerful
carol on her tongue. Her smile was like
light, it was so beaming; and then it was so
full of sweetness, and gentle-heartedness!
It was delightful to watch her fine face with
a smile mantling its classical features, and
her coral lips just parted showing the most
beautiful teeth in the world. One could not
but fall in love with her outright at sight—
yet there was a certain elevated purity and
dignity about her that checked lightness or
thought of evil in relation to her. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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