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201Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  Moods  
 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: The room fronted the west, but a black cloud, barred with red, robbed the hour of twilight's tranquil charm. Shadows haunted it, lurking in corners like spies set there to watch the man who stood among them mute and motionless as if himself a shadow. His eye turned often to the window with a glance both vigilant and eager, yet saw nothing but a tropical luxuriance of foliage scarcely stirred by the sultry air heavy with odors that seemed to oppress not refresh. He listened with the same intentness, yet heard only the clamor of voices, the tramp of feet, the chime of bells, the varied turmoil of a city when night is defrauded of its peace by being turned to day. He watched and waited for something; presently it came. A viewless visitant, welcomed by longing soul and body as the man, with extended arms and parted lips received the voiceless greeting of the breeze that came winging its way across the broad Atlantic, full of healthful cheer for a home-sick heart. Far out he leaned; held back the thick-leaved boughs already rustling with a grateful stir, chid the shrill bird beating its flame-colored breast against its prison bars, and drank deep draughts of the blessed wind that seemed to cool the fever of his blood and give him back the vigor he had lost.
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202Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  Work  
 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: “AUNT BETSEY, there 's going to be a new Declaration of Independence.”
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203Author:  Aldrich Thomas Bailey 1836-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Marjorie Daw, and other people  
 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: Letter received. Dillon be hanged. I think I ought to be on the ground. Stay where you are. You would only com-plicate matters. Do not move until you hear from me. My being at The Pines could be kept secret. I must see her. Do not think of it. It would be useless. R. W. D. has locked M. in her room. You would not be able to effect an interview. Locked her in her room. Good God. That settles the question. I shall leave by the twelve-fifteen express. Mr Van Twiller Dear Sir — i am verry great-full to you for that Bracelett. it come just in the nic of time for me. The Mademoiselle Zabriski dodg is about plaid out. My beard is getting to much for me. i shall have to grow a mustash and take to some other line of busyness, i dont no what now, but will let you no. You wont feel bad if i sell that Bracelett. i have seen Abrahams Moss and he says he will do the square thing. Pleas accep my thanks for youre Beautiful and Unexpected present.
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204Author:  Aldrich Thomas 1836-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Prudence Palfrey  
 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: Parson Wibird Hawkins was in trouble. The trouble was not of a pecuniary nature, for the good man had not only laid up treasures in heaven, but had kept a temporal eye on the fluctuations of real estate in Rivermouth, and was the owner of three or four of the nicest houses in Hollyhock Row. Nor was his trouble of a domestic nature, whatever it once might have been, for Mrs. Wibird Hawkins was dead this quarter of a century. Nor was it of the kind that sometimes befalls too susceptible shepherds, for the parson had reached an age when the prettiest of his flock might have frisked about him without stirring a pulse. You will probably be surprised to receive a letter from me after all these months of silence,—or, rather, years, for it is nearly three years, is n't it, since we parted? I have been in no mood or condition to write before, and I write now only because I may not have another chance to relieve you of any uncertainty you may feel on my account. I have thought it my duty to do this since I came to the resolve, within a few days, to give up my hopeless pursuits here and go into the army. If you do not hear from me or of me in the course of four or six months, you will know that my bad luck, which began in Montana, has culminated somewhere in the South. Then you can show this to my Uncle Dent, or even before, if you wish; I leave it to your discretion. Perhaps I shall do something in the war; who knows? It is time for me to do something. I am a failure up to date. I'm not sure I am a brave man, but I have that disregard for life which well fits me to lead forlorn-hopes,—and I've led many a forlorn-hope these past three years, Joe. Place the balance due me on account, and the six U. S. bonds you hold for me, to the credit and subject to the order of Colonel Peyton Todhunter. Go to Chicago instantly. Draw funds from Rawlings. Will join you at 6666. You have failed. He is here. Has Colonel Todhunter drawn the funds described in the despatch of yesterday? If not, stop payment until further advices.
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205Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  Dora Darling  
 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: “Hi! Dat good un! Bully for de 'federates, dis chile say. Dey's showed deyse'fs out now! Cut um stick in de night, eh, an' put! Jes' like de wicked flea in de Bible dat no one wan't a tryin' fer to cotch. Golly, I wish I'd got de rebel flea 'tween dis yer finger an' fum! Wouldn' I crack um 'bout de shortes'? An' de Yankees got dar umformation from a 'telligent conterban', did dey? Wish't I know'd dat 'telligent feller! I'd like 'o shake um paw, an' gib um a chaw ob ole Varginny for de sarvice he done to ebery nigger in de Souf w'en he help de Yankees. Wish't I was in his brogans, — reckon dey wouldn' fin' no 'telligenter nor no willin'er conterban' dan ole Pic ud make ef he got de chance fer ter show um sentermen's; but de trouble wid dis yer nigger is, him candle's got a bushel basket atop ob um, an' de Bible hese'f say dat dat ar' ain't no kin' ob a fashion. Bud ef de Yankees 'ud come an' kick off de ole basket—golly, what a confurgation o' smartness 'ud bust on dey eyesight!” “Dear Dora: I'm going further South with my regiment. I have been sick, and am not very well now, and don't believe I will ever come back. I'd like ever so much to see you before I go, more especially because I think I never will see you again. I darsn't come inside the pickets, but this fellow will bring you to me to-night, if you'll come. Do come, for I want to see you badly. “And now, Mr. Brown, I am going to tell you something so surprising, that I can hardly believe it myself. Only think of Captain Karl's mother being my own dear mother's sister, the very aunt Lucy that I have so long wanted to find! And only think, too, that Charlie (that's what we call Captain Karl almost always here) knew all the time, or suspected, at least; because, when he wrote to his mother about me, and said my name was Dora Darling, she wrote back word that her sister married a man named Darley, and told him to inquire if it wasn't the same name. Then he took up my little Bible one day, when I had been reading to him, and saw mother's name, `Mary Lee,' written in it; and his own mother's name was Lucy Lee; so he knew then right off. But he made believe to his mother that he didn't know; and he never said a word to me; but he says, if I had concluded not to go with him, he should have told me, though he didn't want to, because he wanted to surprise us both.
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206Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  A New England tale, and Miscellanies  
 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: “In returning to my lodgings, late last evening, I was accosted by a man, muffled in a cloak. I recognised his voice at once. It was our unfortunate townsman, Wilson. He has succeeded à merveille in an ingenious plan of escape from durance, and sails in the morning for one of the West India islands, where he will, no doubt, make his debut as pirate, or in some other character, for which his training has equally qualified him. A precious rascal he is indeed; but, allow me a phrase of your fraternity, sir, I had no light to give him up to justice, after he had trusted to me; and more than that, for he informs me, that he had, since his confinement, written to the Woodhulls to engage me as counsel, and through them he learnt the fact of my being in this city. This bound me, in some sort, to look upon the poor devil as my client; and, as it would have been my duty to get him out of the clutches of the law, it would have been most ungracious to have put him into them, you know, since his own cleverness, instead of mine, has extricated him. He has explained to me, and he informs me has communicated to you, (for he says he cannot trust his mother to make them public,) the particulars of the sequestration of the old woman's money. I think Miss Elton never imparted to you the event that led to the sudden engagement, from which she has chosen to absolve me; and you have yet to learn, that there is generosity, disinterestedness in the world, that may rival the virtue which reposes under the shadow of the broad-brim. But, your pardon. I have wiped out all scores. The reception I have met with in this finest of cities, has been such as to make me look upon the incidents of an obscure village as mere bagatelles, not worthy of a sigh from one who can bask in the broad sunshine of ladies' favour and fortune's gifts. One word more, en passant, of Wilson's explanations. I rejoice in it sincerely, on Miss Elton's account. She deserved to have suffered a little for her childishness in holding herself bound by an exacted promise, for having put herself in a situation in which her guilt would have seemed apparent to any one but a poor dog whom love had hoodwinked—pro tempore. She is too young and too beautiful a victim for the altar of conscience. However, I forgive her, her scruples, her fanaticism, and her cruelties; and wish her all happiness in this world and the next, advising her not to turn anchorite here, for the sake of advancement there. “Mr. Allen came home three weeks ago, and said it was not sure you would be a colonel; but Mr. Oakley saw it in the paper, yesterday, that you are one, and I hurraed and hurraed till my little mother said I should make her deaf. And mother dressed up, and put the blue ribbon you sent her, round her neck, and looked so beautiful; Mr. Oakley said the ribbon was just a match for her eyes, and then such a rosy colour came into her cheeks. “Dear and Honoured Husband:—Your `little wifie' (I am glad you still call me so) thanks you from the bottom of her heart for your long letters. How kind of you, after your long days' marches, and your hard, hard work, to sit up at night to write to us, and especially to me, who am but a poor and short letter-writer myself. Oh, my dear heart, when will this tedious war be over, and you be at home again? Not that every thing does not go on very well. Dear sister Sylvy sees to every thing, does every thing. I am a poor thriftless wife to you, and I am afraid I shall not even be a mere ornamental piece of furniture—a `jim crack' of William Freeman's (as you remember who, called me), if you do not soon come home. I am getting thinner and thinner, and you will have to put on your spectacles (I cannot believe you wear spectacles!) to see me. “Dear and Respected Brother:—Your letter was duly received two weeks after date. I thank you for its approving words; also for your profitable advice, concerning the farm, stock, and so forth, which shall—the Lord willing—be attended to. “My dear Sir—Family afflictions compel me to resign my commission. With ardent prayers for my country—all I can now give her— “My dear Sir—I have just succeeded to the possession of an immense fortune, and hasten to offer you the only reparation in my power for a wrong deeply regretted by— Yours with sentiments of immeasurable respect— “I am clean discouraged. It seems as if Providence crowded on me. There is black disappointment, turn which way I will. I have had an offer to go to Orleans, and part pay beforehand, which same I send you herewith. Ellen read—“Mrs. O'Roorke,—You have been a kind friend to me, and I thank you; and give you, in token of my gratitude, all that I have in this room. My clothes please give to Ellen, and the purse with the two dollars, in the corner of the drawer, to Pat. With many thanks from me,
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207Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The league of the Miami  
 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: Whoever has attempted to trace through its various windings, or plunge into and divine the mysteries of that mysterious, inexplicable thing, the human heart, has ever found himself perplexed—lost in a mazy bewilderment. Well sung one of England's greatest poets, “The proper study of mankind is man,” for man is a strange, strange being; his life is a medley of inconsistencies—his heart a labyrinth of good and evil. There is in our nature a propensity, a desire for concealment, which may be termed somewhat hypocritical, and which gives the outward, and the inward man, two strong contrasting aspects. Were it not for this, we should not see the gentle smile upon the surface, while the death-worm was gnawing at the core. We should not be daily told that such an one is happy, such an one enjoys all the beauties of life, while he, or she, is looking forward to the cold and silent tomb to end the misery of a life of woe. Why is this? Why do we seek to seem other than we feel— than we are? Ah, there is the mystery. That it is so, none will deny. Were it not for this—were our features the index of our thoughts—where would be the sacredness of grief? or the holy charm of love? And is not one sacred to us? Does not the other seem holy in our eyes? Do we not hoard them in our heart of hearts, as the miser hoards his treasures from the gaze of the world? And do we not, like him, feel a secret pleasure in brooding over them in silence, alone? Could we not do this—did the world know us as we know ourselves—not all the terrors of death, not all the terrors of a great hereafter, would be sufficient to hinder thousands from rashly plunging into the mystic, UNKNOWN BEYOND! In this do we not behold an All-wise ordering? Madam:—When this reaches you, I shall probably be no more. I believe that we are often warned of our approaching dissolution, and I feel that mine is near at hand. What my end will be, God only knows; yet, while I contemplate and write, I shudder. Seven years ago, I placed in your charge Cicely Edgerton—”
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208Author:  Bierce Ambrose 1842-1914?Requires cookie*
 Title:  The fiend's delight  
 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 
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209Author:  Ward Artemus 1834-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Artemus Ward, his book ; with many comic illustrations  
 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: Sir—I'm movin along—slowly along—down tords your place. I want you should rite me a letter, sayin how is the show bizniss in your place. My show at present consists of three moral Bares, a Kangaroo (a amoozin little Raskal—t'would make you larf yerself to deth to see the little cuss jump up and squeal) wax figgers of G. Washington Gen. Tayler John Bunyan Capt. Kidd and Dr. Webster in the act of killin Dr. Parkman, besides several miscellanyus moral wax statoots of celebrated piruts & murderers, &c., ekalled by few & exceld by none. Now Mr. Editor, scratch orf a few lines sayin how is the show bizniss down to your place. I shall hav my hanbills dun at your offiss. Depend upon it. I want you should git my hanbills up in flamin stile. Also git up a tremenjus excitemunt in yr. paper 'bowt my onparaleld Show. We must fetch the public sumhow. We must wurk on their feelins. Cum the moral on 'em strong. If it's a temprance community tell 'em I sined the pledge fifteen minits arter Ise born, but on the contery ef your peple take their tods, say Mister Ward is as Jenial a feller as we ever met, full of conwiviality, & the life an sole of the Soshul Bored. Take, don't you? If you say anythin abowt my show say my snaiks is as harmliss as the new born Babe. What a interestin study it is to see a zewological animil like a snaik under perfeck subjecshun! My kangaroo is the most larfable little cuss I ever saw. All for 15 cents. I am anxyus to skewer your infloounce. I repeet in regard to them hanbills that I shall git 'em struck orf up to your printin office. My perlitercal sentiments agree with yourn exackly. I know thay do, becawz I never saw a man whoos didn't.
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210Author:  Ward Artemus 1834-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Artemus Ward  
 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: I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 5th inst., in which you invite me to deliver an address before your excellent agricultural society. My friend Mr. D. T. T. Moore, of the Rural New Yorker, thinks if I “keep on” I will get in the Poor House in about two years.
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211Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Requires cookie*
 Title:  A romance of the republic  
 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: “Dearly Beloved,—I am so happy that I cannot wait a minute without telling you about it. I have done a naughty thing, but, as it is the first time I ever disobeyed you, I hope you will forgive me. You told me never to go to the plantation without you. But I waited and waited, and you did n't come; and we were so happy there, that lovely day, that I longed to go again. I knew it would be very lonesome without you; but I thought it would be some comfort to see again the places where we walked together, and sang together, and called each other all manner of foolish fond names. Do you remember how many variations you rung upon my name, — Rosabella, Rosalinda, Rosamunda, Rosa Regina? How you did pelt me with roses! Do you remember how happy we were in the garden bower? How we sang together the old-fashioned canzonet, `Love in thine eyes forever plays'? And how the mocking-bird imitated your guitar, while you were singing the Don Giovanni serenade? “Dear Sir, — If you can spare an hour this evening to talk with me on a subject of importance, you will greatly oblige yours, “Dearest and best Friends,—It would take days to explain to you all that has happened since I wrote you that long, happy letter; and at present I have not strength to write much. When we meet we will talk about it more fully, though I wish to avoid the miserable particulars as far as possible. The preparations I so foolishly supposed were being made for me were for a rich Northern bride,—a pretty, innocent-looking little creature. The marriage with me, it seems, was counterfeit. When I discovered it, my first impulse was to fly to you. But a strange illness came over me, and I was oblivious of everything for four months. My good Tulee and a black woman named Chloe brought me back to life by their patient nursing. I suppose it was wrong, but when I remembered who and what I was, I felt sorry they did n't let me go. I was again seized with a longing to fly to you, who were as father and mother to me and my darling little sister in the days of our first misfortune. But I was too weak to move, and I am still far from being able to bear the fatigue of such a journey. Moreover, I am fastened here for the present by another consideration. Mr. Fitzgerald says he bought us of papa's creditors, and that I am his slave. I have entreated him, for the sake of our unborn child, to manumit me, and he has promised to do it. If I could only be safe in New Orleans, it is my wish to come and live with you, and find some way to support myself and my child. But I could have no peace, so long as there was the remotest possibility of being claimed as slaves. Mr. Fitzgerald may not mean that I shall ever come to harm; but he may die without providing against it, as poor papa did. I don't know what forms are necessary for my safety. I don't understand how it is that there is no law to protect a defenceless woman, who has done no wrong. I will wait here a little longer to recruit my strength and have this matter settled. I wish it were possible for you, my dear, good mother, to come to me for two or three weeks in June; then perhaps you could take back with you your poor Rosa and her baby, if their lives should be spared. But if you cannot come, there is an experienced old negress here, called Granny Nan, who, Tulee says, will take good care of me. I thank you for you sympathizing, loving letter. Who could papa's friend be that left me a legacy? I was thankful for the fifty dollars, for it is very unpleasant to me to use any of Mr. Fitzgerald's money, though he tells Tom to supply everything I want. If it were not for you, dear friends, I don't think I should have courage to try to live. But something sustains me wonderfully through these dreadful trials. Sometimes I think poor Chloe's prayers bring me help from above; for the good soul is always praying for me.
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212Author:  Twain Mark 1835-1910Requires cookie*
 Title:  The celebrated jumping frog of Calaveras County  
 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: IN compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it certainly succeeded. “Dear Mark: We spent the evening very pleasantly at home yesterday. The Rev. Dr. Macklin and wife, from Peoria, were here. He is an humble laborer in the vineyard, and takes his coffee strong. He is also subject to neuralgia—neuralgia in the head—and is so unassuming and prayerful. There are few such men We had soup for dinner likewise. Although I am not fond of it. O Mark! why don't you try to lead a better life? Read II. Kings, from chap. 2 to chap. 24 inclusive. It would be so gratifying to me if you would experience a change of heart. Poor Mrs. Gabrick is dead. You did not know her. She had fits, poor soul. On the 14th the entire army took up the line of march from—” “Uncle Mark, if you was here, I could tell you about Moses in the Bulrushers again, I know it better now. Mr. Sowerby has got his leg broke off a horse. He was riding it on Sunday. Margaret, that's the maid, Margaret has took all the spittoons, and slop-buckets, and old jugs out of your room, because she says she don't think you're ever coming back any more, you been gone so long. Sissy McElroy's mother has got another little baby. She has them all the time. It has got little blue eyes, like Mr. Swimley that boards there, and looks just like him. I have got a new doll, but Johnny Anderson pulled one of its legs out. Miss Doosenberry was here to-day; I give her your picture, but she said she didn't want it. My cat has got more kittens—oh! you can't think — twice as many as Lottie Belden's. And there's one, such a sweet little buff one with a short tail, and I named it for you. All of them's got names now—General Grant, and Halleck, and Moses, and Margaret, and Deuteronomy, and Captain Semmes, and Exodus, and Leviticus, and Horace Greeley—all named but one, and I am saving it because the one that I named for You's been sick all the time since, and I reckon it'll die. [It appears to have been mighty rough on the short-tailed kitten, naming it for me—I wonder how the reserved victim will stand it.] Uncle Mark, I do believe Hattie Caldwell likes you, and I know she thinks you are pretty, because I heard her say nothing couldn't hurt your good looks—nothing at all—she said, even if you was to have the small-pox ever so bad, you would be just as good-looking as you was before. And my ma says she's ever so smart. [Very.] So no more this time, because General Grant and Moses is fighting. To Mr. Mark Twain: The within parson, which I have sot to poettry under the name and style of “He Done His Level Best,” was one among the whitest men I ever see, and it an't every man that knowed him that can find it in his heart to say he's glad the poor cuss is busted and gone home to the States. He was here in an early day, and he was the handyest man about takin' holt of any thing that come along you most ever see, I judge. He was a cheerful, stirrin' cretur', always doin' something, and no man can say he ever see him do any thing by halvers. Preachin' was his nateral gait, but he warn't a man to lay back and twidle his thums because there didn't happen to be nothin' doin' in his own espeshial line—no, sir, he was a man who would meander forth and stir up something for hisself. His last acts was to go his pile on “kings-and,” (calklatin' to fill, but which he didn't fill,) when there was a “flush” out agin him, and naterally, you see, he went under. And so he was cleaned out, as you may say, and he struck the home-trail, cheerful but flat broke. I knowed this talonted man in Arkansaw, and if you would print this humbly tribute to his gorgis abillities, you would greatly obleege his onhappy friend. “St. Clair Higgins,” Los Angeles.—“My life is a failure; I have adored, wildly, madly, and she whom I love has turned coldly from me and shed her affections upon another. What would you advise me to do?” “Arithmeticus,” Virginia, Nevada.—“If it would take a cannon ball 3⅓ seconds to travel four miles, and 3⅜ seconds to travel the next four, and 3⅝ seconds to travel the next four, and if its rate of progress continued to diminish in the same ratio, how long would it take it to go fifteen hundred millions of miles?” “Discarded Lover.”—“I loved, and still love, the beautiful Edwitha Howard, and intended to marry her. Yet, during my temporary absence at Benicia, last week, alas! she married Jones. Is my happiness to be thus blasted for life? Have I no redress?” “Arithmeticus,” Virginia, Nevada.—“I am an enthusiastic student of mathematics, and it is so vexatious to me to find my progress constantly impeded by these mysterious arithmetical technicalities. Now do tell me what the difference is between geometry and conchology?” Distressing Accident.—Last evening about 6 o'clock, as Mr. William Schuyler, an old and respectable citizen of South Park, was leaving his residence to go down town, as has been his usual custom for many years, with the exception only of a short interval in the spring of 1850, during which he was confined to his bed by injuries received in attempting to stop a runaway horse by thoughtlessly placing himself directly in its wake and throwing up his hands and shouting, which, if he had done so even a single moment sooner, must inevitably have frightened the animal still more instead of checking its speed, although disastrous enough to himself as it was, and rendered more melancholy and distressing by reason of the presence of his wife's mother, who was there and saw the sad occurrence, notwithstanding it is at least likely, though not necessarily so, that she should be reconnoitering in another direction when incidents occur, not being vivacious and on the lookout, as a general thing, but even the reverse, as her own mother is said to have stated, who is no more, but died in the full hope of a glorious resurrection, upwards of three years ago, aged 86, being a Christian woman and without guile, as it were, or property, in consequence of the fire of 1849, which destroyed every blasted thing she had in the world. But such is life. Let us all take warning by this solemn occurrence, and let us endeavor so to conduct ourselves that when we come to die we can do it. Let us place our hands upon our hearts, and say with earnestness and sincerity that from this day forth we will beware of the intoxicating bowl.—First Edition of the Californian. “Dear Sir: My object in writing to you is to have you give me a full history of Nevada. What is the character of its climate? What are the productions of the earth? Is it healthy? What diseases do they die of mostly? Do you think it would be advisable for a man who can make a living in Missouri to emigrate to that part of the country? There are several of us who would emigrate there in the spring if we could ascertain to a certainty that it is a much better country than this. I suppose you know Joel H. Smith? He used to live here; he lives in Nevada now; they say he owns considerable in a mine there. Hoping to hear from you soon, etc., I remain yours, truly, Dearest William: Pardon my familiarity —but that name touchingly reminds me of the loved and lost, whose name was similar. I have taken the contract to answer your letter, and although we are now strangers, I feel we shall cease to be so if we ever become acquainted with each other. The thought is worthy of attention, William. I will now respond to your several propositions in the order in which you have fulminated them.
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213Author:  Twain Mark 1835-1910Requires cookie*
 Title:  The gilded age  
 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: JUNE, 18—. Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyramid of large blocks, called the “stile,” in front of his house, contemplating the morning.
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214Author:  Twain Mark 1835-1910Requires cookie*
 Title:  The innocents abroad, or, The new Pilgrim's progress  
 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: FOR months the great Pleasure Excursion to Europe and the Holy Land was chatted about in the newspapers every where in America, and discussed at countless firesides. It was a novelty in the way of Excursions—its like had not been thought of before, and it compelled that interest which attractive novelties always command. It was to be a picnic on a gigantic scale. The participants in it, instead of freighting an ungainly steam ferry-boat with youth and beauty and pies and doughnuts, and paddling up some obscure creek to disembark upon a grassy lawn and wear themselves out with a long summer day's laborious frolicking under the impression that it was fun, were to sail away in a great steamship with flags flying and cannon pealing, and take a royal holiday beyond the broad ocean, in many a strange clime and in many a land renowned in history! They were to sail for months over the breezy Atlantic and the sunny Mediterranean; they were to scamper about the decks by day, filling the ship with shouts and laughter—or read novels and poetry in the shade of the smoke-stacks, or watch for the jelly-fish and the nautilus, over the side, and the shark, the whale, and other strange monsters of the deep; and at night they were to dance in the open air, on the upper deck, in the midst of a ball-room that stretched from horizon to horizon, and was domed by the bending heavens and lighted by no meaner lamps than the stars and the magnificent moon—dance, and promenade, and smoke, and sing, and make love, and search the skies for constellations that never associate with the “Big Dipper” they were so tired of; and they were to see the ships of twenty navies—the customs and costumes of twenty curious peoples —the great cities of half a world—they were to hob-nob with nobility and hold friendly converse with kings and princes, Grand Moguls, and the anointed lords of mighty empires! The undersigned will make an excursion as above during the coming season, and begs to submit to you the following programme: “Monsieur le Landlord—Sir: Pourquoi don't you Mettez some savon in your bed-chambers? Est-ce que vous pensez I will steal it? La nuit passée you charged me pour deux chandelles when I only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec glace when I had none at all; tout les jours you are coming some fresh game or other on me, mais vous ne pouvez pas play this savon dodge on me twice. Savon is a necessary de la vie to any body but a Frenchman, et je l'aurai hors de cet hôtel or make trouble. You hear me. Allons. The steamer Quaker City has accomplished at last her extraordinary voyage and returned to her old pier at the foot of Wall street. The expedition was a success in some respects, in some it was not. Originally it was advertised as a “pleasure excursion.” Well, perhaps, it was a pleasure excursion, but certainly it did not look like one; certainly it did not act like one. Any body's and every body's notion of a pleasure excursion is that the parties to it will of a necessity be young and giddy and somewhat boisterous. They will dance a good deal, sing a good deal, make love, but sermonize very little. Any body's and every body's notion of a well conducted funeral is that there must be a hearse and a corpse, and chief mourners and mourners by courtesy, many old people, much solemnity, no levity, and a prayer and a sermon withal. Three-fourths of the Quaker City's passengers were between forty and seventy years of age! There was a picnic crowd for you! It may be supposed that the other fourth was composed of young girls. But it was not. It was chiefly composed of rusty old bachelors and a child of six years. Let us average the ages of the Quaker City's pilgrims and set the figure down as fifty years. Is any man insane enough to imagine that this picnic of patriarchs sang, made love, danced, laughed, told anecdotes, dealt in ungodly levity? In my experience they sinned little in these matters. No doubt it was presumed here at home that these frolicsome veterans laughed and sang and romped all day, and day after day, and kept up a noisy excitement from one end of the ship to the other; and that they played blind-man's buff or danced quadrilles and waltzes on moonlight evenings on the quarter-dock; and that at odd moments of unoccupied time they jotted a laconic item or two in the journals they opened on such an elaborate plan when they left home, and then skurried off to their whist and euchre labors under the cabin lamps. If these things were presumed, the presumption was at fault. The venerable excursionists were not gay and frisky. They played no blind-man's buff; they dealt not in whist; they shirked not the irksome journal, for alas! most of them were even writing books. They never romped, they talked but little, they never sang, save in the nightly prayer-meeting. The pleasure ship was a synagogue, and the pleasure trip was a funeral excursion without a corpse. (There is nothing exhilarating about a funeral excursion without a corpse.) A free, hearty laugh was a sound that was not heard oftener than once in seven days about those decks or in those cabins, and when it was heard it met with precious little sympathy. The excursionists danced, on three separate evenings, long, long ago, (it seems an age,) quadrilles, of a single set, made up of three ladies and five gentlemen, (the latter with handkerchiefs around their arms to signify their sex,) who timed their feet to the solemn wheezing of a melodeon; but even this melancholy orgie was voted to be sinful, and dancing was discontinued.
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215Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  Hospital sketches  
 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: “I want something to do.”
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216Author:  Twain Mark 1835-1910Requires cookie*
 Title:  Roughing it  
 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: My brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada Territory — an office of such majesty that it concentrated in itself the duties and dignities of Treasurer, Comptroller, Secretary of State, and Acting Governor in the Governor's absence. A salary of eighteen hundred dollars a year and the title of “Mr. Secretary,” gave to the great position an air of wild and imposing grandeur. I was young and ignorant, and I envied my brother. I coveted his distinction and his financial splendor, but particularly and especially the long, strange journey he was going to make, and the curious new world he was going to explore. He was going to travel! I never had been away from home, and that word “travel” had a seductive charm for me. Pretty soon he would be hundreds and hundreds of miles away on the great plains and deserts, and among the mountains of the Far West, and would see buffaloes and Indians, and prairie dogs, and antelopes, and have all kinds of adventures, and may be get hanged or scalped, and have ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all about it, and be a hero. And he would see the gold mines and the silver mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon when his work was done, and pick up two or three pailfuls of shining slugs, and nuggets of gold and silver on the hillside. And by and by he would become very rich, and return home by sea, and be able to talk as calmly about San Francisco and the ocean, and “the isthmus” as if it was nothing of any consequence to have seen those marvels face to face. What I suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot describe. And so, when he offered me, in cold blood, the sublime position of private secretary under him, it appeared to me that ENVIOUS CONTEMPLATIONS. 504EAF. Page 020. In-line image of a man standing in plaid pants and talking to a man sitting at a desk reading a news paper. the heavens and the earth passed away, and the firmament was rolled together as a scroll! I had nothing more to desire. My contentment was complete. At the end of an hour or two I was ready for the journey. Not much packing up was necessary, because we were going in the overland stage from the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and passengers were only allowed a small quantity of baggage apiece. There was no Pacific railroad in those fine times of ten or twelve years ago— not a single rail of it. “Dear Sir: I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note. It cannot be possible, Sir, that `turnips restrain passion'—at least the study or contemplation of turnips cannot—for it is this very employment that has scorched our poor friend's mind and sapped his bodily strength.—But if they do restrain it, will you bear with us a little further and explain how they should be prepared? I observe that you say `causes necessary to state,' but you have omitted to state them. `Potatoes do sometimes make vines; turnips remain passive: cause unnecessary to state. Inform the poor widow her lad's efforts will be vain. But diet, bathing, etc. etc., followed uniformly, will wean him from his folly—so fear not.
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217Author:  Cooke John Esten 1830-1886Requires cookie*
 Title:  Mohun, or, The last days of Lee and his paladins  
 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: “Tell, you know who, that I have just seen the honorable Mr. —” (here the writer gave the real name and official position of Mr. X—), “and have had a long conversation with him. He is fully convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke without reserve of matters the most private. He is in high spirits, and looks on the rebel cause as certain to succeed. I never saw one more blinded to the real state of things. Richmond is full of misery, and the people seem in despair, but this high official, who represents the whole government, is evidently certain of Lee's success. I found him in a garrulous mood, and he did not conceal his views. The government has just received heavy supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad—others are coming—the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising—and Lee, he stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch, which he read me, from England. This startled me. There seems no doubt that England is about to recognize the Confederacy. When he had finished reading this dispatch, on the back of which I could see the English postmark, he said to me—these are his words:—`You see, things were never brighter; it is only a question of time; and by holding out a little longer, we shall compel the enemy to retire and give up the contest. With the re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one hundred thousand men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all General Grant's assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause was never more hopeful.' “I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come and see me. Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting, in addition to
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218Author:  Cooke John Esten 1830-1886Requires cookie*
 Title:  Wearing of the gray  
 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: These “Personal Portraits” were undertaken with the design of making better known and understood the great actors in the recent struggle who are the subjects of them. “Dear Sir: My telegram will have informed you that I deem a change of commanders in your department necessary, but it is due to your zealous and patriotic services that I should explain the reasons that prompted my action. The situation of affairs is such that we can neglect no means calculated to develop the resources we possess to the greatest extent, and make them as efficient as possible. To this end it is essential that we should have the cheerful and hearty support of the people and the full confidence of the soldiers, without which our efforts would be embarrassed, and our means of resistance weakened. I have reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that you cannot command the united and willing co-operation which is so essential to success. Your reverses in the Valley, of which the public and the army judge chiefly by the results, have, I fear, impaired your influence both with the people and the soldiers, and would add greatly to the difficulties which will, under any circumstances, attend our military operations in S. W. Va. While my own confidence in your ability, zeal, and devotion to the cause, is unimpaired, I have nevertheless felt that I could not oppose what seems to be the current of opinion, without injustice to your reputation and injury to the service. I therefore felt constrained to endeavour to find a commander who would be more likely to develop the strength and resources of the country and inspire the soldiers with confidence, and to accomplish this purpose, thought it proper to yield my own opinion, and defer to that of those to whom alone we can look for support. I am sure that you will understand and appreciate my motives, and that no one will be more ready than yourself to acquiesce in any measure which the interests of the country may seem to require, regardless of all personal considerations. Thanking you for the fidelity and energy with which you have always supported my efforts, and for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested in the service of the country, I am, very respectfully and truly, your obedient servant, “My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own, Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from. Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good. “Know Ye, That reposing special confidence in the patriotism, fidelity, and ability of Antonia J.—, I, James E. B. Stuart, by virtue of the power vested in me as Brigadier-General of the Provisional Army of the Confederate States of America, do hereby appoint and commission her my honorary Aide-de-Camp, to rank as such from this date. She will be obeyed, respected, and admired by all true lovers of a noble nature. “I hereby bind myself, on my word of honour, not to take up arms against the Confederate States, or in any manner give aid and comfort to the Federal cause, until I am regularly exchanged. When I left home, my dear boys, I promised to write to you whenever an opportunity occurred, and give you some of my views and opinions. When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home, I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown) which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to the delights of camp. The Army of Northern Virginia had surrendered! Strange, incredible announcement!
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219Author:  Cozzens Frederic S. (Frederic Swartwout) 1818-1869Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Sparrowgrass papers, or, Living in the country  
 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 is a good thing to live in the country. To escape from the prison-walls of the metropolis— the great brickery we call “the city”—and to live amid blossoms and leaves, in shadow and sunshine, in moonlight and starlight, in rain, mist, dew, hoar-frost, and drouth, out in the open campaign, and under the blue dome that is bounded by the horizon only. It is a good thing to have a well with dripping buckets, a porch with honey-buds, and sweet-bells, a hive embroidered with nimble bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to the eaves, curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers in your bedroom, a rooster on the roof, and a dog under the piazza.
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220Author:  Cummins Maria S. (Maria Susanna) 1827-1866Requires cookie*
 Title:  The lamplighter  
 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 growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it would be light for half an hour or more; but within the close streets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon the wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much earnestness. The house-door, which was open behind her, was close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares, near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the beautiful snow had lost all its purity. “Dear Gertrude: As there were plenty of Boston folks at the wedding, I daresay you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's marriage. He married the widder Holbrook, the same I wrote you about. She was determined to have him, and she's got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain. He likes a quiet life, and he's lost his chance of that,— poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havana, but I guess he thought better of it, and did n't really mean to have her. When we got to New Orleans, however, she was there; and the long and short of it is, she carried her point, and married him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against it, and always treated the widder as pleasantly as could be; but, dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many young folks as there are about all the time now, and so much noise and confusion? For my part, I an't used to it, and don't pretend that I think it's agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude, and will be surprised to find we've got so far as New York, on our way home,—my way home, I should say, for I'm the only one that talks of coming at present. The truth is, I kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there was so much going on I did n't get a chance; and, after that horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I was n't good for anything for a week. But Emily was so anxious to have you written to that I could n't put it off any longer than until to-day. Poor Emily is n't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick, —it's low spirits and nervousness, I suppose, more than anything. She gets tired and worried very quick, and is easily startled and disturbed, which did n't use to be the case. I think likely it's the new wife, and all the nieces, and other disagreeable things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what she was pleased to have her father married again; but she has n't seemed quite happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how sad she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt dreadfully not to get any more letters. To come to the principal thing, however, they are all going to Europe,—Emily and all. I take it it's the new wife's idea; but, whoever proposed the thing, it's all settled now. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I would not hear of such a thing; I would as soon be hung as venture on the sea again, and I told him so, up and down. So now he has written for you to go with Emily; and, if you are not afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always needs somebody, on account of her blindness. I do not think she has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind, for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife. “I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and fit her for her many trials and labors. The letter written soon after Mr. Cooper's death, is the last that has reached me, and I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe; my heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me, but not if she leave any other duty behind. I trust to you, my love, to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness. Mrs. Graham has two nieces who are with us at the hotel. They are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very beautiful girls, especially Belle Clinton, whom you have seen in Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted affection of “Miss Gertrude Flint: I am married, and intend to go abroad on the 28th of April; my daughter will accompany us, and, as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I am induced to propose that you join us in New York, and attend the party, as a companion to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for her. I thus put it in your power, by complying with our wishes, to do away from my mind the recollection of your past behavior; and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the month, it is important you should be here in the course of a fortnight; and, if you will write and name the day, I will myself meet you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston, I hope you will come as soon as possible. As you will be obliged to incur expenses, I enclose a sum of money sufficient to cover them. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, and I will see that all is made right before you leave. Trusting to your being now come to a sense of your duty, I am ready to subscribe myself your friend, “My Dear Mrs. Jeremy: As yesterday was the day on which we expected to sail for Europe, you will be somewhat astonished to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn that the foreign tour is now indefinitely postponed. Only two days since, Mr. Graham was seized with his old complaint, the gout, and the attack proved so violent as seriously to threaten his life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable for months to come. His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as it is possible for him to bear the journey, we shall all hasten to the house in D—. I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces, who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, of course, greatly disappointed at the entire change in their plans for the summer. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to meet him in Paris. “My darling Gertrude: My much-loved child,—for such you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone wrung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to my heart and call you mine. A dozen times before had I been seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. Had I seen you happy, gay and light-hearted, I would not have asked to share your joy, far less would I have east a shadow on your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred, and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for I am a wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe. “My dear, dear Father,—If I may dare to believe that you are so, and, if not that, my best of friends,—how shall I write to you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery! Father! blessed word! O, that my noble friend were indeed my father! Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas! I feel a sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. I never before remember to have heard the name of Philip Amory. My sweet, pure and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, I trust, to my own. Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide world; never had, or could have. One might as well war with an angel of Heaven as with a creatures so holy and lovely as she.
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