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1Author:  Rimsky-Korsakov Nikolay 1844-1908Add
 Title:  Principles of orchestration  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: The following is the formation of the string quartet and the number of players required in present day orchestras, either in the theatre or concert-room.
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2Author:  Hall James 1793-1868Add
 Title:  Legends of the West  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: The beautiful forests of Kentucky, when first visited by the adventurous footsteps of the pioneers, presented a scene of native luxuriance, such as has seldom been witnessed by the human eye. So vast a body of fertile soil had never before been known to exist on this continent. The magnificent forest trees attained a gigantic height, and were adorned with a foliage of unrivalled splendour. The deep rich green of the leaves, and the brilliant tints of the flowers, nourished into full maturity of size and beauty by the extraordinary fertility of the soil, not only attracted the admiration of the hunter, but warmed the fancy of the poet, and forcibly arrested the attention of the naturalist. As the pioneers proceeded step by step, new wonders were discovered; and the features of the country, together with its productions, as they became gradually developed, continued to present the same bold peculiarities and broad outlines. The same scale of greatness pervaded all the works of nature. The noble rivers, all tending towards one great estuary, swept through an almost boundless extent of country, and seemed to be as infinite in number as they were grand in size. The wild animals were innumerable. The forests teemed with living creatures, for this was the paradise of the brute creation. Here were literally “the cattle upon a thousand hills.” The buffaloe, the elk, and the deer roamed in vast herds, and all the streams were rich in those animals whose fur is so much esteemed in commerce. Here lurked the solitary panther, the lion of our region, and here prowled the savage wolf. The nutritious fruits of the forest, and the juicy buds of the exuberant thickets, reared the indolent bear to an enormous size. Even the bowels of the earth exhibited stupendous evidences of the master hand of creation. The great limestone beds of the country were perforated with spacious caverns, of vast extent and splendid appearance, many of which yielded valuable minerals; while the gigantic bones found buried in the earth, far exceeding in size those of all known animals on the globe, attested the former existence in this region, of brutes of fearful magnitude.
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3Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The brothers  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: It has been a day of storm and darkness—the morning dawned upon the mustering of the elements—vast towering clouds rose mass upon mass, stratum above stratum, till the whole horizon was over-canopied. Then there was a stern and breathless pause, as if the tempest-demon were collecting his energies in silent resolution; anon its own internal weight appeared to rend the vaporous shroud asunder, and the big rain poured down in torrents. At moments, indeed, the sunbeams have struggled through the driving rack, and darted down their pensiles of soft light, showing even more blithely golden than their wont, from the very contrast of the surrounding gloom. Still—noon arrived, and there was no cessation of the strife. At that hour, the blue lightning was splitting the tortured clouds in twain, and the thunder roaring and crashing close above our heads. The melancholy wailing of the winds among the sculptured pinnacles and ivyed turrets of our Elizabethan mansion—the sobbing and creaking of the immemorial oak-trees, their huge branches wrestling with the gale—the dashing and pattering of the heavy rain—and, deeper and more melancholy than all, the gradually increasing moan of the distant river, have conspired all day long to cast a gloom alike upon the face of nature and the heart of man. Yet now evening has brought back peace, and calm delicious sunshine. “They have prevailed, and we are torn asunder —when, oh when to meet? They dragged me from your bleeding body—they bound me on a horse— they bore me—Oh God! Oh God!—that I should VOL. I.—Q not dare to tell you whither!—No, my beloved, I dare not—such is the sole condition on which the miserable satisfaction of writing these few lines is granted. They tell me that your wounds are slight—that you will have regained your strength ere this shall reach you; they tell me that you will again be in the field of glory: but they tell me that I shall never see you more—they tell me that death—your death, Harry, shall follow on the slightest effort at my rescue—and they tell me truly! You know not— oh! may you never know—the boundless wickedness, the wellnigh boundless power of my persecutor. Never have I done aught, planned aught, for my deliverance, but it has been revealed to him, and blighted in the very bud, almost before I had conceived it. And he—this fearful and malignant being—he has sworn an oath, which I have never heard him break, or bend from, that you shall not have well put foot in stirrup to search out my prison, ere the assassin's knife shall reach your heart! Oh, my beloved, mine is a hard, a miserable duty—my heart overflowing with deep unutterable love, I am compelled to hide myself from him whom to see were the very acme of imagined happiness. I am compelled—I am compelled to pray you, as you value—not life, for what noble spirit ever thinks of life save as of a loan that must be one day repaid— but as you value all that is more dear than life—all that ennobles it, and makes it holy—as you value your ancestral name—your own untarnished fame —ay! and—I will write it, though it chokeme—as you value me, I do beseech you to forget—Oh never! never! think not I meant to say forget me!— but to forego me—to be patient—to bear, as I now bear, in silence—and in hope! Were there a chance—a possibility, however slight or desperate, of your success—I would write, Gird yourself up for the task like a warrior for the battle-field—and follow me to the very ends of the earth; but now I know that so to do could not in aught aid our hopes —aid them, did I say!—aid!—them!it would sever them for ever by the pitiless steel—it would bury them in the darkness of an untimely tomb.
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4Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The brothers  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: Hastily springing to my feet, I had already donned my clothes, and was buckling on my Milan corslet, when old Martin entered my chamber, fully equipped as a supernumerary subaltern of my regiment. It was one of those customs of the day, which has, since the time of which I write, fallen completely into disuse, that every corps, independent of its regular stands of national and regimental colours, was distinguished by a smaller standard, bearing the coat-armorial of its commanding officer. This usage—which had probably originated during the civil wars, wherein each regiment was, for the most part, raised by its colonel from among his own territorial and feudatory dependants—I was particular to maintain in my own instance the more scrupulously, as being a stranger in a foreign land, and of course conscious that, unless asserted by myself, my personal dignity would not be much regarded by others. It was partly with a view to this, as well as to secure to myself a bold and trusty follower in the field, that I had solicited for the foster-brother of my father an appointment which certainly would appear more suitable for a far younger man. But no one, who had seen Martin Lydford on that morning, would have deemed it possible that nearly two-thirds of a century had passed over the head of the erect and powerful veteran, who unfolded, with a smile of daring exultation, the tattered and time-honoured banner of my ancient house. He wore a heavy antique helmet, with breast and back-pieces of bright steel; immense jack-boots, and high buff gauntlets reaching nearly to his elbows. A long broadsword of English manufacture— which, by-the-way, had done good service in its time on many a stricken field—with a poniard of formidable dimensions, completed his personal equipment. But in addition to these he carried, slung transversely across his shoulders, my petronel, a choice piece of Spanish workmanship, with an exceedingly small bore, and an indented, or, as it is now termed, a rifled[1] [1]The rifle, though a weapon of great rarity, was in use at this period; as is evident from the piece with which the regent Murray was shot, nearly a century earlier than the date of this narrative. It is preserved in the gallery of the Duke of Hamilton, and has a brass barrel slightly but distinctly rifled. barrel. It was not the fashion for officers to carry so cumbersome a weapon, but I was, at the same time, unwilling to lose a friend that had in several instances served my turn, and perhaps saved my life. The old man's eyes were full of tears as he unfurled the colours, which had not floated for many a day in action; but a sunny smile played on his lips. “Harry”—it ran thus—“once more, my own, own Harry!
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5Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  Marmaduke Wyvil, or, The maid's revenge  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: In a sequestered vale of merry England, not many miles from the county town of Worcester, there stands, in excellent preservation, even to the present day, one of those many mansions scattered through the land, which—formerly the manor houses of a race, now, like their dwellings, becoming rapidly extinct, the good old English squires— have, for the most part, been converted into farm-houses; since their old-time proprietors have, simultaneously with the growth of vaster fortunes, and the rise of loftier dignities, declined into a humbler sphere. In the days of which we write, however, Woolverton Hall was in the hands of the same family, which had dwelt there, father and son, for ages. It was a tall, irregular edifice, of bright red brick, composed of two long buildings, with steep flagged roofs and pointed gables, meeting exactly at right angles so as to form a letter L; the longer limb running due east and west, the shorter abutting on the eastern end, and pointing with its gable, southerly. In this south gable, near the top, was a tall, gothic, lanceolated window, its mullions and casings wrought of a yellowish sand-stone, to match the corner stones of all the angles, which were faced with the same material; beneath this window, which, as seen from without, appeared to reach nearly from the floor to the ceiling of the second story, was the date, 1559—the numerals, several feet in length, composed of rusty iron; and above it, on the summit of the gable, a tall weather-cock, surmounted by a vane shaped like a dolphin, which had once been fairly gilded, but now was all dim and tarnished by long exposure to the seasons. To this part of the house there were no chimneys, which was the more remarkable, that the rest of the building was somewhat superfluously adorned with these appendages, rising like columns, quaintly wrought of brickwork in the old Elizabethan style. Corresponding to the gothic window in position, though by no means so lofty, a range of five large square-topped latticed windows, divided each into four compartments by a cross-shaped stone transom, ran all along that front of the other wing, which, with the abutting chapel—for such it seemed to be—formed the interior angle of the L. From the point of the western roof, to match, as it were, the weathercock which crowned the other gable, projected a long beam or horn of stone, at an angle of about ninety degrees, curiously wreathed with a deep spiral groove, not much unlike the tusk of that singular animal, the sword-fish. “I know not, cousin Alice, that I should have written at all by this present opportunity, the barque `Good Providence,' about to sail this morning from Tower Stairs, I being at this time in London; but that some matters came to my ear last night, which I judge all-important to be made known to you forthwith; and should it seem to you, that I am overbold in touching on them, you will, I think, excuse me, seeing that I write only for your personal advantage; and further, that I once unwittingly misled you in relation to one, of whom you have thought favorably. To be brief, cousin Alice, I learned yesternight that the report which Cromwell sent to me at first, was not the truth at all; he not as yet having perused the papers! There was, indeed, a letter to Sir Edward Vavasour from Captain Wyvil; but it related solely to a projected rising in the north, which Wyvil, it would seem, discouraged; and contained not one word touching yourself, or his escape from Woolverton. All that affected you or Master Selby, was written in a long epistle, addressed to yourself, and marked on the outside, `to be delivered privately by Master Bartram.' What more it contained I know not, for it was burnt by the lord general at once, who rated, as I hear, the council very roundly for breaking private seals, and troubling their heads with women's matters. This I conceived it my duty to let you know forthwith, as you, I know, drew false conclusions from the rumor; and I, to my shame be it said, strengthened, so far as in me lay, instead of seeking to allay your indignation. I deem it therefore my bounden duty to let you know these facts; and that although it may have been indiscreet in Captain Wyvil to commit such things at all to writing, he certainly is quite exonerated from all charge of anything base or dishonorable. I am rejoiced to have it in my power to add, that something in the style and tenor of his letter, had affected the lord general so favorably, that I have been able to obtain his promise of a full pardon for yourself, and your father, within the space of six months, and a reversal of the decree of sequestration: so that, by the next spring at farthest, you may return to Woolverton. I have no doubt, moreover, so much was Cromwell gratified by the tone of Captain Wyvil's letter to Sir Edmund, deprecating any partial risings, which could but tend to bloodshed and fresh miseries, without effecting anything to aid the royal cause, and speaking with indignant condemnation of those infamous schemes which we hear of—that, if at any future period he should feel disposed to return to England, a ready abrogation of his outlawry could be obtained; he only binding himself on parole of honor, to take no hostile steps against the existing government. Should you meet with him, as you doubtless will in Paris, whither I fancy, by all we hear of Monsieur Turenne's successes, you will proceed ere long; pray say to him, should he entertain such views, he will at all times find in me, one anxious to assist him by all means in my power. I may add here, that every post that has reached us from the armies, speaks of his gallantry and conduct, as a partisan commander, in the highest terms of commendation. I have inclosed herewith bills on Parisian goldsmiths for one thousand pounds, made payable to your name; which you will indorse upon them, on receiving their value, but not sooner, as in case of loss they are useless until your name is signed upon them. I have preferred this mode, to sending them to my kind friend and cousin, Master Selby, fearing that his secluded habits and tastes for literary occupation, may render him averse, or at least indisposed, to the details of business. Praying you, my dear Mistress Alice, to hold me ever in your remembrance, and to commend me to your good father's friendship, I subscribe myself, “I charge thee come to me, on the very instant. “Thine, “Marmaduke”—thus ran the letter which cost her so much pains—“or, for the first and last time, dear Marmaduke, I have thought much and deeply on our last meeting; and if I cannot quite acquit you of having sinned against me, I must confess that in some sort I have wronged vou; this—for we two shall never meet again in this world—I wish to repair. I do not believe that you have wilfully, or with a preconceived determination, wronged me as you have done. Your constancy was not of that enduring quality—your mind not of that vigorous and resolute stamp to resist absence and brave temptation. This perhaps was not, and should not be esteemed your fault; but the misfortune rather, and frailty of your nature. I have, moreover, seen and learned to know, since we two parted, her who has been happier than I in gaining your affections—may she be happier, likewise, in retaining them! and having seen and known her, I recognize in her free soul and fearless spirit, a spell more potent than any I possess to hold dominion over the love of a mind like yours; to bring out your excellencies—for you have many such—to their brightest lustre, and to inhibit and restrain your foibles. That you should love her, therefore, and that your love for her should surpass that— perhaps but a fancy, born of circumstances and gratitude—which you once entertained for me, I do not marvel. Had you dealt uprightly by me, and candidly, all had been well. Now mark me—if I have anything for which to forgive, I do so—how freely and how happily! and if my words, wrung from me by passion, have wronged you anything, forgive me likewise! But do not, Marmaduke, from this that I write, deceive yourself, or vainly fancy that I repent of my late decision. No! I am fixed—and fixed for ever! Nay! but a thousand times more firmer since I have learned to love that beautiful and noble creature whom I give to you for your wife. Yes—start not as you read—I give to you! Cherish her, love her, honor her! for she is worthy of all cherishing, all love, all honor! Treasure her as the apple of your eye—cleave to her as your sweetest stay in time of trouble. Thus, and thus only can you now show the love that once you felt— the kindness that I hope you will feel for ever—to poor, poor Alice Selby. Yes, Marmaduke, I give her to you! may you be happy! and to be so you must be virtuous and true! I send you, herewith, what will enable you to perform the conditions of Henry Oswald. It is my own to bestow, and with my whole soul do I bestow it. Do not shrink back, do not refuse my gift, Marmaduke—do not, I beseech you. If your proud heart disdain it, think and remember, I am proud likewise; yet I humble myself to entreat you, if ever I have done you aught of unkindness—if you now owe me anything of love, or gratitude, or reparation—refuse not my poor boon! It is now the only thing that can make her, who was once your Alice, happy! By the life which I gave you! by the love which I bore you! by the affections squandered on you! the hopes blighted by you! by your own happiness, and hers to whom the gift shall unite you! I adjure you—hard though the task be to your haughty soul—refuse me not! No, Marmaduke, you will not! The old man, the good old man who loved you—he is dead. I tell you not this to grieve you, for he knew nothing which had passed from me, nor, I believe, suspected anything. His last words were a blessing upon me, and, I doubt not, upon you likewise; and in this knowledge I rejoice daily. I would not for the world, that he had thought me wronged, for that would bitterly have grieved him; and, perhaps, good and forgiving as he was, he would not have then blessed you. He is gone, Marmaduke, and I shall, ere long, follow him! and you will give us both a tear and a green spot in your memory! And you too, Marmaduke—you must one day go hence, and your bright Isabella; and we shall one day meet and know each other, not as now, through a glass darkly, but face to face. And then—then, Marmaduke, let Isabella thank me for having made her yours, and tell me you have made her happy; and that will well 9 repay me for all my transient sorrows. Fear not then—scruple not to accept this my parting gift; two persons only in the wide world besides myself know of it, and trust me, their mouths will be for ever silent. Farewell, then, my beloved! for so in this last parting—so I must call you. Peace, and prosperity, and love, and blessings be about you! Farewell! and when you think of Alice Selby, think of her as one who loved you to the very last, and prayed for you, and blessed you, and will bless you dying!
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6Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  Ringwood the rover  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: The earliest dawning of a lovely summer day, in the year 1659, was pouring its sweet light, unclouded yet with that fierce heat which renders almost insupportable the noontide hours, over the forests which encircled, with a belt of ever-during verdure, the Spanish city of St. Augustine. It was already in those days a place of much importance, with nunneries, and steepled churches, and terraced dwellings, with white walls and jalousies peeping from out the foliage of dark orange groves, and all those beautiful peculiarities of semi-Moorish taste, which lend so much of poetry and of romance to the old towns of Spain. It had its flanking walls, its ditches, and its palisades, presenting their impregnable resistance to the fierce and wily Indian, whom the relentless cruelty of the white colonist, of whatsover nation, had at length goaded into systematic and continual hostility; in seaward bastions, with water-gate and demilune, mounted with heavy cannon, and garrisoned by old Castilians, under an officer who bore the style of royal governor.
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7Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The village inn, or, The adventure of Bellechassaigne  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: On the western outskirts of a little hamlet, situated on the verge of a great forest, not many miles from Vitry, on the high-road leading from Bar le Due to Paris, there stood in the summer of 1653, a large old-fashioned inn, which has long since yielded, like all things earthly, to the consuming hand of time, but which in its day possessed no limited or narrow reputation. So excellent indeed was its accommodations, so celebrated its cuisine, and so remarkable the courtesy of the aubergist, that the cerf blanc of Lagny la Forêt, was known so well to all who journeyed in that district, that travellers would often turn aside from the direct line of their route in order to enjoy its far-famed hospitality. It was a solitary building of considerable size, situated in a spot of singular and romantic loveliness at the foot of three soft green hills, which sloped down easily on every side except the south, with two small glens between them, each watered by a bright and sparkling rivulet, which meeting at their base, swept off in easy curves through a rich level meadow, and joined a more considerable stream at the distance of a quarter of a mile, or perhaps less, to the southward. The summits of two of these green knolls, for they were indeed little more—those to the north and west, were crowned by the tall trees of the neighboring forest which covered the whole face of the country for miles in that direction, and many scattered oaks and ashes grew straggling down their sides, the outposts as it were and sentinels of the vast verdant host. The third or eastern hill, unlike its neighbors, was cleared almost entirely of wood and very richly cultivated in meadow-land and pastures, divided from each other by lines of thriving fruit-trees, among which wound a narrow sandy road toward the village, lying just out of sight beyond the summit—its tall and lance-like spire standing out clear and sharp against the sky, above the rounded brow. Just in the hollow where the streams blended their bright waters, stood the old inn, a large irregular rambling edifice, with steep projecting gables and latticed windows, no two of them alike; of every shape and size that can be fancied, and a huge oaken porch all overrun with jessamine and woodbine, facing the yellow road. Four or five weeping-willows of vast size grew on the margin of the stream, quite overarching the stone bridge, which spanned it close to the western gable, and bathed the old moss-grown roof with cool and grateful umhrage; while a small strip of garden on either side the door, fenced by a rustic paling and thickly set with sweet-briars and many-colored rose-bushes, completed the attractions of the spot. The stables and out-buildings were all behind the house, concealed from view by the nature of the ground, nor were there any indications that the house itself was one for public entertainment, unless it were an antiquated sign representing the White, Stag whence the inn's name, which swung from a cross-piece morticed into the trunk of one of the great willows, and a long horse-trough supplied with living water by a little aqueduct from a spring in the hill-side, with a stone horseblock by its end.
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8Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  Guarica, the charib bride  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: The heavy dew of the tropics was yet lying bright and unexhaled on every herb and flower; myriads of which, in most profuse variety of odor and bloom, strewed, like one gorgeous carpet, the beautiful savannahs, and wild forest glades of the fair province of Cahay. The sun had not fairly risen, although the warm and rosy light which harbingered his coming, was tinging, with its fairy dyes, the small and fleecy clouds that floated, like the isles of some enchanted sea, over the azure skies. The faint sea-breeze, which murmured still among the fresh green leaves, though it was fast subsiding, was laden with perfumes of such strange richness, that while they gratified they almost cloyed the senses; birds of the most superb and gorgeous plumage were glancing, meteor-like, among the boughs; but the innumerable insect tribes, which almost rival them in beauty, had not as yet been called forth to their life of a day, by the young sunbeams. The loveliness of those sequestered haunts, which had but recently been opened to the untiring and insatiate avarice of the Europeans, exceeded the most wild conceptions, the most voluptuous dreams, of the romancer or the poet. The solemn verdure of the mighty woods thick set with trees, more graceful than the shades of those ægean Isles, where the Ionian muse was born to witch the world for ages—the light and feathery mimosas, the fan-like heads of the tall palms, towering a hundred feet above their humbler, yet still lofty brethren—the giant oaks, their whole trunks overgrown with thousands of bright parasites, and their vast branches canopied with vines and creepers—masses of tangled and impervious foliage—the natural lawns, watered by rills of crystal— the rocks, that reared themselves among the forests, mantled not as the crags of the cold northern climes, with dark and melancholy ivy, but with festoons of fruits and flowers that might have graced the gardens of the fabulous Hesperides. It was upon such a scene, as is but imperfectly and feebly shadowed forth, in the most glowing language, that the sweet dawn was breaking, when, from a distance, through the lovely woodlands, the mellow notes of a horn, clearly and scientifically winded, came floating on the gentle air; again it pealed forth its wild cadences, nearer and louder than before—and then the deep and ringing bay of a full mouthed hound succeeded. Scarcely had the first echo of the woods replied to the unwonted sounds, before a beautiful, slight hind, forcing her way through a dense thicket of briers, dashed with the speed of mortal terror into the centre of a small savannah, through which stole almost silently a broad bright rivulet of very limpid water. Pausing for a second's space upon the brink, the delicate creature stood, with its swan-like neck curved backward, its thin ear erect, its full black eye dilated, and its expanded nostrils snuffing the tainted breeze. It was but for a second that she stood; for the next moment a louder and more boisterous crash arose from the direction whence she had first appeared—the blended tongues of several hounds running together on a hot and recent trail. Tossing her head aloft, she gathered her slight limbs under her, sprung at one vigorous and elastic bound over the rivulet, and was lost instantly to view among the thickets of the further side. A few minutes elapsed during which the fierce baying of the hounds came quicker and more sharply on the ear; and then, from the same brake out of which the bind had started, rushed, with his eyes glowing lika coals of fire, his head high in the air, and his long feathery tail lashing his tawny sides, a formidable blood hound, of that savage breed which was, in after times, so brutally employed against the hapless Indians by their Christian conquerors. Another, and another, and a fourth succeeded, making the vaulted woods to bellow with the deep cadences of their continuous cry. Hard on the blood hounds, crashing through the tangled branches with reckless and impetuous ardor, a solitary huntsman followed splendidly mounted on a fiery Andalusian charger, of a deep chestnut color, with four white legs, and a white blaze down his face, whose long thin mane, and the large cord-like veins that might be seen meandering over his muscular, sleek limbs, attested, as surely as the longest pedigree, the purity of his blood. The rider was a young man of some four or five-and-twenty years, well, and rather powerfully made than otherwise, though not above the middle stature; his long dark hair, black eye, and swarthy skin told of a slight admixture of the Moorish blood; while the expression of his features, though now excited somewhat by the exhilaration of the chase, grave, dignified and noble, bespoke him without a doubt a polished cavalier of Spain. His dress, adapted to the occupation which he so gallantly pursued, was a green doublet belted close about his waist by a girdle of Cordovan leather, from which swung, clinking at every stride of his horse, against the stirrup, a long and basket-hilted bilboa blade, in a steel scabbard, which was the only weapon that he wore, except a short two-edged stiletto, thrust into the belt at the left side. A broad sombrero hat, with a drooping feather, breeches and gloves of chamois leather, laced down the seams with silver, and russet buskins drawn up to the knee, completed his attire. He sat his horse gracefully and firmly; and the ease with which he supported him, and wheeled him to and fro among the fallen trees and rocks, notwithstanding the fiery speed at which he rode, bespoke him no less skillful than intrepid as a horseman. The chase continued for above an hour, during which every species of scenery that the level portions of the isle contained was traversed by the hunter; the open forest, the dense swampy brake, the wide luxuriant savannah—and each at such hot speed, that though he turned aside neither for bush, nor bank, though he plunged headlong down the steepest crags, and dashed his charger, without hesitation, over every fallen tree that barred his progress, and every brook or gulley that opposed him, still it was with no little difficulty that he contrived to keep the hounds in hearing. And now the hapless hind, worn out by the sustained exertions which had at first outstripped the utmost pace of her pursuers, but which availed her nothing to escape from foes against whose most sagacious instinct and unerring scent she had but fleetness to oppose—was sinking fast, and must, as the rider judged by the redoubled speed and shriller baying of his hounds, soon turn to bay, or be run down without resistance. Her graceful head was bowed low toward the earth; big tears streamed down her hairy cheeks; her arid tongue lolled from her frothing jaws; her coat, of late so sleek and glossy, was all embossed with sweat and foam, and wounded at more points than one by the sharp thorns and prickly underwood through which she had toiled so fruitlessly. Still she strove on, staggering and panting in a manner pitiful to witness, when the deep bay of the blood hounds was changed suddenly into a series of sharp and savage yells, as they caught view of their destined prey.
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9Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The lord of the manor, or Rose Castleton's temptation  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: It was the morning of the first of May, that merriest morning of the year, in the old days of merry England; and never did a brighter dawning illuminate a fairer landscape, than that wherein the incidents occurred, which form the basis of one of those true tales that prove how much there is of wild and strange romance even in the most domestic circles of existence.
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10Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The Warwick woodlands, or, Things as they were there, ten years ago  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: havin to git some grocerees down to Yorke, I reckons to quit here on Satterdaye, and so be i can fix it counts to see you tewsdaye for sartain. quaile promises to be considerable plentye, and cocke has come on most ongodly thicke, i was down to Sam Blainses one night a fortnite since and heerd a heape on them a drumminge and chatteringe everywheres round aboute. if snipes is come on yit i reckon i coud git awaye a daye or soe down into Jarsey wayes—no more at preasente from
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11Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  My shooting box  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: It wanted scarce an hour of sunset, on a calm, bright October evening—that season of unrivalled glory in the wide woodlands of America, wherein the dying year appears to deck herself, as it is told of the expiring dolphin, with such a gorgeousness of short-lived hues as she had never shown in her full flush of summer life and beauty—it wanted, as I have said, scarce an hour of sunset, and all the near and mountainous horizon was veiled as it were by a fine gauze-like drapery of filmy yellow mist, while every where the level sunbeams were checkering the scenery with lines of long rich light and cool blue shadow, when a small four-wheeled wagon with something sportsmanlike and rakish in its build, might have been seen whirling at a rapid rate over one of the picturesque uneven roads, that run from the banks of the Hudson, skirting the lovely range of the Western Highlands, through one— the fairest—of the river counties of New York. This little vehicle, which was drawn by an exceedingly clever, though somewhat cross-made, chesnut cob, with a blaze on his face, and three white legs, contained two persons, with a quantity of luggage, among which a couple of gun-cases were the most conspicuous, and a brace of beautiful and high-bred English pointers. The driver was a smart natty lad, dressed in a dark gray frock, with livery buttons, and a narrow silver cord for a hat-band; and, while he handled the ribbons with the quick finger and cool head of an experienced whip, he showed his complete acquaintance with the way, by the readiness and almost instinctive decision with which he selected the right hand or the left of several acute and intricate turns and crossings of the road. The other was a young gentleman of some five or six and twenty years, finely and powerfully made, though not above the middle height, with curly light-brown hair and a fair bright complexion, indicative of his English blood. Rattling along the limestone road, which followed the course of a large rapid trout stream, that would in Europe have been termed a river, crossing it now and then on rustic wooden bridges, as it wound in broad devious curves hither and thither through the rich meadow-land, they reached a pretty village, embosomed in tall groves and pleasant orchards, crowning a little knoll with its white cottages and rival steeples; but, making no pause, though a neat tavern might well have tempted the most fastidious traveller, they swept onward, keeping the stream on their right hand, until, as they came to the foot of a small steep ascent, the driver touched his hat, saying—“We have got through our journey now, sir; the house lies just beyond the hill.” He scarce had finished speaking, before they topped the hillock, and turning short to the right hand pulled up before a neat white gate in a tall fence, that separated the road from a large piece of woodland, arrayed in all the gorgeous colors wrought by the first sharp frost of autumn. The well-kept winding lane, to which the gate gave access, brought them, within a quarter of a mile, to a steep rocky bank feathered with junipers, and here and there a hickory or maple shadowing the dense undergrowth of rhododendrons, kalmias and azalias that sprung in rich luxuriance from every rift and cranny of the gray limestone ledges. Down this the road dived, by two rapid zig-zags, to the margin of the little river, which foamed along its base, where it was spanned by a single arch, framed picturesquely of gnarled unbarked timber; and then swept in an easy curve up a small lawn, lying fair to the southern sun, to the door of a pretty cottage, which lay midway the northern slope of the valley, its rear sheltered by the hanging woodlands, which clothed the hills behind it to their very summit. A brilliant light was shining from the windows to the right of the door, as if of a merry fire and several candles mingled; and, in a minute or two after the wheels of the wagon rattled upon the wooden bridge, it was evident that the door was thrown open; for a long stream of mellow light burst out on the fast darkening twilight, and the next moment a tall figure, clearly defined against the bright background, was seen upon the threshold. A minute more and the chesnut cob was pulled up in front of the neat portico, and the young Englishman leaped out and darted up the steps.
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12Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The miller of Martigne  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: Upon a pleasant knoll or hillock, not very far from Rennes, in that most beautiful department of France, which takes its name from the Vilaine, on the post-road from Chateaubriant to La Guerche, the traveller passes through the little hamlet of Martignè. It is but a small place, even now, and in the times of which I write—the dark and bloody days of Mazarin—it was little more than a cluster of white washed cottages, grouped round an old gray church, the spire of which rose sharp and slender, above the foliage of the dense forest, that lay stretched for many a mile around it. About two miles to the northward of the village, the causeway, having scaled a steep and rocky hill, descends almost precipitously toward a strong copious brook, too large to be termed a rivulet, and, at the same time, too small to aspire to the name of river; across which it is carried at the height of two hundred feet above the water, upon a one-arched bridge of Roman brick, the work of those world-conquerors of old.
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13Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Add
 Title:  The Hawks of Hawk-hollow  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It has been seen how the rejoicings at the promontory were interrupted in their very beginning, by the sudden discovery of the refugee, so Drad for his derring-doe and bloody deed, that his mere name had thrown all present into confusion. The crowning climax was put to the general panic, when some of the late pursuers were seen returning, early in the afternoon, whipping and spurring with all the zeal of fear, and scattering such intelligence along the way as put to flight the last resolution of the jubilants. The news immediately spread, that Oran Gilbert had burst into existence, not alone, but with a countless host of armed men at his heels; that he had attacked and routed the pursuers, hanging all whom he took alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now, in the frenzy of triumph, marching against the devoted Hillborough, with the resolution of burning it to the ground. Such dreadful intelligence was enough to complete the terror of the revellers; they fled amain—and long before night, the flag waved, and the little piece of ordnance frowned in utter solitude on the top of the deserted head-land. It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with happier news, but too late to arrest the fugitives; and as these riders made their way towards the village, expressing some anxiety lest it should be attacked, they rather confirmed than dispelled the fears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From one of the coolest and boldest, Captain Loring, who fastened on him at the park-gate, learned that there had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive had made his escape; but, on the other hand, it appeared that there were refugees in the land,— that they had hanged a soldier named Parker, and made good their retreat from the place of execution—that the greatest doubt existed among the pursuers in relation to the route they had taken and the objects they had in view, some believing, on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been their prisoner, that they were marching by secret paths against the village, while others insisted that this was a feint designed only to throw the hunters off the scent, and to secure their escape,—that, in consequence, the party had divided, pursuing the search in all directions, in the hope of discovering their route,—and, finally, that it was now certain, the band, whose number was supposed to be very considerable, was really commanded by the notorious Oran Gilbert. From this man also, Captain Loring learned a few vague particulars in relation to the two greatest objects of his interest, namely Henry Falconer and the young painter, who had fallen into a quarrel in consequence of some misunderstanding about their horses, the officer having used harsh language not only in regard to the unceremonious seizure by Herman of his own steed, but in reference to a similar liberty the refugee had previously taken with the painter's, which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy and intercourse betwixt Mr. Hunter and the outlaw it behooved the former to explain, before thrusting himself into the company of honest men and gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed, had been allayed by the interference of Falconer's brother officers; and the informant had heard something said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl. As for the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared, that his spirited assistance during the chase, and especially his success in exposing the secret haunt of the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of Parker's execution, had not only removed all suspicion in relation to his character, but had highly recommended him to the favour of his late captors.
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14Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Add
 Title:  Peter Pilgrim, Or, a Rambler's Recollections  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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15Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Add
 Title:  Edgar Huntly, Or, Memoirs of a Sleep-walker  
 Published:  2005 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At length does the impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my wonder permit me to recollect my promise and perform it. At length am I somewhat delivered from suspence and from tremors. At length the drama is brought to an imperfect close, and the series of events, that absorbed my faculties, that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose.
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16Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Add
 Title:  The Rebels, Or, Boston Before the Revolution  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: There was hurrying to and fro through the principal streets of Boston on the night of the 14th of August, 1765. A brilliant bonfire was blazing on Fort Hill. Column after column of light died away to rise again with redoubled grandeur, and at each succeeding burst of flame, the loud shouts of the rabble were heard with dreadful distinctness. “A friend of mine, who has lately returned to England, accidentally mentioned meeting Miss Fitzherbert at your house. May I ask who this Miss Fitzherbert is? I have been in my native country but a short time, —I am a bachelor,—and my health is exceedingly precarious. It is therefore important that I should know her history and connexions immediately. “Lieutenant-Governor, Member of the Council, Commander of the Castle, Judge of Probate, and Chief Justice of the Supreme Court! you are hereby commanded to appear under the Liberty-tree within one hour, to plight your faith, that you will use no more influence against an injured and an exasperated people. “I hardly know how to account for the diffidence I feel in addressing you. The usual exaggerated language of affection would, I well know, appear ridiculous to you; and coldness or reserve is but ill suited to the present state of my feelings. The declaration that I have been for years most sincerely and devotedly attached to you, may not perhaps be entirely unexpected; and I once hoped it would not be entirely disagreeable. You do not owe your influence over me to a sudden freak of fancy; it results from a long and intimate knowledge of your character. Yet I will not flatter you, by saying I consider you faultless;—on the contrary, I think you have defects, which may prove very dangerous to yourself and friends, unless timely corrected. But I cannot imagine a character more elevated than might be formed from a mind so vigorous, and a heart so generous and candid as yours. “I have only time before this vessel sails, to tell you, that the important papers,—certificate of marriage, birth, &c., came duly to hand. Evidence is ample and satisfactory. There is no doubt that your father was my dear, but very headstrong nephew,—though your miniature shows not a shadow of family likeness. I rejoice to see by your letter, that you have been educated as a Fitzherbert should be. As a trifling acknowledgement of this kindness, present the articles that accompany this, to Governor Hutchinson and his sister. A voyage at this season would be cold and dangerous, but as soon as the spring opens, you must make for England. “This flower, pure and beautiful as yourself, was purchased for you. Will you accept it from your faithful lover? Will you cherish it for his sake, during the tedious absence to which he is doomed? “Here I am, in the favoured land of the brave, the intelligent, and the free. Yet even while I now repeat it, I scarcely credit it. I feel as if I were walking in my sleep; and it is only when I look out upon the princely buildings around me, that I can realize I am indeed in London. Our voyage was very pleasant, with the exception of sea-sickness. That, however, is a tax we must all pay to lord Neptune for rocking us in his cradle somewhat too roughly. (Pardon me. I forget that the odious word tax is banished from the American vocabulary.) “We last week received your long and affectionate letter. I was delighted, but not dazzled, with your picture of London. I love my own quiet chamber better than I should marble saloons or Corinthian piazzas. Yet our humble mansion has been sad enough since you left us. My father's health fails daily; and long, long before you return to us, Lucretia, I fear the dear venerable old man will have gone to his last home. It grieves me to think of it. Yet why should they whose lives have been stainless, and their purposes all holy, shrink from the hand that enrobes them with immortality. Young as I am, there are times when I would lay down my weary, aching head, and sleep, never more to wake in this cold world, as cheerfully as the tired infant presses the soft pillow of its cradle. “My dear Child, “I delivered your letters according to their directions; and I do not hesitate to say that the general opinion here is entirely in favour of your views. It is, however, very difficult to ascertain what course will be taken, for never was there such a heterogeneous, unintelligible mass as the present ministry. They are made up of the shreds and patches of all political opinions,—a confused jumble of every shade and hue of whiggism. “How very seldom you write; and how wo-begone are your epistles. Do not think me heartless with regard to your father's sickness. Indeed, I have felt most keenly for you and for him; but I have not the least doubt that the fine, clear climate of Canada will restore him; and even if the event should be the worst that we can fear, you must not thus mourn away your young existence. When you wrote last, you were just on the point of starting for Montreal; and I assure you I envied you the excursion. I wish I could have visited Gertrude before I came to England. Not only because I loved her more than I ever loved any one in so short a time; but I am really ashamed when asked about Niagara and the Lakes, to say that I have never seen them. People here are not aware how very unusual it is for American ladies to go out of sight of their own chimnies; and as for space, they do not seem to imagine there is such a thing on the other side of the Atlantic. They would ask a Vermontese about the Blue Ridge, or a Georgian about Niagara, as readily as I should question a Londoner about St. Paul's, or beg a description of Snowdon from a Welchman born and bred within sight of its cloud-kissing peak. “I found your letter dated November 15th, waiting our arrival, when we returned from Canada. Gertrude and I wrote you a crowded epistle last autumn; I wonder you had not received it before you wrote. She is very happy. Indeed her affectionate heart deserves it. Had she been a sister in very truth, she could not have loved me more, or been more kindly attentive to my father. “I last week received a package from Boston, containing letters from uncle Hutchinson, Grace Osborne, and yourself. “How mutable are all human prospects! My last lines were written on the 14th; and uncle Fitzherbert was then in fine health, and animated to a remarkable degree. On the night of the 15th, he was suddenly attacked by violent convulsions. The fits continued with increasing power until the third day,—when, with anguish that cannot be described, I saw the only relative I had on earth stretched on the bed of death. I have never before seen Mrs. Edgarton subdued by emotion; but now I am obliged to exert all my fortitude to support her. Alas! I shall never again be idolized as I was by that dear old gentleman. He seemed to consider me the prop of his house,—the stay and support of his age. Why did my heart ever accuse him of coldness and formality? “Silly Girl, “If the frank avowal that you are still very dear to my widowed heart, requires any apology, let approaching death be my excuse. “It is long since I have written to you,—longer than I once thought it ever would be; but heart-trying scenes prevented it, after my return from England; and when their bitterness had passed away, I was too much depressed to make any mental exertion. “Much respected Madam,
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17Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Add
 Title:  The coronal  
 Published:  1998 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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18Author:  Clark Willis Gaylord 1808-1841Add
 Title:  The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: `I have not sooner replied to your letter of the eighteenth of June, communicating the intelligence of the untimely death of your brother, because in fact I was at a loss how to reply. It is one of those cases in which all ordinary attempts at consolation are apt to appear trite and cold, and can never reach the deep-seated affliction. In such cases, it always appears to me better to leave the heart to struggle with its own sorrows, and medicine its own ills; and indeed, in healthful minds, as in healthful bodies, Providence has beneficently implanted self-healing qualities, that in time close up and almost obliterate the deepest wounds. `Of the several excellent writers whose names we have placed upon our catalogue as worthy of the honor we intend to do them (a series of portraits of popular Philadelphia authors, accompanied by suitable notices of their lives and works,) the first we select is that of Willis Gaylord Clark, whose rare abilities as a poet, and whose qualities as a man, justify this distinction. The life of a student is usually, almost necessarily, indeed, uneventful. Disinclined by habit and association, and generally unfitted by temperament, to mingle in the ruder scenes, the shocks and conflicts that mark the periods of sterner existence, his biography furnishes but few salient points upon which an inquirer can take hold. In the little circle which his affections have gathered around him, he finds abundant sources of enjoyment and interest; and though the world without may ring with his name, he pursues his quiet and peaceful way, undisturbed by, if not insensible to, its praises. Such has been eminently the case with the subject of this notice. With feelings peculiarly fitted for social and domestic intercourse, and a heart overflowing with the warmest and most generous impulses; and a shrinking sensitiveness to obtrusive public regard, Mr. Clark has always sought those scenes in which, while his talents found free scope, his native modesty was unwounded, and he could exercise without restraint the Joftier charities of his nature. `With the exception of a small volume published some years since, we believe that Mr. Clark's effusions have not been collected. They have appeared at irregular and often remote intervals; and though their beauty and pathos have won the applause of the first writers of this country and England, they have not made that impression which if united they could not fail to produce. Mr. Clark's distinguishing traits are tenderness, pathos, and melody. In style and sentiment he is wholly original, but if he resemble any writer, it is Mr. Bryant. The same lofty tone of sentiment, the same touches of melting pathos, the same refined sympathies with the beauties and harmonies of nature, and the same melody of style, characterise, in an almost equal degree, these delightful poets. The ordinary tone of Mr. Clark's poetry is gentle, solemn, and tender. Ilis effusions flow in melody from a heart full of the sweetest affections, and upon their surface is mirrored all that is gentle and beautiful in nature, rendered more beautiful by the light of a lofty and religious imagination. He is one of the few writers who have succeeded in making the poetry of religion attractive. Young is sad, and austere, Cowper is at times constrained, and Wordsworth is much too dreamy for the mass; but with Clark religion is unaffectedly blended with the simplest and sweetest affections of the heart. His poetry glitters with the dew, not of Castaly, but of heaven. No man, however cold, can resist the winning and natural sweetness and melody of the tone of piety that pervades his poems. All the voices of nature speak to him of religion; he `Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.' There is not an effusion, and scarce a line in his poetical writings that is not replete with this spirit. The entire absence of affectation or artifice in Mr. Clark's poetry also deserves the highest commendation. Though always poetical he is always natural; he sacrifices nothing for effect, and does not seek his subjects or his figures from the startling or the extravagant. There is an uniform and uninterrupted propriety in his writings. His taste is not merely cultivated and refined, but sensitively fastidious, and shrinks, with instinctive delicacy, from anything that could distort the tranquil and tender beauty of his lines. His diction is neither quaint nor common-place, bloated nor tame, but is natural, classic, and expressive. In the art of versification, he appears to be nearly perfect; we know no poet in the language who is more regular, animated, and euphonious. `Our brother is no more!' Death, the pale messenger, has beckoned him silently away; and the spirit which kindled with so many elevated thoughts; which explored the chambers of human affection, and awakened so many warm sympathies; which rejoiced with the glad, and grieved with the sorrowing, has ascended to mansions of eternal repose. And there is one, reader, who above all others feels how much gentleness of soul, how much fraternal affection and sincere friendship; how much joyous bilarity, goodness, poetry, have gone out of the world; and he will be pardoned for dwelling in these pages, so often enriched by the genius of the Departed, upon the closing scenes of his earthly career. Since nearly a twelve-month the deceased has `died daily' in the eyes of the writer of this feeble tribute. He saw that Disease sat at his heart, and was gnawing at its cruel leisure; that in the maturity of every power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty; `when experience had given facility to action and success to endeavor,' he was fast going down to darkness and the worm. Thenceforth were treasured up every soul-fraught epistle and the recollection of each recurring interview, growing more and more frequent, until at length Life like a spent steed `panted to its goal,' and Death sealed up the glazing eye and stilled the faltering tongue. Leaving these, however, with many other treasured remains and biographical facts for future reference and preservation in this Magazine, we pass to the following passages of a letter recently received from a late but true friend of the lamented deceased, Rev. Dr. Ducachet, Rector of St. Stephen's Church, Philadelphia; premising merely, that the reverend gentleman had previously called upon him at his special instance, in the last note he ever penned; that `his religious faith was manifested in a manner so solemn, so frank, and so cordial,' as to convince the affectionate pastor that the failing invalid, aware that he must die of the illness under which he was suffering, had long been seeking divine assistance to prepare him for the issue so near at hand: `He was, so far as his character revealed itself to me, a man of a most noble, frank, and generous nature. He was as humble as a little child. He exhibited throughout most remarkable patience. He never complained. But once, while I was on bended knees, praying with him for patience to be given him, and acknowledging that all he had suffered was for the best, he clasped his hands together, and exclaimed, `Yes! right, right—all right!' ... He was one of the most affectionate-hearted men I ever saw. Every moment I spent with him, he was doing or saying something to express to me his attachment. He would take my hand, or put his arm around my neck, or say something tender, to tell me that he loved me. He showed the same kind feeling to his attendants, his faithful nurse, Rebecca, and to the humblest of the servants.... He was of course, with such a heart, grateful for the smallest attentions. He received the most trifling office with thanks. I observed this most remarkably on the evening of his death. I had taken my son with me, that he might sit up with him on Saturday night, if occasion should require. When I mentioned that the youth was in the room, he called for him; welcomed him most kindly, thanked him over and over for his friendly intentions; and in fact, broke out into the warmest expressions of gratitude for what his sensitive and generous heart took to be a high act of favor. All this was within an hour and a half of his death.... Finally, I believe he was a truly religious man. I have no doubt that he was fully prepared for his end; and that through the sacrifice of the cross, and the Saviour who died there for sinners, he was pardoned and accepted. He has gone, I feel persuaded, to the abodes of peace, where the souls of those who sleep in the Lord Jesus enjoy perpetual felicity and rest.' Good Reader, let us have a talk together. Sit you down with benevolent optics, and a kindly heart, and I doubt not that we shall pass an hour right pleasantly, one with another. Pleasantly, in part, but in part it may be, sadly; for you know it is with conversation, as with life; it taketh various colors, and is changing evermore. So we will expect these changes, and meet them as they come. Sometimes we shall be in the cheerful vein, and at others, in that subjunctive mood which conquers the jest on the lip, and holds Humor in bonds. But for `gude or ill,' I shall desire you to sit with me. In the voices of Mirth, there may be excitement, but in the tones of Mourning there is consolation. Congregere in Pons Cayuguum, Februarius Sexdecim, nox media, pro jocus et exercitatio, et animi relaxatio. `Sithence that love, which is the lightest bird in the world, hath nestled in my bosom, it hath proved so full of egg, that I have been forced to suffer him to lay there. But sithence he hath laid it, he hath sate upon it a long tyme, and at length hath hatched this little pullet which I now send you. The breeding of it will cost you little; all the food it will require will be caresses and kisses. And withal, it is so well taught that it speaks better than a paraqueto, and so will tell you my sufferings for you. It hath in charge to inquire of you whether or no you are yet displeased with me, and to let me know your mind, not by a pullet so big as this, but by the least chicken you please, if I may have your favor; with this promise, that if you have laid aside your rigor, I shall send you no more pullets, but present you with full-grown birds, full of valor and affection. Will you allow me to correct a slight statement in your last, with reference to my death? I am grateful for the compliments to my character in your obituary notice, and I believe them deserved. That I tried to do the handsome thing while I lived, is most true; true, too, is it, that I never backed out of a fight, and never saw the man that could whip me, when alive; and I say the same yet, `being dead,' according to your story. But when you state, that I left my affairs unsettled, and my widow and those eleven children unprovided for, I have only to state, that you lie in your throat! I mean no offence in what I say; I speak in the aggregate sense of the term. Being a dead man, and printed down as such in your columns, I am incapable of mortal resentments; but I leave as my avengers, Cain, Abel, and Simpkins, printers and publishers of the Occidental Trumpet and Mississippi Battle-Axe. To the editor of that paper, I submit my fame. To his indomitable coolness, never yet ruffled by repeated contumely, and invulnerable to contempt, I confide my reputation: feeling certain that one who has never found satisfaction for an insult, (nor sought it indeed,) can fail to be a champion in my cause. That he may be in peril in my advocacy, is possible; but he knows how to shun it. He is independent, for he is unknown; he is fearless, for no man will touch a hair of his head. To that important Gulliven, in whatsoever cave or fastness he may dwell, I surrender my fame. I have had an interview with Mr. Biddle, and truly lament my inability to communicate satisfactory results. I fear that until the resolution of the Senator from Ohio, in regard to the repeal of the Treasury order, is finally disposed of, the trading interests will materially suffer. `I have seen a piece which you made and put into a perryoge published down into the city of New York, to which I am a-going to indict a reply. My indictment will be short, as some of the parties is not present to which you have been allusive. But with respect of that there diwine person you spoke of, I am sorry to remark, that he is uncommonly dead, and wont never give no more lectures. He was so onfortnight as to bu'st a blood-vessel at a pertracted meeting; and I han't hearn nothing onto him sence. His motives was probable good; but in delivering on 'em, it struck me forcibly that he proximoted to the sassy. However, I never reserves ill will, not ag'inst nobody; and I authorize you to put this into printing, ef'so be that you deem it useful. That's what Smith used to say, when he published his self-nominations in the newspapers, that a man with a horn (they tell me that he has a very large circle of kindred) used to ride post about and distribit. `I have taken your new hat, but I leave you my eternal gratitude. `It becomes our painful but imperative and extraordinary duty, to promulgate the facts of a disaster which reached us to-day, by the mail from Thebes, via the perpendicular railroad. As a party were ascending, with the locomotive playing a lively tune, assisted on the piana-forte by another locomotive, that had been hired by Signor Goitini, preparatory to his first concert in New-Babylon, some religious persons of the `United States' Established Mormon Church,' insisted that the tune, being irreverent, should be changed. This offensive tune was no less than the well known and popular song, (supposed to have been written in England, previous to the subjugation of that place by the Russians,) entitled `Proceed it, ye Crippled Ones, Babylon's Nigh.' This complimentary course on the part of the locomotive, and the gentlemanly engineer with whom it associates, was hissed by the Mormons, until they were overcome by the encores of the majority. The locomotive was of course embarrassed, but we understand, continued to play. One of the Mormons, enraged beyond measure at this circumstance, rushed forward through the door-ways of the train, and wantonly turned the stop-cock of `What's become of Good Old Daniel?' one of the slowest tunes of the day. The consequence was, that the train proceeded with the greatest discord, because the latter tune was for the backtrack, in descending the mountain. The result was, the cars were thrown off the rails, down a precipice of nearly three hundred feet; but owing to the exertions of Mr. Inclination Plain, first engineer, they were got back by his Upward Impulse Screw, which has thus far answered admirably, stopping cars in mid-air, if they run off a precipice, and returning them safely, by means of the patent steam wind-bags, which extend beneath the trains, and destroy their gravity. I met with a good article the other day in a native magazine, on the subject of whiskers—a pilosus and prolific theme. Talking of whiskers reminds me of cats. The transition is natural. Feline quadrupeds are justly celebrated for their claims to admiration in respect of whiskers. In the conformation of his mandibular appendages, Nature has been generous with the cat. Not only do they stand out from his face like the elongated mustaches of old Shah Abbas of Persia, but there is within them a sleepless spirit, a shrewd and far reaching sense, which puts to shame the similar ornaments on the faces of bipeds of the genus homo. They, indeed, can make their whiskers look well, by baptizing them with eau de Cologne, and Rowland's Macassar Oil, or peradventure, the unctuous matter won from the `tried reins' of defunct bears; but where is the intelligence, the discernment, of their rivals? Then I release my dear soul from her promise about today. If you do not see that all which he can claim by gratitude, I doubly claim by love, I have done, forever. I would purchase my happiness at any price but at the expense of yours. Look over my letters, think over my conduct, consult your own heart, read these two long letters of your own writing, which I return you. Then tell me whether we love or not. And if we love (as witness both our hearts), shall gratitude, cold gratitude, bear away the prize that's due to love like ours? Shall my right be acknowledged, and he possess the casket? Shall I have your soul, and he your hand, your lips, your eyes? Your two letters of the day before yesterday, and what you said to me yesterday, have drove me mad. You know how such tenderness distracts me. As to marrying me, that you should not do upon any account. Shall the man I value, be pointed at and hooted for selling himself to a lord for a commission? * * * My soul is above my situation. Beside, I will not take advantage of what may be only, perhaps, (excuse me), a youthful passion. After a more intimate acquaintance of a week or ten days, your opinion of me might very much change. And yet you may love me as sincerely as I— My Life and Soul! But I will never more use any more preface of this sort, and I beg you will not. A correspondence begins with dear, then my dear, dearest, my dearest, and so on, till, at last, panting language toils after us in vain. Let me give you joy of having found such kind and agreeable friends in a strange land. The account you gave me of the lady quite charmed me. Neither am I without my friends. A lady from whom I have received particular favors, is uncommonly kind to me. For the credit of your side of the water, she is an Irish woman. Her agreeable husband, by his beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this country. He is remarkable also for his feelings. When this reaches you I shall be no more, but do not let my unhappy fate distress you too much. I strove against it as long as possible, but now it overpowers me. You know where my affections were placed; my having by some means or other lost hers, (an idea which I could not support,) has driven me to madness. God bless-you , my dear F—. Would I had a sum of money to leave you to convince you of my great regard! May Heaven protect my beloved woman, and forgive the act which alone could relieve me from a world of misery I have long endured! Oh! should it be in your power to do her any act of friendship, I am alive, and she is dead. I shot her and not myself. Some of her blood is still upon my clothes. I dont ask you to speak to me. I don't ask you to look at me. Only come hither, and bring me a little poison; such as is strong enough. Upon my knees I beg, if your friendship for me ever was sincere, do, do bring me some poison!' If the murderer of Miss—wishes to live, the man he has most injured will use all his interest to procure his life.' `The murderer of her whom he preferred, far preferred, to life, suspects the hand from which he has just received such an offer as he neither desires nor deserves. His wishes are for death, not for life. One wish he has: Could he be pardoned in this world by the man he has most injured! Oh my lord, when I meet her in another world, enable me to tell her, (if departed spirits are not ignorant of earthly things,) that you forgive us both, and that you will be a father to her dear infants! I am gone to spend a fortnight, in a Christmas festival, with some friends in Virginia. I enclose a regular division of our joint funds. I have spoken to my uncle about our hotel bills here, and he will fix them. It is all understood. You can stay a fortnight if you like; though how you'll get back to Philadelphia, after that, the Lord only knows. Perhaps you may accomplish the transit without trouble: if so, I shall be, (as I was last night, when I thought I knew you,) mistaken. We do not know each other well, for we have been thwarted by the presence of untoward circumstances; but surely, my dear, my only John, the language of my eyes must have convinced you that since we first met, my heart has been wholly yours. Come to-morrow evening at eight, and in a walk of a few moments, I will convince you, if words can do it, of the unalterable affection of your devoted
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19Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Add
 Title:  Home as Found  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: When Mr. Effingham determined to return home, he sent orders to his agent to prepare his town-house in New-York for his reception, intending to pass a month or two in it, then to repair to Washington for a few weeks, at the close of its season, and to visit his country residence when the spring should fairly open. Accordingly, Eve now found herself at the head of one of the largest establishments, in the largest American town, within an hour after she had landed from the ship. Fortunately for her, however, her father was too just to consider a wife, or a daughter, a mere upper servant, and he rightly judged that a liberal portion of his income should be assigned to the procuring of that higher quality of domestic service, which can alone relieve the mistress of a household from a burthen so heavy to be borne. Unlike so many of those around him, who would spend on a single pretending and comfortless entertainment, in which the ostentatious folly of one contended with the ostentatious folly of another, a sum that, properly directed, would introduce order and system into a family for a twelvemonth, by commanding the time and knowledge of those whose study they had been, and who would be willing to devote themselves to such objects, and then permit their wives and daughters to return to the drudgery to which the sex seems doomed in this country, he first bethought him of the wants of social life before he aspired to its parade. A man of the world, Mr. Effingham possessed the requisite knowledge, and a man of justice, the requisite fairness, to permit those who depended on him so much for their happiness, to share equitably in the good things that Providence had so liberally bestowed on himself. In other words, he made two people comfortable, by paying a generous price for a housekeeper; his daughter, in the first place, by releasing her from cares that, necessarily, formed no more a part of her duties than it would be a part of her duty to sweep the pavement before the door; and, in the next place, a very respectable woman who was glad to obtain so good a home on so easy terms. To this simple and just expedient, Eve was indebted for being at the head of one of the quietest, most truly elegant, and best ordered establishments in America, with no other demands on her time than that which was necessary to issue a few orders in the morning, and to examine a few accounts once a week.
 Similar Items:  Find
20Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Add
 Title:  Home as Found  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Though the affair of the Point continued to agitate the village of Templeton next day, and for many days, it was little remembered in the Wigwam. Confident of his right, Mr. Effingham, though naturally indignant at the abuse of his long liberality, through which alone the public had been permitted to frequent the place, and this too, quite often, to his own discomfort and disappointment, had dismissed the subject temporarily from his mind, and was already engaged in his ordinary pursuits. Not so, however, with Mr. Bragg. Agreeably to promise, he had attended the meeting; and now he seemed to regulate all his movements by a sort of mysterious self-importance, as if the repository of some secret of unusual consequence. No one regarded his manner, however; for Aristabulus, and his secrets, and opinions, were all of too little value, in the eyes of most of the party, to attract peculiar attention. He found a sympathetic listener in Mr. Dodge, happily; that person having been invited, through the courtesy of Mr. Effingham, to pass the day with those in whose company, though very unwillingly on the editor's part certainly, he had gone through so many dangerous trials. These two, then, soon became intimate, and to have seen their shrugs, significant whisperings, and frequent conferences in corners, one who did not know them, might have fancied their shoulders burthened with the weight of the state.
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