| | 1 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly  | | | | 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: | Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two
gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished
dining parlor, in the town of P—, in Kentucky.
There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with
chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some
subject with great earnestness. “Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George
six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very intelligent,
speaks handsomely, can read and write; will probably try to pass
for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has been
branded in his right hand with the letter H. “Executor's Sale, — Negroes! — Agreeably to order of court, will
be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the
town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60;
John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for
the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 2 | Author: | Stowe
Harriet Beecher
1811-1896 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | | | | 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: | “Tom, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want to
go,” she said. “I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True,
as you have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the
whites, in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and
that of my wife and family scarce perceptible. Well,
perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth,
I have no wish to. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 3 | Author: | Taylor
Bayard
1825-1878 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | John Godfrey's fortunes, related by himself | | | | 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 was sitting at the front window, buried, chin-deep, in
the perusal of “Sandford and Merton,” when I heard the
latch of the gate click. Looking up, I saw that it was only
Neighbor Niles, coming, as usual, in her sun-bonnet, with
her bare arms wrapped in her apron, for a chat with
mother. I therefore resumed my reading, for Neighbor
Niles always burst into the house without knocking, and
mother was sure to know who it was by the manner in
which the door opened. I had gotten as far into the book
as the building of the Robinson-Crusoe hut, and one half
of my mind speculated, as I read, whether a similar hut
might not be constructed in our garden, in the corner
between the snowball-bush and Muley's stable. Bob Simmons
would help me, I was sure; only it was scarcely possible
to finish it before winter, and then we could n't live
in it without a fireplace and a chimney. “My dear Brother, — Yours of the 10th is received.
I am now so accustomed to your sarcastic style, that I always
know what to expect when I open one of your epistles.
I wish you joy of your — well, I must say our new
cousin, though I am sorry you did not let me know of the
discovery before telling him. He must be gauche and unpresentable
in a degree; but then, I suppose, there 's no
likelihood of his ever getting into our set. It is time your
schooling was finished, so that I might have you for awhile as
my chevalier. Between ourselves, I 'm rather tired of going
about with” (here the word “Mamma” had evidently been
written and then blotted out) “Mrs. Penrose. Not but
what she continues to improve, — only, I am never certain
of her not committing some niaiserie, which quite puts me
out. However, she behaves well enough at home, and I
hope you will overcome your prejudice in the end, for my
sake. When you know as much about Society as I do, you
will see that it 's always best to smooth over what 's irrevocable.
People are beginning to forget the scandal, since
that affair of Denbigh has given them something else to
talk about. We were at Mrs. Delane's ball on Wednesday;
I made her put on blue cut velvet, and she did not
look so bad. Mrs. Vane nodded, and of course she was
triumphant. I think Papa gives me the credit for all that
has been done, — I 'm sure I deserve it. It 's a race between
Mrs. P. and myself which shall have the new India
shawl at Stokes's; but I shall get it, because Mrs. P. knows
that I could teach her to blunder awfully as well as to behave
correctly, and would do it, in spite of Papa's swearing,
if she drives me to desperation. By the by, he has just
come into the room, and says, `You are writing to the cub,
as usual, I suppose, Matilda.' So there you have him, to
the life.” “Respected Friend, I recd. your favor in which you informed
me that you was getting on so well and gave the
other as you directed. Thought it best to wait for the
other's answer, though there is no particular news. Sep
Bratton goes to The Buck every day, and there 's high
goings on between him and the squire. Your friend Mr.
Rand was there again. People say the squire is speculating
about Pottsville, and will cut up pretty fat some day, which
is no business of mine, but thought you might like to hear.
We are all well, and mother and Sue says remember me to
him. I guess Ben and her is satisfied with one another,
but you need not say I told you. There is a mistress at
the school this summer, a right smart young woman, her
name is Lavina Wilkins. And hoping these few lines will
find you enjoying good health, I remain, “Dear John,” (there were volumes of withheld confession
for me in that one adjective): — Towards the end of May the important book appeared.
I am sure that no immortal work was ever watched, through
its different processes of incarnation, with such tender
solicitude. I lingered over the first proofs, the revised
proofs, and the printed and folded sheets, with a proud,
luxurious interest, and the final consummation — the little
volume, bound and lettered — was so precious that I could
have kissed the leaves one by one. It seemed incredible
that the “John Godfrey” on the title-page really meant
myself! A book for me had hitherto possessed a sublime,
mystical individuality of its own, and this, which had grown
beneath my hand, by stages of manufacture as distinctly
material as those which go to the formation of a shoe or a
stove, was now to be classed among those silent, eloquent
personalities! It might be placed side by side with “Paradise
Lost” or “Childe Harold,” on book-shelves; who could
tell whither chance or fortune might not carry it, or what
young and burning lips it might not help unseal? “I have judged you unjustly, and treated you rudely,
Mr. Godfrey. If I have not forfeited the right to make
reparation, or you have not lost the desire to receive it,
will you call upon me to-morrow evening, at Mrs. Deering's,
and oblige “I will come. “Respd. Nephew, — I take my Pen in hand to inform
you that Me and your aunt Peggy are injoying good Health
and Those Blessings which the Lord Vouchsafes to us. It
is a long Time since we have heard anything of you, but
suppose you are still ingaged in the same Occupation as at
first, and hence direct accordingly, hoping these few Lines
may come Safely to hand. “The news contained in your letter of the 7th was quite
unexpected, but none the less welcome, for your sake as
well as my own. While I still think that the disposal of
my little property ought to have been left to myself, I
cheerfully acquit you of any intention to do me wrong, and
to show that I not only bear no malice, but am willing to
retract my hasty insinuations against your character, I will
accept your proffered hospitality when I visit Reading.
You may expect me within the next four or five days. “My Dear John, — I know why you have not written
to me. In fact I knew, months ago, (through Deering,)
what was coming, and had conquered whatever soreness
was left in my heart. Fortunately my will is also strong
in a reflective sense, and I am, moreover, no child to lament
over an irretrievable loss. I dare say the future will
make it up to me, in some way, if I wait long enough. At
any rate, you won't object, my dear old fellow, to have me
say — not that I wish you happiness, for you have it, but —
that you deserve your double fortune. The other item I
picked up from a newspaper; you might have written me
that. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 4 | Author: | Thorpe
Thomas Bangs
1815-1878 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The master's house | | | | 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: | There is not a more charming town in New England, than
Malden, so celebrated, and so widely known for its intelligent
population, its interesting traditions, and its most excellent
seat of learning. Dear Sir,—I understand you desire to purchase some
valuable house servants. I have one or two that I would
part with, if the trade could be made privately, and treated
by you as confidential. I will be at the cross roads, near
the old brick kiln, precisely at five o'clock, where we can
hold conversation unobserved. Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you wish to
purchase a few first class house-servants; I have two that
I would part with, for less than their real value, if you can
manage to get them in your possession, without giving
their owners the pain of going through the separation.
They have been carefully raised, and would not be sold, if
their owners were not conscientiously impressed that their
condition would not be improved, if they were set free. I
shall be at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-day, and shall
proceed at once to your room, to avoid the suspicion among
the neighbors, that I am contemplating selling. You will
consider our communications in honor, and trust they will
be so treated. Sur,—I've got an old negro woman as wants to be sold,
and go to Mobeel, in the State of Mississip'. I wouldn't
sell her, if she didn't want to go down to that South country
to see her children, as is owned by Mister Brownlaw,
who, when he tuck the children, was to buy the old ooman,
but didn't have the money, an hasn't sent for her 'cordin'
to contract. I will sel her for two hundred and fifty, and
I think Brownlaw will give you four hundred on his place,
as her son is a carpenter, and I'm told he thinks a heap
of him, as he can earn five dollars a day, making bridges
on the rale rode. Please say nothing about this, and drop
in at my house in the evening, when nobody is about, on
the Sandy-hill road, f'ur miles from Colesburg, near the
ruins of the old church, with a sign over the door, with
my name painted on it. Dear Sir,—I understood last evening, after church
was out, that you had come on here to obtain a few choice
servants. I have long since been forced to the conclusion,
that slavery is a moral evil, and I have rejoiced that I
have parted with the few I have owned, to humane masters,
which is a great relief to me, in my hours of serious
reflection. I have one girl that has been carefully brought
up, and we are much attached to her, but I am somewhat
advanced in years, as well as her mistress, and we cannot
tell at what time she may, in the course of Providence, be
thrown without a protector, upon the wide, wicked world.
I had determined not to sell her, but seeing you in church
the other day, I have become deeply impressed that you
12*
are a pious man, and as such, would deal justly with the
girl. I have also reflected, that whatever may be my
sense of duty, the excitement at the North has been so
great, that it makes it perfectly impossible for me to carry
out my original intention, of setting the girl free, as I
cannot conceive a more dreadful condition, than for a once
comfortably clothed and well taken care of negro slave, to
be thrown upon the tender mercies of the uncharitable
world, and be left, as are the poor white laborers of the
free States, to starve, and die a miserable death. It
would be difficult to get the girl's consent to be sold, and
therefore this matter must be delicately arranged; she
will no doubt, at first, be much grieved, but we must judge
what is best for her welfare, ourselves, for we know how to
provide for her real good. The girl is nearly nineteen years
of age. Address “Humanity,” through the post-office,
and say where a strictly private interview may be had. Of
course this communication will be considered confidential.
I trust I may sign myself, in the bonds of brotherly love, “Dear Sir: I received your favor, desiring me to state my opinion of the
value of M. Guénon's `Treatise on Milch Cows,' translated from the French....
I immediately commenced the study and application of his method to every cow
that came under my observation. I have examined more than one hundred cows,
and, after carefully marking their escutcheons. I have become satisfied that M.
Guénon's discovery is one of great merit, and can be relied upon as true. I have
no doubt that I can judge very nearly as to the quantity and quality of the milk
any cow will give at the height of her flow, and also the time she will continue
in milk after being with calf. “I have read with great satisfaction M. Guénon's work on Milch Cows, by
which one can judge by certain infallible signs the milking qualities of the animal.
I have compared the marks he gives for his first-grade Flanders cow, and find
they correspond with the escutcheon of my favorite Devon cow `Ellen,' that has
taken the first premium at two cattle-shows of the American Institute. My farmer
has great faith in M. Guénon's work, and so has one of my neighbors, a knowing
Scotch milkman, who keeps fifty cows. He says that, after careful examination,
he places confidence in these marks, and they will govern him in his future
purchases. I shall hereafter make my selection of the calves I will raise from
my choice stocks from the marks given by this author. I think every farmer
should own this work. “Having had experience in raising cows, I was pleased to find a treatise on the
subject by M. Guénon, of Libourne, in France—which I procured and carefully
studied. I think the book more worthy of attention than I believe it has received.
I found that his marks of the particular classes and orders of cows agree with
nearly all I have had an opportunity to examine. It is easy to ascertain, after
studying this book, to which class and order almost every cow belongs, which,
as a guide in purchasing milch cows, or of safely deciding which to keep, before
we have had time or opportunity to test their qualities as milkers, will far more
than repay the price of the book, and the time necessary to a clear understanding
of it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 8 | Author: | Willis
Nathaniel Parker
1806-1867 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to | | | | 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: | “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S—
calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What
name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I,
glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding
love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou
art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants!
Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently
public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest
of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret
I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have
chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and
however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a
thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less
from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I
know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal.
Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further
preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high
birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your
hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably
given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to
your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is
twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but
she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any
man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and
conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am
directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions
are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no
inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without
previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider
the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject,
since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps,
still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as
prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep,
after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent.
It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed
among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth
of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just
breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed
that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the
sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious
little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried
in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted
lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in
the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the
child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to
his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and
looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between
his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought
the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He
knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his
sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers,
poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to
say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on
your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands.
Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will
excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate
choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in
your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess,
tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived—
if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take
my hand when you meet me. That moment will
decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name
another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot
11
explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice
should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has
so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad,
a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my
tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first
month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you
for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you—
lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax
when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your
table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare
you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition
with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you
know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise
strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion.
Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank
council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes
in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real
half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived
illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me
only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two
stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown
in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of
course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment
of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish
the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon
parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in
your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air
it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then
revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my
tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects
to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are
the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I,
and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged
it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate
the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day.
Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale
troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the
positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine?
Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought
comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude
—in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference
to associating with friends and companions—in writing,
spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly
of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I
divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve
freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own,
only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet
the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the
noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the
world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide
the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer
it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels
from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy
and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost
breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can
understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of
meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance,
but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you
how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our
interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde,
you know me better than those who see me every day. My
most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I,
perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation
of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement
of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child
knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well.
Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my
memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation
may be removed or lessened? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 9 | Author: | Evans
Augusta J.
(Augusta Jane)
1835-1909 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | St. Elmo | | | | 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: | HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever
lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request
I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely
consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no
leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic
chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid
of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it,
the day would inevitably come when you would regret its
premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence
of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions
of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength
than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public
would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken
is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle
it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your
powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level,
the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme
better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed
MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate
the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write
sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that
you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical
creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic
priests. Remember that women never write histories nor
epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the
centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;'
though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad
that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle,
or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will
hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh
eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism
of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator
Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire
to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any
for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge
in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence
of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg
you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter.
I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect
to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion
and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give
you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my
house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would
I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always,
and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship
mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning,
and I shall know that you are my own dear, little
Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of
the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read
the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached
to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and
the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt
and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then
judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the
mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen
to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings
of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help
me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling!
you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder,
I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty
years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence
your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar
ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the
judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth
we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my
wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can
not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag
mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease
to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you
before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar
circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage
of them and thrust myself into your presence
without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I
felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le
Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility
of meeting me. You, who know something of my
wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine
what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked,
that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not,
shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I
almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a
door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my
life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview!
Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It
is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or
will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again.
Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend
together in this world. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 13 | Author: | Holland
J. G.
(Josiah Gilbert)
1819-1881 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Arthur Bonnicastle | | | | 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: | Life looks beautiful from both extremities. Prospect and
retrospect shine alike in a light so divine as to suggest that the
first catches some radiance from the gates, not yet closed, by
which the soul has entered, and that the last is illuminated from
the opening realm into which it is soon to pass. “I should like to see you here next Monday morning, in regard to some
repairs about The Mansion. Come early, and if your little boy Arthur is
well enough you may bring him. “I have lost my ball. I don't know where in the world it can be. It
seemed to get away from me in a curious style. Mr. Bird is very kind,
and I like him very much. I am sorry to say I have lost my Barlow knife
too. Mr. Bird says a Barlow knife is a very good thing. I don't quite
think I have lost the twenty-five cent piece. I have not seen it since yesterday
morning, and I think I shall find it. Henry Hulm, who is my
chum, and a very smart boy, I can tell you, thinks the money will be found.
Mr. Bird says there must be a hole in the top of my pocket. I don't know
what to do. I am afraid Aunt Sanderson will be cross about it. Mr.
Bird thinks I ought to give my knife to the boy that will find the money,
and the money to the boy that will find the knife, but I don't see as I
should make much in that way, do you? I love Mrs. Bird very much.
Miss Butler is the dearest young lady I ever knew. Mrs. Bird kisses us all
when we go to bed, and it seems real good. I have put the testament in
the bottom of my trunk, under all the things. I shall keep that if possible.
If Mrs. Sanderson finds out that I have lost the things, I wish you would
explain it and tell her the testament is safe. Miss Butler has dark eyebrows
and wears a belt. Mr. Bird has killed another woodchuck. I wonder
if you left the key of my trunk. It seems to be gone. We have real
good times, playing ball and taking walks. I have walked out with Miss
Butler. I wish mother could see her hair, and I am your son with ever so
much love to you and mother and all, “Bring home your Attlus. “The Bell is a noble vessel. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 15 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Juno Clifford | | | | 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: | Juno Clifford stood before the mirror of her richly
furnished breakfast parlor. The cloth had been
spread for a half-hour—the silver coffee service was
prettily arranged, and the delicate cups of Sèvres
porcelain were scattered around the urn. But the
mistress of the mansion had only just arisen. It
was ten o'clock. Men, whose business hours had
commenced, were hurrying to and fro in the street—
the city was teeming with life and turbulent with
noise, but the hum only stole through the heavily-curtained
windows of that lofty house on Mount
Vernon street, with a subdued cadence that was very
pleasant. It was a lounging, indolent attitude, in
which the lady stood. In her whole style of manner
there was a kind of tropical languor, and it was easy
to see that she was seldom roused from her habitual
calmness. And yet there was something in the
curving of her dainty lips, the full sweep of her
arching brows, nay, in every motion of her hand,
which told of a slumbering power; an energy,
resistless in its intensity; a will that might have
subjugated an empire. The indolence was habitual
—the energy, native. “Dearest Brother:—It is not my turn to write,
but I have been thinking of you so earnestly to-day,
that I've resolved, at last, to make a thought-bridge
of my little steel pen, and tell you about my reveries.
In the first place, though, you ought to see where I am
writing. Yes, you ought to see Mohawk Village now.
The dear, blue river glides along so gently between
its fringed banks, and the sweet green islets lie, like
summer children, in such a peaceful sleep upon its
breast. The willow trees, `always genteel,' are bending
over its waves, bowing to their own shadows, and
all the green things round look as if they were rejoicing
in the fresh air and the sunshine. But I will
tell you what is the prettiest sight which meets my
eye. It is a gnarled old oak, very large, and very
strong, round which climbs a perfect wealth of the
beautiful ivy. They are living things, I know; and
it takes all mamma's logic to persuade me that they
cannot think and feel. They always seemed to me to
have a history, nay more, a romance linked with their
two lives. The oak looks like some veteran soldier.
His life is not yet quite past its prime, but he has
grown old among the crash of contending armies, and
the fierce shocks of battles. He is scarred, and battered,
and now round this glorious ruin the ivy clings,
young, fresh, trusting, and so beautiful; laying her
long green fingers on his seamed and furrowed front,
hiding his roughness with the embrace of her tender
arms. Looking from my window, summer and winter
I see them, my beautiful emblems of strength and
truth. I wish sometimes, in a large charity, that all
the world could look upon them as I do, that they
could teach every one the same lesson. “I will call you so this once more. God help us,
for He has separated us. I have no strength to tell
you now how tenderly I have loved you. You know
it but too well. Every glance of your blue eyes,
every thread of your golden hair was dearer to me
than my own life. I would not look upon your face
for worlds, now that it is lost to me for ever. My
mother has tried to soothe the agony of this parting.
She has whispered that a time might come, when I
would be free to marry you, but I have no such hope.
I dare not dwell on it; it would be unjust, cruel. I
cannot ask you to love me, to think of me. Rather
let me pray you to forget me; to seek in some other
love the happiness I can never again taste. May he
who shall win and wear you, be more worthy of your
love; he cannot return it more truly. “There, forgive those words, I could not help
them. When once more, after all this lapse of years,
I wrote your name, I forgot for the time that you had
been another's, that you had refused to be mine. I
saw only the Grace of my love and my dreams, very
young, very fair, and, better still, very loving and
trustful. To me you are the same still. I cannot
come to you to-night. I have received a message that
Mabel, my own fair sister, is ill. She may be dying,
but I will hope to find her better. I shall travel night
and day until I reach New York. Pray for me, Grace.
Think of me as your friend, your brother, if you will
not let me be, as in other days— | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 16 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Some women's hearts | | | | 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 Niece Elizabeth, — I believe myself to be
about to die. I cannot tell why this belief has taken
hold of me, but I am sure that I am not long for this
world. And, before I go out of it, I have an act of
restitution to perform. When your father, my dead
and gone brother James, died, if you had received
your due, you would have had six thousand dollars.
But the business was embarrassed at the time, and I
thought that to put so much money out of my hands
just then would ruin me. I took the responsibility,
therefore, of deciding not to do it. I managed, by
means that were not strictly legitimate, to keep the
whole in my own possession. I did not mean ill by
you, either. Your memory will bear me witness that I
dealt by you in every way as by my own children; nor
do I think the interest of your six thousand dollars, in
whatever way invested, could possibly have taken care
of you so well as I did. Still, to have it to use in my
business at that critical time, was worth much more
than the cost of your maintenance to me. So, as I look
at matters, you owe me no thanks for your upbringing,
and I owe you no farther compensation for the use of
your money during those years which you passed in
my house. For the five years since then, I owe you
interest; and I have added to your six thousand dollars
two thousand more, to reimburse you for your loss during
that time. “You were right, and I was wrong. I would not
tempt you to be other than you are, — the purest as the
fairest woman, in my eyes, whom God ever made.
I am running away, because I have not just now the
strength to stay here. You will not see me again for two
weeks. When I come back, I will be able to meet you
as I ought, and to prove myself worthy to be your
friend. “Your child was born the 28th of June. I did not
know of this which was to come when I left the shelter
of your roof, or I should not have gone. The little one
is very ill; and, feeling that she may not live, I think
it right to give you the opportunity of seeing her, if you
wish to, before she dies. Come, if you choose, to No.
50, Rue Jacob, and you will find her. “My Dear Husband, — Andrew, our little boy, is
very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought
that you would wish to see him. Your presence would
be the greatest comfort. “Mr. Thorndike, — I have hesitated long before
writing you this note. I should not venture to do so
now were it not that I am emboldened by the license
accorded to leap-year. To a different man I would not
write it for worlds, but I am sure your character is of
too high a tone for you to pursue a correspondence
merely for amusement or adventure. If you think I
am indelicate in addressing you at all, — if you do not
desire my friendship, you will let the matter drop here,
— you will never reply to me, or bestow a second
thought on one who will, in that case, strive to think
no more of you. But should you really value the
regard of a girl who is fearless enough thus to disobey
the recognized laws of society; honest enough to show
you her heart as it is; good enough, at least, to feel
your goodness in her inmost soul, — then you will
write. Then, perhaps, we shall know each other better,
and the friendship thus unconventionally begun may
brighten both our lives. Remember I trust to your
honor not to answer this letter if you disapprove of my
course in sending it, — if by so doing I have forfeited
your respect. Should you reply, let it be within three
days, and address, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 17 | Author: | Moulton
Louise Chandler
1835-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | This, that and the other | | | | 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: | “Lionel: When your hand touches this sheet, I shall be
far away. It is two hours since you left me, and I have been
sitting here all the while, in a kind of stupor. I have loved you
very fondly, Lionel, and there is no blame for you in my heart
now, only sorrow, bitter, crushing sorrow. I will believe that
you love me — that you did not mean to deceive me! I will
even try to think that the fault, the misunderstanding, was all
mine. My soul shall send back only prayers for you — my heart
shall breathe only blessings. I love you, Lionel — O, how I
love you! If I could coin my life-blood into a flood of blessing,
and pour it on your head, I would do so gladly; if I might die
for you, my soul would be blessed as the angels. I even have
thought, — may God forgive me! — that I could give my soul to
perdition for your sake; but I have no right to bring sorrow, and
shame, and suffering, upon another. The lips that my little sister
presses must be pure; the life consecrated by a dying mother's
blessing must be unstained. “Blanche Leslie, — For something tells me you are Blanche
Leslie yet — I have found you at last, after these weary years.
Listen, and hear if it be not destiny. When you left me, Blanche,
I was a heart-broken, miserable man. You did not know me, little
darling, or you never would have gone. I did not know myself.
I did not know how strong was the love I had for you. Blanche,
believe me, for I swear it before heaven, I never would have asked
you to make one sacrifice for my sake. You should have done
nothing, been nothing, your own heart did not sanction. When
I read your note, I awoke to the knowledge of my own soul.
Then I knew that, without you, wealth, and fame, and honor,
were worse than vanity, hollower than the apples of Sodom. I
would have laid down everything I possessed on earth, to have
called you wife. My soul cried out for you `with groanings
that could not be uttered.' “No, no! Come not near me, Lionel Hunter! Disturb not
the holy calm to which it has been the work of years to attain.
I have wept much, suffered much, but I am stronger now. Talk
no more to me of earthly love, now that my heart has grown old,
and the beauty you used to praise has faded. Leave me, leave
me! It is my prayer; it is all I ask. Over my night of sorrow
dews have fallen, and stars have arisen; let me walk in their
light! Only in heaven will I rest, if it may be so, my head
upon your breast. Then, when the angels shall name me by a
new name, I will steal to your side, and, looking back to earth,
over the bastions of the celestial city, you shall call me “`Heaven forgive and pity me, life of my life, that I should
be writing you, the night before our bridal, only to say farewell.
Our bridal; yes, it shall be so. To-morrow my soul shall marry
your soul, though I am far away. I have been mad, for two
weeks past, Maud! The ashes of the bottomless pit have been
upon my head, and its hot breath has scorched my cheek. I
would not tell you, my beloved, because I wished not to drag
you down with me to perdition. O, Maud, my darling! Maud,
my beloved! Can it be, I never more must draw your head
to my heart — never more must look into your blue eyes,
or watch the blushes stealing over your cheek? But I am
raving. “Can it be that only one sun has set and risen since Stanley
Grayson called me his, — since another and a dearer life grew into
mine, with the knowledge that I was beloved? O, joy! great,
unutterable joy, whose seeds were sown in grief, and watered by
the hot tears which made the flowers grow upon my mother's
grave! Who shall say, if I had not been thus desolate, I could
have felt so deeply this wondrous bliss of love? “A week has passed — a long, sunny week of happiness! Stanley
says we must be married in September — his birth-day, September
fifth. Papa, dear, good papa, has given me carte blanche as
to money. He says I never did cost him anything yet, and have
only been a help to him, all my life; and now, when he 's going
to lose me, he will give me all he can. Poor papa! I fear,
though he likes Stanley, he is hardly reconciled to the idea of
my leaving home; for, when he spoke of my going away, the
tears came to his eyes, and he looked so regretfully at his easy-chair,
and the little ottoman where I always sit beside him! It
seemed so selfish in me to go and leave him, — him who has always
been so kind to me, — and for one, too, whom I had never seen,
a few short months ago! The tears came to my eyes, and for
the moment I was half resolved to send Stanley away without
me; but, O, I know that already my soul is married to his soul,
and I cannot give him up. Lizzie will come home in July, and
she can stay with papa. Do I love Stanley better than papa?
Why do I not say Lizzie will do for Stanley? And why would
she not — she, so good, so young, so very beautiful? “O, how dear, how much dearer than ever, my future husband
is every day becoming to my heart! How long a time
since I 've written here before! but then I 'm so busy, and so
happy! “O, how it rains! — Such a perfect wail as the wind makes,
hurrying by, as if its viewless feet were `swift to do evil!' Poor
Lizzie! she is inside the stage, I suppose; she will have a
long, uncomfortable ride! I don't know why it is, but my soul
seems to go out toward her to-night more than ever. I have
thought of Stanley so much lately, that I 've not had so much
time to think of my poor child, and now my heart is reproaching
me. Sweet Lizzie! She and Stanley have never met. How
proud I am of them both! I am sure they must be pleased
with each other. Stanley is in his room now. I sent him up to
put on his black coat, and that new vest in which he looks so
well. “Yes, it was dear Lizzie. Stanley heard the horn too, and hurried
down stairs. I bade him go and meet Lizzie; for it was
raining, and papa was n't half awake. I followed him to the
door, and he received Lizzie in his arms. She thought it was
papa, for, what with the night and the rain, it was quite dark;
and she pressed her lips to his face again and again. But when he
brought her into the pleasant, brightly-lighted parlor, and set her
down, she pushed from her white shoulders her heavy cloak,
and glanced around; that is, as soon as she could, for at first I held
her to my heart so closely she could see nothing. When papa
took her in his arms, and welcomed her, and bade God bless her,
she glanced at his slippers and dressing-gown, and then at Stanley,
who was looking at her with a shade of amusement at her
perplexity, and yet with the most vivid admiration I ever saw
portrayed on his fine features. At last he laughed out, merrily. “I am a little lonely, I 'm left so much alone now. The long
rides over the hills continue, and of course I stay at home, for
there is no horse for me to ride. Stanley comes and kisses me
just before he goes off, and says, `You are always so busy,
Katie!' but he says nothing of late about the reason I am so
busy — nothing about our marriage. “Two days, and I am writing here again; but O, how
changed! I have been struck by a thunderbolt. I have had
a struggle, brief, but very fierce; and it is past. I was sailing
in a fair ship, upon calm waters; there were only a few clouds
in the sky. Sunlight rested on the waves, and in the distance I
could see a floating pleasure-island, green and calm, made
beautiful with tropic flowers, where gorgeous birds rested, and
sang love-songs all the day. Merrily the bark dashed onward.
Loved forms were by my side, and one dearer than all
was at the helm; but from the clear sky a tempest-blast swept
suddenly. It had sobbed no warning of the doom it was
bringing us. “A month has passed since I wrote here last; I hardly know
why, myself. It has been a long summer month. Days are so
long in summer, and they have seemed like centuries of late.
What a beautiful day it is! The sunshine smiles so pleasantly
on the fields, and the bright-winged birds sing, and the insects
hum lazily, or go to sleep upon the flowers. It seems to me I
never saw such a scene of calm, quiet beauty; — as if Nature
had on her holiday garments, decked newly for the sun, her
lover. “Lizzie is married, and they have gone; surely no bride ever
before looked so beautiful! Her long curls floated over her
white robe like sunshine over snow; and her cheeks were fairer
than ever, shaded so faintly by her rich veil. She trembled
during the ceremony, and I could feel how firm and strong was
the lover-like pressure with which Stanley clasped her waist.
When we knelt in prayer, his arm was around her still; and I
seemed quite to forget my own existence, so intently was I occupied
in watching them, so fervent were my prayers for their
happiness. It was the hardest when Stanley came back to me,
after Lizzie had said good-by, and he had put her in the carriage.
He took both my hands in his, and, looking into my eyes,
whispered, Never mind Peepy, Mrs. Jellyby! Let the child cry, — let
him fall down stairs, and break his nose. What are a thousand
Peepies now present, to the mighty schemes of our modern
Borioboola-Gha, which will affect the destinies of myriads of
Peepies yet to come? Can you fritter away your attention on
one man, and his little troop of children, when that new lawgiver
— that Moses — that Stephen Pearl Andrews — has told us,
woman's chief duty is to be “true to herself, and not true to any
man”? Thanks, Mr. Andrews! We, little girl that we are,
did n't know our duty before. We 've found out, now. Never
mind if there were tears in his eyes, when he whispered, “I can't
live, if you change!” We know our duty now, and it 's not
much matter what he suffers in so good a cause. “Miss Adams: Perhaps it may give you some satisfaction
to learn that, in compliment to you, I returned from New York
last night, instead of this morning, as I at first intended. I went
over to Oakwood, and, in the natural indulgence of a lover's
curiosity, was a witness of the pleasant scene in your favorite
bower. I presume it will be an occasion of heartfelt rejoicing
to you to know that you are quite free from all the ties which
have bound you to No, no, nothing but that! She has never derived any additional
importance from linking her name with yours, imperial
man! — never grown angelized by a wife's thrice-drugged potion
of care and sorrow. She lives alone, in a little, lonely house, —
alone, with her black cat, and her memories of the past! “Edward Gray: Ellen Adair is ill — dying. She will die
to-night. I do not say if you ever loved her, for I know you
did, but, if you love her now, come to us directly. “`I am surprised, Mr. Harding, at the acuteness which enables
you to divine my wishes so readily. I trust the attachment
which can so easily relinquish its object will not be difficult to
overcome. For your kindness in procuring me this casket, I am
infinitely obliged; but you must, of necessity, excuse my accepting
it, as it is a present of too great value for a lady to receive
from any but her lover. Enclosed you will find your miniature
and letters, and a certain emerald ring, the pledge of a tie now
broken. You will excuse me from coming down, as I have a
head-ache this morning. I wish you God-speed on your journey,
long life and happiness, and remain your friend, “Many months have passed since last we met. Summers and
winters have been braided into years, and still on my heart is
your name written; not one hieroglyph that you traced there
has been obliterated. Heart and soul I am, what I always have
been, yours! I married Clara the day succeeding our last meeting,
and I love her very much. Can you reconcile this with what I
have just written? I am yours, as I said; you, even you, my
Agnes, are more to me than all the rest of earth; but it is much
to feel we can make another human being entirely happy. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 18 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Eutaw | | | | 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 surely an early hour for the whip-poor-will to begin
her monotonous plainings, sitting on her accustomed hawthorn,
just on the edge of the swamp. The sun has hardly dropped
from sight behind the great pine-thickets. His crimson and
orange robes still flaunt and flicker in the western heavens;
gleams from his great red eyes still purple the tree-tops; and
you may still see a cheerful light hanging in the brave, free
atmosphere; while gray shapes, like so many half-hooded friars,
glide away through the long pine-avenues, inviting you, as it
would seem, to follow, while they steal away slowly from pursuit
into the deeper thickets of the swamp. “My child, my dear Bertha: To you alone can I look for
the rescue of your brother and myself. We are in the power of
an enemy, who requires your hand in marriage for the safety of
my own and my son's life. We have forfeited the security of
British law. My own offences are such that, delivered to the
commandant of Charleston, as I am threatened, my death — an
ignominious death — must follow. Your brother is a captive
also, charged with murdering the king's soldiers without a warrant.
He is suffering in health by his unavoidable confinement.
He can not long live in the condition in which he is kept; and
his release and mine are made to depend entirely on you. Let
me implore you, my child, to come to our succor, and to save us.
Become the wife of Captain Inglehardt, and suffer us once more
to see the light of heaven, and enjoy the freedom of earth.
Come, my beloved child, to our rescue; and, in making the
sacrifice of your choice, to my own, receive the blessings of
your fond, but fettered father. [P. S.] You will readily conceive
our exigency, when I tell you that my wrists and feet are
even now in manacles of iron, and have been so from the first
day of my captivity. For a time, indeed, your brother Henry
was held in similar fetters.” “Sorry, my dear colonel, to cut short your roving commission;
doubly sorry that it has not yet resulted as you could
wish. But we can spare you from the main action of the drama
no longer. We are now, I think, approaching the denouément,
and require all our heroes on the stage. Stewart is in rapid
march downward — a little too strong for us yet, particularly
with the reinforcements which he will get from the lower posts.
We hear of these in motion from several quarters, as many as a
thousand or twelve hundred men. These, in addition to his
estimated strength at present of twenty-three hundred, will give
heavy odds against us, unless our mounted men come out much
more numerously than usual. Greene is on the march, somewhat
recruited, but very little strengthened. Congress has done
nothing — can or will do nothing — not even give us arms and
ammunition! Three hundred of our people are still without
serviceable weapons of any kind, and seven hundred without
jackets or breeches. It is really lucky that we have hot
weather. We must make up in zeal what we lack in men and
munitions, and only fight the harder from having but little
means with which to fight at all! That, my dear Sinclair, is a
new philosophy for the management of armies, but it is one
that will not seem altogether silly in the estimation of the true
patriot. At all events, it is about the best that I can give to
you, who know how to fight so well on short commons; and it
affords the only hope upon which I have fed (very like fasting)
for a long season! Once more, then, my dear Sinclair, let me
regret the necessity which requires that you rejoin your brigade,
and defer, for a brief season, the painfully interesting personal
enterprises upon which you are engaged. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 20 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Vasconselos | | | | 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 the province of romance, even more decidedly than history,
to recall the deeds and adventures of the past. It is to fiction
that we must chiefly look for those living and breathing creations
which history quite too unfrequently deigns to summon to her
service. The warm atmosphere of present emotions, and present
purposes, belongs to the dramatis personœ of art; and she
is never so well satisfied in showing us human performances, as
when she betrays the passions and affections by which they were
dictated and endured. It is in spells and possessions of this
character, that she so commonly supersedes the sterner muse
whose province she so frequently invades; and her offices are
not the less legitimate, as regards the truthfulness of things in
general, than are those of history, because she supplies those details
which the latter, unwisely as we think, but too commonly,
holds beneath her regard. In the work before us, however, it is
our purpose to slight neither agency. We shall defer to each of
them, in turn, as they may be made to serve a common purpose.
They both appeal to our assistance, and equally spread their possessions
beneath our eyes. We shall employ, without violating,
the material resources of the Historian, while seeking to endow
them with a vitality which fiction only can confer. It is in pursuit
of this object that we entreat the reader to suppose the backward
curtain withdrawn, unveiling, if only for a moment, the
aspects of a period not so remote as to lie wholly beyond our
sympathies. We propose to look back to that dawn of the sixteenth
century; at all events, to such a portion of the historical
landscape of that period, as to show us some of the first sunny
gleams of European light upon the savage dominions of the
Western Continent. To review this epoch is, in fact, to survey
the small but impressive beginnings of a wondrous drama in
which we, ourselves, are still living actors. The scene is almost
within our grasp. The names of the persons of our narrative
have not yet ceased from sounding in our ears; and the theatre
of performance is one, the boards of which, even at this moment,
are echoing beneath their mighty footsteps. Our curiosity and
interest may well be awakened for awhile, to an action, the fruits
of which, in some degree, are inuring to our present benefit. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
|
