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41Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Mary Hollis  
 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: Many persons, in the village of ———, in Massachusetts, remember Mary Lowe, a diligent, ingenious little girl of a respectable family, who was left an orphan when quite young, with a very slender provision, which her guardians wisely expended, in obtaining for her a decent education and the tayloring trade. She went from house to house, eating her bread in singleness of heart. She was approved by the elderly and judicious, for her prudent, industrious, and quiet ways; and she made herself the delight of all the children, by her obliging disposition and good humour. The little boys said, “Mary would always put pockets in their clothes;” and the older boys, who longed to be emancipated from the indignity of having their clothes made by a woman-taylor, were still conciliated by Mary's gentle manners, and a little, too, by the smart look which she contrived to give to their apparel. I think I can see her now bending over her goose, and as it heavily trod the seams, singing some playful song to the little group around her; and smiling and blushing as she caught the approving glances of the elders of the family.
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42Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Redwood  
 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: On the last day of June, in the year —, a small vessel, which traversed weekly the waters of Lake Champlain, was seen slowly entering one of the most beautiful bays of that most beautiful lake. A travelling carriage with handsome equipments, a coachman in livery and an outrider, were drawn up on the shore, awaiting the approach of the vessel. On the deck stood a group of travellers for whom the equipage was destined: a beautiful young woman, and her attendant, a female slave, were surveying it with pleased and equal eagerness, while the father of the young lady seemed quite absorbed in the contemplation of a scene which poetry and painting have marked for their own. Not a breeze stirred the waters; their mirror surface was quite unbroken, save where the little vessel traced its dimpled pathway. A cluster of islands lay in beautiful fraternity opposite the harbour, covered with a rich growth of wood, and looking young, and fresh, and bright, as if they had just sprung from the element on which they seemed to repose. The western shore presented every variety of form; wooded headlands jutting boldly into the lake, and richly cultivated grounds sloping gently to its margin. As the traveller's delighted eye explored still farther, it B 2 rested on the mountains that rise in four successive chains, one above the other, the last in the far distance dimly defining and bounding the horizon. A cloud at this moment veiled the face of the sun, and its rich beams streamed aslant upon the mountain tops, and poured showers of gold and purple light into the deep recesses of the valleys. Mr. Redwood, a true admirer of nature's lovely forms, turned his unsated gaze to the village they were approaching, which was indicated by a neat church spire that peered over the hill, on the height and declivities of which were planted several new and neat habitations. “Oh Caroline, my child,” exclaimed the father, “was there ever any thing more beautiful!” “Some months have elapsed, dear Alsop, since we parted, and parted with a truly juvenile promise to keep up an unremitting epistolary intercourse. And this I believe is the first essay made by either of us; a fair illustration of the common proportion which performance bears to such promises. You, no doubt, have been roving from pleasure to pleasure, with an untiring impulse, and your appetite, like the horse-leech, has still cried, `give, give.' If one of your vagrant thoughts has strayed after me, you have doubtless fancied me immured in my study, pursuing my free inquiries, abandoning the fallen systems of vulgar invention, and soaring far over the misty atmosphere of imposture and credulity. Or, perhaps, you deem that I have adopted your sapient advice, have returned to my home a dutiful child, gracefully worn the chains of filial obedience, made my best bow to papa, and with a, `just as you please, Sir,' fallen, secundum artem, desperately in love with my beautiful, and beautifully rich cousin; have rather taken than asked her willing hand, and thus opened for myself the path of ambition, or the golden gates that lead to the regions of pleasure, and which none but fortune's hand can open, But, alas! the most reasonable hopes are disappointed by our fantastic destiny. We are the sport of chance; and as we confess no other deity, you are bound not to deride any of the whimsical dilemmas into which his votaries are led. Alsop, you have often commended the boldness of my mind, while you laughed at a certain involuntary homage I paid to the beautiful pictures of goodness, which some dreaming enthusiasts have presented to us, or to the moral beauty which among all the varieties of accidental combination, is sometimes exhibited in real life. “I am grateful for your interest, and convinced by your arguments that I ought no longer to doze away my brief existence in this retirement. I have obtained my father's consent to the arrangement you propose; and what is still more indispensable, an ample supply in consideration of a promise I have given to him, that I will solicit the hand of my cousin immediately after my return.
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43Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Redwood  
 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: Those only who have observed the magical effect produced upon a young lady by the presence of a candidate for her favour, whom she deems it worth her efforts to obtain or retain, can have an adequate notion of the change wrought on Caroline Redwood since the arrival of the Westalls. Instead of the listless, sullen girl, who yawned away her days in discontent or apathy, she became spirited, active, and good-humoured. Even her interest in the concerns of Ellen Bruce, and her suspicions of that artless girl's designs, were suspended in the ardour of her present pursuit, and she seemed to think of nothing and to care for nothing but how she should secure the triumph of her vanity. Every one noticed the change; (excepting Ellen, who had of late almost wholly withdrawn from the family circle) indeed, it was so manifest that Miss Deborah, who had taken a decided dislike to Caroline, and who was rather remarkable for the inveteracy of her opinions, was heard to say, that “since the girl's sweetheart had come, she was as bright as a September day after the fog was lifted; but for her part she liked to see people have sunshine within them like Ellen.” This declaration was made by Miss Debby in an imprudently loud tone of voice, as she stood at a window gazing on Mr. Redwood's carriage that had been ordered for an afternoon's drive. Mr. Redwood, Caroline, and Mrs. Westall were B 2 already in the carriage, and Charles Westall had returned to the parlour in quest of some article Mr. Redwood had forgotten; while he was looking for it, Deborah's comment fell on his ear, and probably gave a new direction to his thoughts, for during the ride Caroline rallied him on his extraordinary pensiveness; and finally perceiving that his gravity resisted all her efforts to dissipate it, she proposed that if he had not lost the use of his limbs as well as of his tongue, he should alight from the carriage with her and walk to a cottage, to which they perceived a direct path through a field, while the carriage approached by the high road which ran along the lake shore and was circuitous. Westall assented rather with politeness than eagerness; but when he was alone with Caroline, when she roused all her powers to charm him, he yielded to the influence of her beauty and her vivacity. Never had she appeared so engaging— never so beautiful—the afternoon was delicious—their path ran along the skirts of an enchanting wood—its soft shadows fell over them, the birds poured forth their melody; and, in short, all nature conspired to stimulate the lover's imagination and to quicken his sensibility. Charles forgot the sage resolutions he had made to withhold his declaration till he had satisfied certain doubts that had sometimes obtruded on him, that all in Caroline was not as fair and lovely as it seemed; he forgot Miss Deborah's hint —forgot every thing but the power and the presence of his beautiful companion, and only hesitated for language to express what his eyes had already told her. At this moment both his and Miss Redwood's attention was withdrawn from themselves to a little girl who appeared at the door of the cottage, from which they were now not many yards distant. On perceiving them she bounded over the door step, then stopped, put up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and gazed fixedly on them for a moment, then again sprang forward, again stopped, covered her eyes with both her hands, threw herself at full length on the grass, laid her ear to the ground and seemed for a moment to listen intently; she then rose, put her apron to her eyes and appeared to be weeping, while she retraced her way languidly to the cottage. Caroline and Westall, moved by the same impulse, quickened their pace, and in a few moments reached the cottage door, to which a woman had been attracted by the sobs of the child, and was expostulating with her in an earnest tone. “God help us, Peggy, you'll just ruin all if you go on in this way;” she paused on perceiving that the child had attracted the attention of the strangers; and in reply to Westall's asking what ailed the little girl, she said, “it's just her simplicity, Sir; but if you and the lady will condescend to walk into my poor place here, I will tell you all about it, or Peggy shall tell it herself, for when she gets upon it her tongue runs faster than mine: but bless me, here comes a grand coach—look up, Peggy, you never saw a real coach in your life.” Peggy now let fall the apron with which she had covered her face—a face if not beautiful, full of feeling and intelligence. She seemed instantly to forget her affliction, whatever it was, in the pleasure of gazing on the spectacle of the real coach. “Ah, aunt Betty,” she exclaimed, “it is the grand sick gentleman that is staying at Mr. Lenox's.” The carriage drew up to the door, and Mrs. Westall and Mr. Redwood, attracted by the uncommonly neat appearance of the cottage, alighted and followed Caroline and Charles, who had already entered it. The good woman, middle-aged and of a cheerful countenance, was delighted with the honour conferred on her, bustled around to furnish seats for her guests— shook up the cushion of a rocking chair for Mr. Redwood, and made a thousand apologies for the confusion and dirt of her house, which had the usual if not the intended effect of calling forth abundance of compliments on its perfect order and neatness. “And now, Peggy,” she said, as soon as they were all quietly seated, “take the pitcher and bring some cold water from the spring, that's what the poor have, thank God, as good as the rich, and it is all we have to offer.” The little girl obeyed, and as soon as she was out of hearing, the woman turned to Westall. “It was your wish, Sir, to know what ailed the child; the poor thing has just got the use of her eyesight, and she has been expecting some one that she loves better than all the world; and when she saw this young lady with you, she thought it was her friend—though to be sure she is shorter than this lady; but then Peggy, poor thing, does not see quite right yet, and then when she is puzzled she just lies down to the ground as you saw her, for that was her way to listen, and she knows Miss Ellen's step, for as light as it is, when my poor ear can't hear a sound.”
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44Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Redwood  
 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 was a fine afternoon in the month of August when our travellers passed the romantic road which traverses the mountain that forms the eastern boundary of the valley of Hancock. The varied pleasures they had enjoyed during the day, and the excitement of drawing near to the object of their long journey, animated them both with unusual spirits. Deborah's tongue was voluble in praise of the rich farms that spread out on the declivities of the hills, or embosomed in the protected vallies, called forth, as they deserved, the enthusiastic commendations of our experienced rustic. Ellen listened in silence while she gazed with the eye of an amateur upon this beautiful country, which possesses all the elements of the picturesque. Green hills crowned with flourishing villages—village spires rising just where they should rise; for the scene is nature's temple, and the altar should be there—lakes sparkling like gems in the distant vallies—Saddle mountain lifting his broad shoulders to the northern sky, and the Catskills defining with their blue and misty outline the western horizon. “I guess you will be surprised to see my pot-hooks and trammels, and puzzled enough you will be to read them; but I could not let so good an opportunity pass without letting you know that the Lord has spared our lives to this date, and that all your friends at Eton are well, except the minister, who enjoys a poor state of health.
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45Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Travellers  
 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: In the month of June, (the jubilee month of poets and travellers) in the year eighteen hundred and eighteen, Mr. Sackville, his wife, and their two children, Edward and Julia, made the grand tour of Niagara, the lakes, Montreal, Quebec, &c. Both parents and children kept journals, in which they recorded with fidelity whatever they observed which they deemed worthy of note. We have been favored with the perusal of them all, and have been permitted to make a few extracts from them, which we intend to combine into a brief narrative, that we are sure will amuse our young readers, provided their delicate essence does not escape our unskilful hands.
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46Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Hope Leslie, Or, Early Times in the Massachusetts  
 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: William Fletcher was the son of a respectable country gentleman of Suffolk, in England; and the destined heir of his uncle Sir William Fletcher, an eminent lawyer, who had employed his talents with such effective zeal and pliant principle, that he had won his way to courtly favour and secured a courtly fortune.
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47Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Clarence, Or, a Tale of Our Own Times  
 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 was one of the brightest and most beautiful days of February. Winter had graciously yielded to the melting influence of the soft breezes from the Indian's paradise—the sweet southwest. The atmosphere was a pure transparency, a perfect ether; and Broadway, the thronged thoroughfare through which the full tide of human existence pours, the pride of the metropolis of our western world, presented its gayest and most brilliant aspect. “My dear Madam—A severe pressure of pub “lic business (private concerns I should have put “aside) has prevented my expressing in person, the “deep sympathy I feel in your late bereavement. “The loss of a husband, and such a husband is “indeed a calamity; but we must all bow to the “dispensations of an all-wise Providence. “Tell me, my dear friend, if you love the coun “try, (to borrow your legal phrase,) per se? Here “I am surrounded by magnificent scenery, in the “midst of `bowery summer,' in the month of flowers, “and singing-birds, the leafy month of June, and “yet I am sighing for New York. It is Madame “de Staël, I think, who says that `love and religion “only can enable us to enjoy nature.' The first, “alas! alas! is (for is read ought to be,) passé to “me; and the last I have exclusively associated with “the sick-chamber and other forms of gloom and “misery. “My dear Madam—It is I believe canonical to “answer first the conclusion of a lady's letter. My “reply to your queries about the Clarences will ac “count for Mr. C.'s interest in me, without involv “ing any reason so flattering as that you have sug “gested. My uncle, Gerald Roscoe, was one of “that unlucky brotherhood that have fallen under “your lash, and so far from being a `dropped link, “not missed, and soon forgotten,' he had that “warmth and susceptibility of heart, that activity “and benevolence of disposition, that strengthen “and brighten the chain that binds man to man, “and earth to heaven. Blessed be his memory! “I never see an old bachelor that my heart does “not warm to him for his sake. But to my story. “My uncle—a Howard in his charities—(you “touched a nerve, my dear Mrs. Layton, when “you satarised old bachelors)—my uncle, on a “visit to our city alms-house, espied a little boy, “who, to use his own phrase, had a certain some “thing about him that took his heart. This certain “something, by the way, he saw in whoever needed “his kindness. The boy too, at the first glance “was attracted to my uncle. Children are the “keenest physiognomists—never at fault in their first “loves. It suddenly occurred to my uncle, that an “errand-boy was indispensable to him. The child “was removed to my grandfather's, and soon made “such rapid advances in his patron's affections that “he sent him to the best schools in the city, and “promoted him to the parlor, where, universal “sufferance being the rule of my grandfather's “house, he was soon as firmly established as if he “had equal rights with the children of the family. “This child was then, as you probably know, “called Charles Carroll. He was just graduated “with the first honors of Columbia College, when, “within a few days of each other, my grandfather “and uncle died, and the house of Roscoe & Son “proved to be insolvent. Young Carroll, of course, “was cast on his own energies. He would have “preferred the profession of law, but he had fallen “desperately in love with a Miss Lynford, who “lived in dependence in her uncle's family. He “could not brook the humiliations which, I suspect, “he felt more keenly than the subject of them, “and he married, and was compelled, by the actual “necessities of existence, to renounce distant ad “vantages for the humble but certain gains of a “clerkship. These particulars I had from my mo “ther. You may not have heard that at the moment “of his accession of property he suffered a calamity “in the death of an only son, which deprived “him of all relish, almost of all consciousness, of “his prosperity. He would gladly have filled “the boy's yawning grave with the wealth which “seemed to fall into his hands at that moment, to “mock him with its impotence. The boy was a “rare gem. I knew him and loved him, and hap “pened to witness his death; and being then at the “impressible season of life, it sunk deeply into “my heart. It was a sudden, and for a long time, “a total eclipse to the poor father. The shock “was aggravated by a bitter self-reproach, for “having, in his engrossing anxiety for the result of “his pending lawsuit, neglected the child's malady “while it was yet curable. “On looking over your letter a second time, my “dear Mrs. Layton, I find there is enough of it “unanswered to give me a pretence for addressing “you again; and as I know no more agreeable “employment of one of my many leisure hours “than communicating with you, I will contrast “your picture of the miseries of rustic hospitality “and rustic habits, with the trials of a poor devil, “condemned to the vulgarity and necessity of drag “ging through the summer months in town. We all look at our present, petty vexations, through “the magnifying end of the glass, and then turning “our instrument, give to the condition of others, the “softness and enchantment of distance. “Madam—I enclose you a remittance, according “to the conjugal request you did me the honor to “transmit through Gerald Roscoe, Esq.; and at the “same time, I take the liberty to forewarn you, that “unless you second—energetically second, my “views and wishes in the — affair, I shall lose “the ability, as I have long ago lost the inclination, “to answer the demands arising from your habits of “reckless expense. I expect you to be at Trenton “by the first of next month. Pedrillo will follow “you there; and there, or at Utica (he leaves all “minor points to her decision) he expects to re “ceive Emilie's hand. He loves Emilie—upon “my soul I believe de does—devotedly. “It is with inexpressible sorrow, my sweetest “friend, that I am compelled to bid you adieu with “out again seeing you. We take our departure “early in the morning. Poor Em' is quite heart“broken about it. We are both under the tyranny “of destiny. I resign all to the despot, save my “affections; and of those, you, dearest, have taken “complete possession. It is not because you are “a heroine of the nineteenth century; that is, prac “tical, rational, dutiful, and all the tedious et ceteras “that I admire you. No, these are qualities that, like “bread and water, are the gross elements of every “day life, but they have nothing to do with that “fine accord of finely touched spirits that common “minds can no more attain than common senses can “take in the music of the spheres. There is no “describing it, but we understand it; do we not? “Dear Gertrude, you must be my friend, you must “love me; you will have much to forgive in me. I “am a wayward creature. Oh, heavens! how infe “rior to you! but there have been crosses in my “destiny. Had I known you sooner, your bland “influence would have given a different color to “my life. You understand me. I disdain the “Procrustes standard of pattern ladies who admit “none to the heaven of their favor, but those “who can walk on a mathematical line, like that “along which a Mahometan passes to his paradise. “My dear Miss Clarence—I have forborne to “disturb your repose after your perilous adventure, “to announce our abrupt departure. Accident in “troduced you into our family cabinet, and as you “are apprised of its secrets, you will not wonder at “poor Randolph's feelings, in consequence of the “disclosures of to-day. My heart pleads for Emi “lie, but my reason tells me, that it is wisest, “discretest, best, to shun any farther intercourse “with so beautiful a creature, who is so careless of “obligations and consequences. Depend on it, “Miss Clarence, I am right in my opinion of the “mother; and though I grieve to say it, poor Emi “lie has bad blood in her veins. I am sustaining “the part of a rigid moralist with Randolph, while “my womanish heart is melting within me. I can “not regard the sweet girl in any other light, than “as a victim—the faults of seventeen are not deli “berate—but I talk as sternly to Randolph, as if I “were Junius Brutus. In compliance with a kind “invitation from your father, we have promised to “visit Clarenceville, on our return from Niagara.
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48Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Clarence, Or, a Tale of Our Own Times  
 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: Pedrillo's detention at Trenton was protracted day after day, and week after week. His inflammatory constitution, and impatient temper, acted reciprocally upon each other ; and a wound, that with a tranquil temperament would, by the process of nature, have been cured in a week, produced a suffering and languishing sickness. So surely and dreadfully are physical evils aggravated by moral causes, that those who would enjoy a sound body, should cherish a sound mind. “Sir,—As duelling is, in my estimation, a viola “tion of the immutable law of God, and can never “be a reparation, or an atonement for an injury, I “should in every supposable case avoid giving, and “decline receiving, the `satisfaction of a gentleman,' “in the technical acceptation of that phrase. Any “other mode of satisfaction which a just and honor “able man may give or require, for real or fancied “injuries, I am ready to afford you, and shall de “mand from you. “My dear friend—It is almost cruel of you to “enforce your kind invitation with such glowing “pictures of the variety and excitement of a winter “in New York, and quite barbarous to ask me if I “do not begin to feel the ennui of country life, when “I am obliged to confess that I do. Since my return “from Trenton, I have felt a craving that `country“contentments' do not satisfy. I used to go round “and round in the same circle, and experience nei “ther satiety nor deficiency. I read and study as “usual with my father, but the spirit is gone. I “used to find amusement in the occasional visits of “our simple village friends, and could, without “effort, manifest the expected interest in the suc “cess of an application for a new bank, or turn “pike-road, or the formation of a new `society.' “I could listen with becoming attention to Col. “Norton's stories of the revolution, though I knew “them all by heart—to good old Mrs. Wyman's “graphic details of her anomalous diseases, and “even to your friend Mrs. Upton's domestic chro “nicles. I have ridden half a dozen miles to find “out whether our pretty little busy bee, Sally Ellis, “or her bouncing notable rival obtained the pre “mium for the best flannel at the fair, and—dare I “confess it to you, Mrs. Layton?—I have been as “eager to know which of our rustic friends re “ceived the premiums of the Agricultural Society “—premiums for rich crops and fat bullocks—as if “they were the crowns decreed in Olympian games. “But, alas! it is all over now—these things move “me no longer. I have not opened my piano since “the Marions left us, and my drawing, my former “delight, I have abandoned. It is too indissolubly “associated with the sad memory of Louis Seton. “If you love me, my dear Mrs. Layton, spare me “any farther raillery on this subject—I cannot “bear it. I have known nothing in my short life, “so painful as being the accidental cause of suffer “ing to a mind, pure, elevated, and susceptible as “Louis Seton's, and certainly nothing so perplex “ing to my faith, as that such a mind should be “doomed to misery! My father, who is my ora “cle in all dark matters, says these are mysteries of “which we must quietly await the solution—that we “are here as travellers in a strange and misty “country, where objects are seen obscurely, and “their relations and dependencies are quite hidden. “But we are safe while we fix the eye of faith on “the goodness of Providence—His perfect, illimit “able, and immutable goodness. This is the bea “con-light—the central truth of the moral universe. “I am announcing high speculations in a very “metaphysical sort of a way; but I am as the “humble cottager who receives through her narrow “window a few rays of light—few, but sufficient to “brighten her small sphere of duty, and to preserve “her from either faltering or fear. “My dear Madam—I have just received a letter “from Mr. Clarence, who was a particular friend “of my father.” Ha! ha! Gertrude, love plays strange things with chronology—Morley is full five and forty, which I take to be half a lustre in advance of your father; but allons! “He recommends a “friend of his, Mr. Randolph Marion, for the office “of—, and says, what may be true though flatter “ing, that my influence will decide who shall “be the successful candidate. Nothing in life “would give me greater pleasure than to oblige Mr. “Clarence, but I am unfortunately in a degree “committed to a very zealous and useful member of “our party. If however your fair friend, Miss C. “is interested in Marion, (I do not mean en amante, “for I understand there is no interest of a delicate “nature in question,) I shall make every effort and “sacrifice to oblige her. Will you assure her of “this, after ascertaining her wishes in the most re “cherchée manner imaginable. Your sex are born “diplomatists. Oh that you, my dear Madam, “would vouchsafe to be my minister plenipoten“tiary `dans les affaires du cœur!' “Respected lady: `If a man would thrive, he “should wive,' therefore, as agent, and acting for “my son, (John Smith,) I have the satisfaction of “proposing an alliance (matrimonial) between you “and him, (that is, my son.) He is a remarkable “genteel young man in a drawing-room, (John is) “—quite up to any thing, but as that is where you “have seen him, (chiefly,) I shall say no more “about it, only observing that my son (John) always “goes for the first, (he can afford it,) i. e. Wheeler's “coats—Whitmarsh's pantaloons—Byrne's boots— “&c. &c.—which is, (I take it,) the reason he has “made you, valued lady, his choice; you being “the first match in the city (at present). John “(my son) has been a healthy lad from the egg, “and cleanly, (his mother says,) thorough cleanly. “A touch of the intermittent, that he is taken down “with, (this evening,) makes nothing against it (i. e. “against his constitution). As I have found pro “crastination (in all kinds of business) a bad thing, “and to strike while the iron's hot, a safe rule “(without exceptions), and as the doctor says my “son (John) may be down for a week, I concluded “(knowing his mind) not to delay, for fear of acci “dents. As I have not writ a love-letter since I “married my wife, I hope you will, ma'am, excuse “all mistakes and deficiencies. As soon as I re “ceive a punctual answer, (to the above,) we will ar “range all matters of business, (there I'm at home,) “to your, and your honored father's wishes. (Er “rors excepted,) your obedient servant to command, “ma'am, “Dear girl—I hope you will not deem my ad 17* “dress to you at this time premature. I assure you “the sentiment that prompts my pen was begun in “esteem, and has ripened into love. I declare to “you upon my honor, Miss Clarence, that I have “never seen a lady, whom my head and heart both “so wholly approved as yourself; and I feel very “sure that no change of circumstances, or fortune, “could ever make any difference in my feelings, but “that in all the vicissitudes of this sublunary scene, “I should show you every attention which man “owes to the weaker sex. “My dear child—I have just received your last “two letters. I trust no evil will ensue from the de “lay of the first. “My dear Pedrillo,—It is with infinite pain that “I find myself compelled to announce to you, my “daughter's unconquerable aversion to yield to “your wishes, and her father's prayers and com “mands. It is in vain to contend longer. I have “done every thing that the warmest friendship and “the deepest and most heartily acknowledged obli “gations could exact from me. Her mother too has “argued, pleaded, and remonstrated in vain. But, Vol. II. 18 “console toi, mon ami, even Cæsar's fortunes yield “ed to fate, and there are others as young and as “fair as my ungrateful girl, who will be proud to “give you both heart and hand. You are too “much of a philosopher to repine because the wind “blows north, when you would have it south—shift “your sails, and make for another port. “My dear sister—Last Tuesday evening invest “ed me with the right to address you by this en “dearing name; but no rights can add to the gra “titude and affection your Emilie has long borne “to you. “My dear friend—You conclude your last letter “with a request that I will write you a `womanish “epistle, full of feminine details; such as, what “house I live in, how it is furnished and garnished, “whom I visit, &c. &c.' I have quoted the pas “sage, that if I answer it à la lettre, you may re “member that you called forth my egotism. Mr. “Roscoe was so fortunate as to be able to repur “chase his father's house, a fine old family mansion, “not far from our beautiful battery, and command “ing a view of our animated bay, which, if equalled, “we the untravelled believe is not surpassed, by the “happiest combinations of land and water on this “fair earth. The house is somewhat old-fashioned, “but we have given it the most modern and conve “nient arrangement of which it was susceptible, “without an entire and therefore, as we think, sacri “legious alteration.
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49Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Home  
 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: In a picturesque district of New England, — it matters not in which of the Eastern States, for in them all there is such unity of character and similarity of condition, that what is true of one may be probable of all, — in one of them there is a sequestered village called Greenbrook. The place derives its name from a stream of water which bears this descriptive appellation,
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50Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Tales and Sketches  
 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: A calm observer who has scarcely lived half the age of man, must look back with a smile at human frailty, rather than with a harsher feeling upon the subjects that have broken the world in which he has lived, (be it a little or a great one,) into opposed and contending parties. The stream for a while glides on with an unbroken surface, a snag interposes, and the waters divide, and fret, and foam around it till chance or time sweep it away, when they again commingle, and flow on in their natural unruffled union. This is the common course of human passions. The subject in dispute may be more or less dignified; the succession to an empire, or to a few acres of sterile land; the rival claims of candidates to the Presidency, or competitors for a village clerkship; the choice of a minister to England, or the minister of our parish; the position of a capital city, or of an obscure meeting house;[1] [1]This fruitful subject of dispute has rent asunder many a village society in New England. the excellence of a Catalini, or of a rustic master of psalmody; a dogma in religion or politics; in short anything, to which, as with the shield in the fable, there are two sides. “Dear Randolph—I thank you a thousand times and so does C—, for the gold eagles. There never was anything in the world so beautiful, I do'nt believe. They are far before the grown up ladies. We shall certainly wear them to meeting next Sabbath, and fix them so every body in the world can see them, and not let the bow of ribbon fall down over them, as Miss Clarke did last Sabbath, cause she has got that old democrat, Doctor Star, for a sweetheart; but I managed her nicely, Randolph. In prayer time when she did not dare move, I whirled round the bow so the eagle stood up bravely, and flashed right in Doctor Star's eyes. I did not care so very much about having an eagle for myself, (though I do now since you have given it to me,) but I thought it very important for C— to wear the federal badge, because her father is a senator in Congress. Father is almost as pleased as we are. I see Clover coming and I must make haste; poor old fellow! I heard his tread when it stormed so awfully last night, and I got father to put him up in our stable. Was not he proper good? It was after prayers, too, and his wig was off and his knee buckles out. There, they all go out of Deacon Garfield's to read Clover's papers. Good by, dear, dear Randolph. “Honoured Sir—It is with no little grief of mind and sadness of heart, that I am necessitated to be so bould as to supplicate your honoured self, with the honourable assembly of your General Court, to extend your mercy and favour once again, to me, and my children. Little did I dream, that I should have occasion to petition in a matter of this nature; but so it is, that through the divine providence and your benignity, my sonn obtayned so much pity and mercy at your hands, to enjoy the life of his mother. Now my supplication to your honours is, to begg affectionately the life of my dear wife. 'Tis true, I have not seen her above this half yeare, and cannot tell how, in the frame of her spirit, she was moved thus againe to run so great a hazard to herself, and perplexity to me and mine, and all her friends and wellwishers. “It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of the true church, that confession of a sin is the first step towards its expiation.
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51Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Linwoods; Or, "sixty Years Since" in America  
 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: Some two or three years before our revolutionary war, just at the close of day, two girls were seen entering Broadway through a wicket garden-gate, in the rear of a stately mansion which fronted on Broad-street, that being then the court-end of the city—the residence of unquestioned aristocracy— (sic transit gloria mundi!) whence royal favour and European fashions were diffused through the province of New-York. “You must love me, or you could not endure my stupid letters—you that can write so delightfully about nothing, and have so much to write about, while I can tell nothing but what I see, and I see so little! The outward world does not much interest me. It is what I feel that I think of and ponder over; but I know how you detest what you call sentimental letters, so I try to avoid all such subjects. Compared with you I am a child—two years at our age makes a great difference—I am really very childish for a girl almost fourteen, and yet, and yet, Isabella, I sometimes seem to myself to have gone so far beyond childhood, that I have almost forgotten that careless, light-hearted feeling I used to have. I do not think I ever was so light-hearted as some children, and yet I was not serious—at least, not in the right way. Many a time, before I was ten years old, I have sat up in my own little room till twelve o'clock Saturday night, reading, and then slept for an hour and a half through the whole sermon the next morning. I do believe it is the natural depravity of my heart. I never read over twice a piece of heathen poetry that moves me but I can repeat it—and yet, I never could get past `what is effectual calling?' in the Westminster Catechism; and I always was in disgrace on Saturday, when parson Wilson came to the school to hear us recite it:—oh dear, the sight of his wig and three-cornered hat petrified me!” “I have been enjoying a very pretty little episode in my college life, passing the vacation at Westbrook, with your old friends the Lees. A month in a dull little country town would once have seemed to me penance enough for my worst sin, but now it is heaven to get anywhere beyond the sound of college bells—beyond the reach of automaton tutors—periodical recitations—chapel prayers, and college rules. —Never say another word to me of what you hinted in your last letter: indeed, I am too young; and besides, I never should feel easy or happy again with Jasper, if I admitted such a thought. I have had but one opinion since our visit to Effie; not that I believed in her—at least, not much; but I have always known who was first in his thoughts—heart—opinion; and besides, it would be folly in me, knowing his opinions about rank, &c. Mother thinks him very proud, and somewhat vain; and she begins not to be pleased with his frequent visits to Westbrook. She thinks—no, fears, or rather she imagines, that Jasper and I—no, that Jasper or I—no, that I— it is quite too foolish to write, Isabella—mother does not realize what a wide world there is between us. I might possibly, sometimes, think he loved (this last word was carefully effaced, and cared substituted) cared for me, if he did not know you. “Thanks, dear Isabella, for your delightful letter by Jasper—no longer Jasper, I assure you to his face, but Mr. Meredith—oh, I often wish the time back when I was a child, and might call him Jasper, and feel the freedom of a child. I wonder if I should dare to call you Belle now, or even Isabella? Jasper, since his last visit at home, tells me so much of your being `the mirror of fashion— the observed of all observers' (these are his own words—drawing-room terms that were never heard in Westbrook but from his lips), that I feel a sort of fearful shrinking. It is not envy—I am too happy now to envy anybody in the wide world. Eliot is at home, and Jasper is passing a week here. Is it not strange they should be so intimate, when they differ so widely on political topics? I suppose it is because Jasper does not care much about the matter; but this indifference sometimes provokes Eliot. Jasper is very intimate with Pitcairn and Lord Percy; and Eliot thinks they have more influence with him than the honour and interest of his country. Oh, they talk it over for hours and hours, and end, as men always do with their arguments, just where they began. Jasper insists that as long as the quarrel can be made up it is much wisest to stand aloof, and not, `like mad boys, to rush foremost into the first fray;' besides, he says he is tied by a promise to his uncle that he will have nothing to do with these agitating disputes till his education is finished. Mother says (she does not always judge Jasper kindly) that it is very easy and prudent to bind your hands with a promise when you do not choose to lift them. —The world seems turned upside down since I began this letter—war (war, what an appalling sound) has begun—blood has been spilt, and our dear, dear Eliot—but I must tell you first how it all was. Eliot and Jasper were out shooting some miles from Cambridge, when, on coming to the road, they perceived an unusual commotion—old men and young, and even boys, all armed, in wagons, on horseback, and on foot, were coming from all points, and all hurrying onward in one direction. On inquiring into the hurly-burly, they were told that Colonel Smith had marched to Concord to destroy the military stores there; and that our people were gathering from all quarters to oppose his return. Eliot immediately joined them, Jasper did not; but, dear Isabella, I that know you so well, know, whatever others may think, that tories may be true and noble. There was a fight at Lexington. Our brave men had the best of it. Eliot was the first to bring us the news. With a severe wound in his arm, he came ten miles that we need not be alarmed by any reports, knowing, as he told mother, that she was no Spartan mother, to be indifferent whether her son came home with his shield or on his shield. Miss Linwood to Bessie Lee. —A week—a stormy, miserable week has passed since I wrote the above, and it has ended in Herbert's leaving us, and dishonouring his father's name by taking a commission in the rebel service. Papa has of course had a horrible fit of the gout. He says he has for ever cast Herbert out of his affections. Ah! I am not skilled in metaphysics, but I know that we have no power whatever over our affections. Mamma takes it all patiently, and chiefly sorroweth for that Herbert has lost caste by joining the insurgents, whom she thinks little better than so many Jack Cades. “You say, my dear madam, that you have heard `certain reports about me, which you are not willing to believe, and yet cannot utterly discredit.' You say, also, `that though you should revolt with horror from sanctioning your son in those liaisons that are advised by Lord Chesterfield, and others of your friends, yet you see no harm in' loverlike attentions `to young persons in inferior stations; they serve' you add, `to keep alive and cultivate that delicate finesse so essential to the success of a man of the world, and, provided they have no immoral purpose, are quite innocent,' as the object of them must know there is an `impassable gulf between her and her superiors in rank, and is therefore responsible for her mistakes.' I have been thus particular in echoing your words, that I may assure you my conduct is in conformity to their letter and spirit. Tranquillize yourself, my dear madam. There is nothing, in any little fooleries I may be indulging in, to disquiet you for a moment. The person in question is a divine little creature—quite a prodigy for this part of the world, where she lives in a seclusion almost equal to that of Prospero's isle; so that your humble servant, being scarce more than the `third man that e'er she saw,' it would not be to marvel at `if he should be the first that e'er she loved'—and if I am, it is my destiny—my conscience is quite easy— I never have committed myself, nor ever shall: time and absence will soon dissipate her illusions. She is an unaspiring little person, quite aware of the gulf, as you call it, between us. She believes that even if I were lover and hero enough to play the Leander and swim it, my destiny is fixed on the other side. I have no distrust of myself, and I beg you will have none; I am saved from all responsibility as to involving the happiness of this lily of the valley, by her very clear-sighted mother, 7* and her sage of a brother, her natural guardians. “I have arrived thus far, my dear mother, on my journey; and, according to my promise, am beginning the correspondence which is to soften our separation. “My sweet sister Bessie, nothing has afflicted me so much in leaving home as parting from you. I am inclined to believe there can be no stronger nor tenderer affection than that of brother and sister; the sense of protection on one part, and dependance on the other; the sweet recollections of childhood; the unity of interest; and the communion of memory and hope, blend their hearts together into one existence. So it is with us—is it not, my dear sister? With me, certainly; for though, like most young men, I have had my fancies, they have passed by like the summer breeze, and left no trace of their passage. All the love, liking (I cannot find a word to express the essential volatility of the sentiment in my experience of it) that I have ever felt for all my favourites, brown and fair, does not amount to one thousandth part of the immutable affection that I bear you, my dear sister. I speak only of my own experience, Bessie, and, as I well know, against the faith of the world. I should be told that my fraternal love would pale in the fires of another passion, as does a lamp at the shining of the sun; but I don't believe a word of it—do you, Bessie? I am not, my dear sister, playing the inquisitor with you, but fearfully and awkwardly enough approaching a subject on which I thought it would be easier to write than to speak; but I find it cannot be easy to do that, in any mode, which may pain you. —I arrived safely at headquarters on the 22d. Colonel Ashley received me with open arms. He applauded my resolution to join the army, and bestowed his curses liberally (as is his wont on whatever displeases him) on the young men who linger at home, while the gallant spirits of France and Poland are crossing the ocean to volunteer in our cause. He rubbed his hands exultingly when I told him that it was your self-originating decision that I should leave you. `The only son of your mother—that is, the only one to speak of' (forgive him, Sam and Hal), `and she a widow!' he exclaimed. `Let them talk about their Spartan mothers, half men and demimonsters; but look at our women-folks, as tender and as timid of their broods as hens, and as bold and self-sacrificing as martyrs! You come of a good stock, my boy, and so I shall tell the gin'ral. He's old Virginia, my lad; and looks well to blood in man and horse.' —I write under the inspiration of the agreeable consciousness that my letter may pass under the sublime eye of your commander-in-chief, or be scanned and sifted by his underlings. I wish to Heaven that, without endangering your bright orbs, I could infuse some retributive virtue into my ink to strike them blind. But the deuse take them. I defy their oversight. I am not discreet enough to be trusted with military or political secrets, and therefore, like Hotspur's Kate, I can betray none. As to my own private affairs, though I do not flatter myself I have attained a moral eminence which I may challenge the world to survey, yet I'll expose nothing to you, dear Belle, whose opinion I care more for than that of king, lords, and commons, which the whole world may not know without your loving brother being dishonoured thereby: so, on in my usual `streak o' lightning style,' with facts and feelings. “No, no, my dear Belle, I cannot remove to the city—it must not be; and I am sorry the question is again mooted. `A woman, and naturally born to fears,' I may be; but because I have that inconvenient inheritance, I see no reason why I should cherish and augment it. Your imagination, which is rather an active agent, has magnified the terrors of the times; and it seems just now to be unduly excited by the monstrous tales circulated in the city, of the atrocities the Yankees have committed on the tories. I see in Rivington's Gazette, which you wrapped around the sugarplums that you sent the children (thank you), various precious anecdotes of Yankee tigers and tory lambs, forsooth! that are just about as true as the tales of giants and ogres with which your childhood was edified. The Yankees are a civilized race, and never, God bless them! commit gratuitous cruelties. If they still `see it to be duty' (to quote their own Puritan phrase), they will cling to this contest till they have driven the remnant of your Israel, Belle, every tory and Englishman, from the land; but they will commit no episodical murders: it is only the ignorant man that is unnecessarily cruel. They are an instructed, kind-hearted, Christian people; and of this there will be abundant proof while the present war is remembered. Remember, Belle, these people have unadulterated English blood in their veins, which to you should be a prevailing argument in their favour; and believe me, they have a fair portion of the spirit of their freedom-loving and all-daring ancestors. Our English mother, God bless her, too, should have known better than to trammel, scold, and try to whip her sons into obedience, when they had come to man's estate, and were fit to manage their own household. Thank Heaven, I have outlived the prejudices against the people of New-England which my father transmitted to his children. `There they come,' he used to say, when he saw these busy people driving into the manor; `every snow brings them, and, d—n them, every thaw too!'
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52Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Linwoods; Or, "sixty Years Since" in America  
 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 is reasonable to suppose that the disclosures which occurred in Sir Henry Clinton's library would be immediately followed by their natural sequences: that love declared by one party, and betrayed by the other, would, according to the common usages of society, soon issue in mutual affiancing. But these were not the piping times of peace, and the harmony of events was sadly broken by the discords of the period. —I could have huged you before we parted, I have been so pleased with you from the beginin to the end of this biznes. I felt for you in the loss of your hors, and I can't bear the thots of your riden that sorry jade, that's only been used to prouling about o' nights, on all sorts of diviltry; so I've ordered Gurden to put into your hands a likely oretur, that our fokes at home has sent up to be sold to the ofisers in camp. Take it, my boy, and don't feel beholden to me; for when the war is at end, and it's conveneyent, we'll settle for it. —I perceive by your letters of the first, which, thanks to a kind Providence, have duly come to hand, that it is now nearly three months since you have heard from us. Much good and much evil may befall in three months! Much good have I truly to be grateful for: and chiefly that your life and health have been thus precious in the sight of the Lord, and that you have received honour at the hand of man (of which our good Dr. Wilson made suitable mention in his prayer last Sabbath); and, as I humbly trust, approval from Him who erreth not. “I have read your letters over and over again, till they have fallen to pieces with the continual dropping of my hot tears; but every syllable is imprinted on my heart. You did not believe your `sister would waste her sensibility, the precious food of life, in moping melancholy.' Oh, Eliot, how much better must I have appeared to you than I was! I have been all my life a hypocrite. You believed `my mind had a self-rectifying power,' and I imposed this belief on you! I am ready, now, to bow my head in the dust for it. `Love,' said your letter, `can never be incurable when it is a disease: that is to say, when its object is unworthy.' Ah, my dear brother, there was your fatal mistake. It was I that was unworthy—it was your simple sister that, in her secret, unconfessed thoughts, believed he loved her, knowing all the while that his lot was cast with the high, the gifted, the accomplished—with such as Isabella Linwood, and not with one so humble in condition, so little graced by art as I am. I do not blame him. Heaven knows I do not. `Self-rectifying power!' Eliot, talk to the reed, that has been uprooted and borne away by the tides of the ocean, of its `self-rectifying power!' ” Eliot's maliness was vanquished, and he wept like a child over his sister's letter. He reproached himself for having left home. He bitterly reproached himself for not having foreseen the danger of her long, exclusive, and confiding intercourse with Meredith. He was almost maddened when he thought of the perils to which she must have been exposed, and of his utter inability to save her from one of them. The only solacing thought that occurred to him was the extreme improbability that her fragile and exhausted frame could support the fatigues she must encounter, and that even now, while he wept over her letter (a fortnight had elapsed since it was written), her gentle spirit might have entered upon its eternal rest. —I have just chanced to call at a poor blacksmith's, who, with his worthy family, is at death's door with a protracted intermittent. It seems to me that port, like that I drank with you yesterday, might restore them. As the man looks like too independent an American to beg a favour, I have taken the liberty to give him this order for a bottle or two, telling him, with a poetic truth, that I had wine in your cellar. It is your own fault if all your friends feel that they have a property in your possessions. Adieu.” —Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in the service of your king, has been taken in my camp as a spy, condemned as a spy, and will be hung as a spy. “I have received your note, Jasper; I do not reply to it hastily; hours of watchfulness and reflection at the bedside of my friend have given the maturity of years to my present feeling. I have loved you, I confess it now; not by a treacherous blush, but calmly, deliberately, in my own handwriting, without faltering or emotion of any sort. Yes, I have loved you, if a sentiment springing from a most attachable nature, originating in the accidental intercourse of childhood, fostered by pride, nurtured by flattery, and exaggerated by an excited imagination, can be called love.
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53Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Live and Let Live, Or, Domestic Service Illustrated  
 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 was one of the coldest days felt in New-York, during the winter of 182-, that a baker's cart made its accustomed halt before a door in Church-street. It was driven by Charles Lovett, the baker's son, whose ruddy cheeks, quick movement, and beaming eye bespoke health, industry, and a happy temper. This latter attribute seemed somewhat too severely tested by the tardiness of his customer, for in vain had he whistled, clapped his hands, stamped, and repeated his usual cry of “Hurry! hurry!” He at last leaped from his cart on to the broken step of the wretched dwelling, when the upper half of the door was slowly opened, and a thinly-clad girl appeared, who, in answer to his prepared question, “Why, what ails you? are you all asleep?” replied, “Mother does not wish any bread this morning.” “After deliberating and advising with Mrs. Hyde, who has been like the kindest of mothers to us, we have come to a decision which only waits for your approbation. The bakery is sold to Mr. Werner, a German, who, when a stranger and quite destitute, came to the Lovetts, as it seemed, accidentally. Werner was honest and industrious; he understood the business thoroughly, and introduced some improvements. For the last two years he has been a partner, and now he has bought out Charles. His two sisters and their old parents arrived a few weeks since, and a happier family I never saw. How strange that such a train of consequences should come from Werner just coming in to breakfast with us one morning at Mr. Lovett's. This is what Mrs. Hyde says we should call providential. Our Father in heaven provides the opportunity for doing good, and his faithful children improve it. But to our own affairs: it is not five years since Mr. Lovett went to Ohio, and there are already four thousand inhabitants in the village. The people, he says, are very anxious to have the bakery going; the bakehouse is built on the lot Mr. Lovett set off to Charles for his services when he was apprentice to him. Our house is nearly done, and large enough for us all. The ladies in the village will have plenty of work for the girls' millinery and dressmaking establishment, and dear Jemmie will keep Charles's books, and all of us will be in a way to earn an honourable living; all but you, dear mother; the remainder of your life must be rest. You shall be our queen-bee, and we will be your workers. Mrs. Hyde wishes you to consent to the wedding being here; she says it will save time (as we must return here on our way to Pittsburgh) and save the expense of a journey to Massachusetts. Charles likes this plan, and I want you to know our family before I leave it. Mrs. Hyde says she will provide lodgings for you all at a boarding-house near to us. Is not this most kind? Oh, mother, you will like her so much! She has such beautiful manners, not only in the drawing-room and to ladies, but to all, down to the man that sweeps off the flagging, and the poor that beg at her door. She truly seems to see the image of God in every human creature; it makes people civil to speak to her; her manners inspire them with self-respect. She never lowers herself, but raises them. If some people looked as differently as they act to those above and those below them, they would sometimes appear like the “loathly ladie” in the ballad.
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54Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Boy of Mount Rhigi  
 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 is a certain portion of the Tahconnick range of mountains, in the western part of Massachusetts, called Rhigi, said to have been thus named by Swiss emigrants who settled there, and who probably came from the neighborhood of Mount Rhigi, in Switzerland, one of the beautiful resorts of that most beautiful land.[1] [1]There are other similar traces of Swiss settlement in this neighborhood. Bash Bish, the lovely fall now becoming known and celebrated, is a corruption of a very common Swiss name of their minor falls. The love of the father-land is expressed by the names the emigrant gives to the land of his adoption. The Pilgrim bestowed on the New England settlements the names of his old England home — Norfolk, Suffolk, Boston, Northampton, Stockbridge, &c., and the New Englander repeats them in his new home in the far west. “Firstly, I enclose the two dollars you gave me for travelling expenses. I met Mr. Lyman on board the steamboat, and he gave me five dollars, which he said he owed me for my aid in the drawings he made for the New York architect. Fine! After the wet time of parting was over, I was in luck. Mr. Porter would not take any thing for bringing me to the boat, — thirty good miles, — because I helped him pick up apples one day after Jesse Porter broke his arm. I was pretty hungry; but hearing they charged half a dollar for supper, I bought some crackers and cheese before I went on board. So I came to the city for fifty cents. Such bustle and confusion as there was on the wharf where we landed! I made my way through it as well as I could, and inquired the way to Chambers Street, not far, No. —, where Mrs. Dawson lives. I saw the windows were all closed, and so I sat my box of clothes down, and sat on it. I began to feel both lonesome and hungry; nothing seemed like morning — the fresh, beautiful morning of the country. The sun shining on chimneys and brick walls, instead of hill-tops and sparkling waters; not a solitary bird singing; not even a cock crowing. After a while, milkmen began to appear. There was a different one for almost every house, and each made a horrid outcry; and, after a while, a woman came out of a cellar, and took a measure of milk. Though they live in great houses, this seems poverty to me. By and by, there came a lively little driver with baskets full of bread. I remembered Dr. Franklin's account of his buying a loaf of bread and eating it as he walked through the streets of Philadelphia, when first he went there; and, though I do not expect to eat bread in kings' houses, as he afterwards did, I thought there would be no harm in following his example; so I bought a sixpenny loaf of bread, and, with a draught of milk from a milkman, I made a good breakfast. You see, mother, I am determined to make my money last, if possible, till I can earn more, and not call on you or trouble our kind friend Mrs. Dawson. As soon as her blinds were opened, I rung. The man who opened the door smiled when I asked for Mrs. Dawson, and said she would rise in about two hours. How long those two hours were! But when they were over, and I was summoned to her, she was as kind as ever. She told me she had procured for me an excellent place in a retail shop in Broadway, where, if I did as well as my employer expected from her account of me, I should receive enough, even the first year, to pay my board. Before going there, she advised me to secure a boarding-place; she had made inquiries for this, and gave me references, and off I set. I went from one to another. At one there was a multitude of clerks, and a coarse, slatternly housekeeper; at another there was a set of low traders. I went in while they were at dinner, and a very slight observation 13 of their vulgar manners and conversation convinced me they were not associates that I should relish or you would approve. The next was full, and the last was too filthy for any thing. As I came off the steps quite discouraged, there was a little fat lady walking before me in a gray silk gown, and a white shawl, looking as neat as a new pin. Two dirty shavers of boys had filled a squirt-gun in the gutter, and had taken aim at the lady's nice gown. I sprang upon them just in time, wrenched the squirt-gun from their hands, and sent it off out of sight. They began kicking and bawling; and she, turning round, learned the mischief they had intended. She was very thankful to me, very good natured, and talkative. She told me the gown was new, just come home, and she had put it on for a wedding-visit, — a visit to her niece's husband's first cousin; it was her best gown, too; she had heard of the boys playing such tricks; boys would be boys, &c., &c. O, mother dear! her tongue goes by machinery. (Not father's!) She had such a friendly way, and did not seem a very great lady, and asked me so many questions, — my name, where I came from, &c., — that I thought I would tell her what I was in search of. This silenced her for a moment; then she said, “Come home with me, and we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to Plenty, — Plenty is my sister, — and perhaps — but I won't raise expectations yet. We live in Mercer Street, retired and central too.” “It seems to me, dear mother, that I have lived a year in the last fortnight. On the very Monday that I sent you an account of the upshot at Holson's, Mr. Nevis obtained the promise of an excellent situation for me with Messrs. James Bent & Co., where his son, my friend, already is. Mr. Bent is respected as a man of strict integrity, and every part of his establishment is well conducted; and I am to have a salary of $150. Only imagine how rich I shall be! `It never rains, but it pours!' Coming out of Mr. Bent's, who should I meet but Mr. Lyman! He has more work on hand than he can do, — making plans and drawings for the first architect in the city, — and he wanted me to help him. Never was any thing more opportune. The place I am to have at Mr. Bent's will not be vacant till next month, and now I can be earning something; and, to tell the truth, mother, I do need a little fitting up for summer.” “Your present, my dear son, was very acceptable, as a proof of your abiding and ever-thoughtful love; but do not send me any thing more at present. Keep your earnings for your summer's outfit. We want for nothing. Thanks to a kind Providence, my health is good, and Annie's. There is never lack of work for willing hands; and our wants, except for your afflicted father, are small. His cough is severe, and he declines daily, so that the doctor says he should not be surprised if he dropped away at any minute. His appetite continues remarkably. I might find it difficult to satisfy it, but our kind neighbors send in daily of their best. We have plenty of fresh. To-day, dear old Mrs. Allen sent a quarter of a roaster, and your father ate nearly the whole of it. You know he was always remarkably fond of pig. Our neighbors never let him be out of custards, pies, and preserves. You know, Harry, I never liked to call on my neighbors for watchers in sickness, and think that, in most cases, it's much better doing without them; but father feels different. He likes company, he says, when he is awake, and I am no talker. He is able yet to engage his own watchers. He borrows the sheriff's old horse, and jogs round after them. I don't oppose, though I sometimes fear he will die on the road; but it serves to divert him. “My dear cousin, — I am proud to call you so, — Harry Davis, your visit to me has done me, as I humbly hope, great good. I had lived here ten years, within a stone's throw of this jail, and never seen the inside of it. I call myself a Christian. I am a professor. I pray daily in my family for those who are in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity, and yet I have never, till you came here, lifted one of my fingers to loosen these bonds. I pray that missionaries, preaching the good news of salvation, may be sent to the whole human family. I subscribe to charitable societies, — and so I should, as God has prospered me, — and yet I have not done the duty nearest to me. If I had, or if my Christian neighbors had, the scenes of filth, idleness, and iniquity in that jail would never have existed to witness against us. I have taken measures to have that rascally jailer removed. They talk of a disinfecting fluid. There should be a moral disinfection in the character of the man who has the care of the tenants of a jail — morally diseased creatures. It is now three months since I have been with Mr. Bent; and, excepting my poor father's death, life has been all smooth sailing with me. You have been getting on so nicely! Clapham Hale giving such complete satisfaction to Mr. Norton, and you and Annie — as appears by your last letter — surprised with his improved appearance and manly bearing. Does he not seem like one of us?
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55Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Martin Faber  
 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: “This is a fearful precipice, but I dare look upon it. What, indeed, may I not dare—what have I not dared! I look before me, and the prospect, to most men full of terrors, has few or none for me. Without adopting too greatly the spirit of cant which makes it a familiar phrase in the mouths of the many, death to me will prove a release from many strifes and terrors. I do not fear death. I look behind me, and though I may regret my crimes, they give me no compunctious apprehensions. They were among the occurrences known to, and a necessary sequence in the progress of time and the world's circumstance. They might have been committed by another as well as by myself. They must have been committed! I was but an instrument in the hands of a power with which I could not contend.
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56Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Wigwam and the Cabin  
 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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57Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Romance of Travel  
 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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58Author:  Kirkland Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda) 1801-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  Forest Life  
 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: If any body may be excused for writing a book, it is the dweller in the wilderness; and this must, I think, be evident to all who give the matter a moment's reflection. My neighbor, Mrs. Rower, says, indeed, that there are books enough in the world, and one too many; but it will never do to consult the neighbors, since what is said of a prophet is doubly true of an author. Indeed, it is of very little use to consult any body. What is written from impulse is generally the most readable, and this fact is an encouragement to those who are conscious of no particular qualification beyond a desire to write. People write because they cannot help it. The heart longs for sympathy, and when it cannot be found close at hand, will seek it the world over. We never tell our thoughts but with the hope of an echo in the thoughts of others. We set forth in the most attractive guise the treasures of our fancy, because we hope to warm into life imaginations like our own. If the desire for sympathy could lie dormant for a time, there would be no more new books, and we should find leisure to read those already written.
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59Author:  Kirkland Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda) 1801-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  Forest Life  
 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: A year and a half had elapsed since the abstraction of the grapes, and the skin had grown over Seymour's knuckles, and also the bark over certain letters which he had carved in very high places on some of Mr. Hay's forest-trees; and, sympathetically perhaps, a suitable covering over the wounds made in his heart by the scornful eyes of the unconscious Caroline. His figure had changed its proportions, as if by a wire-drawing process, since what it had gained in length was evidently subtracted from its breadth. The potato redness of his cheeks had subsided into a more presentable complexion, and his teeth were whiter than ever, while the yawns which used to exhibit them unseasonably had given place to a tolerable flow of conversation, scarcely tinctured by mauvaise honte. In short, considering that he was endowed with a good share of common sense, he was really a handsome young man. Not but some moss was still discoverable. It takes a good while to rub off inborn rusticity, especially when there is much force of character. The soft are more easily moulded. Is it possible, my dear Williamson, that after your experience of the world's utter hollowness—its laborious pleasures and its heart-wringing disappointments—you can still be surprised at my preference of a country life? you, who have sounded to its core the heart of fashionable society in the old world and the new, tested the value of its friendship, and found it less than nothing; sifted its pretensions of every kind, and expressed a thousand times your disgust at their falseness—you think it absurd in me to venture upon so desperate a plan as retirement? You consider me as a man who has taken his last, worst step; and who will soon deserve to be set aside by his friends as an irreclaimable enthusiast. Perhaps you are right as to the folly of the thing, but that remains to be proved; and I shall at least take care that my error, if it be one, shall not be irrevocable. * * * Since my last we have taken up our abode in the wilderness in good earnest,—not in “sober sadness,” as you think the phrase ought to be shaped. There is, to be sure, an insignificant village within two or three miles of us, but our house is the only dwelling on our little clearing— the immense trunks of trees, seemingly as old as the creation, walling us in on every side. There is an indescribable charm in this sort of solitary possession. In Alexander Selkirk's case, I grant that the idea of being “monarch of all I survey,” with an impassable ocean around my narrow empire, might suggest some inconvenient ideas. The knowledge that the breathing and sentient world is within a few minutes' walk, forms, it must be owned, no unpleasant difference between our lot and his. But with this knowledge, snugly in the background, not obtrusive, but ready for use, comparative solitude has charms, believe me. The constant sighing of the wind through the forest leaves; the wild and various noises of which we have not yet learned to distinguish one from the other—distinct yet softly mingled—clearly audible, yet only loud enough to make us remark more frequently the silence which they seem scarcely to disturb, such masses of deep shade that even in the sunny spots the light seems tinged with green—these things fill the mind with images of repose, of leisure, of freedom, of tranquil happiness, untrammelled by pride and ceremony;—of unbounded opportunity for reflection, with the richest materials for the cultivation of our better nature. Why have I not written you a dozen letters before this time? I can give you no decent or rational apology. Perhaps, because I have had too much leisure—perhaps too many things to say. Something of this sort it certainly must be, for I have none of the ordinary excuses to offer for neglect of my dear correspondent. Think any thing but that I love you less. This is the very place in which to cherish loving memories. But as to writing, this wild seclusion has so many charms for me, this delicious summer weather so many seductions, that my days glide away imperceptibly, leaving scarcely a trace of any thing accomplished during their flight. I rise in the morning determined upon the most strenuous industry. I hoped to have been before this time so deeply engaged with studs and siding, casings and cornice, that letter-writing would have been out of the question. But my lumber is at the saw-mill, and all the horses in the neighborhood are too busy to be spared for my service. I must have, of course, horses of my own, but it is necessary first to build a stable, so that I am at present dependent on hiring them when necessary. This, I begin to perceive, will cause unpleasant delays, since each man keeps no more horses than he needs for his own purposes. Here is a difficulty which recurs at every turn, in the country. There is nothing like a division of labor or capital. Every body tills the ground, and, consequently, each must provide a complete equipment of whatever is necessary for his business, or lose the seasons when business may be done to best advantage. At this season, in particular, this difficulty is increased, because the most important business of the year is crowded into the space of a few months. Those who hire extra help at no other period, now employ as much as they are able to pay, which increases much the usual scarcity of laborers. It is the time of year, too, when people in new countries are apt to be attacked by the train of ills arising from marsh miasmata, and this again diminishes the supply of able hands. I studied your last in the cool morning hour which I often devote to a ramble over the wooded hills which rise near our little cottage. I seated myself on a fallen tree, in a spot where I might have mused all day without seeing a human face, or hearing any sound more suggestive of civilization than the pretty tinkling of the numerous bells which help to find our wandering cattle. What a place in which to read a letter that seemed as if it might have been written after a stupid party, or in the agonies which attend a “spent ball.” (Vide T. Hood.) Those are not your real sentiments, my dear Kate; you do not believe life to be the scene of ennui, suffering, or mere endurance, which you persuaded yourself to think it just then. If I thought you did, I should desire nothing so much as to have your hand in mine for just such a ramble and just such a lounge as gave me the opportunity for reflecting on your letter; I am sure I could make you own that life has its hours of calm and unexciting, but high enjoyment. With your capabilities, think whether there must not be something amiss in a plan or habit of being that subjects you to these seasons of depression and disgust. Is that tone of chilling, I might say killing ridicule, which prevails in certain circles, towards every thing which does not approach a particular arbitrary standard, a wholesome one for our mental condition? I believe not; for I have never known one who adopted it fully, who had not at times a most uneasy consciousness that no one could possibly be entirely secure from its stings. Then there is a restless emulation, felt in a greater or less degree by all who have thrown themselves on the arena of fashionable life, which is, in my sober view, the enemy of repose. I am not now attempting to assign a cause for that particular fit of the blues which gave such a dark coloring to the beginning of your letter. I am only like the physician who recalls to his patient's mind the atmospheric influence that may have had an unfavorable effect upon his symptoms. You will conclude I must have determined to retort upon you in some degree the scorn which you cannot help feeling for the stupidity of a country life, by taking the first opportunity to hint that there are some evils from which the dweller in the wilds is exempt. On the other hand, I admit that in solitude we are apt to become mere theorists, or dreamers, if you will. Ideal excellence is very cheap; theory and sentiment may be wrought up to great accuracy and perfection; and it is an easy error to content ourselves with these, without seeking to ascertain whether we are capable of the action and sacrifice which must prove that we are in earnest. You are right, certainly, in thinking that in society we have occasion for more strenuous and energetic virtues; but yet, even here, there is no day which does not offer its opportunities for effort and self-denial, and in a very humble and unenticing form too. But we shall never settle this question, for the simple reason that virtue is at home every where alike; so I will spare you further lecture. Next to seeing yourself, my dear Williamson, I can scarcely think of any thing that would have afforded me more pleasure than the sight of a friend of yours bearing credentials under your hand and seal. And over and above this title to my esteem, Mr. Ellis brings with him an open letter of recommendation in that very handsome and pleasing countenance of his, and a frank and hearty manner which put us quite at ease with him directly, notwithstanding a certain awkward consciousness of the narrowness of our present accommodations, which might have made a visit from any other stranger rather embarrassing. His willingness to be pleased, his relish for the amusing points of the half-savage state, and the good-humor with which he laughed off sundry rather vexatious contre-temps really endeared him to us all. Half a dozen men of his turn of mind for neighbors, with wives of “kindred strain,” would create a paradise in these woods, if there could be one on earth. A letter is certainly your due, my dear Catharine; but yours of some fortnight since,—all kind, and lively, and sympathizing, and conceding, as it is,—deserves a better reply than this dripping sky will help me to indite. Why is it that I, who ever loved so dearly a rainy day in town, find it suggestive of—not melancholy—for melancholy and I are strangers—but of stupid things, in the country? To account for the difference drives me into the region of small philosophies. In the one case there is the quiet that bustle has made precious, the leisure which in visiting weather one is apt to see slip from one's grasp unimproved; a contrast like that which we feel on turning from the dusty pathway into the cool shade—a protected shade, as of a garden, where one locks the gate and looks up with satisfaction at high walls, impassable by foot unprivileged. In the other—the contrary case—we have leisure in sunshine as well as leisure in the rain; we have abundance of quiet at all seasons, and no company at any, so that when the rain comes it can but deprive us of our accustomed liberty of foot. The pattering sound so famed for its lulling powers is but too effectual when it falls on roofs not much above our heads; and the disconsolate looking cattle, the poor shivering fowls huddled together under every sheltering covert, and the continuous snore of cat and dog as they doze on the mats—all tend towards our infectious drowsiness, that is much more apt to hint the dreamy sweetness of a canto or two of the Faery Queene, than the duteous and spirited exercise of the pen, even in such service as yours. Yet I have broken the spell of “Sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin.” by the magic aid of a third reading of your letter. And now I defy even the “Ever drizling raine upon the lofte, Mixt with a murmuring winde.” * * * Ought a letter to be a transcript of one's better mind, or only of one's present and temporary humor? If the former, I must throw away the pen, I fear, for some time to come. If the latter, I have only to scrawl the single word AGUE a thousand times on the face of my paper, or write it once in letters which would cover the whole surface. I have no other thought, I can no longer say, “My mind my kingdom is.” Didn't I say something, in one of my late letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid coloring of those days has been toned down by some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of the delicious period here called “Indian summer,” Florella and I have done little else but wander about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves. If the Indians named this season, it must have been from a conviction that such a sky and such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven, where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested. If you can imagine a view in which the magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you may form some notion of our November landscape. I have grown very lazy of late,—so much so, that even letter-writing has become quite a task. Perhaps it is only that I so much prefer flying over this fine, hard, smooth snow in a sleigh, that I feel a chill of impatience at in-door employment. I make a point of duty of Charlotte's daily lessons, but beyond that I am but idle just now. The weather has been so excessively cold for some days that we have had much ado to keep comfortably warm, even with the aid of great stoves in the hall and kitchen, and bountiful wood fires elsewhere. These wood fires are the very image of abundance, and they are so enlivening that I am becoming quite fond of them, though they require much more attention than coal, and will, occasionally, snap terribly, even to the further side of the room, though the rug is generally the sufferer. An infant of one of our neighbors was badly burned, a day or two since, by a coal which flew into the cradle at a great distance from the fire. I marvel daily that destructive fires are not more frequent, when I see beds surrounded with light cotton curtains so near the immense fires which are kept in log-houses. How much more rational would be worsted hangings! Once more, with pen in hand, dearest Catharine; and oh, how glad and how thankful to find myself so well and so happy! I could have written you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I shall not have said forth half my say before I shall be reduced to my dormouse condition again. I have examined the sheets you put into my hands, and am happy to say, that I think your work will be found, both by teachers and pupils a valuable auxiliary in the acquisition of the French language. The manner in which you have obviated the principal difficulties in the first lessons, and the general plan of the work, make it a very useful first book for those who are old enough to study with some degree of judgment and discrimination. I have examined the sheets of the New Practical Translator, and believe that the work will be very useful as an introduction to the translating French into English, as it affords an easy explanation of most of the difficulties that are apt to embarrass beginners. I have long felt the want of a “First Book” for beginners in the French Language, upon the progressive principles which you have adopted, and shall show how sincere I am in this recommendation of your undertaking, by the immediate introduction of the “New Practical Translator” into my school. I have looked over the sheets of your “New Practical Translator,” and am much pleased both with the plan of the work, and with the style of its execution. It must form a valuable accession to the means already within the reach of the young for acquiring a knowledge of the French Language; and, if it finds with the public that measure of favour which it merits, I am satisfied that you will have no cause to complain that your labours, in this department of instruction, have not been well received or well rewarded. I have examined attentively the plan of your “New Practical Translator,” and, to some extent, the mode in which the plan has been executed. The work appears to me to be well adapted to promote the improvement of those who are commencing the study of the French Language. The real difficulties, in the progress of the student, he is furnished with the means of overcoming, while such as will yield to moderate industry, he is judiciously left to surmount by his own efforts. I have examined, with care, “The New Practical Translator,” by Mr. Bugard. The plan and execution of the author appear to me judicious, and I am acquainted with no elementary work, so well adapted for communicating a knowledge of the French language. I have examined with much pleasure the sheets of the French Practical Translator, which you were kind enough to send me. As far as I am able to judge, I should think it would be found a very useful auxiliary to the French instructer. I concur fully in the opinion of the work, expressed by Mr. T. B. Hayward. —It gives me much pleasure to express the high opinion I entertain of the “New French Practical Translator,” as an introduction to the study of the French language. The plan of it is very judicious. While those difficulties are removed which perplex and discourage young learners, it demands sufficient exercise of the pupil's own powers to keep alive the interest arising from the consciousness of successful effort. I should be happy if I could from my own knowledge give you a recommendation of your book, the Practical Translator. But, from my own little knowledge and from the most thorough information I can obtain, I am satisfied that we have no so valuable book of its kind for the study of the French language, and have therefore introduced it into my school. I have examined with much pleasure the new French Practical Translator, which you were so kind as to send me. I consider it a very valuable book for beginners, as it removes many difficulties, which have heretofore embarrassed them. I shall immediately introduce it into my school. —It gives me great pleasure to add my testimonial in favour of your “New Practical Translator,” to the many you have already received. I have used the work with a great many pupils in this institution, and find it a very excellent and interesting manual. It is of great service in removing the difficulties which beginners encounter at the commencement of their French Studies. I wish you much success in introducing it into our Schools and Academies.
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60Author:  Allston Washington 1779-1843Requires cookie*
 Title:  Monaldi  
 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: Among the students of a seminary at Bologna were two friends, more remarkable for their attachment to each other, than for any resemblance in their minds or dispositions. Indeed there was so little else in common between them, that hardly two boys could be found more unlike. The character of Maldura, the eldest, was bold, grasping, and ostentatious; while that of Monaldi, timid and gentle, seemed to shrink from observation. The one, proud and impatient, was ever laboring for distinction; the world, palpable, visible, audible, was his idol; he lived only in externals, and could neither act nor feel but for effect; even his secret reveries having an outward direction, as if he could not think without a view to praise, and anxiously referring to the opinion of others; in short, his nightly and his daily dreams had but one subject — the talk and the eye of the crowd. The other, silent and meditative, seldom looked out of himself either for applause or enjoyment; if he ever did so, it was only that he might add to, or sympathize in the triumph of another; this done, he retired again, as it were to a world of his own, where thoughts and feelings, filling the place of men and things, could always supply him with occupation and amusement.
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