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161Author:  Ware William 1797-1852Requires cookie*
 Title:  Probus, or, Rome in the third century  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The record which follows, is by the hand of me, Nichomachus, once the happy servant of the great Queen of Palmyra, than whom the world never saw a queen more illustrious, nor a woman adorned with brighter virtues. But my design is not to write her eulogy, nor recite the wonderful story of her life. That task requires a stronger and a more impartial hand than mine. The life of Zenobia by Nichomachus, would be the portrait of a mother and a divinity, drawn by the pen of a child and a worshipper.
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162Author:  Ware William 1797-1852Requires cookie*
 Title:  Probus, or, Rome in the third century  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Marcus and Lucilia are inconsolable. Their grief, I fear, will be lasting as it is violent. They have no resource but to plunge into affairs and drive away memory by some active and engrossing occupation. Yet they cannot always live abroad; they must at times return to themselves and join the company of their own thoughts. And then memory is not to be put off; at such moments this faculty seems to constitute the mind more than any other. It becomes in a manner the mind itself. The past rises up in spite of ourselves, and overshadows the present. Whether its scenes have been prosperous or afflictive, but especially if they have been shameful, do they present themselves with all the vividness of the objects before us and the passing hour, and minister to our joy or increase our pains. We in vain attempt to escape. We are prisoners in the hands of a giant. To forget is not in our power. The will is impotent. The effort to forget is often but an effort to remember. Fast as we fly, so fast the enemy of our peace pursues. Memory is a companion who never leaves us — or never leaves us long. It is the true Nemesis. Tartarean regions have no worse woes, nor the Hell of Christians, than memory inflicts upon those who have done evil. My friends struggle in vain. They have not done evil indeed, but they have suffered it. The sorest calamity that afflicts mortals has overtaken them; their choicest jewel has been torn from them; and they can no more drown the memory of their loss than they can take that faculty itself and tear it from their souls. Comfort cannot come from that quarter. It can come only from being re-possessed of that which has been lost hereafter and from enjoying the hope of that felicity now. See how Marcus writes. After much else he says,
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163Author:  Ware William 1797-1852Requires cookie*
 Title:  Julian, or Scenes in Judea  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Praise to the God of Abraham. The locusts are flown. The land which they found flourishing and verdant as a garden, they have changed to the barrenness of a desert. The cities and the villages, but now so full of people, are become the region of desolation and death. Even the very city and house of God are level with the dust, and the ploughshare has gone over them. And here, upon the hill of Olives, I sit, a living witness of the ruin. By reason of the wonderful compassions of God, which never fail, I am escaped as a bird from the net of the fowler. Yet I take little joy in this. For why should the days of one like me be lengthened out, when the mighty and excellent of the land are cut off? I rather rejoice in this, that the spoiler is gone; the armies of the alien have ceased to devour; and they who are fled, and hidden in caves and dens of the rocks, may come forth again to inhabit the land and build up the waste places. A multitude, which no man could number, have fallen before the edge of the sword, or by famine, and the air is full of the pestilential vapors that steam up from their rotting carcases. But a greater multitude remains; and it may well be that ere many years have passed, they shall fill the land as before, and gathered into one by him who, though long delaying, will come, pay back, and more, the measure they have received. That time will surely come. Even as the Assyrian could not finally destroy, but the hand of the Almighty was put forth, and the city and the temple grew again from their ruins to a greater glory than before, so shall it be now. The Roman triumph shall be short. Messiah shall yet appear; and Jerusalem clothed in her beautiful garments shall sit upon her hills, the joy and crown of the whole earth.
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164Author:  Whittier John Greenleaf 1807-1892Requires cookie*
 Title:  Leaves from Margaret Smith's journal in the province of Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Dear Friend: I salute thee with much love from this new Countrie, where the Lord hath spread a table for us in the Wilderness. Here is a goodlie companie of Friends, who doe seek to know the mind of Truth, and to live thereby, being held in favor and esteem by the Rulers of the Land, and soe left in Peace to worship God according to their consciences. The whole Countrie being covered with Snow, and the Weather being extreme cold, we can scarce say much of the natural gifts and advantages of our new Home; but it lyeth on a small River, and there be fertile Meadowes and old Cornfields of the Indians, and good Springs of Water, soe that I am told it is a desirable and pleasing place in the warm season. My soul is full of Thankfulness; and a sweet inward Peace is my portion. Hard things are made easie to me; this desert place, with its lonelie Woods and wintry Snows, is beautiful in mine eyes. For here we be no longer gazing-stocks of the rude Multitude, we are no longer haled from our Meetings, and rayled upon as Witches and possessed People. Oh! how often have we been called upon heretofore to repeat the prayer of one formerlie — `Let me not fall into the hands of man.' Sweet, beyond the power of words to express, hath been the change in this respect; and in view of the Mercies vouchsafed unto us, what can we do but repeat the language of David? — `Praise is comelie; yea, a joyful and pleasant thing it is to be thankful. It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord, to sing praises unto thy Name, O Most High! to show forth thy loving kindness in the morning, and thy faithfulness every night.'
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165Author:  EDITED BY N. P. WILLIS.Requires cookie*
 Title:  The legendary  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: `It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of the true church, that confession of a sin is the first step towards its expiation. `When you receive this letter, your three sons will be no more. Frederic de Lancey is the bearer of it. He has done our dear Edward a signal service, and I have thought him trustworthy to convey to Alice the picture of my mother. My heart bleeds when I think of you, without one prop for your old age, save our innocent and helpless sister. We are all satisfied De Lancey would be a faithful son to you if you will permit him to be. In case of his death tomorrow—and the chances of war are alike to all—he has bequeathed to us all he is worth, and it is the earnest wish of my brothers as well as myself, that if he should be the only survivor, you would adopt him; and if he and sister Alice should fancy each other, that he may become a son in reality.
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166Author:  EDITED BY N. P. WILLIS.Requires cookie*
 Title:  The legendary  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: `Have you ever read Undine, Tom? Did you conceive of a river of wondrous and perfect beauty? Was it fringed with all manner of stooping trees, and kissed to the very lip by clover? Did it wind constantly in and out, as if both banks were enamoured of its flow and enticed it from each other's bosoms? Was it hidden sometimes by thick masses of leaves meeting over it, and sometimes by the swelling of a velvet slope that sent it rippling away into shadow? and did it steal out again like a happy child from a hiding place, and flash up to your eye till you would have sworn it was living and intelligent? Did the banks lean away in a rich, deep verdure, and were the meadows sleeping beneath the light, like a bosom in a silk mantle? and when your ear had drank in the music of the running water, and the loveliness of color and form had unsettled the earthliness within you, did you believe in your heart that a strip of Eden had been left unmarred by the angel? `She who brings you this letter is my only child— all the treasure I possess in this world. Therefore, I trust her to you, relying on your honor. If the walls of Soleure fall, I shall be buried under their ruins; but if you grant your protection to my daughter, I shall have no more anxiety for her. Give me some token that you grant my petition, and you will receive your reward from that Being who watches over the innocent, and who knows our hearts.
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167Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Inklings of adventure  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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168Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Inklings of adventure  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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169Author:  Aldrich Thomas Bailey 1836-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Père Antoine's date palm  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Near the Levee, and not far from the old French Cathedral, in New Orleans, stands a fine date-palm, thirty feet in height, growing out in the open air as sturdily as if its sinuous roots were sucking strength from their native earth.
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170Author:  Jones J. B. (John Beauchamp) 1810-1866Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Winkles, or, The merry monomaniacs  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Babbleton was an ancient village near the city of Philadelphia. It had a wharf where the steamboats landed, and a depot where the locomotives whistled. Hence, although the principal mansions were situated on commodious lots, and in many instances separated from each other by broad yards and close fences, it is not to be inferred there was ever a monotonous deficiency of noise and excitement in the place. It had its proud and its miserable, its vanities and its humiliations, its bank and its bakers, its millionaires and its milliners; and was not unfrequently the scene of some of those entertaining comedies of life, which have been considered in all enlightened countries worthy of preservation in veracious and impartial history. Such a record we have attempted to produce; and although the direct manner of narration adopted may offend the taste of the fastidious critic, yet the less acutely discerning reader may possibly deem himself compensated for the labor of perusal, by the reliable assurance of the anthenticity of the story, and the interest attending the occurrences flitting before his mental vision. “My Dear Aunt:—It becomes my melancholy duty to announce a sad calamity—an unexpected suicide—which must affect you deeply. This morning poor Jocko was found suspended from the eve of the portico, and quite dead. That he did it himself, must be evident from the fact that no human being would be likely to climb down to the edge of the roof. It seems that he had driven a large nail into the wood through the last link of his chain, and then sprang over, either dislocuting. his neck, or producing suffocation. I could not hear his struggles, from the distant chamber I occupied, or you should not have been called upon to lament his untimely end. Poor Jocko! As the weather is very warm, I will have his body taken down and packed in ice. It will keep, dear aunt, until I receive your instructions, in regard to the disposition you would have made of it. Every thing shall be done according to your orders. You need not hasten your return to the city. I am quite comfortable here, and the house is kept very quiet from morning till night. My love to mother, sister, uncle, all. “If I see so plainly the imprudence of such disgraceful matches in others, you may suppose I shall be careful to avoid falling into the like silly practices myself. It is true I intend to marry. My nuptials will be celebrated some time during the present year. But the man of my choice will be a gentleman of distinction—a genius of celebrity. You know him, Walter—Mr. Pollen, the poet. If he is poor—if he has been sometimes, as you informed me, without a shirt—that is no disgrace. How was it with Chatterton, Defoe, and even Milton himself? And what lady in the world would not have been honored by being the wife of a Chatterton, a Defoe, a Milton? Shame upon the ladies who permitted them to languish in poverty! I will set an example for the wealthy ladies to follow hereafter. Genius is the very highest kind of aristocracy, because it cannot be conferred by mortal man, nor taken away even by the detracting tongue of women. Farewell. Present my adieus to your mother and Lucy. We will not meet again, unless it be accidentally, and then it is probable there will be no recognition on my part, and I desire there shall be none on yours. You may say to Mr. Lowe that a visit from him would be agreeable to me I believe him to be a gentleman, and would have no objections to his society, if he could answer one or two questions satisfactorily. You may say to him that although I am resolved to marry, I don't expect to feel what the silly girls call a romantic passion for any man. I don't believe in any such nonsense. I want a partner at whist as much as any thing else. “My Dear Niece:—I send my Edith for you, and I desire that you will return with her, by the evening mail. She is discreet, and no one knows her in Babbleton. By accompanying her, your persecutor will not be able to trace you to your asylum. Wear a thick veil, so that he may not recognize your features when you go to the cars. You may safely confide in Edith. She has been my confidant for many years, as your mother knows. She was personally acquainted with the Great Unknown—Sir Walter—and is familiar with the plots and stratagems of villains. She reads for me every night, and has a romantic and literary disposition. Since I received your dear pathetic letter, I have been going over the `Children of the Abbey' again, and find my eyes continually suffused with the miseries of poor Amanda. My dear child! You remind me of her so much, that I am painfully impatient to clasp you to my heart! Do not delay a moment. My love to sister Edith. Tell her not to insist on my Edith having any refreshments, for she never takes any. “Dear Sir: Excuse my bad writing, for you know I write with my left hand, and hold the paper down with my right stump. I saw Col. Oakdale to-day, and he said you would be home to-night, therefore I write. “Here is news from Babbleton,” said Lucy, and narrated in my dear mother's merry vein. Listen, aunt:—“Griselda still keeps my poor brother a close prisoner, while she dashes about in her coach and four. But she has cut all her poor acquaintances, and of course I am blotted out of her books. She passes without calling, and without knowing how heartily I laugh at the ridiculous figure she makes. But she patronized our minister, Mr. Amble, and that is a charitable expenditure, because the money will certainly reach the poor of the parish. Mr. A. you know, has either nine or thirteen (I forget which) children of his own, and they must be provided for. I suppose it is because I could render no assistance, that he has not called on me lately—not, I believe, since my house was sold. Perhaps he did not hear I was the purchaser * * * Still I think Roland is love mad. But his passion is two-fold. He has laid regular siege to Virginia Oakdale, who is my guest, and opens his batteries once or twice every week, and then disappears most mysteriously. I presume he occupies his blue carriage on the alternate days. Virginia never refuses to see him; but the spirited girl laughs at his pretensions, and banters him in such a moeking manner that he must soon despair of making any progress. Why do you not treat him in the same way? Or why do you not marry him, and then have your revenge? It is so absurd to see men of fortune running after the girls, and vainly teasing them for a smile. Marry them, and they will run the other way. Walter is still at Washington, and has not yet received his appointment. I believe he has ceased writing to Virginia. What does it mean? More tomfoolery? Lowe has been absent some time—and I suppose you have seen him. Remember! * * * We had an exciting scene in the street the other day. Sergeant Blore, when stumping on his way to see me, was seized by Mrs. Edwards. She demanded his money—and he cried murder! He tripped her up with his wooden leg and made his escape. But it seems he sprained her ankle, and she has since threatened to bring “an haction” against him for “hassault” and battery! You see how husbands are served! Bill Dizzle gallants Patty O'Pan to church every Sunday. I wrote you how Patty mortally affronted the Arums and Crudles. She kept up till Bill and Susan beat a retreat. It has been a mystery to me how the impudent hussy obtained the means to perpetrate such an annoyance. Some of her finery must have cost a great deal of money, and no one ever supposed Lowe possessed a superabundance of it. By the way, I forgot to mention that Bell Arum has written home a precious budget of news, which her mother, as usual, has published to all her acquaintances. She says she saw you examining the register, and that you were in the habit of wandering about alone and unprotected. She says Mr. Lowe is likewise in the city; and if her ma would put that and that together, she would know as much as the writer, no doubt! And she says they have an invitation to the aristocratic Mrs. Laurel's parties, and that some of the British nobility of the highest rank are expected over this winter. But (she says) if L. W. and Mr. L. are to be met there, she is determined to expose them. “My impudent nephew Walter, who will persist in writing me, notwithstanding I have cast him off for sanctioning his uncle's marriage with that vulgar bonnet-maker (I forget her name), informs me that Mr. Pollen, the silly poet who abandoned my hospitality to borrow a few dirty dollars of the milliner, is now working himself to death in New York to earn a scanty living, which he might have had for nothing by remaining here and behaving himself. He is a fool—just like other poets who have genius, and therefore he ought not to be permitted to kill himself. Enclosed I send a check for a trifling sum payable to bearer, which, perhaps, with delicate management you may induce him to make use of for his own benefit. Perhaps he needs some new shirts. I have seen him twice without any—and I believe he has one of Walter's yet. Speaking of checks and of Walter, I gave my cast-off nephew one when he was on his way to that Babylonian rendezvous of demagogues, which, for some reason—or rather for the want of reason—he did not use. I suppose he gave it to some fool or other poorer than himself. But the cashier of the bank did not pay the money. There needed Walter's name on it, he said, written with his own hand, as it was drawn to his order, or something of the sort, which I did not understand, and did not choose to inquire about. Walter says Lucy is with you. Tell her I have five letters from Ralph Roland begging me to intercede for him. I believe him a knave—but if he writes me again I shall also believe him in earnest, and that the rascal is absolutely in love. It would be a better match than her uncle's, which she attended. “It must be for me,” said Walter. “Put it on the table. I will look at it when I have searched my pockets once more.” Not finding the check, he opened the letter and read as follows: “Misther Walther Wankle, Sir — I have sane Misthress Famble and mi busnes is faxd. She seed you at super and sez she wants to no you. She ses she liks yer lukes, and wud like to sarve you but ses Misther Famble is beging for a nother man. Don't be onasy she kin do mor in a dozzin husbins. Pleases anser this and lave at the barr for your obeydant sarvint “Would you deign to read the news here, if I promise not to be tedious? Well, I promise. The mortgage on our house and grounds has been paid. Will you facilitate me on that? You must not ask where the money came from, for that is a secret upon which to exercise your faculty of guessing. But that is not all. Colonel Oakdale's debt to Roland has been paid. That must be news for you. You would never guess who loaned him the money, and I will tell you, so that you may pour out your gratitude to him should your relations with the family of the senator—we have just heard of his election by the Legislature—ever become more intimate than they have been hitherto. It was John Dowly, whom every one supposed to be in indigent circumstances. Blessings on my old beau. Walter never slept more soundly, or enjoyed more pleasant dreams, than he did in prison. And he had an excellent appetite for breakfast, which was damaged, however, by the contents of the letters and papers brought in by his keeper.
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171Author:  Paulding James Kirke 1778-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Dutchman's fireside  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | Harper's library of select novels | harpers library of select novels 
 Description: “Somewhere about the time of the old French war,” there resided on the rich border that skirts the Hudson, not a hundred miles from the good city of Albany, a family of some distinction, which we shall call Vancour, consisting of three brothers whose names were Egbert, Dennis, and Ariel, or Auriel as it was pronounced by the Dutch of that day. They were the sons of one of the earliest as well as most respectable of the emigrants from Holland, and honourably sustained the dignity of their ancestry, by sturdy integrity, liberal hospitality, and a generous public spirit.
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172Author:  Paulding James Kirke 1778-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Dutchman's fireside  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | Harper's library of select novels | harpers library of select novels 
 Description: Much has been sung and written of the charms of the glorious Hudson—its smiling villages, its noble cities, its magnificent banks, and its majestic waters. The inimitable Knickerbocker, the graphic Cooper, and a thousand less celebrated writers and tourists have delighted to luxuriate in descriptions of its rich fields, its flowery meadows, whispering groves, and cloud-capped mountains, until its name is become synonymous with all the beautiful and sublime of nature. Associated as are these beauties with our earliest recollections, and nearest, dearest friends —entwined as they inseparably are with memorials of the past, anticipations of the future, we too would offer our humble tribute. But the theme has been exhausted by hands that snatched the pencil from nature herself, and nothing is left for us but to repress the feelings of our swelling hearts by silent musings.
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173Author:  Poe Edgar Allan 1809-1849Requires cookie*
 Title:  Tales  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | Wiley and Putnam's library of American books | wiley and putnams library of american books 
 Description: Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.
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174Author:  Poe Edgar Allan 1809-1849Requires cookie*
 Title:  The raven and other poems  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | Wiley and Putnam's library of American books | wiley and putnams library of american books 
 Description: PAGE
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