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381Author:  Winthrop Theodore 1828-1861Add
 Title:  Cecil Dreeme  
 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: Home! “I am not well. I cannot see you this morning. I will write again, — perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow. “Robert, good-bye! I could not see you face to face again, — I that have almost betrayed you with my sin.
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382Author:  Winthrop Theodore 1828-1861Add
 Title:  Edwin Brothertoft  
 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: “Colonel Billop,” wrote Mr. Skaats, his agent and executor, “has been removed by an all-wise Providence. Under the present circumstances, Mr. Brothertoft, I do not wish to disturb you. But I should be glad to take possession at the Manor at your earliest convenience.
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383Author:  Winthrop Theodore 1828-1861Add
 Title:  John Brent  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I write in the first person; but I shall not maunder about myself. I am in no sense the hero of this drama. Call me Chorus, if you please, — not Chorus merely observant and impassive; rather Chorus a sympathizing monitor and helper. Perhaps I gave a certain crude momentum to the movement of the play, when finer forces were ready to flag; but others bore the keen pangs, others took the great prizes, while I stood by to lift the maimed and cheer the victor. “We are hastening on. I can write you but one word. Our journey has been prosperous. Mr. Armstrong is very kind. My dear father, I fear, is shattered out of all steadiness. God guard him, and guide me! My undying love to your friend. “We sail at once for home. My father cannot be at peace until he is in Lancashire again. Don't forget me, dear friends. I go away sick at heart.
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384Author:  Winthrop Theodore 1828-1861Add
 Title:  Life in the open air  
 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: MOUNT KATAHDIN. 754EAF. Illustration page. A view of the mountain from a lake. In the foreground are three figures in a small boat.
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385Author:  Woolson Constance Fenimore 1840-1894Add
 Title:  Castle nowhere  
 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: NOT many years ago the shore bordering the head of Lake Michigan, the northern curve of that silver sea, was a wilderness unexplored. It is a wilderness still, showing even now on the school-maps nothing save an empty waste of colored paper, generally a pale, cold yellow suitable to the climate, all the way from Point St. Ignace to the iron ports on the Little Bay de Noquet, or Badderknock in lake phraseology, a hundred miles of nothing, according to the map-makers, who, knowing nothing of the region, set it down accordingly, withholding even those long-legged letters, “Chip-pe-was,” “Ric-ca-rees,” that stretch accommodatingly across so much townless territory farther west. This northern curve is and always has been off the route to anywhere; and mortals, even Indians, prefer as a general rule, when once started, to go somewhere. The earliest Jesuit explorers and the captains of yesterday's schooners had this in common, that they could not, being human, resist a crosscut; and thus, whether bark canoes of two centuries ago or the high, narrow propellers of to-day, one and all, coming and going, they veer to the southeast or west, and sail gayly out of sight, leaving this northern curve of ours unvisited and alone. A wilderness still, but not unexplored; for that railroad of the future which is to make of British America a garden of roses, and turn the wild trappers of the Hudson's Bay Company into gently smiling congressmen, has it not sent its missionaries thither, to the astonishment and joy of the beasts that dwell therein? According to tradition, these men surveyed the territory, and then crossed over (those of them at least whom the beasts had spared) to the lower peninsula, where, the pleasing variety of swamps being added to the labyrinth of pines and sand-hills, they soon lost themselves, and to this day have never found what they lost. As the gleam of a camp-fire is occasionally seen, and now and then a distant shout heard by the hunter passing along the outskirts, it is supposed that they are in there somewhere, surveying still. “Respected Sir, — I must see you, you air in danger. Please come to the Grotter this afternoon at three and I remain yours respectful, “Mr. Solomon Bangs: My cousin Theodora Wentworth and myself have accepted the hospitality of your house for the night. Will you be so good as to send tidings of our safety to the Community, and oblige, “E. Stuart: The woman Dorcas Bangs died this day. She will be put away by the side of her husband, Solomon Bangs. She left the enclosed picture, which we hereby send, and which please acknowledge by return of mail.
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386Author:  unknownAdd
 Title:  The arrow of gold, or, The shell gatherer  
 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: “A young man, about eighteen years of age, five feet ten inches high, with brown complexion, dark hazel eyes very bright, and black curling hair, left the Arrow Inn on the morning of the 27th, to go to St. James's Palace. He was an entire stranger in London; and, as he has not returned, and had considerable money in his purse, it is feared he has met with foul play, or is lost. He wore a snuff-colored Lincolnshire frock, blue kersey trowsers, and a brown seal-skin cap with a visor. He has a proud air, and is gentle-spoken. “Dear Dame Cresset: I lost my way—I was pressed in a man-of-war—I am now a prisoner. This man, Bolton, says he will give you this, if he escapes free. Take care of my things! I do not know the name of the ship—but I hope yet to escape, sooner or later. Farewell.
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387Author:  Duganne A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey) 1823-1884Add
 Title:  Bianca, or, The star of the valley  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: DUSK was deepening over the Alpine summits, and huge shadows stalked slowly downward, broadening gloomily through the valleys. All nature was sinking into the sealed quiet of a winter's night, only to be broken, during the long hours, by the rumbling thunders of shifting fields of snow in the passes and declivities of the mountains, or perchance the sudden rushing crash of an avalanchine slide of gathered ice, bearing terror and destruction to the slumbering villages below.
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388Author:  Duganne A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey) 1823-1884Add
 Title:  The Prince Corsair, or, The three brothers of Guzan  
 Published:  2001 
 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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389Author:  Duganne A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey) 1823-1884Add
 Title:  The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: WHEN a stranger, under guidance and protection of police, or a home missionary, fearlessly breaking bread with outcasts, penetrates some gloomy court or narrow alley in the great Christian city of New York, he beholds destitution and squalor of most repulsive feature: he discovers tottering buildings crowded with sickly and depraved human beings; stalwart, malign-looking men, glancing furtively at every passer-by; brazen-browed women, with foul words upon their reeking lips; children of impure thoughts and actions, leering with wicked precocity. When he enters the wretched abiding-places of these unhappy people, he may find, amid associations of vice and uncleanness, many suffering and patient souls bearing earthly martyrdom with serene trust in their Heavenly Father, and plucking, even out of their “ugly and venomous” adversity, the “jewel” of immortal peace. Such struggling ones do not dwell long in the darkness and dolor of their probation; for the celestial ladders, let down from Mercy's throne, rest quite as often upon the black pavement of a tenant-court as amid the flowers that tesselate a palace garden; and up, unceasingly, on the shining rounds, glide disenthralled spirits of the poor and lowly watchers for their Lord. “Your letter was received yesterday, and I have spent the hours since in weeping and prayer. I have prayed for you, dear Charles! with my heart sobbing, well-nigh to break. O could I ever dream that you would leave me for another? But I must not chide you—God knows how I love you, dearest—I would lay down my life for you cheerfully, without a murmur. But it is a hard sacrifice you require of me—to give you up to another woman, Charles! when you have sworn to love no other one but your Margaret. You tell me you do not love the lady—that you will marry her only for your worldly prospeets! O Charles! I feel this is all wrong; but, alas! what dare I say to you? I am poor—without fortune but my deep love—God knows, I would resign a throne for your affection, if I were a queen, instead of a portionless girl. Charles! what was it that you said?—O Heaven! did I understand your meaning?—that your love for me would remain unchanged, and we should be happy after your marriage! After your marriage, Charles! Do you not know me better? Do you think I would consent to do wrong, even of my great love for you? No, Charles! after your marriage, we must never meet more! Beloved, bear with me—it is the last time I shall annoy you. You will wed the lady, Charles! Do not wrong her trust!— be kind to her when she becomes your—wife! make her happy! love her—and forget me! I shall not live a great while, dear Charles; for my heart will break, in thinking of the past, and of my hopes, all, all withered. Farewell, dearest! I submit to your wishes, but I must never see you after you are another's. Adieu, Charles!— for the last time, my Charles! God bless and protect you! Dear, dear Charles — husband!—I resign you. Farewell, forever! “My dearest Rebecca,”—so the note ran—“I am thinking of you by day, dreaming of you at night, adoring you always. I have much to tell you, sweet one, and must see you to-day. Fail not to meet me, at the usual hour, at our trysting-place, darling of my soul.
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390Author:  Eggleston Edward 1837-1902Add
 Title:  The Hoosier school-master  
 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: “WANT to be a school-master, do you? You? Well, what would you do in Flat Crick deestrick, I'd like to know? Why, the boys have driv off the last two, and licked the one afore them like blazes. You might teach a summer school, when nothin' but children come. But I 'low it takes a right smart man to be school-master in Flat Crick in the winter. They'd pitch you out of doors, sonny, neck and heels, afore Christmas.” “Dear Sir: Anybody who can do so good a thing as you did for our Shocky, can not be bad. I hope you will forgive me. All the appearances in the world, and all that anybody says, can not make me think you anything else but a good man. I hope God will reward you. You must not answer this, and you hadn't better see me again, or think any more of what you spoke about the other night. I shall be a slave for three years more, and then I must work for my mother and Shocky; but I felt so bad to think that I had spoken so hard to you, that I could not help writing this. Respectfully, “i Put in my best licks, taint no use. Run fer yore life. A plans on foot to tar an fether or wuss to-night. Go rite off. Things is awful juberous. “This is what I have always been afraid of. I warned you faithfully the last time I saw you. My skirts are clear of your blood. I can not consent for your uncle to appear as your counsel or to go your bail. You know how much it would injure him in the county, and he has no right to suffer for your evil acts. O my dear nephew! for the sake of your poor, dead mother—”
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391Author:  Eggleston Edward 1837-1902Add
 Title:  The mystery of Metropolisville  
 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: METROPOLISVILLE is nothing but a memory now. If Jonah's gourd had not been a little too much used already, it would serve an excellent turn just here in the way of an apt figure of speech illustrating the growth, the wilting, and the withering of Metropolisville. The last time I saw the place the grass grew green where once stood the City Hall, the corn-stalks waved their banners on the very site of the old store—I ask pardon, the “Emporium”—of Jackson, Jones & Co., and what had been the square, staring white court-house—not a Temple but a Barn of Justice—had long since fallen to base uses. The walls which had echoed with forensic grandiloquence were now forced to hear only the bleating of silly sheep. The church, the school-house, and the City Hotel had been moved away bodily. The village grew, as hundreds of other frontier villages had grown, in the flush times; it died, as so many others died, of the financial crash which was the inevitable sequel and retribution of speculative madness. Its history resembles the history of other Western towns of the sort so strongly, that I should not take the trouble to write about it, nor ask you to take the trouble to read about it, if the history of the town did not involve also the history of certain human lives—of a tragedy that touched deeply more than one soul. And what is history worth but for its human interest? The history of Athens is not of value on account of its temples and statues, but on account of its men and women. And though the “Main street” of Metropolisville is now a country road where the dog-fennel blooms almost undisturbed by comers and goers, though the plowshare remorselessly turns over the earth in places where corner lots were once sold for a hundred dollars the front foot, and though the lot once sacredly set apart (on the map) as “Depot Ground” is now nothing but a potato-patch, yet there are hearts on which the brief history of Metropolisville has left traces ineffaceable by sunshine or storm, in time or eternity. “I should have come to see you and told you about my trip to Metropolisville, but I am obliged to go out of town again. I send this by Mr. Canton, and also a request to the warden to pass this and your answer without the customary inspection of contents. I saw your mother and your step-father and your friend Miss Marlay. Your mother is failing very fast, and I do not think it would be a kindness for me to conceal from you my belief that she can not live many weeks. I talked with her and prayed with her as you requested, but she seems to have some intolerable mental burden. Miss Marlay is evidently a great comfort to her, and, indeed, I never saw a more faithful person than she in my life, or a more remarkable exemplification of the beauty of a Christian life. She takes every burden off your mother except that unseen load which seems to trouble her spirit, and she believes absolutely in your innocence. By the way, why did you never explain to her or to me or to any of your friends the real history of the case? There must at least have been extenuating circumstances, and we might be able to help you. “Dear Sir: You have acted very honorably in writing me as you have, and I admire you now more than ever. You fulfill my ideal of a Christian. I never had the slightest claim or the slightest purpose to establish any claim on Isabel Marlay, for I was so blinded by self-conceit, that I did not appreciate her until it was too late. And now! What have I to offer to any woman? The love of a convicted felon! A name tarnished forever! No! I shall never share that with Isa Marlay. She is, indeed, the best and most sensible of women. She is the only woman worthy of such a man as you. You are the only man I ever saw good enough for Isabel. I love you both. God bless you! “Dear Sir: Your poor mother died yesterday. She suffered little in body, and her mind was much more peaceful after her last interview with Mr. Lurton, which resulted in her making a frank statement of the circumstances of the land-warrant affair. She afterward had it written down, and signed it, that it might be used to set you free. She also asked me to tell Miss Minorkey, and I shall send her a letter by this mail. I am so glad that your innocence is to be proved at last. I have said nothing about the statement your mother made to any one except Miss Minorkey, because I am unwilling to use it without your consent. You have great reason to be grateful to Mr. Lurton. He has shown himself your friend, indeed. I think him an excellent man. He comforted your mother a great deal. You had better let me put the writing your mother left, into his hands. I am sure he will secure your freedom for you. “My Dear, Good Friend: The death of my mother has given me a great deal of sorrow, though it did not surprise me. I remember now how many times of late years I have given her needless trouble. For whatever mistakes her personal peculiarities led her into, she was certainly a most affectionate mother. I can now see, and the reflection causes me much bitterness, that I might have been more thoughtful of her happiness without compromising my opinions. How much trouble my self-conceit must have given her! Your rebuke on this subject has been very fresh in mind since I heard of her death. And I am feeling lonely, too. Mother and Katy have gone, and more distant relatives will not care to know an outlaw. “My Dear Miss Marlay: I find that I can not even visit you without causing remarks to be made, which reflect on you. I can not stay here without wishing to enjoy your society, and you can not receive the visits of a `jail-bird,' as they call me, without disgrace. I owe everything to you, and it would be ungrateful, indeed, in me to be a source of affliction and dishonor to you. I never regretted my disgrace so much as since I talked with you last night. If I could shake that off, I might hope for a great happiness, perhaps.
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392Author:  English Thomas Dunn 1819-1902Add
 Title:  Ambrose Fecit, or, The peer and the printer  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I must have been about eighteen years old, or thereabouts, when, on a holiday in June, I walked out, and strolled by the high road to the country beyond Puttenham. The highway led me to a common over which it crossed; and there, musing over the commonplace events of the week, I wandered over the knolls of gravelly soil, and among the furze-bushes, watching the donkies as they cropped the scanty blades of grass, and indulged occasionally in a tit-bit, in the way of a juicy thistle. Tired at length, I sat me down to rest under a thorn-bush by the road-side, and was thus seated when I heard the sound of voices. Looking up, I saw a man approach, who was leading by the hand a little girl who appeared to be about ten years of age. I was struck with the appearance of the couple, and so scanned them closely. “My dear young friend—A letter, received as you left us last night, called me direct to London, without an opportunity to bid you more than this farewell, or to express, as I ought, my sense of your kindness. Zara sends her love to you, and the enclosed souvenir. May God have you in his holy keeping. “Herewith you have a copy of my portrait of little Zara, whose untimely fate in being whisked away by a grim, grey-bearded ogre, you have so much lamented. I think that I have not only caught the features, but the whole spirit of her extraordinary face. I should like your criticism on that point, for you were so fond of her that her expression must be firmly fixed on your mind. “My dear Ambrose:—Read this letter as carefully as you like, and then—burn it. “My dear Ambrose:—You have been nearly four years absent from England, and I have done my best to send and keep you away. Now, I write to you to urge you to come back.
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393Author:  unknownAdd
 Title:  Good company for every day in the year  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I CONFESS it, I am keenly sensitive to “skyey influences.” I profess no indifference to the movements of that capricious old gentleman known as the clerk of the weather. I cannot conceal my interest in the behavior of that patriarchal bird whose wooden similitude gyrates on the church spire. Winter proper is well enough. Let the thermometer go to zero if it will; so much the better, if thereby the very winds are frozen and unable to flap their stiff wings. Sounds of bells in the keen air, clear, musical, heart-inspiring; quick tripping of fair moccasoned feet on glittering ice-pavements; bright eyes glancing above the uplifted muff like a sultana's behind the folds of her yashmack; school-boys coasting down street like mad Greenlanders; the cold brilliance of oblique sunbeams flashing back from wide surfaces of glittering snow or blazing upon ice-jewelry of tree and roof. There is nothing in all this to complain of. A storm of summer has its redeeming sublimities, — its slow, upheaving mountains of cloud glooming in the western horizon like new-created volcanoes, veined with fire, shattered by exploding thunders. Even the wild gales of the equinox have their varieties, — sounds of wind-shaken woods, and waters, creak and clatter of sign and casement, hurricane puffs and down-rushing rain-spouts. But this dull, dark autumn day of thaw and rain, when the very clouds seem too spiritless and languid to storm outright or take themselves out of the way of fair weather; wet beneath and above, reminding one of that rayless atmosphere of Dante's Third Circle, where the infernal Priessnitz administers his hydropathic torment, — “A heavy, cursed, and relentless drench, — The land it soaks is putrid”; — or rather, as everything, animate and inanimate, is seething in warm mist, suggesting the idea that Nature, grown old and rheumatic, is trying the efficacy of a Thompsonian steam-box on a grand scale; no sounds save the heavy plash of muddy feet on the pavements; the monotonous, melancholy drip from trees and roofs; the distressful gurgling of water-ducts, swallowing the dirty amalgam of the gutters; a dim, leaden-colored horizon of only a few yards in diameter, shutting down about one, beyond which nothing is visible save in faint line or dark projection; the ghost of a church spire or the eidolon of a chimney-pot. He who can extract pleasurable emotions from the alembic of such a day has a trick of alchemy with which I am wholly unacquainted. Whereas Charles Stuart, King of England, is and standeth convicted, attainted and condemned of High Treason and other high Crimes; and Sentence upon Saturday last was pronounced against him by this Court, To be put to death by the severing of his head from his body; of which Sentence execution yet remaineth to be done: “It begins: — `Dear Uncle,' (I had always instructed the child so to call me, rather than father, seeing we can have but one father, while we may be blessed with numerous uncles) `I suppose you will wonder how I came to be at St. Louis, and it is just my being here that I write to explain. You know how my husband felt about Nelly's death, but you cannot know how I felt; for, even in my very great sorrow, I hoped all the time, that by her death, John might be led to a love of religion. He was very unhappy, but he would not show it, only that he took even more tender care of me than before. I have always been his darling and pride; he never let me work, because he said it spoiled my hands; but after Nelly died, he was hardly willing I should breathe; and though he never spoke of her, or seemed to feel her loss, yet I have heard him whisper her name in his sleep, and every morning his hair and pillow were damp with crying; but he never knew I saw it. After a few months, there came a Mormon preacher into our neighborhood, a man of a great deal of talent and earnestness, and a firm believer in the revelation to Joseph Smith. At first my husband did not take any notice of him, and then he laughed at him for being a believer in what seemed like nonsense; but one night he was persuaded to go and hear Brother Marvin preach in the school-house, and he came home with a very sober face. I said nothing, but when I found there was to be a meeting the next night, I asked to go with him, and, to my surprise, I heard a most powerful and exciting discourse, not wanting in either sense or feeling, though rather poor as to argument; but I was not surprised that John wanted to hear more, nor that, in the course of a few weeks, he avowed himself a Mormon, and was received publicly into the sect. Dear Uncle, you will be shocked, I know, and you will wonder why I did not use my influence over my husband, to keep him from this delusion; but you do not know how much I have longed and prayed for his conversion to a religious life; until any religion, even one full of errors, seemed to me better than the hardened and listless state of his mind. “`My first wife, Adeline Frazer Henderson, departed this life on the sixth of July, at my house in the city of Great Salt Lake. Shortly before dying she called upon me, in the presence of two sisters, and one of the Saints, to deliver into your hands the enclosed packet, and tell you of her death. According to her wish, I send the papers by mail; and, hoping you may yet be called to be a partaker in the faith of the saints below, I remain your afflicted, yet rejoicing friend, “To-day I begged John to write, and ask you to come here. I could not write you since I came here but that once, though your letters have been my great comfort, and I added a few words of entreaty to his, because I am dying, and it seems as if I must see you before I die; yet I fear the letter may not reach you, or you may be sick: and for that reason I write now, to tell you how terrible a necessity urged me to persuade you to such a journey. I can write but little at a time, my side is so painful; they call it slow-consumption here, but I know better; the heart within me is turned to stone, I felt it then — Ah! you see my mind wandered in that last line; it still will return to the old theme, like a fugue tune, such as we had in the Plainfield singing-school. I remember one that went, `The Lord is just, is just, is just.' — Is He? Dear Uncle, I must begin at the beginning, or you never will know. I wrote you from St. Louis, did I not? I meant to. From there, we had a dreary journey, not so bad to Fort Leavenworth, but after that inexpressibly dreary, and set with tokens of the dead, who perished before us. A long reach of prairie, day after day, and night after night; grass, and sky, and graves; grass, and sky, and graves; till I hardly knew whether the life I dragged along was life or death, as the thirsty, feverish days wore on into the awful and breathless nights, when every creature was dead asleep, and the very stars in heaven grew dim in the hot, sleepy air — dreadful days! I was too glad to see that bitter inland sea, blue as the fresh lakes, with its gray islands of bare rock, and sparkling sand shores, still more rejoiced to come upon the City itself, the rows of quaint, bare houses, and such cool water-sources, and, over all, near enough to rest both eyes and heart, the sunlit mountains, `the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.'
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394Author:  Hall Baynard Rush 1798-1863Add
 Title:  Frank Freeman's barber shop  
 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: Our southern coast, as the reader doubtless knows, is fringed with a net-work of islands, many of which have not yet a growth sufficient for introduction to a school atlas. Some of these miniature lands are not inhabited and rarely visited; while others are, at certain seasons, resorts for “marooning”—a picnic sort of life passed for weeks in extemporaneous sheds of boards and canvas. A few of the islets are large enough for one or more plantations; and, hence, are like immense gardens in which are embowered lordly mansions with spacious lawns in front and comfortable “quarters” at convenient distances—a negro village of neat cabins, usually white-washed, and always each surrounded with its own domain of truck-patch, and boasting of its henhouse, pig-pen, and other offices. “Nephew, I send $2,000—I know your scruples. But I will positively take no denial. See here— don't refuse the additional—I'll pitch it in the fire, if you send any back. You'll have it hard enough with the remaining $2,000. “Edward, my dearest:—May the Lord sustain you!—and He will. But we have both been long prepared for this:—Dr. Jordan thinks there is no hope of my life beyond next summer! Edward! can we not meet once—the last? And your dear wife—my much beloved—my only daughter, since Sophia preceded me home!—will she not come again? Ah! Edward! if I might go to my rest— in your arms and hers! “Edward! oh, Edward!—I would—but, no! no! you never can believe me now! I call God to witness—I never, no never, loved any but you—I love none other now! By the unutterable agony of my frenzied soul, do not for God's sake, oh! do not curse me!.... Good God! can it be possible! I did not mean it! I know not why I did it! I have not—I have not! I will not! Oh! say, Edward! is it not a dream?—wake me from it! Forgive, forgive, forgive me! Bid me come and lie down at your feet and die! Call me only once by the dear name—and then kill me! Oh! why, why did you not command me to stay ever near you! You were to blame—no! no! how dare I reproach? One trial, Edward—but one! I would give the universe—I would give my life—God knows I would—to stand where I did for a moment.... Vain! I cannot—cannot!—I am going mad!.... But I am not—I am not so fallen! I will not so fall! I will leap into the sea first!..... Stay! don't curse me! Pray for me! Yes, yes, I that laughed at prayer, now with deep groanings of my soul, and with my face in the dust call on you, Edward! my wronged husband, and as a minister of Christ, to pray for me. I am penitent—I have not sinned—I will die rather! I will plunge into the ocean. Oh! dear Edward!—husband, dear husband! and for the last, I write those sacred words— farewell, farewell!” “Rev. and very dear Brother:—I remain, this year, at Point Lookout, where we shall establish our new paper. It is to be called “The Scarifier and Renovator.” I expect to edit awhile, myself. We'll make an impression on the soul-killers. Besides, I can do a vast amount of good here, in other ways. I have been instrumental, by the blessing of God, in freeing more than twenty-five, since my last, in March! Most of them, with a little help from my secret assistants in the lower countries, succeeded (you will be rejoiced to learn) in bringing off property enough to pay expenses, and afford a handsome remuneration. I forwarded the poor fugitives to the old fellow—you know where. “Master!—a dear name yet—though I appear as a traitor!—a name I shall ever love, even if my new friends(?) constrain me to use their cold language. Yes, dear master! you knew me better than I know myself: you would never let me vow! Oh! I remember that one sermon—`Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?' They look on me as noble and free!—alas!—I feel myself a slave now, and worse than before; I have become in my own eyes `a dog!'—I have done it. “Rev. and dear Sharpinton:—My soul is fairly on fire—it fairly cries out, `Away with the accursed slavers from the earth!' Oh, heavens! doctor, they've killed our Somerville; and in defence of his press! Freedom!—where's our right to publish the truth—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Don't tell me of freedom! Union or no union! down with the gag-loving, press-muzzling, slavery-aiding, colonization-scheming, God-defying, double-dyed, negro-lashing, humanity-crushing, base, grovelling, truckling villains, that, in face of the sun, will assault and pull down a printing-office, and pitch the types into the street, and shoot down, spite of law, justice, and rights of man, the noble Somerville, and standing to defend his rights! It hadn't ought to be the 19th century! no, it hadn't ought to!— I know it cannot be done; but, still, follow me, ye friends of the poor, down-trodden, brute-degraded, blood-squeezed, and sweat-defrauded sons of Africa! oh! ye men of tried souls, ye true Americans, and we will drive the accursed South into the earth-girdling ocean! I did you a great, a very great wrong—and I am very sorry for it. And yet I always more than half believed you must be true. God be thanked—that dear Edward redeemed you—how would I now feel, if that infernal dealer had got you!—poor Edward, how he looked when he got my note and bid up the $4,000! “* * I told uncle I would write about Sarah —your dear mother. She died many months ago, and very suddenly, and full six weeks before we left the north or arrived at Evergreen. And while you now mourn that you can never see her again—yet 15 you will rejoice your oversight had nothing to do with her death. God, Frank, is kind to his people, that they may not have over much sorrow!
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395Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Add
 Title:  The house of the seven gables  
 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: Half-way down a by-street of one of our New England towns, stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely-peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. The street is Pyncheon-street; the house is the old Pyncheon-house; and an elm-tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon-elm. On my occasional visits to the town aforesaid, I seldom fail to turn down Pyncheon-street, for the sake of passing through the shadow of these two antiquities, — the great elm-tree, and the weather-beaten edifice.
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396Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Add
 Title:  The snow-image  
 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: One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used to call Violet. But her brother was known by the style and title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. The father of these two children, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is called the common-sense view of all matters that came under his consideration. With a heart about as tender as other people's, he had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron pots which it was a part of his business to sell. The mother's character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty, — a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had survived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood.
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397Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The cavaliers of England, or, The times of the revolutions of 1642 and 1688  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is the saddest of all the considerations which weigh upon the candid and sincere mind of the true patriot, when civil dispute is on the eve of degenerating into civil war, that the best, the wisest, and the bravest of both parties, are those who first fall victims for those principles which they mutually, with equal purity and faith, and almost with equal reason, believe to be true and vital; that the moderate men, who have erst stood side by side for the maintenance of the right and the common good — who alone, in truth, care for either right or common good — now parted by a difference nearly without a distinction, are set in deadly opposition, face to face, to slay and be slain for the benefit of the ultraists — of the ambitious, heartless, or fanatical self-seekers, who hold aloof in the beginning, while principles are at stake, and come into the conflict when the heat and toil of the day are over, and when their own end, not their country's object, remains only to be won. “You know too much — you know too much!” cried Jasper, furious but undaunted. “One of us two must die, ere either leaves this room.” “Agnes: By God's grace I am safe thus far; and if I can lie hid here these four days, can escape to France. On Sunday night a lugger will await me off the Greene point, nigh the 35 mouth of Solway. Come to me hither, to the cave I told thee of, with food and wine so soon as it is dark. Ever my dearest, whom alone I dare trust.
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398Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The chevaliers of France  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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399Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  The knights of England, France, and Scotland  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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400Author:  Herbert Henry William 1807-1858Add
 Title:  Persons and pictures from the histories of France and England  
 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: England was happy yet and free under her Saxon kings. The unhappy natives of the land, the Britons of old time, long ago driven back into their impregnable fastnesses among the Welsh mountains, and the craggy and pathless wilds of Scotland, still rugged and hirsute with the yet uninvaded masses of the great Caledonian forest, had subsided into quiet, and disturbed the lowland plains of fair England no longer; and so long as they were left free to enjoy their rude pleasures of the chase and of internal welfare, undisturbed, were content to be debarred from the rich pastures and fertile corn-fields which had once owned their sway. The Danes and Norsemen, savage Jarls and Vikings of the North, had ceased to prey on the coasts of Northumberland and Yorkshire; the seven kingdoms of the turbulent and tumultuous Heptarchy, ever distracted by domestic strife, had subsided into one realm, ruled under laws, regular, and for the most part mild and equable, by a single monarch, occupied by one homogeneous and kindred race, wealthy and prosperous according to the idea of wealth and prosperity in those days, at peace at home and undisturbed from without; if not, indeed, very highly civilized, at least supplied with all the luxuries and comforts which the age knew or demanded—a happy, free, contented people, with a patriarchal aristocracy, and a king limited in his prerogatives by the rights of his people, and the privileges of the nobles as secured by law. “My dear wife—farewell! Bless my boy—pray for me, and let the true God hold you both in his arms. “I received your letter with judignation, and with scorn return you this answer, that I cannot but wonder whence you gather any hopes that I should prove, like you, treacherous to my sovereign; since you cannot be ignorant of my former actions in his late majesty's service, from which principles of loyalty I am no whit departed. I scorn your proffers; I disdain your favor; I abhor your treason; and am so far from delivering up this island to your advantage, that I shall keep it to the utmost of my power for your destruction. Take this for your final answer, and forbear any further solicitations: for if you trouble me with any more messages of this nature, I will burn the paper, and hang up the messenger. This is the immutable resolution, and shall be the undoubted practice of him who accounts it his chiefest glory to be his majesty's most loyal and obedient subject. It would have been a difficult thing, even in England, that land of female loveliness, to find a brighter specimen of youthful beauty than was presented by Rosamond Bellarmyne, when she returned to her home, then in her sixteenth year, after witnessing the joyful procession of the 29th of May, which terminated in the installation of the son in that palace of Whitehall from which his far worthier father had gone forth to die. “We hereby grant free permission to the Count de Grammont to return to London, and remain there six days, in prosecution of his lawful affairs; and we accord to him the license to be present at our palace of Whitehall, on the occasion of his betrothal to our gracious consort's maid-of-honor, the beautiful Mistress Elizabeth Hamilton.
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