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121Author:  Mathews Cornelius 1817-1889Requires cookie*
 Title:  Big Abel, and the little Manhattan  
 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: Whoever has sailed up or down the East River in a fog, or driven to Hallet's Cove, Long Island, on a dusty day, or walked the Third Avenue in the moonlight, has been beset by the vision of a great white tower, rising, ghost-like, in the air, and holding all the neighborhood in subjection to its repose and supernatural port. The Shot-Tower is a strange old fellow, to be sure! 'Spite of that incessant buzzing in his head, he holds himself as high and grandly, as though he hadn't the trouble of making shot for the six-and-twenty United States. He never dozes or nods, even in the summer noon; nor does he fall asleep in the most crickety nights, but winks, with that iron top of his, at all the stars, as they come up, one by one; and outwatches them all. There he is, gaunt and clean, as a ghost in a new shroud, every day in the year. Build as you may, old Gotham! Hammer and ding and trowel on all sides of him, if you choose,—you cannot stir him an inch, nor sully the whiteness in which he sees himself clothed, in that pure glass of his of Kipp's Bay! If you have seen him once, you know him always. A sturdy Shot-Tower to be sure!—and go where you will, you carry him with you. He is the Ghost of New York, gone into the suburbs to meditate on the wickedness of mankind, and haunt the Big City, in many a dream of war, and gun-shot wounds, and pattering carnage, when he falls asleep.
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122Author:  Mathews Cornelius 1817-1889Requires cookie*
 Title:  Chanticleer  
 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: I SEE old Sylvester Peabody—the head of the Peabody family—seated in the porch of his country dwelling, like an ancient patriarch, in the calm of the morning. His broad-brimmed hat lies on the bench at his side, and his venerable white locks flow down his shoulders, which time in one hundred seasons of battle and sorrow, of harvest and drouth, of toil and death, in all his hardy wrestlings with old Sylvester, has not been able to bend. The old man's form is erect and tall, and lifting up his head to its height, he looks afar, down the country road which leads from his rural door, towards the city. He has kept his gaze in that direction for better than an hour, and a mist has gradually crept upon his vision; objects begin to lose their distinctness; they grow dim or soften away like ghosts or spirits; the whole landscape melts gently into a pictured dew before him. Is old Sylvester, who has kept it clear and bright so long, losing his sight at last, or is our common world, already changing under the old patriarch's pure regard, into that better, heavenly land?
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123Author:  McHenry James 1753-1816Requires cookie*
 Title:  O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief  
 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: Perhaps no where in the British Islands, will the admirer of the grand and sublime, in the works of nature, find more gratification than along the northern shores of the county of Antrim. From the Gabbon precipices, near the entrance of Larne Harbour, to Port Rush, near Colerain, a long range of rocky coast, extending upwards of fifty miles, exhibits, in some places, the boldest promontories jutting into the sea, and perforated with numerous caverns, into many of which the raging waters pour with reverberating noise. In other places, small bays, occasioned by the mouths of the rivers and rivulets that there seek a junction with the ocean, interrupt the continuity of the rocky chain, and by affording to the visiter the view of towns and villages, surrounded by the fertility of nature, and the conveniences of art, produce a striking and pleasing contrast to the prevailing wildness of the coast, and make its grandeur still more grand.
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124Author:  McHenry James 1753-1816Requires cookie*
 Title:  O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief  
 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 was on the evening of the fourth of June, that a messenger arrived from Belfast, at O'Halloran Castle. He delivered to its owner the following note, and passed on to circulate others of a similar import throughout the country. “The signal is given. The mail coach has not arrived. Our informant says it was stopped yesterday at Swords. The south is in arms—Wexford is taken. Let the rising be on the 7th inst. The general rendezvous for this county is Donegore hill. The small parties of the military quartered in the country towns must be captured, if possible, by surprise. The bearer will proceed with intelligence along the coast. You will despatch messengers through the interior, by Ballynure, Ballyclare, Ballyeaston, Ballymena, &c. Expedition is requisite. “I am now a prisoner in the hands of the insurgents; and you may be sure I am well treated, when I inform you that I have had influence enough to persuade them to postpone an attack, which, just as I was brought here, they were on the point of making upon you. “Sir, we are to the number of sixteen hundred men in arms, prepared to attack the garrison under your command. But to give you an opportunity of saving your soldiers from destruction, we have thought proper, first, to apprize you of our intention, and to summon you in the name of our country, to surrender your party, both military and others, with all your warlike stores, into our hands. As our prisoners your lives will be safe, and as much attention as possible paid to your comforts. The lives, families and properties of such of our town's-men as have joined you, shall also remain unmolested. Our attack shall be suspended, in expectation of your compliance, for three quarters of an hour, but no longer. “Sir, enclosed is my reply to the rebel chieftains. By it you will see that you anticipated truly, when you supposed that I would not agree to an unconditional surrender. I am sorry that you are in their power; but it is pleasing to find that they are not disposed to abuse their good fortune, by acts of wantonness or cruelty. It may yet be in my power to show that I can esteem humanity, even in such an enemy. “In answer to your message, I have to inform you that rather than comply with your demands, my party and myself are resolved to meet destruction amidst the ruins of the place, which it is our duty to defend. Do not, however, suppose that we shall fall an easy prey. It is true, your number exceed ours by ten to one; but were they a hundred to one, as we are fully supplied with the means of defence, we know too well how to use them, not to make our enemies deplore the dearness of any victory they may gain over us. In your case, it is apparent that victory is at least doubtful. Some traits of humanity displayed by you have been communicated to me, in consideration of which I give you my promise, and all the gentlemen of the town, who have so gallantly come to my assistance, will guarantee its performance, that if you lay down your arms, and return peaceably to your allegiance, all that you have yet done shall be overlooked, and pardoned, and the full and free protection of the laws of your country shall once more be extended towards you. Should you reject this offer, I can only deplore your infatuation; I must resist you unto destruction, and the blood of those who may fall on both sides, be upon your heads. “Dear Sir—It has fallen to my lot to communicate to you the unfortunate news of the forces we assembled this morning, being completely defeated and dispersed, after a severe conflict with a large body of the king's troops, near Ballynahinch, in which it is supposed, that we lost upwards of one thousand men. “Sir, being informed that you have the rebel chief, O'Halloran, in custody, I am induced, in consequence of some representations made to me in his favour, by a person well acquainted with him, to pardon his offence, on condition that he shall pay a fine to be assessed by you to any amount, not exceeding ten thousand pounds, which sum shall be appropriated to the relief of those royalists who have suffered from the rebellion in the county of Antrim. “Dear Barrymore—I have at length followed you. Excited by my ardent desire to see the peerless beauty, who could so completely subdue a heart which was impregnable to all the attacks of the Dublin fair, I eagerly embraced the first moment, in which I could, with propriety, undertake the journey. The day before I left the city, I waited on the Lord Lieutenant, with the letter you enclosed from the Recluse, who, I understand, is to be no longer a mendicant, but is to appear in society in his own proper character of Francis Hamilton, Esq. of Hamilton-hall, in the county of Tyrone. His excellency was much pleased to hear from him; and, without delay, not only granted to him his request, but wrote to him a long letter, which on finding I was about to take a Northern trip, he entrusted to my care. “Dear Sir—It is with great satisfaction that I acknowledge the receipt of your's of this morning, covering the commands of his excellency, the Lord Lieutenant, respecting you, which, of course, it is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to obey. I shall make the agreeable communication known without delay to all the justices of the peace, jailers, and other officers, whom it concerns, so that you will be in no danger of personal molestation; and may appear in public whenever you think proper. “My Son—A few days ago, I received from you a very foolish letter, requesting me to consent to your marriage with a woman I never saw, nor, until that very moment, ever heard of. I took, of course, some pains to inquire concerning her, and her connexions. The only person from whom I could obtain much information, is your old mendicant protagee, who praises her in a style that I cannot well understand; but from which I can gather that she is a great beauty. I presume, therefore, that in the ardour of your admiration, you have endowed her with angelic qualities, for in the eyes of every love-sick young man who has a handsome mistress, she cannot be aught else than an angel. “* * * * * * * * * At what an awful crisis,” said he, “have I been entrusted with the government of this unfortunate country? Treason, rebellion, massacre, and invasion, have shaken her to pieces, and have prostrated her into the depth of misery.
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125Author:  McHenry James 1753-1816Requires cookie*
 Title:  Meredith, or, The mystery of the Meschianza  
 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: I know not whether any philosopher has ever made the observation, that, the heart which is the most susceptible of gratitude, is also the most readily excited to revenge. But it is a truth which, for its confirmation, requires not the testimony of philosophers. It has human nature for its foundation, and experience for its support. Indeed it is reasonable to suppose that he who is very sensible of kindness will be equally so of injuries. Both feelings spring from the same source, acuteness of sensation. Hence the frequent saying in relation to a man of sensibility, that he is either a very warm friend, or a very bitter enemy. There are indeed exceptions. But to what rule is there not? There may be, nay, there actually are, kind and amiable people whose sensibilities are altogether on the side of good nature. But these are generally tame and inefficient beings, who are either devoid of sagacity to see when they are injured, or destitute of courage to show resentment. “I can live no longer. My life has been for some months but one continued paroxysm of mental agony. My existence much longer would bring upon you the most indelible and unmitigable disgrace that could, by a daughter, be inflicted on a father. My last interview with Harris proved fatal to my honour. He ruined me, and then abandoned me for ever.—That interview! alas, it was a stolen one, unknown to you, and granted at his entreaty contrary to your injunctions. Oh! how I have been punished for my disobedience! No one has as yet perceived the effects of my guilt in the alteration of my person. But in a short time it would become too apparent for concealment. Then, then, my father, you would be disgraced for ever; and were I to live, I would see you dying broken-hearted— and I the cause! But I will not live to witness such a calamity. In opium there is power to destroy life, by lulling the senses into lethargy and dissolving the springs of animation. I have provided myself with the precious drug which is to relieve me for ever from that load of earthly misery which has become too great for me longer to endure. Farewell, my beloved father. Oh! do not curse me when I shall be dead, for my last prayer to Heaven shall ascend for thee.” “You were once the object of my fond attachment. I addressed you sincerely Q with a view to our final alliance, and we became engaged. Circumstances have lately given another direction to my views. It is, therefore, my duty to release you from your engagement. I do this the more readily and promptly, because I am aware that my cousin, Captain Harris, of the British army, has placed his affections upon you, and I am desirous of being no longer considered an obstacle to the success of his suit.
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126Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  Mardi  
 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: We are off! The courses and topsails are set: the coral-hung anchor swings from the bow: and together, the three royals are given to the breeze, that follows us out to sea like the baying of a hound. Out spreads the canvas— alow, aloft—boom-stretched, on both sides, with many a stun' sail; till like a hawk, with pinions poised, we shadow the sea with our sails, and reelingly cleave the brine.
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127Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  Mardi  
 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: We were now voyaging straight for Maramma; where lived and reigned, in mystery, the High Pontiff of the adjoining isles: prince, priest, and god, in his own proper person: great lord paramount over many kings in Mardi; his hands full of scepters and crosiers. “Attend my lord:—`Anno Mardis 50,000,000, o. s. I, Bardianna, of the island of Vamba, and village of the same name, having just risen from my yams, in high health, high spirits, and sound mind, do hereby cheerfully make and ordain this my last will and testament.
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128Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  Redburn, his first voyage  
 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: “Wellingborough, as you are going to sea, suppose you take this shooting-jacket of mine along; it's just the thing —take it, it will save the expense of another. You see, it's quite warm; fine long skirts, stout horn buttons, and plenty of pockets.”
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129Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  White-Jacket, or, The World in a man-of-war  
 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 was not a very white jacket, but white enough, in all conscience, as the sequel will show. “Sir, you will give the people pickles to-day with their fresh meat. Grand Celebration of the Fourth of July.
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130Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart  
 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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131Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town  
 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: You know, my dear Fritz, that I am not unused to the handling of a glass; and that I have amused myself for a considerable number of years in looking about the world, as carelessly and freely as I chose. Now, it has occurred to me, in the opening of this new half-century, (may you live to the end of it!) that in common justice, I ought to make such return as lies in my power, by attempting to amuse some little portion of that world, which has so long and gratuitously amused me. Dear Sir,—I wish you would send me, soon as convenient, the card of your friend Tophanes. I think he must be a `stick;' and I rather imagine he can give me the right sort of advice. For you must know that I've been hanging on the town nearly the whole winter, and yet the d—l of an invitation have I got. With this, my dear Fritz, I leave you to your quiet country avocations, until the mail of another week shall light up your solitude with a glowing No. V. It has been hinted to me that you are an old friend of my former husband; if you are, I wish you would do me the favor to call; any little remembrances of the dear, good man are most satisfying. I want to tell you, too, how much I approve your work; your judicious remarks upon taste, I cannot praise high enough. I have long felt the want of just such a book as you propose. As for the polka, you've said just what you ought to say; it's a positive shame, the way our young folks do go on in these matters! Only to think that my little cousin Polly went so far the other evening as to lay her head outright on a gentleman's shoulder, out of sheer exhaustion; why, Sir, it made all the blood boil in my body! I wish you would let me know who you are:— do; I think I could give you some capital hints; you know a lady knows a great deal that a gentleman never can know, try as hard as he may. Besides, I should like amazingly to dance a polka with you; I know from the way you write about it, that you must understand it a great deal better than the fussy little fellows who almost pull me over, and havn't got an idea of the spirit of the thing. A lady wants some sort of support,—doesn't she? I think you could give it, and not be pushing one about against the wall-flowers, and getting dizzy and stupid. Sir,—In some of your papers you have made flippant, and I think I may say, indelicate allusions to a Mr. Browne. A gentleman bearing that name, though differently spelled, has called my attention to the fact, and has consulted me (an advocate and attorney at law) upon the propriety of instituting an action for damages. “Mr. Timon:—I am astonished at you, my dear sir; why do you speak so harshly of the town ladies, and present them in so unfavorable lights? I have been all along a most excellent friend to your paper, and have, time and again, defended you against most merciless assaults; but if you do not speedily amend, and speak better of us, I shall leave you to defend yourself. Dear Sir,—I do not know but a serious letter will be out of place amid the ironical talk, and only half-earnest tone of your paper; at any rate, I have determined to tell you what I think and feel—a thing I scarce ever do even to my husband. For I have been married, you must know, nearly three years; and for the last seven years we have been trying (my Mamma and I) to `get up' in New York society. And now (Papa got rich four years ago last May) we have done it.
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132Author:  Mitchell Donald Grant 1822-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town  
 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: Well, Fritz, it is even true, that notwithstanding my rusticity, I find myself approaching, little by little, to a state of town domestication; and at the earnest solicitation of my worthy bookseller, I am led to resume my weekly observations, and even to extend their influence, if influence they have, by association with a large publishing house, which will give to them a wide country circulation. It is quite possible, therefore, that this may fall under your eye at the house of your parson (if a liberal-minded person), or of your village attorney (if a man of progress), even before you shall have broken my private seal. Mr. Timon:—I have read all you have written, and like it very much. My mamma (for a wonder) likes it too: so does Aunt Sophy. But they have forbid my polking with strange gentlemen, at least those who are introduced to me at the balls. Is not this ridiculous?—one meets such nice young men at the balls, and nowhere else! I wish you would persuade mamma so; if you could, you would greatly oblige your true friend, Sir:—I can't say that I like altogether the tone of your remarks about Washingtonians. You seem to have looked only at such stray individuals as have lost character at home, (which it is possible to do,) and gone to your city to set up. As for the members, I shall not defend them, as they are at best but a shabby set of fellows, who bother us amazingly in the winter-time, and have no more gratitude for favors, personal or domestic, than so many office-holders. Here we are at length, and what a charming place!—such trees, and dinners, and then the bowling alley; (do you ever bowl?) if you do, get a pair of those pretty gaiters at what-d'ye-call-him's. Papa has taken two rooms for us in the east wing, and Marie sleeps in a little alcove just out of mine. The galleries stretch around inside the wing, and several gentlemen—married gentlemen, ma says—(but very handsome) pass very often. You don't know how pleasant it is to sit in the window, in that deshabille you said was so becoming. Ma begins to think so too, for Miss Figgins has got one just like it. My Dear Timon:—Though your paper has rarely reached me, yet I have seen enough of its spirit, to believe that some little account of my country life will serve your turn, and give you some hints, that you may possibly work over to good account. I had made in town, by dint of jobbing, what they call hereabouts a fortune; and not having gained much footing in genteel society,—partly because we didn't care about it, and partly because wife is principled against low necks, and the opera, I determined to set up in the country. A year ago I was married to a belle of the town, and am beginning now fairly to sorrow over my bargain: nor is this because she has lost her beauty; for to tell the truth, I think she is more of a belle now than ever; and is as complacent in her action toward all the beaux, as I ever knew a woman in my life. I can scarce come up a single day, from my business in the city, but I meet her walking with some spruce fellow of her acquaintance, with whom she appears to be enjoying herself as well as she ever did in my company. As you have taken upon yourself to be the censor of modes and proprieties, which office I must say, you have filled quite respectably so far, I want to draw your attention to the developments in a recent work by a distinguished lady, called (I speak of the book, and not the lady)—Truth Stranger than Fiction. Such barbarity as is disclosed in this book, and such extraordinary defence as is made of these barbarities, by the officers of a time-honored Institution, ought to meet with a strong rebuke from every humane person (as I think you are) and to make every woman of maidenly sentiments quiver with indignation and horror.
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133Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Charlotte  
 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: “ARE you for a walk,” said Montraville to his companion, as they arose from table; “are you for a walk? or shall we order the chaise and proceed to Portsmouth?” Belcour preferred the former; and they sauntered out to view the town, and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned from church. “As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wishes of a maternal heart, I have requested your governess to let you come home and spend it with us; and as I know you to be a good affectionate child, and make it your study to improve in those branches of education which you know will give most pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward for your diligence and attention I have prepared an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your grand-father, eager to embrace the darling of his aged heart, will come in the chaise for you: so hold yourself in readiness to attend him by nine o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender wish for your health and future felicity, which warms the heart of my dear Charlotte's affectionate mother, And am I indeed fallen so low,” said Charlotte, “as to be only pitied? Will the voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will wear a sinile of joy whenever I approach? Alas! how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have I been! I know not which is most painful to endure, the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion, which is depicted in the various countenances of my own sex: they are both equally humiliating. Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly loved, a poor solitary being, without society, here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved mother, no woman of character will appear in my company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she cannot associate with infamy.” “Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother, deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her remembrance? Alas! thou much injured mother! shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain, because I know I have deserved it: but yet, believe me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed the hopes of the fondest parents, that ever girl had, even in the moment when, forgetful of my duty, I fled from you and happiness, even then I loved you most, and my heart bled at the thought of what you would suffer. Oh! never, never! whilst I have existence, will the agony of that moment be erased from my memory. It seemed like the separation of soul and body. What can I plead in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing! That I loved my seducer is but too true! yet powerful as that passion is when operating in a young heart glowing with sensibility, it never would have conquered my affection to you, my beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay, urged to take the fatally imprudent step, by one of my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship, drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your Charlotte was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life of infamy; no, my dear mother, deceived by the specious appearance of my betrayer, and every suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promises of marriage, I thought not those promises would so easily be forgotten. I never once reflected that the man who could stoop to seduction, would not hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion, whenever his capricious heart grew weary of her tenderness. When we arrived at this place, I vainly expected him to fulfil his engagements, but was at last fatally convinced he had never intended to make me his wife, or if he had once thought of it, his mind was now altered. I scorned to claim from his humanity what I could not obtain from his love: I was conscious of having forfeited the only gem that could render me respectable in the eye of the world. I locked my sorrows in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in silence. But how shall I proceed? This man, this cruel Montraville, for whom I sacrificed honour, happiness, and the love of my friends, no longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the credulous girl whom his art has made miserable. Could you see me, my dear parents, without society, without friends, stung with remorse, and (I feel the burning blush of shame die my cheeks while I write it) tortured with the pangs of disappointed love; cut to the soul by the indifference of him, who, having deprived me of every other comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to sooth the heart where he has planted the thorn of never-ceasing regret. My daily employment is to think of you and weep, to pray for your happiness and deplore my own folly: my nights are scarce more happy, for if by chance I close my weary eyes, and hope some small forgetfulness of sorrow, some little time to pass in sweet oblivion, fancy, still waking, wafts me home to you: I see your beloved forms, I kneel and hear the blessed words of peace and pardon. Extatic joy pervades my soul; I reach my arms to catch your dear embraces; the motion chases the illusive dream; I wake to real misery. At other times I see my father angry and frowning, point to horrid caves, where, on the cold damp ground, in the agonies of death, I see my dear mother and my revered grand-father. I strive to raise you; you push me from you, and shrieking cry—“Charlotte, thou hast murdered me!” Horror and despair tear exery tortured nerve; I start, and leave my restless bed, weary and unrefreshed. “Though I have taken up my pen to address you, my poor injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to the task; yet, however painful the endeavour, I could not resolve upon leaving you for ever without one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before you saw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination paints the scene, when, torn by contending passions, when, struggling between love and duty, you sainted in my arms, and I lifted you into the chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when, recovering, you sound yourself on the road to Portsmouth: but how, my gentle girl, how could you, when so justly impressed with the value of virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought you loved me, yield to the solicitations of Belcour? “When we left our native land, that dear happy land which now contains all that is dear to the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the same; we both, pardon me, Madam, if I say, we both too easily followed the impulse of our treacherous hearts, and trusted our happiness on a tempestuous ocean, where mine has been wrecked and lost for ever; you have been more fortunate—you are united to a man of honour and humanity, united by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, and admired, and surrounded by innumerable blessings of which I am bereaved, enjoying those pleasures which have fled my bosom never to return; alas! sorrow and deep regret have taken their place. Behold me, Madam, a poor forsaken wanderer, who has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to supply the wants of nature, or to shield her from the inclemency of the weather. To you I sue, to you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received as an intimate or an equal; only for charity's sweet sake receive me into your hospitable mansion, allot me the meanest apartment in it, and let me breath out my soul in prayers for your happiness; I cannot, I feel I cannot long bear up under the accumulated woes that pour in upon me; but oh! my dear Madam, for the love of heaven suffer me not to expire in the street; and when I am at peace, as soon I shall be, extend your compassion to my helpless offspring, should it please heaven that it should survive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy breaks in on my benighted soul while I reflect that you cannot, will not refuse your protection to the heart-broken
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134Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Mentoria, or The young lady's friend  
 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: Marian listened attentively to the affecting recital of her mother's sorrow, but every syllable sunk deep into the heart of Lydia. I will daily think of your distresses, my dear mother, said she, and they will serve as a shield to my heart, and render it invulnerable to the attacks of vanity or the illusion of passion.
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135Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Trials of the human heart  
 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: Will you believe me, Celia, when I tell you, I wish I was at Bologne again; that I am dissatisfied and unhappy. You are surprised. It is nevertheless certainly true. We formed erroneous opinions of the world; we thought it a paradise compared to the solemnity and gloom of our convent. Trust me, my dear, I have as yet found nothing, in this gay, busy world, half so pleasing, as that sweet retirement. But I forget that this is my first letter, and that you naturally wish to know every incident which has happened since our separation. This innocent curiosity shall be gratified, and to begin: Looking over some papers which were lately in possession of my son, I found some letters which I think proper to return to you; and am very sorry if any thing has passed between you that may occasion you future uneasiness. I am obliged to you for the very generous sentiments expressed in those letters, towards my whole family, and beg leave to inform you, that your kind wishes, respecting my son's happiness, are amply fulfilled, as he was yesterday married to a very amiable woman, possessing a fortune of twenty thousand pounds.
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136Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Trials of the human heart  
 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: This is a charming romantic place, my dear Celia. There is room for solitude and deep reflection. Oak-hall is situated in a very retired part of the country, and has been the family mansion of the Rooksby's from time immemorial. The house is antique, and inspires one's mind with the true spirit of the days of chivalry. You cannot think, how often I amuse myself with surveying its antique battlements, the massy gates, and deep moat, that surround it; and while I gaze with a kind of reverential awe, I fancy, I am perhaps retracing the steps of many a gallant knight and beauteous dame who formerly have been inhabitants of this ancient dwelling. I am a great admirer of every thing, that wears the face of antiquity not that I would, were I possessed of ever so large a fortune, lay out my money in purchasing a heap of trumpery, that are really of no intrinsie value, only as the fancy of the virtuoso stamps them with the appellation of excellence, because they were made some hundred years before we were born. I cannot deny, that I like to examine any little piece of antiquity, which tends to shew us the progress of the arts or manufactures, and when I enjoy the benefit of any thing useful or convenient I feel a kind of veneration for the genius, who first invented it, let it be ever so mean or trifling. I continued in this situation but a few moments—when I heard a faint voice call “Meriel,” I turned my head and saw Kingly emerging from the sea and holding by part of the wreck—“Oh, Heavens!” said I, “are you alive then, and is there any chance of escaping?”—“Some little chance,” said he, coming near me and beginning to nutie the cord that was round me.
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137Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Reuben and Rachel  
 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 was about the middle of the fifteenth century that the lovely and amiable Isabelle found herself a widow, reduced from ease and affluence to a very confined income. Though her circumstances were altered; her mind elevated, her spirit noble and independent, was still the same. Isabelle was a native of Spain, of noble parentage, expanded heart, superior sense, and highly finished education. The beauty and elegance of her person, though striking, were but secondary objects of the esteem and admiration she was sure to excite wherever she was seen or known. I AM parted from you, my adored Beatina; but painful as the parting is, I feel it is for our suture advantage. I am convinced, my beloved wife, that there are worlds beyond the narrow bounds which our natural philosophers at present prescribe. I have studied much, my lovely friend, and am almost certain, that were I supplied with vessels, men, provisions, and every thing necessary, I should make discoveries that would occasion my name to be revered in after ages; and those who blamed my lovely Beatina for giving herself to her Columbus, shall say, “You did right, Beatina; Columbus has an enterprising spirit that will carve out a fortune, even from a barren waste. For is not the ocean a barren waste? and yet even from that do I mean to carve out for my soul's idol an empire, where she shall reign queen over all, as she does over my heart. I HAVE been disappointed, my sweet friend, but be not you disheartened. Thanks be to Heaven, I left you and my darling boy in a safe retreat, where, though not enjoying all the advantages your rank in life might demand, you have at least all the comforts necessary to the real pleasures of life. CONGRATULATE me, my lovely friend; I am at length successful! How have I counted the tedious months that kept me from my soul's idol; and how often have I feared that my perseverance would be of no avail, and that I had sacrificed ages of real happiness (for hours are ages to the heart that loves as mine does) to the visionary hopes of future greatness. But I am successful. I shall explore those distant seas, with which my studies have so well acquainted me, and in some unknown world seek out a kingdom of which my Beatina shall be queen. Yes, you shall be queen; for whatsoever world I find, be it the fairest, greatest, or the best the sun ever shone on, no man should ever claim a right to govern it. For it is to a woman I owe the means of making the great attempt. I am so overjoyed I cannot proceed methodically; yet I know you languish to learn every particular that concerns your Columbus. THOU besom friend of the bravest man that ever lived, thy queen now claims thee as her friend and sister. Isabelle is in affliction, and calls on Beatina to comfort her. Yet how can I ask comfort from you, when I have none to offer in return? I cannot see you, lest you curse the hand that supplied the means for this ill-starred voyage. Our Columbus, the man whose name shall be revered while time endures, is no more! He sleeps in the vast ocean; but his memory shall live forever. THE most humble and grateful of your fervants addresses you at a moment, when he much fears he shall never again behold you. I am, with my little convoy, in a boisterous and almost unknown sea, at a season of the year when storms prevail, and the inclemency of the weather renders our safety extremely precarious. The clouds hang low; the atmosphere is thick; the hollow murmuring sea, and bleak wind that whistles through the rigging, portends an approaching storm. THY father is returned, my dear son, returned to his native land. But how? Not as an enterprising spirit whose plans had proved successful, should return; but as a traitor to his king, loaded with ignominious chains. Oh! my brave boy, I see thy noble spirit fire at the intelligence. But beware; conceal the workings of thy honest soul. To prosper in this ungrateful world, you must wear the mask of hypocrisy; wear the semblance of humility, honesty, patriotism, till you have obtained some favourite point, then throw them aside as useless, and glory in the success of your stratagems. HAD I a conveyance, swift as my own impatience, to forward to my revered mother the joyful tidings of my father's triumph over his enemies, the wings of the wind would be too tardy to bear this to your hands. Yes, my dear mother, Columbus, the great, the enterprizing Columbus, is restored to all his former dignity, and even fresh honours are heaped upon him. But I know you wish me to be particular; and how can I be more pleasingly employed than in recounting the noble conduct of a father, and obeying the commands of the best of mothers? AS the perusal of the inclosed letters and papers will no doubt awaken in the bosom of my dear Isabelle, a curiosity to learn the events that followed this triumph of Columbus over his enemies; and as I think it necessary to inform her, not only of her descent from the native kings of Peru, but also of the sate of her parents, who now, alas! are no more, I have taken up my pen to trace every circumstance that may tend to prove your right to the sovereignty of Quito, and the surrounding territories, if hereafter you should think it worth contending for. But as I leave you, my dear child, in the protection of my own family; and am fully sensible that my nephew, the marquis Guidova, will take such care of your fortune, (now ample) that by the time you are of age to peruse these papers, you will be one of the richest heiresses in Spain; I fondly hope you will not suffer the vain ambition of bearing the empty title of queen to influence your conduct, or tempt you to throw away the real blessings of life in pursuit of shadows and toys. a “IT is with satisfaction of the purest kind, that I take up my pen to inform my dear aunt Rachel and my beloved children, that the business which brought me to this place is at length finished, and the completion of it is equal to my most sanguine expectations. WHEN the altar is decorated, the priests at hand, and the knife is raised, that will terminate existence, who can blame the poor victim devoted to sacrifice, if it break the chain by which it is held, asserts the privilege of nature, and, bounding over the plain, secures at once both life and liberty? Brother, beloved brother, they have prepared the altar, but the destined victim will escape their snares. WILL my dear friend pardon me that I intrude myself upon her, and by explaining my sorrows, make her a party in my concerns? I have suffered much persecution, dear Rachel, since we parted; and to avoid rushing at once into guilt and misery, I have taken a step for which the world will censure me. But what is the world to me? Had I voluntarily assumed the splendid shackles prepared for me, had I become a titled wretch, and promised faith and truth to one man, whilst every wish, every tender thought of my heart was devoted to another, would the approving smiles of that misjudging world, the adulation it is ever ready to pay to splendor and nobility, have compensated for the sacrifice I should have made of internal peace, of conscious integrity? No.—Admired, courted, envied, I should still have been miserable. The baseness of my conduct would be my daily reproach; I should have sought to banish reflection by dissipation, and who can tell where the career of guilt and folly might have stopped? THERE is such an appearance of candour and sincerity throughout your whole letter, that I cannot but believe you innocent; prove yourself so, and on the receipt of this come immediately to London, and prepare to follow my fortunes to foreign climes. Our marriage is no longer a secret; my aunt has discarded me. I have sold my commission, and in the despair I felt at your perfidy, have taken passage on board a vessel bound for Philadelphia. If you love me as you say, and as I would fain think you do, you will not hesitate to leave England forever, since it is for my peace of mind that I should do so. I cannot submit to live in it below the rank I have been accustomed to fill. If your affection leads you to be the companion of my voyage, the sharer and soother of all my cares, I shall regret neither fortune nor country. If not, if some stronger attachment binds you to this spot, Oh Rachel! I cannot bear the thought; but should it be so, why the farther we are divided the better.
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138Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Sarah  
 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: YES! Anne, the die is cast—I am a wife. But a less cheerful bride, one who looks forward with less hope, perhaps never existed. You were surprised, you say, to hear to whom I had relinquished my hand and heart—leave out the latter, Anne, it had nothing to do with the transaction. Why were you not here, you say, to have prevented a union which you are morally certain will not conduce to my happiness? You cannot be more certain of it, than I am; but what could I do? Frederic gone to India; hemmed round with persuasive meddlers, who, I am more than half convinced, urged me to this measure, fearful I should be burthensome to them; and I was also told it was necessary for the preservation of my reputation that I should accept Darnley. I had no natural protector; my father so far distant he was the same as dead to me; Frederic gone; my health not sufficiently established to enable me to undertake the journey I meditated before you left England; my finances reduced to a very small portion, and though most earnestly entreated to forbear, Darnley continuing his visits. I found I must accede to his proposals, or be thrown on the world, censured by my relations, robbed of my good name, and being poor, open to the pursuits and insults of the profligate. One thing which encouraged me to hope I might be tolerably happy in the union was—though my heart felt no strong emotions in his favor, it was totally free from all partiality towards any other. He always appeared good humored and obliging; and though his mind was not highly cultivated, I thought time might improve him in that particular. However, I was candid with him; told him the situation of my heart, and asked if he could be content with receiving attentions which would be only the result of principle. He seemed to think this only maidenish affectation, and perfectly convinced within himself that I loved him already. “Madam, a personal interview is not sought from any expected pleasure it may afford, but because I think it necessary to speak a few words to you. I must insist on seeing you; if you cannot come down, I will come to you. “It is certainly painful to me, Mr. Darnley, to find you voluntarily avoid my society. Perhaps I can divine the cause, and by removing it the effect may happily cease. You think my sex and situation will lead me, when we meet, to recapitulate some late events, and make disagreeable remarks thereon. Such a recapitulation is by no means necessary. Let us meet as though no such events had ever taken place: let the whole pass into eternal oblivion: trust 4* me, it shall not be my fault if it does not. I hope you will dine at home to day; Anne is engaged, and if you should dine out also, I shall dine alone. “You are very much mistaken, Mrs. Darnley, if you suppose I dread your reproaches: I know, with all your boasted forbearance, you dare not utter any, or it is not your regard to me would prevent you; but pray understand, madam, if I am not master of my own house, I am of my actions and person, and shall go out when and where I please, without consulting your pleasure; mind your own business, and don't trouble yourself about me; you have got a comfortable home, and may go out or come in, as you please. But you cannot suppose, after the very polite method which you took to turn Jessey out of doors, that I can see you with any degree of temper; and since you have withdrawn from her your protection, I feel doubly bound to afford her mine. She is a woman whom I esteem; she loves me with her whole soul; she has given incontestable proofs, that her affection for me supersedes all other considerations; and had she sooner been freed from her matrimonial shackles, you would never have been the wife of “That I am your wife, Mr. Darnley, is more my misfortune, than my fault. But you are under a mistake, in supposing Jessey loves you. No woman can be under the influence of that sacred passion, (whose power I can conceive, though as yet I have never felt its influence) who degrades herself below even the pity of a man of principle, and for self gratification plunges the object of her pretended adoration into infamy, by inciting him to repeated breaches of every sacred and moral obligation. You say I have a comfortable home; can that home be so, from whence domestic peace is banished? You are your own master—It is well you are so. Would to God I was as free. I AM exceedingly concerned, my dear Mrs. Darnley, at the little brulee which has taken place between my mother and yourself, especially as she tells me you talk of leaving her; this I lament, because I think Caroline very much improved since you have had the entire management of her; not but that it has been a matter of surprise to me, that a woman so young, lovely, and accomplished as yourself, should voluntarily submit to the humiliation of being subject to the humor and caprices of any one, and live in a state of dependence, when they might command affluence on the very easy terms of sharing it with an agreeable man, who would think himself honored by her acceptance of his protection: and this I know to be your case. The marquis of H—, who is an intimate friend of lord Linden's, and whom you have seen at my house and at my mother's, has often expressed his fervent admiration of your person, manners and accomplishments. He was present when my mother told us of your quarrel; I do assure you he took your part very highly, called you a persecuted angel; raved at my mother, and was setting off post haste, to offer you consolation, in the form of a young handsome lover and a settlement; but I stopped him, told him he must conduct himself with prudence and delicacy, if he wished to succeed with you—so while he is writing his amorous epistle, I have scrawled these hasty lines, to intreat you to give his proposal a fair perusal, and take it into serious consideration. Only reflect, my dear, on the unprotected state, in which you now are, in a strange place, without friends or money. You will perhaps say, you have reputation; but, child, will reputation pay your lodging, or buy you a new gown when you want one? No, believe me, poor reputation is many a time left naked in the street, while those who have disclaimed and turned her out of doors, are sumptuously clothed, inhabit palaces, and ride in splendid equipages. But I will say no more; your own good sense will direct you; and surely I think you cannot be so wilfully blind to your own interest, as to refuse the offers of the marquis. Do, child, be wise for once, and take the advice of a friend, though I am arguing against myself to persuade you to do so. But if you are romantic enough to prefer dependence; why, if you must leave ma, come and live with me, and I will take Caroline home; at any rate, pray do not, in a flight of elevation, run from those evils which you know, to those of which at present you can have no conception. THOUGH I have but a few times enjoyed the pleasure of being in your company, those few have been enough to awaken in my mind sentiments of the highest esteem for your talents and virtues. I have understood from my friend, lord Linden, that you have connected yourself in marriage, with a man who knows not how justly to appreciate your worth; and who has permitted you to come unprovided and unprotected into this country, that by the exertion of your abilities, you may obtain means of subsistence; this, madam, being the case, prevents my having the honor of laying myself and fortune at your feet. But as from the treatment you have experienced from your husband, every tie must be broken between you, every obligation dissolved—permit me to offer you protection and independence; allow me to hope to be admitted among the chosen few, whom you may honor with esteem. I have a neat house, ready for your reception, a few miles from Dublin, whether you can retire, until one can be prepared in the city, should you prefer residing there; a carriage and servants shall attend your order, free of expense, and a settlement of five hundred pounds a year during your life, awaits your acceptance; only allow me the privilege of passing some hours of every day in your society, and by studying your charmingly intelligent countenance, discover and prevent your wishes, before you have time to give them utterance. I have desired the person who brings you this, not to wait for an answer. I will not hurry your gentle and delicate nature; take your own time to consider my proposals; only to give me one comforting gleam of hope, allow me to see you for five minutes this evening, at Mrs. Bellamy's; I will call about nine o'clock; I will not say one word on the subject of this letter; my visit shall be confined to the period mentioned; if it is your wish, only receive me without a frown, and I will live in the hope, that my future visits (when you are settled in your own house) will be welcomed with a smile. I am, madam, with the utmost respect, your sincere adorer, IN pursuance of your advice, I sought out Mrs. Bellamy, and waited on her to inquire after Mrs. Darnley, who I perceived, by your letter, was a person in whose fate either yourself, or some of your friends, were particularly interested. When I discovered who this Mrs. Bellamy was, I will confess I was surprised how you could be any way engaged in an inquiry after a woman who had resided in her family; as she is the mother of the celebrated Mrs. O'Donnell, who has alienated the affection of the (otherwise) worthy lord Linden, from his amiable lady and her lovely children; and this Mrs. Bellamy was always supposed to be the vile agent who instigated the daughter to attempt to ensnare, and whose counsel afterwards assisted her to bind fast, the fetters which hold his lordship in his unworthy bondage. However, I presumed you had some very good reason for desiring me to be particular in my inquiry, and I set in earnest about it. The old gentlewoman received me with politeness, regretted that it was not in her power to give me the desired information where Mrs. Darnley was to be found; said she had been much deceived in her; that she had brought her from England with her, to superintend the education of her grand-daughter; but that very soon after their arrival in Dublin, she, Mrs. Darnley, made acquaintance with some low people in the neighborhood; and one day when she was out, she had taken her trunk and gone off, without leaving any message whatever; and that she imagined she was gone with a kind of sailor-looking man, who used frequently to come after her. While she was speaking, a servant came in to bring a note; of whom she inquired whether any of the people below had heard or seen any thing of Darnley, since she went away? The young woman replied, that Mrs. O'Donnell's John had said, he saw her a few days since go into a house in an alley at the lower end of the town. `It is no great matter where she is,' replied Mrs. Bellamy, `for what is she good for? She imposed on me, when she applied for employment, by telling an artful tale of her husband's misfortunes; said necessity had obliged her to separate herself from him; but I rather think, from what I have since heard, that he had good reasons for separating from her.' After this intelligence, my good sir, you may be sure I felt no very great curiosity to hear any more about your fair adventurer; but as you had expressed so ardent a desire for information, I took down the name of the alley where the woman said she had been seen, and went immediately there; inquired at every house where I thought it was likely I might find her, describing her person according to the description given in your letter; I had almost given up all hope, when going into a house that stood a little more back than the rest, I found she was known to the mistress of it, and had lived there several weeks. THE trouble I am about to give your lordship may, perhaps, be deemed an impertinent intrusion; and an apologizing introduction, might by some, be thought indispensible; but I trust your lordship will admit the cause, when I have explained it, of itself a sufficient excuse for the liberty I take, without my offering any other. I WAS honored with your favor of July 17, and feel myself impelled to admire a friendship so ardent and sincere, as that which you profess to feel for the charming Mrs. Darnley. You were right in your conjecture, that I should make instant inquiry after the lovely fugitive, who had taken such alarm at my letter, and fled from what she termed my persecution. In that letter, I told her I would see her in the evening; and at the hour I had appointed, I repaired to Mrs. Bellamy's house. Judge of my surprize at hearing she was gone, and had taken her trunks with her, leaving no message I inquired how she was conveyed from the house; and learning that she went in a hackney coach, on my return home, I employed one of my servants to inquire at the stands around, for the man who had taken up a fare at such an hour, in such a street—by this man I discovered where he had taken her, and went in the evening of the following day, to the lane where he directed me; intending, if I could not prevail on your fair friend to favor my suit, to insist upon being her banker, and serve her even against her will. “THOUGH Lady Bourke has not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with Mrs. Darnley, she knows and respects her character; she begs Mrs. D. to consider the furniture, &c. which she will find at Woodland Cottage, as her own; and use it as such, as long as the situation Mr. Darnley holds, may render a residence there agreeable. Lady B. hopes Mrs. D. will find every accommodation, and enjoy much happiness in her new habitation.”
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139Author:  Rowson Mrs. 1762-1824Requires cookie*
 Title:  Charlotte's daughter  
 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: “What are you doing there Lucy?” said Mrs. Cavendish to a lovely girl, about fifteen years old. She was kneeling at the feet of an old man sitting just within the door of a small thatched cottage situated about five miles from Southampton on the coast of Hampshire. “What are you doing there child?” said she, in rather a sharp tone, repeating her question. I am sensible you will blame the step I am about to take, but I cannot be happy unless as the wife of Sir Stephen Haynes. Before you will receive this, I shall be considerably advanced on the road to Scotland, not that, being my own mistress, any one has a right to control me, but I dreaded expostulation, shuddered at the idea of published banns, or a formal wedding by license, with settlements, lawyers, and parchments. These things have, I believe, little to do with love.—” You cannot be surprised, Theresa, after the explanation which took place between Lady Mary and myself yesterday, that I should declare my utter inability to make those settlements which I talked of before our excursion to the north. I must beg you to make my acknowledgments to the dear generous girl for all marks of favour and kindness bestowed by her on her unworthy, humble servant, but my finances are in such a state, that it is totally impossible for me to take a journey to Wilts, as proposed, or to solicit her company to France, whither I must repair as speedily as possible, to rusticate; whilst my affairs in England are put in train to restore me to some comparative degree of affluence. My friend, Richard Craftly, Esq. has offered the cottage to you and your lovely friend as long as you may please to occupy it. He is, Miss Brenton, a man of good abilities, amiable disposition, and possessed of a small but genteel and unincumbered estate, which upon the death of his mother will be augmented. He will call on you this afternoon, I recommend him to your notice. My best wishes attend you and your fair associate Lady Mary. “From the hour when I closed the eyes of your beloved, ill fated mother, you, my dear Lucy, have been the delight and solace of your grandmother and myself. And your amiable disposition has led us to hope, that you may in future be the happy inheritress of the estate and property on which we have lived above thirty-five years: happy, my child, in bestowing 11* comfort on others, and doubly happy in the enjoyment of reflected joy from grateful hearts. “I have sat down, my dear sir, to fulfil a most unpleasant task in communicating to you by the desire of our lovely and esteemed friend, Miss Blakeney, a copy of her grandfather's letter, which I inclose, thinking it best to keep the original in my possession.
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140Author:  Royall Anne Newport 1769-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Tennessean  
 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: MY ancestors came from England. They were part of the persecuted dissenters, who sought an asylum in the wilds of America—of those enterprising few, who landed at Plymouth, in sixteen hundred and twenty. Dear Friend—You complain, in your last, of the violent proceedings of your town on the old subject; but it is trifling, compared to the zeal of our minister.— Though my health is little improved, since I wrote you last, yet I went to hear Mr. Williams, last Sabbath. I was shocked at the discourse; but, dear Thomas, it would cost me my life, if this were known. He raged, he stamped, he foamed at the mouth, and all this for a mere phantom—a shadow. Strange, that our teachers should set such examples of wrath. I am sure, Christ enjoins it upon us, to be meek and lowly. But I will try to give you a plain account of some of the sermon. He said that “the cross of St. George, in the English colours, was a downright popish relict; that it was Idolatry, and popish whoredom, to retain this ensign of hellish superstition.” But his language would be too tiresome to you, and withal, not edifying. So much did his discourse affect the congregation, that they held a meeting, that same evening, and passed a decree, that it should be publicly cut out of the colours, and should never be seen amongst God's people.” I am very doubtful that this is not the right way—moreover, our minister and another one, by the name of Roberts, had some very uncivil talk that same evening. This cannot be the right way—we have lost it, somehow. We are, in truth, without teachers; for I would put no more faith in this madman, Williams, than I would in Satan. It puts me in mind of a saying of Luther's friend, Mclancthon, of Wittemberg. He said “that he longed to be dissolved, and that for two reasons—first, that he might enjoy the much desired presence of Christ, and the heavenly church—secondly, that he might be freed from the cruel and implacable discords of divines.”— But I shall not, I trust, be long in this turbulent world. I am heart-sick of it. What a monster is man! Better had we remained in England:—I could laugh, there; here I dare not smile. Adieu, dear friend, &c. &c. Dear Charles—So soon as thee receives this letter, thee will proceed home without delay.—I am ruined!— All my effects were seized yesterday, to satisfy Clark & Co. of Liverpool, vs. Burlington & Co. I do not understand this; I am bewildered; something is wrong in this business. I did not know that I owed that house aught, except part of the last importation; but I know nothing, nor can I do any thing. Haste thee home with all speed. I am very much indisposed—thy mother is distracted; we need thy presence and assistance. The family send their greeting to thy young friend. Very Dear Friend—Your situation is one that admits of little relief—nothing but time can heal the wounds of the heart. But permit me to mingle my tears with yours—permit me to say that I feel for your sufferings, and that on a double account; but this is too tender a subject, and yet I cannot forbear. Dear Charles, forgive me, for in your breast alone I would repose the secret of my heart; but I dare not name it—cannot you guess, oh, dearest Charles? Write to me, quickly, and let me know. But I am raving—I sat down to console you, whilst I need consolation myself. I shall see you, at the end of the term, at all hazards—in the mean time, 2* let me know whether I may dare to hope—you understand me. Say to your sister, that her sorrows are mine. You say she weeps incessantly.—Oh, God! tell her it wounds me to the heart—never again write to me thus. Dear Charles, you have pierced my soul. Say something to relieve me.—Accept the trifle I send you, until you can make it convenient to return it. Do not let this mark of my eternal regard for you, wound your delicacy—you know my heart—you know if I were in your situation, and you in mine, that I would be proud to give you this proof of our friendship. Know, from henceforth, that what is mine is yours. Your very distressed friend, Sir—Agreeable to your request I waited on Mr. Hunter and demanded a settlement: he said he was ready, and forthwith we proceeded to the place where his books were kept. Upon examining the accounts between him and your father I am sorry to inform you that he brings your father in debt. Upon presenting the account you sent me, he denied the whole; and made use of language that is useless to repeat to you. I do think myself that your account is just; but you can get nothing of Hunter. The property you spoke of was sold a few days since for the benefit of “Clark & Co.:” therefore Hunter is insolvent. It is thought, pretty generally, that the goods were purchased by his friends and with his own money. You ask of Hunters reputation—he has hitherto been esteemed an honest man and a fair dealer; but since your affair, he has fallen very much in the esteem of the public. It is hinted here that he laid this plan of treachery when last in Liverpool; the agent for that house says he failed for the sum for which the seizure was made. I am very sorry for your situation, and have no comfort for you but the very poor ones of patience and resignation. Should you have any farther commands in this city I will attend to them with pleasure.—Yours, respectfully, &c. “Dear Henry.—You will receive this by Captain T., who has undertaken to visit you and learn your true situation. Your captivity has afflicted us with the deepest sorrow; your mother is unconsolable and refuses to be comforted. Our Government is negociating your ransom, which is attended with much difficulty; but I expect it will soon be brought about: if them Spanish dogs don't cut your throat or something worse, you will receive one thousand dollars. If that will set you at liberty I shall think it well laid out. I am in too much trouble to say more. “You will recollect, said she, that my father promised to see the Vice Roy and ask his permission for your friend to deliver the letter; he promised you he would go that evening and accordingly he went, but was unable to get an audiance that evening. After his return he came into my parlour, as he always does when he concludes the business of the day. Whilst he was talking in a careless manner, and growing sleepy he yawned and observed, “Your friend is still here, he has been with me often. He is disguised in the habit of an Indian, and has two fleet horses ready, and now the nights being dark, you may expect him. Heaven grant you may get safe to your country, where you will sometimes deign to think of I received your kind letter of November last, in which you congratulated me on my happy asylum—alas, my dear brother! this proves how little you know of the world—much better, had it pleased Divine Providence, that I had followed my parents to the grave! Much better for me, had I been destitute of those advantages, to which alone, perhaps, I owe my present distress. But I will try and compose myself, if it be possible, for the purpose of acquainting you with the principal incidents which have happened to me of late. What has become of you? Have you forgot your Mary? Are you alive? Oh, for heaven's sake send me but one line, but one word—I ask no more. But it is in vain—you cannot be living—what has become of Wilson? has he too forgot me? Alas then, I have no friend! ye cannot both be dead!—but I will cease to complain— Oh that God would take me to himself! There was but two—but no matter—and yet I cannot think that if living, you would forget me. My last letter you never answered—I heeded that not, as I expected to see yourself. I looked not for a letter, but I looked in vain for either. This is the last I shall trouble you with; I shall ask no more for help, where no help is to be found. I received your favour this day: I am truly glad to hear that you have returned, and that Mary is at length happy. I have never heard of Dupon since Mrs. Cary left here—old Mr. Simpson is dead. His oldest daughter, Clarissa, ran away with Hunter, it is supposed, as she was missing the night he escaped from prison, and has never been heard of since. I hasten to reply to both yours of this instant. Hunter owns the property mentioned in your letter. You refer to me for information respecting its value: this I would wish to decline.—In the first place I am not a judge; and in the second place the price of property is so fluctuating that it is not easy to say. It might sell to day six per cent higher than it would to-morrow. “Dear Sir.—Agreeably to my promise, I communicate the following particulars relative to Miss Simpson.
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