| | 22 | Author: | Brown
William Hill
1765-1793 | Add | | | Title: | The Power of Sympathy, Or, the Triumph of Nature  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | You may now felicitate me—
I have had an interview with the charmer I
informed you of. Alas! where were the
thoughtfulness and circumspection of my
friend Worthy? I did not possess them, and
am graceless enough to acknowledge it.
He would have considered the consequences,
before he had resolved upon the project.
But you call me, with some degree of
truth, a strange medley of contradiction—
the moralist and the amoroso—the sentiment
and the sensibility—are interwoven in
my constitution, so that nature and grace
are at continual fisticuffs.—To the
point:— | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 23 | Author: | Child
Lydia Maria Francis
1802-1880 | Add | | | Title: | Fact and Fiction | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In very ancient times there dwelt, among the Phrygian
hills, an old shepherd and shepherdess, named
Mygdomus and Arisba. From youth they had tended
flocks and herds on the Idean mountains. Their only
child, a blooming boy of six years, had been killed by
falling from a precipice. Arisba's heart overflowed
with maternal instinct, which she yearned inexpressibly
to lavish on some object; but though they laid
many offerings on the altars of the gods, with fervent
supplications, there came to them no other child. —Black and hevy is my hart for
the news I have to tell you. James is in prison, concarnin
a bit of paper, that he passed for money.
Sorra a one of the nabors but will be lettin down the
tears, when they hear o' the same. I don't know the
rights of the case; but I will never believe he was a
boy to disgrace an honest family. Perhaps some
other man's sin is upon him. It may be some comfort
to you to know that his time will be out in a year
and a half, any how. I have not seen James sense I
come to Ameriky; but I heern tell of what I have
writ. The blessed Mother of Heaven keep your harts
from sinkin down with this hevy sorrow. Your
frind and nabor, | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 25 | Author: | Paulding
James Kirke
1778-1860 | Add | | | Title: | A Sketch of Old England | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | I am now comfortably and quietly settled in lodgings,
with an elderly lady, who has good blood in her veins; that is
to say, if blood be an hereditary commodity, which some
people doubt, but which I do not, for there are diseases bodily
and mental in most of the old families here that have descended
through half-a-score of wealthy generations. She claims descent
from Tudors and Plantagenets to boot, and combines the conflicting
claims of both York and Lancaster. Though too well
bred to boast, she sometimes used to mention these matters,
until one day I advised her, in jest, to procure a champion to
tilt against young parson Dymoke for the broom at the ensuing
coronation. The good old soul took the joke ill, and I was
sorry for it. What right had I to ridicule that which, to her,
was an innocent source of happiness? I despise the cant of
sentiment, but I promise never to do so again. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 26 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Just out of the little village of Essex, in New
England, and just at the entrance of a rustic bridge,
there is a favourite resting-place for loiterers of all
ages. One of a line of logs that have been laid
down to enable passengers at high water to reach
the bridge dry-shod, affords an inviting seat under
the drooping limbs of some tall sycamores. There
the old sit down to rest their weary limbs, and
read with pensive eye the fond histories that memory
has written over the haunts of their secluded
lives. There, too, the young pause in their sports,
and hardly know why their eyes follow with such
delight the silvery little stream that steals away
from them, kissing the jutting points of the green
meadows, and winding and doubling its course as
if, like a pleased child, it would, by any pretext,
lengthen its stay;—nor, certainly, why no island
that water bounds will ever look so beautiful to
them as that little speck of one above the bridge,
with its burden of willows, elders, and clematis; of
a summer evening, their every leaf lit with the
firefly's lamp;—nor why their eye glances from
the white houses of the village street, glimmering
through the trees, and far away over the orchards
and waving grain of the uplands, and past the wavy
line of hills that bound the horizon on one side,
to fix on the bald gray peaks of that mountain wall
whose Indian story the poet has consecrated.
Time will solve to them this why. “Honoured Sir—As father and I have concluded
to leave to-morrow, will be much obliged if
you will send in your bill this afternoon, if convenient.
As, from all that's passed, sir, you may conclude
that I ain't in circumstances to pay down, I
would make bold to say that you need not scruple,
as I have a large sum of money by me, given to
me by my best friend, father and Susan excepted.
Father sends his respectful duty to you, sir, and I
mine, with many thanks; but neither money nor
thanks can pay your kindness; and daily, respected
sir, shall I ease my heart by remembering you in
my prayers at the throne of grace, where we must
all appear alike poor and needy, but where may
you ever come with a sure foundation of hope,
through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. “My good friend Charlotte—I shall preface
my answer to your note with letting you a little
into my professional affairs. I do not make it a rule
to attend the poor gratuitously, for many reasons;
but principally because I have observed that what
is got for nothing is seldom valued. I only take
care to charge them according to their ability to
pay. You, my child, are an exception to most of
my patients—you have given me a lesson of meek
and cheerful submission that is inestimable—I am
your debtor, not you mine. Besides, strictly, I
have no doctor's account against you. I have prescribed
no medicine, and given you no advice that
any man of sense and experience might not have
given; therefore, my good girl, I have no claim on
that `large sum of money,' which, God bless your
`best friend' for having given you. But forget
not, my friend, your promise to remember me in
your prayers; I have much faith in the `prayers
of saints.' My parting regards to your good father,
and please deliver the accompanying parcels
as directed. They are from my son and daughter,
who hastily join me in esteem for you and yours.
God bless you, my dear child. “My dear Susan—It is a long time since I
have written to you; but I have been in much perplexity
and anxiety, and have been waiting to see
daylight. We have failed, Finley and I, as might
have been expected; neither of us having any experience
in the business we undertook. As soon
as I found we could not meet our notes, I made a
thorough examination into our affairs, and found we
could just pay our debts and no more. So to-morrow
we close the concern. I have many times regretted
I did not take Charlotte's advice, and not enter
into a business for which I was not qualified. I
would now gladly return to my trade, but confinement
to business, and anxiety, have had an unfavourable
effect on my health, and I am more
than ever troubled with that old pain in my breast.
I sometimes think, Susan, a sight of your sunny
face would cure me; that and all good things I
trust will come; in the meantime, patience. In
prosperity and adversity, my heart ever turns towards
my dear Essex friends, who must believe me
their friend and brother, “Dear Susan—My prospects, since the breakup
last spring, are much improved; but particulars
in my next. All I want to know is, whether you
will share my lot with me? Pray write by return
of post, and believe me now, as you well know I
have ever been, though I never put it into words
before, your friend and true lover, “P. S.—Dear Harry—I wrote this letter last
evening, and shall send it; for why should I, if I
could, conceal my real feelings from you? Since
we were playfellows at school, I have loved you
best, and you only, Harry; for the time to come, I
must love you only as a brother. Oh, how strange
it is, that the black and the white threads are always
twisted together in human life. Last evening
I was so happy writing this letter; but, when I
went into the bedroom, Lottie's face was covered
with tears; and she spoke of our separation, and
all flashed upon me at once. What could she and
father do without me? They do now their full
part towards keeping the family together, but they
can neither of them bring in any thing, and they
would be obliged to look to the town for support.
Is not that awful to think of? So you see, dear
Harry, I cannot leave them—our path is plain, and,
as dear Lottie would say, may we have grace to
walk therein. It is very dark now, Harry; but, if
we only try to do right, the day will soon break,
and grow brighter and brighter. Please don't say
one word to persuade me off my resolution, for we
are weak creatures at best, and we should stand
together, and strengthen and uphold one another.
Above all, don't say a word about my reasons to
father and Lottie; and believe me, dear Harry, not
a bit less your affectionate friend because I can't
forsake them. “Dearest Susan—Forsake `father and Lottie!'
that you never shall. When I wrote my last,
it was only to get that blessed little word yes from
you, for I must make sure of my title before I laid
out the future. One thing only I am a little hurt
at. Could you think I could leave out Charlotte in
my plans?—a dear sister, counsellor, and friend
she has ever been to me—and your good father,
who so much needs some one to care for him? Ah,
Susan, I have had my reflections too; and I think
our path is plain before us, and, with good resolution
on our part, and Charlotte's prayers to help us,
we shall have grace to walk therein. But I must
tell you all, and then look for your final answer. “My Dear Father: — On the bed of death,
and with my little girl, who will soon be an orphan,
beside me, I write this. My hand is stiff,
and a racking cough interrupts me. I can write
but a few lines at a time. Till last week I hoped
to get well, consumption is so flattering. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 27 | Author: | Sedgwick
Catharine Maria
1789-1867 | Add | | | Title: | Tales of City Life | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It is about the middle of November—
a bright, soft day, when the genial spirit
of the year looks back with one of his
farewell smiles. His warm breath has
spread a silver haze over the rugged hill
sides. The mountain tops are shining
—the dried leaves bitten off by the frost,
turn round and round, and drop without
a sound. A rather narrow, brisk stream
runs rapidly, descending as it goes, till
it reaches the rear of a one story house,
where, being set back by a dam below,
it seems like a plate of burnished steel
from which a soft vapor is rising. Around
its edges is a thin coating of ice, indicating
the cold of the preceding night. The
house stands on the declivity of a hill
that slopes gradually from the road, (a
hundred yards from it,) with one end to
the river, the other to the road, and fronting
south. Behind it is a little garden
patch, which, in its winter adversity,
shows signs of being cared for and loved;
some plants being carefully tied up, and
a few covered with old boxes and barrels.
There are some other signs of refinement,
not too common about the humble dwellings
of our country parts; vines trained
about the low door, and rose bushes so
nicely fitted around the old windows, that
they seem to have come to stay there of
their own accord. Neatness, that good
angel of an humble home, keeping all
right with her ever-rustling wings, hover
round this pretty dwelling. A small
woodpile is laid up as if by mathematical
rule. No litter of any kind is any where
to be seen, and one wonders what the
splendid cock, with his pedestrian harem,
can find to make them pick so busily
around the sunny doorway. “Dear mother, and father,—Don't feel
too bad. I shall be on my way to New
York when you get this. Miss Emma
Gardner has lent me ten dollars, and
what clothes I shall want. Father can't
go; and you can't leave father, mother;
and I—I can't stay. Father, you will
keep up mother's spirits, won't you? I
know it will all come right. “Dear father, and mother, and Ruth,—
I have got into some trouble. I ask of
you all not to feel anxious or distressed.
I expect (expect was erased, and hope substituted,)
“to get out well, but if I don't,
I shall still keep `right side up,' as father
would say. Now be calm, mother, dear.
Just before we locked up last night, I
observed a stranger come into the shop;
the doors were closed, and all the clerks
called into the middle of the shop, away
from the counters. Otis Jackson was
standing close to me at the time we were
spoken to. I heard him mutter, `d—n
it,' but I had not the least thought of
what was coming. Mr. Brown stood one
side of the stranger, Mr. Wilson the other.
Mr. Brown spoke: `We have been missing,'
says he, `fine goods for the last
month; a shawl was taken last week;
two yards of costly lace, and one of the
five dollar pocket handkerchiefs are gone
to-day. We have a police man here, and
you must all be searched. One of you
must be guilty. I am sorry for the innocent,
but no disgrace will rest upon
them — do your duty, Rushton.' The
policeman began the search. Some of
our young men laughed and joked; I
could not, I was afraid it would prove to
be Otis. He was the fourth searched,
nothing was found on him. My turn
came next; the things were found in my
coat pocket, atop of my handkerchief
and every thing, just as if they had been
put there. How the truth is to be found
out, I don't know, but I feel as if it would.
All I ask is, that father will keep up
mother's spirits, and dear Ruth, only
think how you would all feel if I had
taken the things. I shall write daily, so
don't be anxious. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 28 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Richard Hurdis, Or, the Avenger of Blood : a Tale of Alabama | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Of the hardihood of the American character there
can be no doubts, however many there may exist on
the subject of our good manners. We ourselves
seem to be sufficiently conscious of our security on
the former head, as we forbear insisting upon it;
about the latter, however, we are sore and touchy
enough. We never trouble ourselves to prove that
we are sufficiently able and willing, when occasion
serves, to do battle, tooth and nail, for our liberties and
possessions; our very existence, as a people, proves
this ability and readiness. But let John Bull prate
of our manners, and how we fume and fret; and what
fierce action, and wasteful indignation we expend
upon him! We are sure to have the last word in
all such controversies. Our hardihood comes from
our necessities, and prompts our enterprise; and the
American is bold in adventure to a proverb. Where
the silken shodden and sleek citizen of the European
world would pause and deliberate to explore our
wilds, we plunge incontinently forward, and the
forest falls before our axe, and the desert blooms
under the providence of our cultivator, as if the
wand of an enchanter had waved over them with the
rising of a sudden moonlight. Yankee necessities,
and southern and western curiosity will probe to
the very core of the dusky woods, and palsy, by
the exhibition of superior powers, the very souls of
their old possessors. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 29 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Add | | | Title: | Richard Hurdis, Or, the Avenger of Blood : a Tale of Alabama | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Matthew Webber was no trifler. Though represented
by his comrades, as we have seen in a
previous dialogue, as unwilling to shed blood, it may
be added that his unwillingness did not arise from
any scruples of humanity which are always unnecessary
to the profession of the outlaw. He was
governed entirely by a selfish policy, which calmly
deliberated upon its work of evil, and chose that
course which seemed to promise the greatest return
of profit with the greatest security. To avoid
bloodshed was simply to avoid one great agent of
detection. Hence his forbearance. To the moral of
the matter none could have been more thoroughly
indifferent. We beheld him giving instructions to
an associate the moment that William Carrington
fell by an unknown hand, to pursue the murderer,
not with a view to his punishment, but with a desire
to secure a prompt associate. It was not the wish
of the fraternity of robbers, herding on the Choctaw
frontier, that any body should take up the trade in
that region, of which they desired the monopoly.
When the fellow, thus instructed, had gone, Webber
with his remaining associates at once proceeded to
examine the body, which was lifeless when they
reached it. They wasted no time in idle wonder,
and gave but a single glance at the wound, which
they saw was inflicted by a rifle bullet; then lifting
the inanimate form into the wood, they rifled it of
the large sum of money which Carrington had concealed
in his bosom, and taking it into a little crevice
in the hill-side which could not hide it, they threw
it down indifferently, trusting to the wolves, of
which that neighbourhood had numerous herds, to
remove it in due season. Poor youth! with such a
heart—so noble, so brave—with affections so warm,
and hopes so full of promise, to be shot down in the
sun-light—in the bloom of manhood—by an obscure
ruffian, and be denied a grave! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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