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101Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Wieland, or the Transformation  
 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 Feel little reluctance in complying with your request. You know not fully the cause of my sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet the tale that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not dildain to contribute what little I can to the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right to be informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. Make what use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be communicated to the world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils that flow from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.
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102Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Arthur Mervyn, Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793  
 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: Here ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its incidents were of no common kind. During this season of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been numerous, and I had not suffered them to pass unimproved. The occurrences which fell within my own experience bore a general resemblance to those which had just been related, but they did not hinder the latter from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty. They served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of the tale. Where does this letter you promised me, stay all this while? Indeed, Arthur, you torment me more than I deserve, and more than I could ever find it in my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so, though I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve that I should, and though I fear I am in a humor not very fit for writing. I had better go to my chamber and weep: weep at your—unkindness, I was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness: and yet what can be more unkind than forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you. Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings you nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly.
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103Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Clara Howard  
 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: What could excite in you any curiosity as to my affairs? You once knew me a simple lad, plying the file and tweezers at the bench of a watchmaker, with no prospect before me but of labouring, for a few years, at least, as a petty and obscure journeyman, at the same bench where I worked five years as an apprentice. I was sprung from obscurity, destitute of property, of parents, of paternal friends; was full of that rustic diffidence, that inveterate humility, which are alone sufficient to divert from us the stream of fortune's favours. Why do I write? For whose use do I pass my time thus? There is no one living who cares a jot for me. There was a time, when a throbbing heart, a trembling hand, and eager eyes were always prepared to read, and ruminate on the scantiest and poorest scribble that dropped from my pen, but she has disappeared. The veil between us is like death. I need not tell you, my friend, what I have felt, in consequence of your silence. The short note which I received, a fortnight after you had left me, roused my curiosity and my fears, instead of allaying them. You promised me a longer account of some mysterious changes that had taken place in your condition. This I was to receive in a few days. At the end of a week I was impatient. The promised letter did not arrive. Four weeks passed away, and nothing came from you. I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I am weary of traversing hills and dales; and my detention in Virginia being longer than I expected, shall go on board a vessel in this port, bound for New-York. Contract, in my name, with your old friend, for the present accommodation of the girls, and repair to New-York as soon as possible. Search out No......., Broadway. If I am not there to embrace you, inquire for my wife or niece, and mention your name. Make haste; the women long to see a youth in whose education I had so large a share; and be sure, by your deportment, not to discredit your instructor, and belie my good report.
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104Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Jane Talbot  
 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 very far from being a wise girl. So conscience whispers me, and though vanity is eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge that she is seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt to wrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to lavish all my affections upon one object; to doat upon a human being, who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom I know to be not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be grateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself for his sake. “If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives A a for doing so, entitle you to nothing but compassion, while your present conduct lays claim, not only to forgiveness, but to gratitude. The letter you entrust to me, shall be applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Inclosed, is the paper you request, the seal unbroken and its contents unread. In this, as in all cases, I have no stronger wish than to act as
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105Author:  Brown William Hill 1765-1793Requires cookie*
 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: I AM sometimes mortified to find the books which I recommend to your perusal, are not always applicable to the situation of an American lady. The general observations of some English books are the most useful things contained in them; the principal parts being chiefly filled with local deseriptions, which a young woman here is frequently at a loss to understand. “TO the man for whom my bleeding heart yet retains its wonted affection, though the author of my guilt and misery, do I address my feeble complaint---O! Harrington, I am verging to a long eternity---and Q 2 it is with difficulty I support myself while my trembling hand traces the dictates of my heart. Indisposed as I am---and unable as I feel to prosecute this task---I however collect all my powers to bid you a long ---a final farewell. “WE have a scene of distress at our house peculiarly pathetick and affecting, and of which you, perhaps, are the sole author—You have had a criminal connexion with Miss Fawcet—you have turned her upon the world inhumanly—but chance—rather let me say Providence, hath directed her footsteps to my dwelling, where she is kindly entertained, and will be so, as long as she remains in this wilderness world, which is to be, I fear, but a short time---And shall she not, though she hath been decoyed from the road that leadeth to peace, long life and happiness--- shall she not, if she return with tears of repentance and contrition, be entitled to our love and charity? Yes---this is my doctrine ---If I behold any child of human nature distressed and forlorn, and in real want of the necessities of life, must I restrain or withhold the hand of charity---must I cease to recal the departing spirit of them that are ready to perish, until I make diligent inquiry into their circumstances and character? Surely, my friend, it is a duty incumbent on us by the ties of humanity and fellow feeling, and by the duty imposed on us by our holy religion, equally to extend the hand of relief to all the necessitous—however they may be circumstanced in the great family of mankind. “PERMIT me, my ever honoured friend, to return you thanks for your late favours—need I add—an acknowledgment for your liberality? No—your heart supplies a source of pleasure which is constantly nourished by your goodness and universal charity.— “YOU are about to marry a young lady of great beauty and accomplishments—I beg you to bestow a few serious thoughts on this important business—Let me claim your attention, while I disclose an affair, which materially concerns you—Harriot must not be your wife—You know your father is averse to your early connecting yourself in marriage with any woman—The duty we owe a parent is sacred, but this is not the only barrier to your marriage—the ties of consanguinity prevent it—She is your SISTER— Your father, or Miss Harrington, will inform you more particularly—It is sufficient for me to have hinted it in time.—I am, with the most perfect esteem, and sincere wishes for your happiness, your
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106Author:  Brown William Hill 1765-1793Requires cookie*
 Title:  Ira and Isabella, Or, the Natural Children  
 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: The web of human life, says the prince of dramatick poets, is a mingled yarn. A metaphor is not necessary to convince men that the empire of life is divided by good and ill. How easily are we persuaded of this truth! How comprehensible to the meanest capacity are the metaphysicks of misfortune! We feel. We judge.
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107Author:  Calvert George Henry 1803-1889Requires cookie*
 Title:  A Volume from the Life of Herbert Barclay  
 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: “Do you recollect when you were last with us, you asked me, on occasion of my describing some of the scenes of my youthful days, to give you a chapter from my early life? If you have forgotten your request and my promise to comply with it, the accompanying manuscript will remind you of both, and at the same time of the proverb—“Give him an inch and he will take an ell.” A short time after you left us, I one day got Alfred to make me some good pens, and taking a sheet of his large school paper, that I might have “room and verge enough,” I sat down to fulfil my promise. I soon found myself at the end of the sheet with my chapter unfinished, and 1* what I had written appearing to me very meager. The effort, however, created an interest in the occupation. Half-buried recollections with their trains of association rose up. The motives of pleasure and curiosity added themselves to the simple purpose of keeping my word to you. The design of enveloping fact in fiction grew out of them. I resolved to give you half a dozen chapters instead of one; and here you have the result of this resolve in the form of a volume—and an exemplification of the growth of great things out of small. When I tell you, that the task of writing it has afforded me much pleasure, I know I furnish you with a motive to bear patiently the task of reading it. My wife, too, has been highly amused with the productions of “my book,” as she calls it. She has indeed contributed to it. The proper names are all testimonials of her genius for fiction. She claims to have supplied, besides, useful hints, and even to have made several important corrections: most of these claims, however, are questionable. You will be wrong if you ascribe to her any portion of my character. I alone am answerable for the liberties which in that picture fiction has taken with fact. Whatever difficulty you may have in discerning the proportions in which they are mingled, you will have none when I tell you that you have a sincere friend in “P. S. How soon shall we see you again in this part of Maryland? Alfred asks often when you are coming back. His partiality for you is owing chiefly, I believe, to his triumphs over you in geography.” —“Had I observed that Herbert's natural dispositions exposed him to be particularly injured by pursuing this course, I should not have permitted him to pursue it. Respect for his father's injunctions would have yielded to regard for his welfare. Indeed, in disregarding such injunctions from such a motive, I should have felt, that I was doing a duty towards my brother himself, as well as towards my nephew. But Herbert, has, I think, lost less by the imperfections of education, than most young persons lose. He has run smoothly over the customary course, learning the little that can be learnt in it, with such readiness, that acquisition has not been to him an irksome labor, nor absence from his teachers, liberation from prison. He has none of the disgust for study, which is so often the strongest impression brought away from school. Besides, with the will and opportunity, a young man of twenty can, in a great measure, make up for early deficiencies.”
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108Author:  Caruthers William Alexander 1802-1846Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Kentuckian in New-York, Or, the Adventures of Three Southerns  
 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: Towards the latter part of the summer of 18—, on one of those cool, delightful, and invigorating mornings which are frequent in the southern regions of the United States, there issued from the principal hotel on the valley-side of Harper's Ferry two travellers, attended by a venerable and stately southern slave. The experienced eye of the old ferryman, as he stood in his flat-bottomed boat awaiting the arrival of this party, discovered at once that our travellers were from the far South. “Five long years have we lived under the same roof, pursued the same studies, or rather the same studies pursued us;—engaged in the same dissipation, drank of the same sour wine, shed the same vinous tears, discussed the same dinners and suppers, enjoyed the same dances,—stag dances, I mean,—played the same music, belonged to the same society, and, I was going to say, fallen in love with the same nymphs; but that brings me to the subject of this letter. I am in for it! Yes, you may well look surprised! It is a fact! Who is the lady? you ask. I will tell you,—that is, if I can; her name is St. Clair. O! she is the most lovely, modest, weeping, melancholy, blue-eyed, fairhaired, and mysterious little creature you ever beheld. If you could only see her bend that white neck, and rest her head upon that small hand, her eye lost in profound thought, until the lower lid just overflows, and a tear steals gently down that most lovely cheek; and then see her start up stealthily to join again in the conversation, with the most innocent consciousness of guilt imaginable; —but what is it that brings these tears to sadden the heart of one so youthful and so innocent? `There's the rub,' as Hamlet says. Yourself, Lamar, and I were unanimous, as you perhaps remember, that men generally suffer in proportion to their crimes, even in this world. I here renounce that opinion, with all others founded upon college logic. A half-taught college boy, in the pride of his little learning and stubborn opinions, is little better than an innocent. But, you ought to see this fair sufferer in order fully to appreciate the foregoing opinion. You would see child-like innocence—intelligence—benevolence; in short, all that is good, in her sad but lovely countenance. “Thus far I have flown before the wind—sand, I should have said. At any rate, here I am, in this town of German religionists. Here dwells the first unanimous people I have ever seen. They are Moravians; and every thing is managed by this little community for the common benefit. They have one tavern, one store, one doctor, one tanner, one potter, and so on in every trade or occupation. Besides these, they have a church, and a flourishing female seminary. The latter is conducted upon the utilitarian plan—each lady, in turn, has to perform the offices of cook, laundress, and gardener; and, I need hardly say, that it is admirably conducted. After I had visited all these establishments — for every respectable looking stranger is waited upon by some one appointed for that purpose to conduct him thither,—I returned to the large, cool, and comfortable inn, and had scarcely seated myself to enjoy the comforts of nicotiana, when a small billet was handed to me by a handsomely dressed and polite black servant with a glazed hat, which not a little astonished me, you may be sure. I had not a living acquaintance in the whole state that I knew of; except, indeed, old Father Bagby, the master of ceremonies to the little community. It could not be a challenge from some Hans Von Puffenburg of these quiet burghers: so I concluded it must be a billetdoux from some of the beautiful creatures at the seminary on the hill. You can easily imagine, therefore, that I was no long time in tearing it open; when, behold! it was, in good truth, from a lady. Can you guess who? No. Then take the note itself entire. “ `If, as I believe, you are the same Mr. Randolph who was a room and class-mate of my son Victor Chevillere, in college, I will be very glad to see you. The servant will show you to our little parlour. “ `I am the luckiest dog alive,' said I, jumping nearly over the negro's head. `Is your young mistress here also.' “I TOLD you in my last of our surprise at the little coincidence of the number on the card, and that on the house where the lady alighted, with whom Lamar had exchanged some intelligent glances in her more girlish days; but I did not complete the relation, which I will do presently. “The day being Sunday, I sent old Cato this morning to arouse Lamar quite early, in order to ascertain if he was disposed to walk before breakfast, and view some of the boasted parks, groves, and gardens of these hospitable Gothamites. Old Cato soon returned, saying that Lamar had but that moment fallen asleep, but that he would be with me as soon as he could make a hasty toilet; hasty it indeed was, for he was not many minutes behind Cato, in his morning-gown and slippers, yawning and stretching his clenched fists through the room as if he had sat in his chair all night. “10 o'clock P. M. “Events which seem to me worth recording, crowd upon us so fast now, that it is almost impossible to give you, according to promise, even a profile view of our movements. “I have seen her, Randolph, and seen her far more captivating and beautiful than ever!
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109Author:  Caruthers William Alexander 1802-1846Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Kentuckian in New-York, Or, the Adventures of Three Southerns  
 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 will be surprised to learn that this letter is written in bed, on a large old portfolio of yours, while I am propped up with chairs and pillows behind; all during the doctor's absence, and against the urgent entreaties of the whole house. “The change in Virginia's deportment has been to me a curious subject of study and reflection. I dare not say that it has been entirely disinterested study, but perhaps it was none the less close and minute on that account. We are apt to investigate those engines which operate upon ourselves very philosophically. But before I go any farther, permit me to correct an error into which I fear I have led you, because I had honestly fallen into it myself. I stated to you that my sickness had cast out devils for me, and that I was altogether a changed and reformed man. It is no such thing; I feel the devil of mischief and fun in me even now. It was nothing more than a natural depression of animal spirits, consequent upon the low state of my stomach and pulsations. The doctor was my priest on the occasion. He subdued the old Adam in me for a time, by the assistance of his lancet and the whole vegetable and mineral kingdom, worked up into shot and bullets vulgarly called pills, by the aid of which these same doctors, I believe, often do a deal of execution; at all events this disciple fleeced me of a goodly quantity of the flesh upon my ribs; none of his shot happened to be mortal; but, nevertheless, I would advise you to keep out of the reach of their magazines. The muzzle of a pill-box is as terrible to me now, as the mysterious dark hole in the end of a forty-two-pounder; and a blister-plaster as awful as an army with banners. As for cupping-glasses and scarificators, they are neither more nor less than instruments of torture, borrowed from the Spanish inquisition. But above all, deliver me from the point of a seton-needle! Did you ever see a cruel boy string fish on a stick before they were dead? He runs the stick through the gills, tearing and torturing as it goes; so do these disciples of Esculapius; they seize a piece of your skin, no matter how scarce the article may be,— no matter if your lips do not cover your teeth, and the bones of your nose look white through the attenuated sheath! Away goes this surgical bayonet through a handful of it, armed with a piece of gum elastic, which is left sticking there, the sensation on the back of your neck being as if the ramrod of a small swivel had been shot through it; and there you must sit, or stand, or lie, with this huge thing all the while poking your head forward, as if you had a pillory on your back. “I have deferred the closing of this letter a day longer than I intended when I penned the above. The fact is, I was not so much in the humour for writing as I expected. I was compelled to order your horse and take my first ride, and you may be sure that I did not restrain his mettle. What would you argue from this? That I was successful? or defeated? I should suppose neither, from that circumstance alone, say you,—as you would be apt to ride down your impetuosity in either case. `They tell me hereabouts you're married. Well, hurrah for old Kentuck, I say, and her sister Carolina. I'm married, too! yes, and I believe everybody's married, nearabouts, as far as I can learn. It's twisted strange, ain't it, when a feller gets half corned,[5] [5]Western term for drunk. everybody reels round; and when a feller gets married, everybody else should get married just at that particular time.
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110Author:  Caruthers William Alexander 1802-1846Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Cavaliers of Virginia, Or, the Recluse of Jamestown  
 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: The romance of history pertains to no human annals more strikingly than to the early settlement of Virginia. The mind of the reader at once reverts to the names of Raleigh, Smith, and Pocahontas. The traveller's memory pictures in a moment the ivy-mantled ruin of old Jamestown. Sir—I seize the first moment of your appearance in public, restored to health, to demand the satisfaction due for the grievous insult put upon me, on the night of the Anniversary Celebration, 16* in presence of the assembled gentry of the Colony. All proper arrangements will be made by my friend Ludwell, who will also await your answer. I have the honour to be your most obedient servant, Sir—Your note by the hands of Mr. Ludwell was this moment received. Your challenge is accepted. To-morrow morning at sunrise I will meet you. The length of my weapon will be furnished by my friend Dudley, who will convey this to Mr. Ludwell, as well as make all other arrangements on my behalf. I have the honour to be, yours, &c.
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111Author:  Caruthers William Alexander 1802-1846Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Cavaliers of Virginia, Or, the Recluse of Jamestown  
 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: The lightning streamed athwart the heavens in quick and vivid flashes. One peal of thunder after another echoed from cliff to cliff, while a driving storm of rain, wind and hail, made the face of nature black and dismal. There was something frightfully congenial in this uproar of the contending elements with the storm raging in Bacon's heart, as he rushed from the scene of the catastrophe we have just witnessed. The darkness which succeeded the lurid and sulphureous flashes was not more complete and unfathomable than the black despair of his own soul. These vivid contrasts of light and gloom were the only stimulants of which he was susceptible, and they were welcomed as the light of his path! By their guidance he wildly rushed to his stable, saddled, led forth, and mounted his noble charger, his own head still uncovered. For once the gallant animal felt himself uncontrolled master of his movements, fleet as the wind his nimble heels measured the narrow limits of the island. A sudden glare of intense light served for an instant to reveal both to horse and rider that they stood upon the brink of the river, and a single indication of the rider's will was followed by a plunge into the troubled waves. Nobly and majestically he rose and sank with the swelling surges. His master sat erect in the saddle and felt his benumbed faculties revived, as he communed with the storm. The raging elements appeared to sympathize with the tumult of his own bosom. He laughed in horrid unison with the gambols of the lightning, and yelled with savage delight as the muttering thunder rolled over his head.
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112Author:  Caruthers William Alexander 1802-1846Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Knights of the Horse-shoe  
 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: Dear Sir—This letter will be handed to you by one of the most unfortunate adherents of the Pretender. Start not my dear Sir—he is but one of the Scottish jacobins, and will in no wise compromise you. The very fact of his seeking your country is evidence enough if it were wanting, that he desires to be at peace from the toils and dangers of political partizanship. These are claims enough for citizenship you may think, but not warrant sufficient to claim your personal friendship. He has these also, for he was one of those unfortunate men who befriended and supported your late kinsman to the last. He protests that he will in no wise compromise your Excellency with the ministry or their adherents on your side of the water, and has begged me not to write, but knowing that you would delight to befriend so staunch an adherent of the unfortunate General, I have insisted on his taking a sealed packet at all events, as it would contain other matters than those relating purely to himself. And now for those matters. He will be accompanied by a great many ruined families of rather a higher class than that from which your immigrants are generally furnished—they, too, are worn out in spirit and in fortune, with the ceaseless struggles between the hereditary claimant of the crown and the present occupant. They see, also, breakers ahead. The Queen's health is far from being stable, and in case of her sudden demise there will be an awful struggle here. Are they not right then to gather up the little remnant of their property and seek an asylum on your peaceful shores? Your note of last night, containing an invitation to Temple Farm, from Kate, has just been received. I will go, but for a reason, among others, which I fear my ever kind friend, Kate, will consider any thing but complimentary—it is because this house is haunted, and I can no longer stay in it. Look not so grave, dear father, 'tis no ghost. I wish it was, or he was, for it is that same tedious, tiresome, persecuting, Harry Lee. I have been most anxiously expecting your return; but, as it seems, you have become a permanent fixture at Temple Farm, it is but right that I should grow along side of the parent stem. The townsfolk are even more anxious for your return than I am. I tell them you ran away from practice, but it seems the more you desire to run away from it, the more they run after you. Few people in this dreary world have been able to effect so much unmixed good as you have, and for that, I thank God. Dear Father, I have no desire to live but for your sake, and that the short time we are to live together may not be diminished by any act of mine, I will be with you presently. Our poor pensioners and invalids are all doing as well as usual, and I leave them in the hands of the Rev. Mr. Jones, who, I know, will care for them as we would. He is surely one of God's chosen instruments for doing good in this world. He has shouldered his cross in earnest, and devoutly does he labor to advance the Redeemer's kingdom. “Dear Sir.—You will no doubt be surprised that I date this letter from the county jail, instead of the barracks, but, Sir, so it is—deeply mortifying as it is to me to state the fact. I had scarcely alighted in the capital, after marching the soldiers to the garrison, before I was waited upon by the Deputy Sheriff of the county, with a bail writ, (or whatever that process is called by which the law seizes a man's person,) at the suit of Henry Lee, Esq., and for the very money which your Excellency was mainly instrumental in procuring at his hands for me. You will recollect, no doubt, that as a mere matter of form, (so the gentleman expressed it,) I gave him a note of hand for the amount. Unfortunately I paid away part of the sum for my passage money, and the remainder to recruit my dilapidated wardrobe, so that instant payment was out of the question. None of my new and kind friends were in the city. I had, indeed, hoped to find the good Doctor at home, but unfortunately for me he was absent in the country. “Dear Sir: I owe you an apology for the very abrupt manner in which I left your house, where I had been tacitly, as it were, left in charge of the ladies; but the fact is, Sir, that I found the young person whom you had hastily employed as Tutor, presumptuous and impertinent, and that I must either degrade myself by a personal encounter with him, or leave the premises. I chose the latter, and had hoped to have paid my respects to your Excellency before you left the capital, but was detained by unavoidable legal business until you had unfortunately left the city. It is useless now to enter into particulars as to his conduct in your absence; for the evidence is now before me, that he is such a gross impostor and swindler, that it is scarcely worth while to inquire into minor particulars of conduct. While I was in the very act of consulting Attorney General Clayton, (who is also my own legal adviser,) about the steps necessary to be taken in order to repossess the funds out of which I weakly suffer myself to be cheated, I received a ship letter by way of York. Whom does your Excellency suppose that letter was from? Why, sir, from Mr. Henry Hall, my cousin, the real gentleman, whose name and character this base impostor had assumed for the lowest purposes. You will recollect that I had written to the young man before this person appeared at your house, informing him of my aunt's will. This letter which I have received is in answer to that one, and states among other things that the writer would sail in the very first vessel for this country after the one which would bring the letter, so that by the time that this pseudo Mr. Hall manages to release himself from prison, where I have snugly stowed him, the real personage, whose name he has assumed, will be here to confront him. I am delighted that I am thus able to relieve your Excellency from the disagreeable duty of unmasking the impostor; for if your Excellency will permit me to say so, your kindly nature had so far led you astray with regard to this man, that you might have found it rather unpleasant to deal with him. Leave all that to me, Sir—I will give him his deserts, be well assured; and if he escapes with whole ears and a sound skin, he may thank the clemency of the law, and not mine. Dear Ellen: Such a friendship as ours can bear the imposition with which I am about to tax you. You know the sad tale of this poor Indian girl, and how it lacerates all our hearts afresh, even to look upon her; and knowing this, you will do all those little kindnesses for her that we cannot, and which her situation requires. She sees that we cannot look upon her with complacency, and now she misinterprets it. God knows we wish to wreak no vengeance upon her for my poor brother's death. Do make her sensible of all this. You, my dear Ellen, that know so well how to compass these delicate offices so much better than any one else—do give her all the comfort the case admits of, and administer such consolation as her peculiar nature requires. Explain to her our feelings, and that they are the farthest in the world removed from unkindness Oh, Ellen, you know what a shock we have sustained, and will, I know, acquit us of any mawkish sensibility in the case. I trust her entirely to your kindness and discretion. My father has just stepped in, and anticipating my object, begged to see this note; and he now begs me to say to you, that Wingina must be closely watched, else her brother will contrive some subtle scheme to whisk her off again. I again resume my sweet correspondence with you, after an interval it seems to me of an age: computed by what I have (may I not say we have) suffered. But during all my unexampled difficulties and trials, one constant soarce of consolation remained to me. It was your steady constancy. It is true, that for a time, I was laboring under a delusion in regard to it, but even during that time, you were as unwavering as before. No portion of blame can attach to you, that I was led astray. You, my Ellen, have been like my evening and morning star—the last ray of serene comfort at night, and the brightest dawn of hope in the morning. From day to day, and from year to year, have you clung to the memory of the youth to whom you plighted your young affections—through good and through evil report—through life and in death, (as was supposed) you have without wavering or turning aside, cherished the first bright morning dream of youthful love. Do you know, my Ellen, that the world scarcely believes in the reality of such early attachments enduring to the end. The heartless throng know not, my sweet playmate, of the little romantic world we possess within ourselves. They have all gone astray after strange gods, and cannot believe that others will be more true and devoted than they have been. Especially has the odium of all such failures been laid to the charge of your sex, but I am sure unjustly. The first slight or unkindness nearly always proceeds from the other, and this slight or unkindness cannot be blazoned to the world—it is hidden within the recesses of the sufferer's heart, and pride (perhaps proper maidenly pride) prevents it from ever being known. How happy are we my Ellen, that not a shadow of distrust has fallen out between us—if indeed I except your momentary confounding me with the gentleman whose name I had assumed, and my temporary mistake about my brother's marriage with you. You see I have brought myself to write that name. While I am upon the subject of Miss Elliot's engagement, permit me to explain one thing which I omitted in the hurry of departure, and the confusion which attended all its exciting scenes. That young lady though present at the masking scene at the Governor's house, and knowing of my design to present myself in disguise, among my old associates, was not made acquainted with the name or occupation which I would assume. The resolution to adopt that name was seized upon after the departure of that young lady and her father. Hence her supposition, on hearing that Mr. Hall had arrived in the Colony, that it was her own Henry. I am led to think of these things, by seeing, so frequently, this young gentleman, with whom I was, and am, on the most intimate terms. His distress of mind is truly pitiable—he appears like one physically alive and well, and yet dead to all hope. Not absolutely dead to all hope either, for you should have seen how the blessed, but dormant, faculty flashed up for a moment or two, when I told him, a little while ago, that there was a prospect of an expedition being sent ahead of the troops, in pursuit of the assassins and robbers who murdered our old friend and stole his mistress. Oh, if he could be sent off upon such an expedition, what a blessed relief the activity and excitement of the pursuit would be to him. But the Governor, though sympathizing fully with him and me, would not consent to it, and I must say his reasons were to me, satisfactory; not so, however, with my poor friend; he is dissatisfied with the Governor on account of it, and if it were not for my restraining and urgent counsel, he would start off, single handed, in pursuit. The fact is, his apprehensions for the fate of the poor girl, whether dead or alive, are so desponding, that the madness and rashness of such an adventure, only add new charms to it, in his eyes, and I can only seduce him from such wild designs by dwelling upon the known clemency of the Indians to other females, who have for months and years remained captives with them. I have exhausted all my recollections of the kind, and I have put the scout, Jarvis, in possession of his dreadful secret, and commanded him to detail all his knowledge favorable to my views. At this very moment he is walking with Joe, among the tall pines, his melancholy eye wandering among the stars, while Joe is telling a long story of a Mrs. Thompson, who was taken prisoner by them and carried beyond the mountains. I at first suspected my new forest friend, of romancing in the wildest vein, and inventing as he went along, for the justifiable purpose, as it seemed to me, of plucking the rooted sorrow from the heart of my friend, but I am satisfied now that it is a true narrative, because he recounted several circumstances about the route to the mountains, which he had before told me he had procured from an old lady, who had been a prisoner among the Indians. Seeing that he was, for the time, so absorbed with the story of the scout, I have stolen away, my Ellen, to hold this sweet converse with you. If you had but known the charming girl, about whom my friend thus mourns, you would neither be surprised nor jealous that even I feel an anxious interest in her fate. Think too of her sad history,—the loss of her uncle by whom she was adopted, and upon whom she doted as a father, little less fond than the real one whom she has now lost, also. Think, too, of the dreadful manner of their two deaths —of her nearest and dearest kinsmen. Then bring before your mind the highly educated, delicate and sensitive girl herself—torn from the reeking body of her deceased parent; and borne a captive among a rude and wild people, not one word of whose language she understands. Oh its a dreadful fate for one like her. She is a most lovely girl in every sense of the word, and as good as she is beautiful! I feel a double interest in her fate, because her sad lot is so much like my own. We were first wrecked by the same disastrous political storm—thrown upon the same shores, and among the same people for a time. Well Bill, I'm dad shamed if I don't bust if I don't write to you a spell—the fact is Bill, I've kept company with these here gold laced gentry so long that I'm gettin' spiled—fact! I rubbed myself all over last night head and ears with salt for fear on't. Yes, and if you and Charley and Ikey don't take keer, I'll cut you when I come back. But without any joke at all about it, I've got into the greatest mess that ever the likes of you clapped eyes on. There's that Mr. Hall—the real genuine Mr. Hall, the one as come last; O Lord if you could only see how he takes on—dash my flint, if I don't think he's a leetle teched in the upper story. All day long he rides that black horse—(and he's dressed in black you know) and looks as if he was a goin' to his grandmother's funeral. Poor lad, they say he's got cause enough, the yaller niggers have run away with his sweet heart, but you don't know nothin' about them sort of tender things, Bill, its only a throwin' of pearls before swine to tell you of 'em, else I would tell you that Mr. Hall and me is exactly in the same fix. Yes, you and Charley may laugh, confound you, if so be you ever spell this out, We're exactly in the same situation—the yaller niggers has run away with my sweet heart too. You know the little Ingin gal that asked me for that lock 'o hair, but you know al about it and what's the use of swettin' over agin. Well, Squire Lee, that Mr. Hall that was tried for killin' the Governor's son; well, he says she's a ruined gal, and to hear him talk, you'd think that she was dead and buried and he a sayin' of the funeral service over her. I tell you Bill, these gentry are queerish folks, they don't know nothin' of human nature. He says he wants to know if I would take another man's cast off mistress. Now, Bill, ain't her lover dead, and could'nt I make an honest woman of her, by a marryin' of her, I'd like to know that. But the best part of the story is to come yit. The Governor's been axed about it, and he's all agreed, and says moreover, that he'll settle fifty pounds a year on me, if the gal will have me. So you see, Bill, she's a fortune. Did'nt I tell you that I was a goin to seek my fortune, and that you had better come along. But I've talked about myself long enough, now let me tell you something of our betters. The old Governor, I tell you what, he's a tip top old feller, in the field. He don't know nothing about fightin' Ingins yit, but I'll tell you, he'll catch it mighty quick; he makes every one stand up to the rack, and as for running away from an enemy, it ain't in his dictionary. I am told he drinks gunpowder every mornin' in his bitters, and as for shootin,' he's tip top at that, too. He thinks nothin' of takin' off a wild turkeys' head with them there pistols of his'n. You may'nt believe the story about the gunpowder, but I got from old June, his shoe black, who sleeps behind his tent, and I reckon he ought to know, if any body does. He rides a hoss as if he rammed down the gunpowder with half a dozen ramrods. You ought to see him a ridin' a review of a mornin'. I swang if his cocked hat don't look like a pictur', and I'm told he's all riddled with bullets too, and that he sometimes picks the lead out of his teeth yit. He's a a whole team, Bill; set that down in your books. The next man to the Governor is Mr. Frank, that I told you of a while ago; he belongs to the gunpowder breed too he's got an eye like a eagle, and, Bill when they made a gintleman of him they spiled one of the best scouts in all these parts. If there's any fightin' you take my word for it, he'll have his share. Some of the men do say that he was for upsettin' the Queen when he was to England, and that's the reason he came over in disguise. One thing I know, he's got no airs about him; he talks to me just as he does to the Governor, and this present writin', as the lawyers say, is writ on his camp stool and with his pen and paper. I guess he'll find his pen druv up to the stump. Well, I suppose you want to know what I call this camp nigger foot for. I'll tell you, for I christened it myself. I was a followin' of a fresh trail as hard as one of the Governor's bounds arter a buck— when what should we light upon, but the track of of a big nigger's foot in the mud here among em—fact! I told the Governor afore I seed the print of the nigger's foot that they had had some spy or another at Williamsburg, else they would'nt a know'd the waggons as had the powder in 'em. Oh, I forgot to tell you that the yaller raskels killed one of the sentinels, and stole a heap of powder and lead. Yes, and they had the wagon tops marked with red paint. The ink would blister the paper, could I be guilty of the hypocrisy of commencing a letter to you with an endearing epithet, after all that is past and gone. Indeed, it was my intention never to have addressed you again in any manner this side of the grave. I thought you had done your worst towards me and mine, and I was resolved, if I could not forgive, that I would at least bear it in silence. But I was mistaken, you had not done your worst, as this night's experience teaches me. I find that my heart yearns towards every thing connected with the happy days of our infancy. Over many of these you have power, and through these you can wound me grievously. I do not, and will not, charge you with suborning one of our father's faithful servants to his own ruin and disgrace. I leave it entirely with you and your God.— But if even innocent, (which I trust in God you are,) yet you are responsible for their conduct. Nay, the world, even your old associates here, hold you now as the accessory before the fact, to this poor fellow's crime. Oh, Henry, how have your passions led you on, from step to step, to this degradation! Can you be the proud boy that I once knew as an affectionate brother? But I will not be weak; my object in writing is merely a matter of business. I have a proposition to make to you—it is that you abandon your home and country forever. Start not, but listen to me. You know that you will be largely indebted to me for the yearly proceeds of my property, every cent of which you have drawn, and which I understand you will not be able to repay, without sacrificing your own property. Now, I propose to give you a clear quittance for the whole of it, if you will sail for Europe before my return, and take poor Cæsar with you. I know that you can find means to liberate him— indeed, I do not think the Governor himself will be much displeased to find this scheme carried into effect upon his return. Reflect well upon it, and may God forgive you for your past errors. I shall never cease to pray not only for that, but that I may myself learn to grant you that tree and full forgiveness which I daily ask him for myself. Dear Frank.—But a few days have elapsed since your departure, yet it seems an age. Short as the time is, however, I must write now in compliance with my promise, or lose all opportunity of writing, until the expedition is on its return. The courier who takes this, it is hoped, will overtake you near the foot of the mountains. First and foremost, then, I must be selfish enough to begin at home. Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh, and I suppose the pen writeth. You will, I am sure, be surprised to learn that my father seems to miss your society even more than I. After your departure, he would sit up for hours, wrapped up in his own thoughts. At first I did not heed this particularly, because he often does so, when any of his patients are sick unto death; but I soon found that my caresses—a successful remedy generally—were entirely unheeded; and once I saw a tear stealing down his dear and venerable face. I could submit tacitly no longer, but begged him to tell me what disturbed him. He said he was beginning to find out my value just as he was about to lose me. “Dear father,” said I “I will never, never leave you. We have been too long all in all to each other!” Was I not right, Frank, in giving him this assurance, and will you not doubly assure him, when you come back? I know you will. “How can you make any such promise, my child,” he asked, “when you have given your whole heart and soul to another?” Now, was not this a strange speech for the good old man to make? Do you not discover a little—just a little—jealousy in it? I thought I did, and I laughed at the idea, though the tears were coursing each other down his cheeks faster than ever; and I taxed him with the strange manifestation. “Well,” said he, “have you not been wife, and daughter, and companion, and comforter, and nurse, and every thing to me—and how can I live, when all that gives life and cheerfulness to my house is gone? It will be putting out the light of mine eyes—for my Ellen, all is dark and dreary, when your shadow does not fall within the range of these fast failing orbs.” According to promise, you see I have begun to write you a letter—and one dozen have I commenced before, but tore them up, because I did not know exactly what word to prefix to your name. First I tried plain Bernard—that looked too cold and abrupt; and then Mr. Moore—and that appeared too business like and formal; and then I began without any prefix at all. At last, I went to Ellen in my distress, and she rated me roundly for being ashamed to salute with an endearing epithet a man to whom I had promised my hand, and given my heart. Nor was that all—she took me to task for still wrapping myself up in that reserve which the world compels us to wear, instead of endeavoring, as is my duty, (you know I call her Mrs. Duty,) to establish an unreserved confidence between us, and to learn and betray at the same time all those peculiarities of thought and feeling which go to make up our identity. As I told her, that is the very thing which I dread. My Dear, Sir—At length we have scaled the Blue Mountains, but not without a sharp skirmish with the savages, and many of them, I am sorry to say, were of those who so lately received our bounty, and were besides objects of such deep solicitude to us. All our labors, my dear Sir, towards civilizing and christianizing even the tributaries, have been worse than thrown away. Mr. Boyle's splendid scheme of philanthropy is a failure, and we, his humble agents, have no other consolation left, but a consciousness of having done our duty, with a perseverance which neither scorn nor scepticism could not turn aside. Let it not be said hereafter, that no effort was made in Virginis to treat the Aborigines with the same spirit of clemency and mildness which was so successful in Pennsylvania. Far greater efforts have been made by us, than was ever made in that favored colony. The difference in the result is no doubt owing to the fact, that the subjects with whom we have had to deal were irretrievably spoiled before they came under our charge—not so with those of Pennsylvania. I mention these things to you, because you know that it was my determination when I sat out, to cross the mountains, peaceably if I could, and forcibly if I must. The latter has been the alternative forced upon me. From almost the very moment of setting out, our steps have been dogged, and our flanks harrassed by these lawless men, and more than one murder has been committed upon our sentries. But of these things we can converse when we meet. I suppose you are anxious to hear something of the country, which I have so long desired to see with my own eyes. Well, Sir, the descriptions given to us at Temple Farm by the interpreter were not at all exaggerated, and were, besides, wonderfully accurate in a geographical point of view. It is indeed true enough that there are double ranges of mountains, and that the sources of the Mississippi do not rise here. We are now in a valley between these ranges, with the western mountains distinctly in view, and the eastern ones immediately in our rear. This valley seems to extend for hundreds of miles to the northeast and south-west, and may be some fifty or sixty broad. I learn from my prisoners that it has been mostly kept sacred by the Indians as a choice hunting ground, and has not been the permanent residence of any of them, but that they came and squatted during the hunting season. All this the interpreter kept (very wisely, as he thought, no doubt) to himself. We have not yet seen the miraculous boiling and medicinal springs, nor the bridge across the mountains; but parties of exploration are daily going out, and such extravagant accounts as they give of the game, and the country, and the rivers, and the magnificent prospects, beggar my pen to describe. I can see enough, my dear Sir, from the heights in my near neighborhood, to know that it is one of the most charming retreats in the world. I do not hesitate to predict that a second Virginia will grow up here, which will rival the famed shores of the Chesapeake; but the products will be different, and the people must be different; for it is a colder region. We have already had nipping frosts, and some ice upon the borders of the streams. I am once more writing from a couch of some pain and suffering, but thank God not like the last from which I addressed you that dismal letter, which I then supposed would be my last. I have no such apprehensions now. My wounds are in a fair way, and I am even permitted to walk about this large tent—(the Governor's marquee) and above all, I am permitted to write to you. My Dear Sir: I have received your letter of the 5th inst., and in reply to it, can only say what I some years past said to my friend George W. Summers,* *The Hon. Geo. W. Summers, the present representative in Congress, from the Kenawha District, in Virginia. on the subject of your letter. I said to him, that I had seen in the possession of the eldest branch of my family, a Golden Horse-Shoe set with garnets, and having inscribed on it the motto: “Sic juval transcendere montes,” which from tradition, I always understood was presented by Governor Spotswood, to my Grandfather, as one of many gentlemen who acompanied him across the mountains.
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113Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Requires cookie*
 Title:  Philothea  
 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: The moon was moving through the heavens in silent glory—and Athens, with all her beautiful variety of villas, altars, statues, and temples, rejoiced in the hallowed light.
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114Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Requires cookie*
 Title:  Letters from New York  
 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 ask what is now my opinion of this great Babylon: and playfully remind me of former philippics, and a long string of vituperative alliterations, such as magnificence and mud, finery and filth, diamonds and dirt, bullion and brass tape, &c. &c. Nor do you forget my first impression of the city, when we arrived at early dawn, amid fog and drizzling rain, the expiring lamps adding their smoke to the impure air, and close beside us a boat called the “Fairy Queen,” laden with dead hogs.
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115Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Spy  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was near the close of the year 1780, that a solitary traveller was seen pursuing his way through one of the numerous little valleys of West-Chester. The easterly wind, with its chilling dampness, and increasing violence, gave unerring notice of the approach of a storm, which, as usual, might be expected to continue for several days: and the experienced eye of the traveller was turned, in vain, through the darkness of the evening, in quest of some convenient shelter, in which, for the term of his confinement by the rain, that already began to mix with the atmosphere in a thick mist, he might obtain such accommodations as his age and purposes required. Nothing, however, offered, but the small and inconvenient tenements of the lower order of inhabitants, with whom, in that immediate neighbourhood, he did not think it either safe or politic to trust himself.
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116Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  Lionel Lincoln, Or, the Leaguer of Boston  
 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: No American can be ignorant of the principal events that induced the parliament of Great Britain, in 1774, to lay those impolitic restrictions on the port of Boston, which so effectually destroyed the trade of the chief town in her western colonies. Nor should it be unknown to any American, how nobly, and with what devotedness to the great principles of the controversy, the inhabitants of the adjacent town of Salem refused to profit by the situation of their neighbours and fellow-subjects. In consequence of these impolitic measures of the English government, and of the laudable unanimity among the capitalists of the times, it became a rare sight to see the canvass of any other vessels than such as wore the pennants of the king, whitening the forsaken waters of Massachusetts bay.
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117Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  Lionel Lincoln, or, The Leaguer of Boston  
 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: Although the battle of Bunker-hill was fought while the grass yet lay on the meadows, the heats of summer had been followed by the nipping frosts of November; the leaf had fallen in its hour, and the tempests and biting colds of February had succeeded, before Major Lincoln left that couch where he had been laid, when carried, in total helplessness, from the fatal heights of the peninsula. Throughout the whole of that long period, the hidden bullet had defied the utmost skill of the British surgeons; nor could all their science and experience embolden them to risk cutting certain arteries and tendons in the body of the heir of Lincoln, which were thought to obstruct the passage to that obstinate lead, which, all agreed, alone impeded the recovery of the unfortunate sufferer. This indecision was one of the penalties that poor Lionel paid for his greatness; for had it been Meriton who lingered, instead of his master, it is quite probable the case would have been determined at a much earlier hour. At length a young and enterprising leech, with the world before him, arrived from Europe, who, possessing greater skill or more effrontery (the effects are sometimes the same) than his fellows, did not hesitate to decide at once on the expediency of an operation. The medical staff of the army sneered at this bold innovator, and at first were content with such silent testimonials of their contempt. But when the friends of the patient, listening, as usual, to the whisperings of hope, consented that the confident man of probes should use his instruments, the voices of his contemporaries became not only loud, but clamorous. There was a day or two when even the watch-worn and jaded subalterns of the army forgot the dangers and hardships of the siege, to attend with demure and instructed countenances to the unintelligible jargon of the “Medici” of their camp; and men grew pale, as they listened, who had never been known to exhibit any symptoms of the disgraceful passion before their more acknowledged enemies. But when it became known that the ball was safely extracted, and the patient was pronounced convalescent, a calm succeeded that was much more portentous to the human race than the preceding tempest; and in a short time the daring practitioner was universally acknowledged to be the founder of a new theory. The degrees of M. D. were showered upon his honoured head from half the learned bodies in Christendom, while many of his enthusiastic admirers and imitators became justly entitled to the use of the same magical symbols, as annexments to their patrony micks, with the addition of the first letter in the alphabet. The ancient reasoning was altered to suit the modern facts, and before the war was ended, some thousands of the servants of the crown, and not a few of the patriotic colonists, were thought to have died, scientifically, under the favour of this important discovery.
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118Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Red Rover  
 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 submitting this hastily-composed and imperfect picture of a few scenes, peculiar to the profession, to your notice, dear Shubrick, I trust much more to your kind feelings than to any merit in the execution. Such as it may be, however, the book is offered as another tribute to the constant esteem and friendship of No one, who is familiar with the bustle and activity of an American commercial town, would recognize, in the repose which now reigns in the ancient mart of Rhode Island, a place that, in its day, has been ranked amongst the most important ports along the whole line of our extended coast. It would seem, at the first glance, that nature had expressly fashioned the spot to anticipate the wants and to realize the wishes of the mariner. Enjoying the four great requisites of a safe and commodious haven, a placed basin, an outer harbour, and a convenient roadstead, with a clear offing, Newport appeared, to the eyes of our European ancestors, designed to shelter fleets and to nurse a race of hardy and expert seamen. Though the latter anticipation has not been entirely disappointed, how little has reality answered to expectation in respect to the former! A successful rival has arisen, even in the immediate vicinity of this seeming favourite of nature, to defeat all the calculations of mercantile sagacity, and to add another to the thousand existing evidences “that the wisdom of man is foolishness.” “An accident has disabled the Master of the out “ward-bound ship called the `Royal Caroline!' Her “consignee is reluctant to intrust her to the officer “next in rank; but sail she must. I find she has “credit for her speed. If you have any credentials “of character and competency, profit by the occasion, “and earn the station you are finally destined to fill. “You have been named to some who are interested, “and you have been sought diligently. If this reach “you in season, be on the alert, and be decided. “Show no surprise at any co-operation you may un “expectedly meet. My agents are more numerous “than you had believed. The reason is obvious; “gold is yellow, though I am
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119Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Red Rover  
 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: The weight of the tempest had been felt at that hapless moment when Earing and his unfortunate companions were precipitated from their giddy elevation into the sea. Though the wind continued to blow long after this fatal event, it was with a constantly diminishing power. As the gale decreased, the sea began to rise, and the vessel to labour in proportion. Then followed two hours of anxious watchfulness on the part of Wilder, during which the whole of his professional knowledge was needed, in order to keep the despoiled hull of the Bristol trader from becoming a prey to the greedy waters. His consummate skill, however, proved equal to the task that was required at his hands; and, just as the symptoms of day were becoming visible along the east, both wind and waves were rapidly subsiding together. During the whole of this doubtful period, our adventurer did not receive the smallest assistance from any of the crew, with the exception of two experienced seamen whom he had previously stationed at the wheel. But to this neglect he was indifferent; since little more was required than his own judgment, seconded, as it faithfully was, by the exertions of the mariners more immediately under his eye.
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120Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Wept of Wish-ton-wish  
 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: THE incidents of this tale must be sought in a remote period of the annals of America. A colony of self-devoted and pious refugees from religious persecution had landed on the rock of Plymouth, less than half a century before the time at which the narrative commences; and they, and their descendants, had already transformed many a broad waste of wilderness into smiling fields and cheerful villages. The labors of the emigrants had been chiefly limited to the country on the coast, which, by its proximity to the waters that rolled between them and Europe, afforded the semblance of a connexion with the land of their forefathers and the distant abodes of civilization. But enterprise, and a desire to search for still more fertile domains, together with the temptation offered by the vast and unknown regions that lay along their western and northern borders, had induced many bold adventurers to penetrate more deeply into the forests. The precise spot, to which we desire to transport the imagination of the reader, was one of these establishments of what may, not inaptly, be called the forlorn-hope, in the march of civilization through the country.
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