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1Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Requires cookie*
 Title:  Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining parlor, in the town of P—, in Kentucky. There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some subject with great earnestness. “Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write; will probably try to pass for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has been branded in his right hand with the letter H. “Executor's Sale, — Negroes! — Agreeably to order of court, will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.
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2Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Requires cookie*
 Title:  Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Tom, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want to go,” she said. “I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True, as you have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites, in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and that of my wife and family scarce perceptible. Well, perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth, I have no wish to.
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3Author:  Taylor Bayard 1825-1878Requires cookie*
 Title:  John Godfrey's fortunes, related by himself  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I was sitting at the front window, buried, chin-deep, in the perusal of “Sandford and Merton,” when I heard the latch of the gate click. Looking up, I saw that it was only Neighbor Niles, coming, as usual, in her sun-bonnet, with her bare arms wrapped in her apron, for a chat with mother. I therefore resumed my reading, for Neighbor Niles always burst into the house without knocking, and mother was sure to know who it was by the manner in which the door opened. I had gotten as far into the book as the building of the Robinson-Crusoe hut, and one half of my mind speculated, as I read, whether a similar hut might not be constructed in our garden, in the corner between the snowball-bush and Muley's stable. Bob Simmons would help me, I was sure; only it was scarcely possible to finish it before winter, and then we could n't live in it without a fireplace and a chimney. “My dear Brother, — Yours of the 10th is received. I am now so accustomed to your sarcastic style, that I always know what to expect when I open one of your epistles. I wish you joy of your — well, I must say our new cousin, though I am sorry you did not let me know of the discovery before telling him. He must be gauche and unpresentable in a degree; but then, I suppose, there 's no likelihood of his ever getting into our set. It is time your schooling was finished, so that I might have you for awhile as my chevalier. Between ourselves, I 'm rather tired of going about with” (here the word “Mamma” had evidently been written and then blotted out) “Mrs. Penrose. Not but what she continues to improve, — only, I am never certain of her not committing some niaiserie, which quite puts me out. However, she behaves well enough at home, and I hope you will overcome your prejudice in the end, for my sake. When you know as much about Society as I do, you will see that it 's always best to smooth over what 's irrevocable. People are beginning to forget the scandal, since that affair of Denbigh has given them something else to talk about. We were at Mrs. Delane's ball on Wednesday; I made her put on blue cut velvet, and she did not look so bad. Mrs. Vane nodded, and of course she was triumphant. I think Papa gives me the credit for all that has been done, — I 'm sure I deserve it. It 's a race between Mrs. P. and myself which shall have the new India shawl at Stokes's; but I shall get it, because Mrs. P. knows that I could teach her to blunder awfully as well as to behave correctly, and would do it, in spite of Papa's swearing, if she drives me to desperation. By the by, he has just come into the room, and says, `You are writing to the cub, as usual, I suppose, Matilda.' So there you have him, to the life.” “Respected Friend, I recd. your favor in which you informed me that you was getting on so well and gave the other as you directed. Thought it best to wait for the other's answer, though there is no particular news. Sep Bratton goes to The Buck every day, and there 's high goings on between him and the squire. Your friend Mr. Rand was there again. People say the squire is speculating about Pottsville, and will cut up pretty fat some day, which is no business of mine, but thought you might like to hear. We are all well, and mother and Sue says remember me to him. I guess Ben and her is satisfied with one another, but you need not say I told you. There is a mistress at the school this summer, a right smart young woman, her name is Lavina Wilkins. And hoping these few lines will find you enjoying good health, I remain, “Dear John,” (there were volumes of withheld confession for me in that one adjective): — Towards the end of May the important book appeared. I am sure that no immortal work was ever watched, through its different processes of incarnation, with such tender solicitude. I lingered over the first proofs, the revised proofs, and the printed and folded sheets, with a proud, luxurious interest, and the final consummation — the little volume, bound and lettered — was so precious that I could have kissed the leaves one by one. It seemed incredible that the “John Godfrey” on the title-page really meant myself! A book for me had hitherto possessed a sublime, mystical individuality of its own, and this, which had grown beneath my hand, by stages of manufacture as distinctly material as those which go to the formation of a shoe or a stove, was now to be classed among those silent, eloquent personalities! It might be placed side by side with “Paradise Lost” or “Childe Harold,” on book-shelves; who could tell whither chance or fortune might not carry it, or what young and burning lips it might not help unseal? “I have judged you unjustly, and treated you rudely, Mr. Godfrey. If I have not forfeited the right to make reparation, or you have not lost the desire to receive it, will you call upon me to-morrow evening, at Mrs. Deering's, and oblige “I will come. “Respd. Nephew, — I take my Pen in hand to inform you that Me and your aunt Peggy are injoying good Health and Those Blessings which the Lord Vouchsafes to us. It is a long Time since we have heard anything of you, but suppose you are still ingaged in the same Occupation as at first, and hence direct accordingly, hoping these few Lines may come Safely to hand. “The news contained in your letter of the 7th was quite unexpected, but none the less welcome, for your sake as well as my own. While I still think that the disposal of my little property ought to have been left to myself, I cheerfully acquit you of any intention to do me wrong, and to show that I not only bear no malice, but am willing to retract my hasty insinuations against your character, I will accept your proffered hospitality when I visit Reading. You may expect me within the next four or five days. “My Dear John, — I know why you have not written to me. In fact I knew, months ago, (through Deering,) what was coming, and had conquered whatever soreness was left in my heart. Fortunately my will is also strong in a reflective sense, and I am, moreover, no child to lament over an irretrievable loss. I dare say the future will make it up to me, in some way, if I wait long enough. At any rate, you won't object, my dear old fellow, to have me say — not that I wish you happiness, for you have it, but — that you deserve your double fortune. The other item I picked up from a newspaper; you might have written me that.
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4Author:  Thorpe Thomas Bangs 1815-1878Requires cookie*
 Title:  The master's house  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: There is not a more charming town in New England, than Malden, so celebrated, and so widely known for its intelligent population, its interesting traditions, and its most excellent seat of learning. Dear Sir,—I understand you desire to purchase some valuable house servants. I have one or two that I would part with, if the trade could be made privately, and treated by you as confidential. I will be at the cross roads, near the old brick kiln, precisely at five o'clock, where we can hold conversation unobserved. Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you wish to purchase a few first class house-servants; I have two that I would part with, for less than their real value, if you can manage to get them in your possession, without giving their owners the pain of going through the separation. They have been carefully raised, and would not be sold, if their owners were not conscientiously impressed that their condition would not be improved, if they were set free. I shall be at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-day, and shall proceed at once to your room, to avoid the suspicion among the neighbors, that I am contemplating selling. You will consider our communications in honor, and trust they will be so treated. Sur,—I've got an old negro woman as wants to be sold, and go to Mobeel, in the State of Mississip'. I wouldn't sell her, if she didn't want to go down to that South country to see her children, as is owned by Mister Brownlaw, who, when he tuck the children, was to buy the old ooman, but didn't have the money, an hasn't sent for her 'cordin' to contract. I will sel her for two hundred and fifty, and I think Brownlaw will give you four hundred on his place, as her son is a carpenter, and I'm told he thinks a heap of him, as he can earn five dollars a day, making bridges on the rale rode. Please say nothing about this, and drop in at my house in the evening, when nobody is about, on the Sandy-hill road, f'ur miles from Colesburg, near the ruins of the old church, with a sign over the door, with my name painted on it. Dear Sir,—I understood last evening, after church was out, that you had come on here to obtain a few choice servants. I have long since been forced to the conclusion, that slavery is a moral evil, and I have rejoiced that I have parted with the few I have owned, to humane masters, which is a great relief to me, in my hours of serious reflection. I have one girl that has been carefully brought up, and we are much attached to her, but I am somewhat advanced in years, as well as her mistress, and we cannot tell at what time she may, in the course of Providence, be thrown without a protector, upon the wide, wicked world. I had determined not to sell her, but seeing you in church the other day, I have become deeply impressed that you 12* are a pious man, and as such, would deal justly with the girl. I have also reflected, that whatever may be my sense of duty, the excitement at the North has been so great, that it makes it perfectly impossible for me to carry out my original intention, of setting the girl free, as I cannot conceive a more dreadful condition, than for a once comfortably clothed and well taken care of negro slave, to be thrown upon the tender mercies of the uncharitable world, and be left, as are the poor white laborers of the free States, to starve, and die a miserable death. It would be difficult to get the girl's consent to be sold, and therefore this matter must be delicately arranged; she will no doubt, at first, be much grieved, but we must judge what is best for her welfare, ourselves, for we know how to provide for her real good. The girl is nearly nineteen years of age. Address “Humanity,” through the post-office, and say where a strictly private interview may be had. Of course this communication will be considered confidential. I trust I may sign myself, in the bonds of brotherly love, “Dear Sir: I received your favor, desiring me to state my opinion of the value of M. Guénon's `Treatise on Milch Cows,' translated from the French.... I immediately commenced the study and application of his method to every cow that came under my observation. I have examined more than one hundred cows, and, after carefully marking their escutcheons. I have become satisfied that M. Guénon's discovery is one of great merit, and can be relied upon as true. I have no doubt that I can judge very nearly as to the quantity and quality of the milk any cow will give at the height of her flow, and also the time she will continue in milk after being with calf. “I have read with great satisfaction M. Guénon's work on Milch Cows, by which one can judge by certain infallible signs the milking qualities of the animal. I have compared the marks he gives for his first-grade Flanders cow, and find they correspond with the escutcheon of my favorite Devon cow `Ellen,' that has taken the first premium at two cattle-shows of the American Institute. My farmer has great faith in M. Guénon's work, and so has one of my neighbors, a knowing Scotch milkman, who keeps fifty cows. He says that, after careful examination, he places confidence in these marks, and they will govern him in his future purchases. I shall hereafter make my selection of the calves I will raise from my choice stocks from the marks given by this author. I think every farmer should own this work. “Having had experience in raising cows, I was pleased to find a treatise on the subject by M. Guénon, of Libourne, in France—which I procured and carefully studied. I think the book more worthy of attention than I believe it has received. I found that his marks of the particular classes and orders of cows agree with nearly all I have had an opportunity to examine. It is easy to ascertain, after studying this book, to which class and order almost every cow belongs, which, as a guide in purchasing milch cows, or of safely deciding which to keep, before we have had time or opportunity to test their qualities as milkers, will far more than repay the price of the book, and the time necessary to a clear understanding of it.
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5Author:  Trowbridge J. T. (John Townsend) 1827-1916Requires cookie*
 Title:  Coupon bonds, and other stories  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Reverend and dear Sir: — We have made all the arrangements. The Ex. is all right. You preach for Selwyn at Longtrot, on Sunday, the 7th.
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6Author:  Wallace Lew 1827-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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7Author:  Phelps Elizabeth Stuart 1844-1911Requires cookie*
 Title:  The gates ajar  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: ONE week; only one week to-day, this twenty-first of February. My dear Child, — I have been thinking how happy you will be by and by because Roy is happy.
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8Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S— calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I, glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants! Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal. Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject, since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps, still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep, after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent. It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers, poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands. Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess, tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived— if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take my hand when you meet me. That moment will decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot 11 explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad, a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you— lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion. Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I, and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day. Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine? Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude —in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference to associating with friends and companions—in writing, spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own, only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance, but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde, you know me better than those who see me every day. My most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I, perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well. Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation may be removed or lessened?
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9Author:  Evans Augusta J. (Augusta Jane) 1835-1909Requires cookie*
 Title:  St. Elmo  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it, the day would inevitably come when you would regret its premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level, the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic priests. Remember that women never write histories nor epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;' though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle, or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter. I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always, and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning, and I shall know that you are my own dear, little Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling! you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder, I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage of them and thrust myself into your presence without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility of meeting me. You, who know something of my wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked, that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not, shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview! Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again. Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend together in this world.
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