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161Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts  
 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: My father was Cornelius Littlepage, of Satanstoe, in the county of West Chester, and State of New York; and my mother was Anneke Mordaunt, of Lilacsbush, a place long known by that name, which still stands near Kingsbridge, but on the island of Manhattan, and consequently in one of the wards of New York, though quite eleven miles from town. I shall suppose that my readers know the difference between the Island of Manhattan, and Manhattan Island; though I have found soi-disant Manhattanese, of mature years, but of alien birth, who had to be taught it. Lilacsbush, I repeat therefore, was on the Island of Manhattan, eleven miles from town, though in the city of New York, and not on Manhattan Island.
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162Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts  
 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: For the first half hour after I left Ursula Malbone's hut, I was literally unconscious of whither I was going, or of what I was about. I can recollect nothing but having passed quite near to the Onondago, who appeared desirous of speaking to me, but whom I avoided by a species of instinct rather than with any design. In fact, fatigue first brought me fairly to my senses. I had wandered miles and miles, plunging deeper and deeper into the wilds of the forest, and this without any aim, or any knowledge of even the direction in which I was going. Night soon came to cast its shadows on the earth, and my uncertain course was held amid the gloom of the hour, united to those of the woods. I had wearied myself by rapid walking over the uneven surface of the forest, and finally threw myself on the trunk of a fallen tree, willing to take some repose. “As you have often professed a strong regard for me, I now put you to the proof of the sincerity of your protestations. My dear uncle goes to your father, whom I only know by report, to demand the release of Major Littlepage, who, we hear, is a prisoner in the hands of your family, against all law and right. As it is possible the business of uncle Chainbearer will be disagreeable to Thousandacres, and that warm words may pass between them, I ask of your friendship some efforts to keep the peace; and, particularly, should anything happen to prevent my uncle from returning, that you would come to me in the woods—for I shall accompany the chainbearer to the edge of your clearing— and let me know it. You will find me there, attended by one of the blacks, and we can easily meet if you cross the fields in an eastern direction, as I will send the negro to find you and to bring you to me.
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163Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The redskins, or, Indian and Injin  
 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: My uncle Ro and myself had been travelling together in the East, and had been absent from home fully five years, when we reached Paris. For eighteen months neither of us had seen a line from America, when we drove through the barriers, on our way from Egypt, via Algiers, Marseilles, and Lyons. Not once, in all that time, had we crossed our own track, in a way to enable us to pick up a straggling letter; and all our previous precautions to have the epistles meet us at different bankers in Italy, Turkey, and Malta, were thrown away.
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164Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter  
 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: We have heard of those who fancied that they beheld a signal instance of the hand of the Creator in the celebrated cataract of Niagara. Such instances of the power of sensible and near objects to influence certain minds, only prove how much easier it is to impress the imaginations of the dull with images that are novel, than with those that are less apparent, though of infinitely greater magnitude. Thus, it would seem to be strange, indeed, that any human being should find more to wonder at in any one of the phenomena of the earth, than in the earth itself; or, should specially stand astonished at the might of Him who created the world, when each night brings into view a firmament studded with other worlds, each equally the work of His hands!
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165Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter  
 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: When the bee hunter and corporal Flint thus went forth at midnight, from the “garrison” of Castle Meal, (chateau au miel,) as the latter would have expressed it, it was with no great apprehension of meeting any other than a four-footed enemy, notwithstanding the blast of the horn the worthy corporal supposed he had heard. The movements of the dog seemed to announce such a result rather than any other, for Hive was taken along as a sort of guide. Le Bourdon, however, did not permit his mastiff to run off wide, but, having the animal at perfect command, it was kept close to his own person.
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166Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The sea lions, or, The lost sealers  
 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: While there is less of that high polish in America that is obtained by long intercourse with the great world, than is to be found in nearly every European country, there is much less positive rusticity also. There, the extremes of society are widely separated, repelling rather than attracting each other; while among ourselves, the tendency is to gravitate towards a common centre. Thus it is, that all things in America become subject to a mean law that is productive of a mediocrity which is probably much above the average of that of most nations; possibly of all, England excepted; but which is only a mediocrity, after all. In this way, excellence in nothing is justly appreciated, nor is it often recognised; and the suffrages of the nation are pretty uniformly bestowed on qualities of a secondary class. Numbers have sway, and it is as impossible to resist them in deciding on merit, as it is to deny their power in the ballot-boxes; time alone, with its great curative influence, supplying the remedy that is to restore the public mind to a healthful state, and give equally to the pretender and to him who is worthy of renown, his proper place in the pages of history.
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167Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Requires cookie*
 Title:  The sea lions, or, The lost sealers  
 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: Roswell was hardly on the ice before a sound of a most portentous sort reached his ear. He knew at once that the field had been rent in twain by outward pressure, and that some new change was to occur that might release or might destroy the schooner. He was on the point of springing forward in order to join Daggett, when a call from the boat arrested his steps.
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168Author:  Penfeather Amabel pseudRequires cookie*
 Title:  Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge  
 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: Had there been a predecessor of Mr. Downing in the country, some five-and-twenty years since, to criticise Wyllys-Roof, the home of our friend Elinor, his good taste would no doubt have suggested many improvements, not only in the house itself, but also in the grounds which surrounded it. The building had been erected long before the first Tudor cottage was transported, Loretto-like, across the Atlantic, and was even anterior to the days of Grecian porticoes. It was a comfortable, sensible-looking place, however, such as were planned some eighty or a hundred years since, by men who had fortune enough to do as they pleased, and education enough to be quite superior to all pretension. The house was a low, irregular, wooden building, of ample size for the tastes and habits of its inmates, with broad piazzas, which not only increased its dimensions, but added greatly to the comfort and pleasure of the family by whom it was occupied. “You will be glad to hear that Jane passed the barriers, this morning, with the Howards. She has just finished a letter to Mrs. Graham; and, as she dislikes writing so much, has given me leave to announce her arrival to all at Wyllys-Roof. As Jane enters Paris on one side, I leave it in the opposite direction, for, the day after to-morrow, I am off for Constantinople; a movement which will, no doubt, astonish you, though, I am sure, you will wish me joy of such pleasant prospects. This letter will probably be the last you will hear of me, for some time; not but what I shall write as usual, but these long overland mails, through countries where they suspect revolution or plague, in every letter, often fail to do their duty. In fact, I delayed my journey a week or two, expressly to see Jane, and have a good supply of Longbridge news before setting out. Everybody tells me, I must expect to lose more than half my letters, both ways. This is bad enough, to be sure; but a journey to Greece and Constantinople, would be too full of delights, without some serious drawback. I believe Jane is more tired by answering our questions, and hearing what we have to tell her, than by her voyage. I cannot help wishing, my dear Elinor, that it were you who had arrived in Paris, instead of our pretty little cousin. How I should delight in showing you my favourite view, the quais and the island, from the Pont Royal—the Louvre, too, and the Madeleine. As for Jane, she will, doubtless, find her chief pleasures at Delilles', and the Tuileries — buying finery, and showing it off: it has often puzzled me to find out which some ladies most enjoy. “You have been so kind to me, ever since we moved into your neighbourhood, that I hope you will excuse me for asking your assistance, this morning. I have been a good deal plagued in my kitchen ever since we came into the country this spring. My cook and chamber-maid, who are sisters, are always finding some excuse for wanting to go to the city; and last night they got a letter, or pretended to get one from New York, saying that their father was very sick; and as I didn't know but it might be true, I couldn't refuse them, and they have gone for a week—though I won't be sure it was not for a mere frolic. As it happened, Mr. Taylor and Adeline came back from Saratoga, last night, and brought a house-full of company with them; an old friend of mine whom I had not seen for years, and some new acquaintances of Adeline's. To make matters worse, my nurse, a faithful, good girl, who has lived with me for years, was taken sick this morning; and John, the waiter, had a quarrel with the coachman, and went off in a huff. You know such things always come together. So I have now only the coachman and his daughter, a little girl of twelve, in the house; happily they are both willing, and can do a little of everything. If you know of anybody that I can find to take the place of cook, or housemaid, I shall be truly obliged to you for giving the coachman their names and directions. “I feel unworthy of you, Elinor, and I cannot endure longer to deceive so generous a temper as yours. You must have remarked my emotion this morning—Miss Wyllys now knows all; I refer you to her. I shall never cease to reproach myself for my unpardonable ingratitude. But painful as it is to confess it, it would have been intolerable to play the hypocrite any longer, by continuing to receive proofs of kindness which I no longer deserve. It is my hope, that in time you will forgive me; though I shall never forgive myself. “I do not blame you—your conduct was but natural; one more experienced, or more prudent than myself, would probably have foreseen it. Had you left me in ignorance of the truth until too late, I should then have been miserable indeed. My aunt will take the first opportunity of letting our mutual friends know the position in which it is best we should continue for the future. May you be happy with Jane. “You will not receive this letter until you have reached the age of womanhood, years after your mother has been laid in her grave.
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169Author:  Penfeather Amabel pseudRequires cookie*
 Title:  Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is to be feared the reader will find fault with this chapter. But there is no remedy; he must submit quietly to a break of three years in the narrative: having to choose between the unities and the probabilities, we greatly preferred holding to the last. The fault, indeed, of this hiatus, rests entirely with the young folk of Longbridge, whose fortunes we have undertaken to follow; had they remained together, we should, of course, have been faithful to our duty as a chronicler; but our task was not so easy. In the present state of the world, people will move about—especially American people; and making no claim to ubiquity, we were obliged to wait patiently until time brought the wanderers back again, to the neighbourhood where we first made their acquaintance. Shortly after Jane's marriage, the whole party broke up; Jane and her husband went to New-Orleans, where Tallman Taylor was established as partner in a commercial house connected with his father. Hazlehurst passed several years in Mexico and South-America: an old friend of his father's, a distinguished political man, received the appointment of Envoy to Mexico, and offered Harry the post of Secretary of Legation. Hazlehurst had long felt a strong desire to see the southern countries of the continent, and was very glad of so pleasant an arrangement; he left his friend Ellsworth to practise law alone, and accompanied Mr. Henley, the Minister, to Mexico; and from thence removed, after a time, to Brazil. Charlie had been studying his profession in France and Italy, during the same period. Even Elinor was absent from home much more than usual; Miss Wyllys had been out of health for the last year or two; and, on her account, they passed their summers in travelling, and a winter in the West-Indies. At length, however, the party met again on the old ground; and we shall take up the thread of our narrative, during the summer in which the circle was re-united. It is to be hoped that this break in the movement of our tale will be forgiven, when we declare, that the plot is about to thicken; perplexities, troubles, and misfortunes are gathering about our Longbridge friends; a piece of intelligence which will probably cheer the reader's spirits. We have it on the authority of a philosopher, that there is something gratifying to human nature in the calamities of our friends; an axiom which seems true, at least, of all acquaintances made on paper. “It may appear presumptuous in one unknown to you, to address you on a subject so important as that which is the theme of this epistle; but not having the honour of your acquaintance, I am compelled by dire necessity, and the ardent feelings of my heart, to pour forth on paper the expression of the strong admiration with which you have inspired me. Lovely Miss Wyllys, you are but too well known to me, although I scarcely dare to hope that your eye has rested for a moment on the features of your humble adorer. I am a European, one who has moved in the first circles of his native land, and after commencing life as a military man, was compelled by persecution to flee to the hospitable shores of America. Chequered as my life has been, happy, thrice happy shall I consider it, if you will but permit me to devote its remaining years to your service! Without your smiles, the last days of my career will be more gloomy than all that have gone before. But I cannot believe you so cruel, so hard-hearted, as to refuse to admit to your presence, one connected with several families of the nobility and gentry in the north of England, merely because the name of Horace de Vere has been sullied by appearing on the stage. Let me hope—” “If the new store, being erected on your lot in Market-Street, between Fourth and Fifth, is not already leased, you will confer an obligation if you will let us know to whom we must apply for terms, &c., &c. The location and premises being suitable, we should be glad to rent. The best of references can be offered on our part. “When shall we see you at Bloomingdale? You are quite too cruel, to disappoint us so often; we really do not deserve such shabby treatment. Here is the month of June, with its roses, and strawberries, and ten thousand other sweets, and among them you must positively allow us to hope for a visit from our very dear friends at Wyllys-Roof. Should your venerable grandpapa, or my excellent friend, Miss Wyllys be unhappily detained at home, as you feared, do not let that be the means of depriving us of your visit. I need not say that William would be only too happy to drive you to Bloomingdale, at any time you might choose; but if that plan, his plan, should frighten your propriety, I shall be proud to take charge of you myself. Anne is not only pining for your visit, but very tired of answering a dozen times a day, her brother's questions, `When shall we see Miss Wyllys?'—`Is Miss Wyllys never coming?' “My mother wishes me to thank you myself, for your last act of goodness to us—but I can never tell you all we feel on the subject. My dear mother cried with joy all the evening, after she had received your letter. I am going to school according to your wish, as soon as mother can spare me, and I shall study very hard, which will be the best way of thanking you. The music-master says he has no doubt but I can play well enough to give lessons, if I go on as well as I have in the last year; I practise regularly every day. Mother bids me say, that now she feels sure of my Vol. II. — 5 education for the next three years, one of her heaviest cares has been taken away: she says too, that although many friends in the parish have been very good to us, since my dear father was taken away from us, yet `no act of kindness has been so important to us, none so cheering to the heart of the widow and the fatherless, as your generous goodness to her eldest child;' these are her own words. Mother will write to you herself to-morrow. I thank you again, dear Miss Wyllys, for myself, and I remain, very respectfully and very gratefully, “I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, as my late father was not married to you when I went to sea, not long before his death. But I make no doubt that you will not refuse me my rights, now that I step forward to demand them, after leaving others to enjoy them for nearly eighteen years. Things look different to a man near forty, and to a young chap of twenty; I have been thinking of claiming my property for some time, but was told by lawyers that there was too many difficulties in the way, owing partly to my own fault, partly to the fault of others. As long as I was a youngster, I didn't care for anything but having my own way—I snapped my fingers at all the world; but now I am tired of a sea-faring life, and have had hardships enough for one man: since there is a handsome property mine, by right, I am resolved to claim it, through thick and thin. I have left off the bottle, and intend to do my best to be respectable for the rest of my days. I make no doubt but we shall be able to come to some agreement; nor would I object to a compromise for the past, though my lawyers advise me to make no such offer. I shall be pleased, Madam, to pay my respects to you, that we may settle our affairs at a personal meeting, if it suits you to do so. “I regret that I am compelled by the interests of my client, William Stanley, Esquire, to address a lady I respect so highly, upon a subject that must necessarily prove distressing to her, in many different ways.” “The letters addressed by you to Mrs. Stanley, Mr. Wyllys and myself, of the date of last Tuesday, have just reached us. I shall not dwell on the amazement which we naturally felt in receiving a communication so extraordinary, which calls upon us to credit the existence of an individual, whom we have every reason to believe has lain for nearly eighteen years at the bottom of the deep: it will be sufficient that I declare, what you are probably already prepared to hear, that we see no cause for changing our past opinions on this subject. We believe to-day, as we have believed for years, that William Stanley was drowned in the wreck of the Jefferson, during the winter of 181-. We can command to-day, the same proofs which produced conviction at the time when this question was first carefully examined. We have learned no new fact to change the character of these proofs. “I left home, as everybody knows, because I would have my own way in everything. It was against my best interests to be sure, but boys don't think at such times, about anything but having their own will. I suppose that every person connected with my deceased father knows, that my first voyage was made to Russia, in the year 18—, in the ship Dorothy Beck, Jonas Thomson, Master. I was only fourteen years old at the time. My father had taken to heart my going off, and when I came back from Russia he was on the look-out, wrote to me and sent me money, and as soon as he heard we were in port he came after me. Well, I went back with the old gentleman; but we had a quarrel on the road, and I put about again and went to New Bedford, where I shipped in a whaler. We were out only eighteen months, and brought in a full cargo. This time I went home of my own accord, and I staid a great part of one summer. I did think some of quitting the seas; but after a while things didn't work well, and one of my old shipmates coming up into the country to see me, I went off with him. This time I shipped in the Thomas Jefferson, for China. This was in the year 1814, during the last war, when I was about eighteen. Most people, who know anything about William Stanley, think that was the last of him, that he never set foot on American ground again; but they are mistaken, as he himself will take the pains to show. So far I have told nothing but what everybody knows, but now I am going to give a short account of what has happened, since my friends heard from me. Well; the Jefferson sailed, on her voyage to China, in October; she was wrecked on the coast of Africa in December, and it was reported that all hands were lost: so they were, all but one, and that one was William Stanley. I was picked up by a Dutchman, the barque William, bound to Batavia. I kept with the Dutchman for a while, until he went back to Holland. After I had cut adrift from him, I fell in with some Americans, and got some old papers; in one of them I saw my father's second marriage. I knew the name of the lady he had married, but I had never spoken to her. The very next day, one of the men I was with, who came from the same part of the country, told me of my father's death, and said it was the common talk about the neighbourhood, that I was disinherited. This made me very angry; though I wasn't much surprised, after what had passed. I was looking out for a homeward-bound American, to go back, and see how matters stood, when one night that I was drunk, I was carried off by an English officer, who made out I was a runaway. For five years I was kept in different English men-of-war, in the East Indies; at the end of that time I was put on board the Ceres, sloop of war, and I made out to desert from her at last, and got on board an American. I then came home; and here, the first man that I met on shore was Billings, the chap who first persuaded me to go to sea: he knew all about my father's family, and told me it was true I was cut off without a cent, and that Harry Hazlehurst had been adopted by my father. This made me so mad, that I went straight to New Bedford, and shipped in the Sally Andrews, for a whaling voyage. Just before we were to have come home, I exchanged into another whaler, as second-mate, for a year longer. Then I sailed in a Havre liner, as foremast hand, for a while. I found out about this time, that the executors of my father's estate had been advertising for me shortly after his death, while I was in the East Indies; and I went to a lawyer in Baltimore, where I happened to be, and consulted him about claiming the property; but he wouldn't believe a word I said, because I was half-drunk at the time, and told me that I should get in trouble if I didn't keep my mouth shut. Well, I cruized about for a while longer, when at last I went to Longbridge, with some shipmates. I had been there often before, as a lad, and I had some notion of having a talk with Mr. Wyllys, my father's executor; I went to his house one day, but I didn't see him. One of my shipmates, who knew something of my story, and had been a client of Mr. Clapp's, advised me to consult him. I went to his office, but he sent me off like the Baltimore lawyer, because he thought I was drunk. Three years after that I got back to Longbridge again, with a shipmate; but it did me no good, for I got drinking, and had a fit of the horrors. That fit sobered me, though, in the end; it was the worst I had ever had; I should have hanged myself, and there would have been an end of William Stanley and his hard rubs, if it hadn't been for the doctor— I never knew his name, but Mr. Clapp says it was Dr. Van Horne. After this bad fit, they coaxed me into shipping in a temperance whaler. While I was in the Pacific, in this ship, nigh three years, and out of the reach of drink, I had time to think what a fool I had been all my life, for wasting my opportunities. I thought there must be some way of getting back my father's property; Mr. Clapp had said, that if I was really the man I pretended to be, I must have some papers to make it out; but if I hadn't any papers, he couldn't help me, even if I was William Stanley forty times over. It is true, I couldn't show him any documents that time, for I didn't have them with me at Longbridge; but I made up my mind, while I was out on my last voyage, that as soon as I got home, I would give up drinking, get my papers together, and set about doing my best to get back my father's property. We came home last February; I went to work, I kept sober, got my things together, put money by for a lawyer's fee, and then went straight to Longbridge again. I went to Mr. Clapp's office, and first I handed him the money, and then I gave him my papers. I went to him, because he had treated me better than any other lawyer, and told me if I was William Stanley, and could prove it, he could help me better than any other man, for he knew all about my father's will. Well, he hadn't expected ever to see me again; but he heard my story all out this time, read the documents, and at last believed me, and undertook the case. The rest is known to the executors and legatee by this time; and it is to be hoped, that after enjoying my father's estate for nigh twenty years, they will now make it over to his son. “Our application to the family physician proves entirely successful, my dear Hazlehurst; my physiological propensities were not at fault. I had a letter last evening from Dr. H—, who now lives in Baltimore, and he professes himself ready to swear to the formation of young Stanley's hands and feet, which he says resembled those of Mr. Stanley, the father, and the three children, who died before William S. grew up. His account agrees entirely with the portrait of the boy, as it now exists at Wyllys-Roof; the arms and hands are long, the fingers slender, nails elongated; as you well know, Mr. Clapp's client is the very reverse of this—his hands are short and thick, his fingers what, in common parlance, would be called dumpy. I was struck with the fact when I first saw him in the street. Now, what stronger evidence could we have? A slender lad of seventeen may become a heavy, corpulent man of forty, but to change the formation of hands, fingers, and nails, is beyond the reach of even Clapp's cunning. We are much obliged to the artist, for his accuracy in representing the hands of the boy exactly as they were. This testimony I look upon as quite conclusive. As to the Rev. Mr. G—, whose pupil young Stanley was for several years, we find that he is no longer living; but I have obtained the names of several of the young man's companions, who will be able to confirm the fact of his dullness; several of the professors at the University are also living, and will no doubt be able to assist us. I have written a dozen letters on these points, but received no answers as yet. So far so good; we shall succeed, I trust. Mr. Wyllys bids you not forget to find out if Clapp has really been at Greatwood, as we suspected. The ladies send you many kind and encouraging messages. Josephine, as usual, sympathizes in all our movements. She says: `Give Mr. Hazlehurst all sorts of kind greetings from me; anything you please short of my love, which would not be proper, I suppose.' I had a charming row on the river last evening, with the ladies. I never managed a law-suit in such agreeable quarters before. We are greatly distressed by a melancholy accident which befell us scarce an hour since. The Petrel capsized; most of our party are safe; but two of my friends are gone, Hazlehurst and Hubbard! You will understand our grief; mine especially! We shall return immediately.
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170Author:  Davis Charles Augustus 1795-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Letters of J. Downing, major, Downingville militia, Second brigade, to his old friend, Mr. Dwight, of the New-York daily advertiser  
 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: FROM THE NEW-YORK DAILY ADVERTISER.
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171Author:  Duganne A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey) 1823-1884Requires cookie*
 Title:  The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude  
 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 a bitter night in December. The wind howled round the streets and lanes of Boston, entering every crevice, and penetrating, with cutting severity, the frail abodes of poverty, making the shivering tenant draw closer round the dim fire, or crawl beneath the thin covering of his miserable bed. The rich felt it, too!—it swept down the Backbay, and whistled round the trees of the Common—it murmured hoarsely as it blew adown Beacon Street, and rattled the windows, and caused the vanes to creak.—Yes, the rich felt it,—but they felt it, as we perceive the acid in our food, only to enjoy the sweetness more. Stretched on their downy beds, or dozing over their sea-coal fires, they thought not of the houseless and the wanderer, or, if they did, 'twas but to mutter “Poor wretches,” and turn again to their downy slumbers. —for you are still dear to me: I am unjustly suspected, and the time will come when it shall appear so. I can no longer serve you, or be an inmate of your family. Circumstances are against me, but I cannot explain them. I cannot remain. I throw myself again upon the world. May heaven bless you and your family. My dear Brother:—Providence has seen fit to afflict us in a peculiar manner.— Our dear Fanny has been abducted; carried we know not whither. A message, purporting to be from Henry Fowler, came to her a few days since. The man who brought it gave her a locket from her brother and requesting her to meet him on the shore not a hundred rods from our house, and receive a letter from her brother. The thoughtless girl, without consulting me, repaired there. Lucia accompanied her. She will tell you the rest. My poor Fanny! I can write no more. Will you use every means to regain her. Lucia tells me that Richard Martin, your clerk, was there.
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172Author:  Dunlap William 1766-1839Requires cookie*
 Title:  Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker  
 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: Whoever has been in the city of New-York, the great centre of the commerce of the western world, must remember the marble front of the hall of justice, or City Hall. Standing on the highest ground which the democratic system of filling up hollows by levelling hills, or lifting the low by removing the superfluity of the high, has left to the great commercial metropolis. Lifting its stainless face in the midst of catalpas and elms, poplars and sycamores, the pride of our forests, this structure, towers,—like the protecting genius of the land, inviting strangers to take shelter under the guardianship of law, and promising protection to the oppressed of all nations.
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173Author:  Dunlap William 1766-1839Requires cookie*
 Title:  Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker  
 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 wretched Williams, a slave to sensuality, and involved in a labyrinth by his own practices, lived in perpetual fear of losing the reward of his meanness; of being exposed to infamy by the disclosure of that transaction which had given him the means of indulgence. He feared to thwart the perverted inclinations, or the frenzied whims, of his partner. She had been long convinced that his professions of love had been false, and that she had cause for jealousy. She knew, however, that her hold upon him, that grasp which gave her power, was the secret: and she had cunning enough, even in her moments of passion or of voluntary madness, to preserve unbroken the bonds by which she controlled him. She suspended over his coward head the lash he feared. Often she appeared to triumph in the power she possessed, and, in part, revealed the cause. The ungentlemanly epithets you thought proper to use in addressing me last evening at the theatre were passed over, at the time, to avoid a disturbance in a public place, but they require an ample apology. I take this method of informing you who I am and where I am to be found, rather than, in the first place, to trouble a friend. I shall be at home to-morrrow at eleven o'clock, A. M. My late husband, after being sick ever since last August, during which time I had to support him and my poor little ones, was taken from me by death, leaving me without any fuel for this cold winter weather, and my clothes sold and pawned to give him necessaries and bury him. I and my poor children are in a state of starvation. I can't work, for the rheumatism has taken away the use of my limbs: and for the same reason I can't go to the Alderman for help. I send this by a neighbour's child, humbly begging your advice and assistance, as I know, from an acquaintance of an acquaintance of poor sick Mrs. Kent, that you are always ready to help the unfortunate. I hope to see you, dear Miss, as soon as possible, at No. 356 Mott-street. Sir:—I have to apologise for not meeting you at the Albany Coffee-house at the time appointed. I was called to this city on an affair that did not admit of delay. I will be in New-York on any appointed day, previous to my departure for Europe, if it shall be necessary. My friend Thomas Beaglehole, Esq. is intrusted with the adjustment of our affair, and has received my instructions. He will wait upon your friend and receive your determination. If he satisfied, I am: otherwise, on receiving a line from him, I shall wait upon you with all speed.
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174Author:  Fairfield Sumner Lincoln 1803-1844Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Last Night of Pompeii  
 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 
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175Author:  Cox William d. 1851?Requires cookie*
 Title:  Crayon sketches  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is a wholesome thing to be what is commonly termed “kicked about the world.” Not literally “kicked”—not forcibly propelled by innumerable feet from village to village, from town to town, or from country to country, which can be neither wholesome nor agreeable; but knocked about, tossed about, irregularly jostled over the principal portions of the two hemispheres; sleeping hard and soft, living well when you can, and learning to take what is barely edible and potable ungrumblingly when there is no help for it. Certes, the departure from home and old usages is any thing but pleasant, especially at the outset. It is a sort of secondary “weaning” which the juvenile has to undergo; but like the first process, he is all the healthier and hardier when it is over. In this way, it is a wholesome thing to be tossed about the world. To form odd acquaintance in ships, on the decks of steam boats and tops of coaches; to pick up temporary companions on turnpikes or by hedge-sides; to see humanity in the rough, and learn what stuff life is made of in different places; to mark the shades and points of distinction in men, manners, customs, cookery, and other important matters as you stroll along. What an universal toleration it begets! How it improves and enlarges a man's physical and intellectual tastes and capacities! How diminutively local and ridiculously lilliputian seem his former experiences! He is now no longer bigotted to a doctrine or a dish, but can fall in with one, or eat of the other, however strange and foreign, with a facility that is truly comfortable and commendable: always, indeed, excepting, such doctrines as affect the feelings and sentiments, which he should ever keep “garner'd up” in his “heart of hearts;” and also, always excepting the swallowing of certain substances, so very peculiar in themselves, and so strictly national, that the undisciplined palate of the foreigner instinctively and utterly rejects them, such as the frog of your Frenchman— the garlic of your Spaniard—the compounds termed sausages of your Cockney—the haggis of your Scotchman—the train-oil of your Russian.
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176Author:  Cox William d. 1851?Requires cookie*
 Title:  Crayon sketches  
 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 few places are the “lights and shadows” of life more strongly and vividly contrasted than in the streets of a great metropolis; where bloated wealth and hollow-eyed poverty trudge side by side, and gay, fluttering vanity and squalid wretchedness gaze strangely at each other. It is dramatic, but unpleasant; at least until custom has produced the callousness of heart requisite to enable a man to look philosophically on all human sorrow, save his own peculiar portion. Before he has arrived at this state, however, a stroll through the streets of a crowded city is apt to be uncommonly beneficial. It generates a series of practical sermons, for which every poor distressed object furnishes an eloquent text, tending to inculcate gratitude for his own station, charity for the miseries, and toleration for the frailties of others. A back street in London shows a man a few of the realities of life. To use a pugilistic phrase, “it takes the conceit out of him.” I am sometimes sorrier for my own disappointments than for any person's; and occasionally pity and indulge in the tenderest and most delicate sympathy imaginable towards myself, on account of any trivial inconvenience or privation to which I may happen to be subjected; but I have never entered a London by-lane in this frame of mind without walking out “a wiser and a sadder man” at the other end.” There is a vast deal of difference between fanciful or poetical unhappiness and harsh prose misery—plain, unvarnished, substantial misery, arising from tangible wants and physical sufferings. It is too much the fashion of the world to exaggerate and swell into undue importance half real and half imaginary mental woes, and to sneer at and undervalue common bodily evils. Your young poets and lady poetesses (heaven bless them!) and indeed all persons of genteel sensibilities, are continually plunging into the extreme depths of desolation on what would appear to a common-sense man rather insufficient grounds. But going arithmetically to work, it will be a tolerably-sized grief which produces as much pain as a prolonged, stinging tooth-ache; and six-and-thirty hours, or upwards, without victuals, must be almost as bad to bear as slighted love, notwithstanding the assertions of sensitive young ladies (who have chicken at command) to the contrary. Indeed, it has always struck me that going without a dinner must be provocative of a vast deal of pathos; and that it is rather unfair to make such an outcry about “woes that rend the breast,” while the pangs and twinges of the contiguous parts of the body, on a descending scale, are never taken into consideration by those who have never felt them. If this view of things be correct—and it is correct—how much intense suffering does the blessed sun look down upon every day! Ah! who that has seen the gaunt, shrivelled frame—the sharpened features—the bloodless, compressed lips, and sunken greedy eye which famine produces, but has felt sick at heart, and inwardly prayed to be preserved, above all things, from inanition. The omission of even such commonplace things as victuals, will, in an astonishingly short time, convince the most wretchedly romantic youth that ever fell in love, folded his arms, and turned his face moonwards, of the excellent properties, moral and physical, of a beef-steak.
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177Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Requires cookie*
 Title:  Norman Leslie  
 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: A brilliant January morning broke over the beautiful city of New-York. Her two magnificent rivers came sweeping and sparkling down into her immense bay, which, bound in like a lake on every side with circling shores, rolled and flashed in the unclouded sunshine. The town itself rose directly from the bosom of the flood, presenting a scene of singular splendour, which, when the western continent shall be better known to European tourists, will be acknowledged to lose nothing by comparison with the picturesque views of Florence or Naples. Her tapering spires, her domes, cupolas, and housetops, her forest of crowded masts, lay bristling and shining in the transparent atmosphere, and beneath a heaven of deep and unstained blue. The lovely waters which washed three sides of the city were covered with ships of all forms, sizes, and nations; delighting the eye with images of grace, animation, and grandeur. Huge vessels of merchandise lay at rest, in large numbers, all regularly swayed round from their anchors into a uniform position by the heavy tide setting from the rivers to the sea. Others, leaning to the wind, their swollen and snowy canvass broadly spread for their flight over the vast ocean, bounded forward, like youth, bright and confident against the future. Some, entering sea-beaten and weary from remote parts of the globe, might be likened, by the contemplative, to age and wisdom, pitying their bold compeers about to encounter the roar and storm from which they themselves were so glad to escape: and yet, to carry the simile further, even as the human mind, which experience does not always enlighten or adversity subdue, ready, after a brief interval of idleness and repose, to forget the past, and refit themselves for enterprise and danger. Hundreds, whose less perilous duties lay within the gates of the harbour, plied to and fro in every direction, crossing and recrossing each other, and enlivening with delightful animation the broad and busy scene. Of these small craft, indeed, the waves were for ever whitened with an incredible number, in the midst of which thundered heavily the splendid and enormous steamers, beautifully formed to shoot through the flood with arrowy swiftness, their clean bright colours shining in the sun, bearing sometimes a thousand persons on excursions of business and pleasure, spouting forth fire and steam like the monstrous dragons of fable, and leaving long tracks of smoke on the blue heaven. Among other evidences of a great maritime power, reposed several giant vessels of war,—those stern, tremendous messengers of the deep, formed to waft, on the wings of heaven, the thunderbolt of death across the solemn world of waters; but now lying, like fortresses, motionless on the tide, and ready to bear over the globe the friendly pledges or the grave demands of a nation which, in the recollection of some of its surviving citizens, was a submissive colony, without power and without a name. You might deem the magnificent city, thus extended upon the flood, Venice, when that wonderful republic held the commerce of the world. In a greater degree, indeed, than London, notwithstanding the superior amount of shipping possessed by the latter, New-York at first strikes the stranger entering into its harbour with signs of commercial prosperity and wealth. In the mighty British metropolis, the vessels lie locked in dockyards, or half buried under fog and smoke. The narrow Thames presents little more than that portion actually in motion; and, in a sail from Margate to town, the vast number are seen only in succession; but here, the whole crowded, broad, and moving panorama breaks at once upon the eye; and through a perfectly pure and bright atmosphere, nothing can be more striking and exquisite.
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178Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Requires cookie*
 Title:  Norman Leslie  
 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: “Hush!” cried the nurse, “he sleeps.”
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179Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Requires cookie*
 Title:  Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres  
 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 a gloomy and cheerless day in November, anno domini 18—, that two ill-clad men were seen to enter one of those minor houses of entertainment which abound in certain localities in the city of New-York. “The insult offered me this morning can only be atoned by affording me the satisfaction due to a gentleman. My friend Piercie Matthison, Esq. the bearer of this, will arrange the necessary details on my part. “Why, oh why am I not permitted an interview on which the whole happiness of my future life depends? Can it be that the lovely and just being whose partiality and goodness hesitated to chide my presumption in tendering vows of love and fidelity, has joined the censorious and heartless world in imputing to me crimes at which my soul recoils? No, no; it cannot be; and yet thrice have I called at your residence without succeeding in obtaining an audience; and when I made the last abortive effort this afternoon, although your matchless form was seen gliding from my sight, yet your servant stated that you were not at home. How then am I to account for this prostration of my dearest hopes? Surely none of Mr. Elwell's family can bear me ill-will, for with none have I the pleasure of an acquaintance, unless that might be termed such which was caused by my introduction to Miss Helen through yourself at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée. Alas, a sudden light bursts on my vision, by whose glare I perceive the unwelcome truth. The rival whose malice has wrought the meshes of the fatal web in which my character is ensnared, has, by some cunningly-devised fable, forced an unwilling conviction of my baseness on your mind; or, what is more probable, has so prejudiced your relatives that they have directed the servant to deny me the happiness of personally exculpating myself from the charges preferred against me. “the riter of these lines happins to bee an unfortunit yuth whu wuld hav bin onnist and industrus if hee hadn't hav bin siddused bi bad cumpennee and got intu scrapes in that are way. now the reesun that i rite this is to tel yu as hou mister sidnee Cliftin has bin usin yur name pruttee cunsidderablee, up to the blak hoal, as wee cal it, whear wee pla lew and wist, and rolet, not to say nothin about a tuch of farrow, and so on. in this hear way, yu sea, mister Sidnee clifton got us al inter trubble last nite; for, ses hee, arter hee had drinked plentee of shampane, slappin his phist on the tabel, ses hee, dam the man as ses Julee borodel ain't the bootifoolest, and the hansimest, and the charminist gal in al york; hear, ses hees, hur helth, and ile cramm the glas doun annee rascils throte what won't go the hoal bumpur. So, yu sea, one uf our larks ses, ses hee, Mistir cliftin, yu can't stuf yur gals doun mi throte, no hou yu can ficks it. ime a sutthern chap, ses hee; so, stranngir, yur barkin up the rong tree. yu think yuv got a grean horn; but mi iis, ses hee, ime a rale missisipee roarer, tru grit to the bak boan. i doan't car a curs for all yur Julees nor Julise. So, yu sea, the fite wus in, and sum won called wach, and the wach cum, and wee was al captivated like innersint lams. nou i thot that yu shuld no hou yur name was insultid, bein as hou ime told yu are a nise yung ladee: so notthin moar at prissint, but rimmains yurs til deth. “How can I convey the sad intelligence of an event which has shipwrecked every hope connected with you and happiness? Briefly, then:—in a fatal hour I consented to a hostile meeting with Mr. Julius Ellingbourne this morning, and the result is, that my antagonist at this moment lies mortally wounded at his lodgings, in the Astor House. That I am in the toils of a most foul and deep-laid conspiracy against my character; that this rash meeting has, in its consequences, severed every hope I might otherwise have entertained of exculpating myself in the opinion of the world; that I have been goaded on by some fiend or fiends in human shape, who have too successfully accomplished my ruin: and that life will, hereafter, be a curse rather than a blessing, are truths which admit not of denial, but will never, I fear, be susceptible of satisfactory explanation. Farewell, then, my life, my love; a long, a last farewell. “Fatal Encounter.—Our readers will recollect the article published in our yesterday's edition, headed `Police Court—Capture extraordinary,' in which the arrest and examination of a knot of gamblers were stated, together with the fact that two citizens, hitherto considered respectable, one a clerk in an extensive mercantile establishment, and the other a gentleman of fashion, were implicated. Although, on that occasion, we were induced to suppress the names of the parties, from respect to the feelings of their friends, yet so public has the exposure become, in consequence of the events which have this morning transpired, that further concealment is neither possible nor expedient. It is therefore our duty, as public journalists, to state that the person first alluded to is Mr. Sydney Clifton, a confidential clerk in the counting-room of Messrs. De Lyle, Howard & Co., and that Julius Ellingbourne, Esquire, a gentleman so well and favourably known in the fashionable world, is the latter. It now appears that circumstances connected with the arrest of the parties led to a hostile meeting at Hoboken, early this morning, when Mr. Ellingbourne received the ball of Clifton in his side, near the region of the heart. From the extremely dangerous character of the wound, it is not expected that the life of Mr. Ellingbourne will be protracted many hours. Thus the vice of gaming, in which this young man indulged, has at length been followed by the commission of murder! What a warning does this fact convey to the youth of our city to abstain from the incipient stages of dissipation, in whose fatal vortex honour, integrity, and even life, are frequently ingulfed.”
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180Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Requires cookie*
 Title:  Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres  
 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 elder Mr. De Lyle, whose early attachment to Clifton was evinced by placing him in so favourable a situation in his counting-room, that, with ordinary application, he would speedily acquire all the knowledge requisite to success in mercantile pursuits, learned with the most poignant regret the conspicuous part assigned to his protegé, both in the offences connected with the gamblers, and the duel which succeeded. “Aware that you are on terms of familiar incourse with Mr. Edward De Lyle, I take the liberty of hinting that circumstances have occurred which may tend to inculpate either yourself or him before the public, in relation to transactions with which you are fully acquainted. “The writer of this note has, in happier hours, enjoyed brief opportunities of estimating the talents and virtues of Mr. Sydney Clifton. That the impressions left by the slight intercourse were highly flattering to Mr. C. may be inferred from the reception of this unusual solicitation for its renewal. When slander was busy with the name of Mr. Clifton, the writer, whose station in society is inferior to none, formed the bold plan of dragging forth his detractors from their hiding-places, and exposing their infamy to the eyes of an indignant world. Success having attended her efforts, she has visited England to lay her claims before him whose fair fame she can re-establish. Flattering herself that the deep interest thus manifested in Mr. Clifton's welfare will constitute some claims to his regard, the writer is now ready to communicate her knowledge if he feels disposed to make a corresponding return, by uniting his fate to hers for life. Lest the imagination of Mr. Clifton should picture his correspondent in the lineaments of age, it is proper to say that she has numbered fewer years than himself; and if the good-natured world has not descended to egregious flattery, is not deficient in personal attractions.
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