| | 321 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Mardi  | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | We were now voyaging straight for Maramma; where
lived and reigned, in mystery, the High Pontiff of the adjoining
isles: prince, priest, and god, in his own proper
person: great lord paramount over many kings in Mardi;
his hands full of scepters and crosiers. “Attend my lord:—`Anno Mardis 50,000,000, o. s.
I, Bardianna, of the island of Vamba, and village of the
same name, having just risen from my yams, in high health,
high spirits, and sound mind, do hereby cheerfully make and
ordain this my last will and testament. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 322 | Author: | Melville
Herman
1819-1891 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Redburn, his first voyage | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “Wellingborough, as you are going to sea, suppose you
take this shooting-jacket of mine along; it's just the thing
—take it, it will save the expense of another. You see,
it's quite warm; fine long skirts, stout horn buttons, and
plenty of pockets.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 325 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | You know, my dear Fritz, that I am not unused
to the handling of a glass; and that I have amused
myself for a considerable number of years in looking
about the world, as carelessly and freely as I
chose. Now, it has occurred to me, in the opening
of this new half-century, (may you live to the
end of it!) that in common justice, I ought to
make such return as lies in my power, by attempting
to amuse some little portion of that world,
which has so long and gratuitously amused me. Dear Sir,—I wish you would send me, soon as
convenient, the card of your friend Tophanes. I
think he must be a `stick;' and I rather imagine
he can give me the right sort of advice. For you
must know that I've been hanging on the town
nearly the whole winter, and yet the d—l of an
invitation have I got. With this, my dear Fritz, I leave you to your
quiet country avocations, until the mail of another
week shall light up your solitude with a glowing
No. V. It has been hinted to me that you are an old
friend of my former husband; if you are, I wish you
would do me the favor to call; any little remembrances
of the dear, good man are most satisfying.
I want to tell you, too, how much I approve your
work; your judicious remarks upon taste, I cannot
praise high enough. I have long felt the want of
just such a book as you propose. As for the polka,
you've said just what you ought to say; it's a positive
shame, the way our young folks do go on in
these matters! Only to think that my little cousin
Polly went so far the other evening as to lay her
head outright on a gentleman's shoulder, out of
sheer exhaustion; why, Sir, it made all the blood
boil in my body! I wish you would let me know who you are:—
do; I think I could give you some capital hints; you
know a lady knows a great deal that a gentleman
never can know, try as hard as he may. Besides,
I should like amazingly to dance a polka with you;
I know from the way you write about it, that you
must understand it a great deal better than the
fussy little fellows who almost pull me over, and
havn't got an idea of the spirit of the thing. A
lady wants some sort of support,—doesn't she? I
think you could give it, and not be pushing one
about against the wall-flowers, and getting dizzy
and stupid. Sir,—In some of your papers you have made
flippant, and I think I may say, indelicate allusions
to a Mr. Browne. A gentleman bearing
that name, though differently spelled, has called
my attention to the fact, and has consulted me
(an advocate and attorney at law) upon the propriety
of instituting an action for damages. “Mr. Timon:—I am astonished at you, my dear
sir; why do you speak so harshly of the town ladies,
and present them in so unfavorable lights?
I have been all along a most excellent friend to
your paper, and have, time and again, defended
you against most merciless assaults; but if you
do not speedily amend, and speak better of us, I
shall leave you to defend yourself. Dear Sir,—I do not know but a serious letter
will be out of place amid the ironical talk, and
only half-earnest tone of your paper; at any rate,
I have determined to tell you what I think and
feel—a thing I scarce ever do even to my husband.
For I have been married, you must know, nearly
three years; and for the last seven years we have
been trying (my Mamma and I) to `get up' in
New York society. And now (Papa got rich four
years ago last May) we have done it. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 326 | Author: | Mitchell
Donald Grant
1822-1908 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Well, Fritz, it is even true, that notwithstanding
my rusticity, I find myself approaching, little by
little, to a state of town domestication; and at the
earnest solicitation of my worthy bookseller, I am
led to resume my weekly observations, and even to
extend their influence, if influence they have, by
association with a large publishing house, which
will give to them a wide country circulation. It
is quite possible, therefore, that this may fall under
your eye at the house of your parson (if a liberal-minded
person), or of your village attorney (if a
man of progress), even before you shall have broken
my private seal. Mr. Timon:—I have read all you have written,
and like it very much. My mamma (for a wonder)
likes it too: so does Aunt Sophy. But they have
forbid my polking with strange gentlemen, at least
those who are introduced to me at the balls. Is
not this ridiculous?—one meets such nice young
men at the balls, and nowhere else! I wish you
would persuade mamma so; if you could, you
would greatly oblige your true friend, Sir:—I can't say that I like altogether the tone
of your remarks about Washingtonians. You
seem to have looked only at such stray individuals
as have lost character at home, (which it is
possible to do,) and gone to your city to set up.
As for the members, I shall not defend them, as
they are at best but a shabby set of fellows, who
bother us amazingly in the winter-time, and have
no more gratitude for favors, personal or domestic,
than so many office-holders. Here we are at length, and what a charming
place!—such trees, and dinners, and then the
bowling alley; (do you ever bowl?) if you do, get
a pair of those pretty gaiters at what-d'ye-call-him's.
Papa has taken two rooms for us in the
east wing, and Marie sleeps in a little alcove just
out of mine. The galleries stretch around inside
the wing, and several gentlemen—married gentlemen,
ma says—(but very handsome) pass very
often. You don't know how pleasant it is to sit in
the window, in that deshabille you said was so becoming.
Ma begins to think so too, for Miss Figgins
has got one just like it. My Dear Timon:—Though your paper has rarely
reached me, yet I have seen enough of its spirit,
to believe that some little account of my country
life will serve your turn, and give you some hints,
that you may possibly work over to good account. I
had made in town, by dint of jobbing, what they
call hereabouts a fortune; and not having gained
much footing in genteel society,—partly because
we didn't care about it, and partly because wife is
principled against low necks, and the opera, I determined
to set up in the country. A year ago I was married to a belle of the town,
and am beginning now fairly to sorrow over my
bargain: nor is this because she has lost her beauty;
for to tell the truth, I think she is more of a belle
now than ever; and is as complacent in her action
toward all the beaux, as I ever knew a woman in
my life. I can scarce come up a single day, from
my business in the city, but I meet her walking
with some spruce fellow of her acquaintance, with
whom she appears to be enjoying herself as well as
she ever did in my company. As you have taken upon yourself to be the censor
of modes and proprieties, which office I must
say, you have filled quite respectably so far, I want
to draw your attention to the developments in a
recent work by a distinguished lady, called (I speak
of the book, and not the lady)—Truth Stranger than
Fiction. Such barbarity as is disclosed in this
book, and such extraordinary defence as is made
of these barbarities, by the officers of a time-honored
Institution, ought to meet with a strong rebuke
from every humane person (as I think you
are) and to make every woman of maidenly
sentiments quiver with indignation and horror. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 327 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Charlotte | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “ARE you for a walk,” said Montraville to
his companion, as they arose from table;
“are you for a walk? or shall we order the chaise
and proceed to Portsmouth?” Belcour preferred
the former; and they sauntered out to view the town,
and to make remarks on the inhabitants, as they returned
from church. “As to-morrow is the anniversary of the happy
day that gave my beloved girl to the anxious wishes
of a maternal heart, I have requested your governess
to let you come home and spend it with us; and as
I know you to be a good affectionate child, and
make it your study to improve in those branches
of education which you know will give most
pleasure to your delighted parents, as a reward
for your diligence and attention I have prepared
an agreeable surprise for your reception. Your
grand-father, eager to embrace the darling of his
aged heart, will come in the chaise for you: so
hold yourself in readiness to attend him by nine
o'clock. Your dear father joins in every tender
wish for your health and future felicity, which
warms the heart of my dear Charlotte's affectionate
mother, And am I indeed fallen so low,” said Charlotte,
“as to be only pitied? Will the
voice of approbation no more meet my ear? and
shall I never again possess a friend, whose face will
wear a sinile of joy whenever I approach? Alas!
how thoughtless, how dreadfully imprudent have
I been! I know not which is most painful to endure,
the sneer of contempt, or the glance of compassion,
which is depicted in the various countenances of
my own sex: they are both equally humiliating.
Ah! my dear parents, could you now see the child
of your affections, the daughter whom you so dearly
loved, a poor solitary being, without society,
here wearing out her heavy hours in deep regret
and anguish of heart, no kind friend of her own sex
to whom she can unbosom her griefs, no beloved
mother, no woman of character will appear in my
company, and low as your Charlotte is fallen, she
cannot associate with infamy.” “Will my once kind, my ever beloved mother,
deign to receive a letter from her guilty, but
repentant child? or has she, justly incensed at my
ingratitude, driven the unhappy Charlotte from her
remembrance? Alas! thou much injured mother!
shouldst thou even disown me, I dare not complain,
because I know I have deserved it: but yet, believe
me, guilty as I am, and cruelly as I have disappointed
the hopes of the fondest parents, that ever
girl had, even in the moment when, forgetful of
my duty, I fled from you and happiness, even
then I loved you most, and my heart bled at the
thought of what you would suffer. Oh! never,
never! whilst I have existence, will the agony of
that moment be erased from my memory. It
seemed like the separation of soul and body. What
can I plead in excuse for my conduct? alas! nothing!
That I loved my seducer is but too true!
yet powerful as that passion is when operating in a
young heart glowing with sensibility, it never
would have conquered my affection to you, my
beloved parents, had I not been encouraged, nay,
urged to take the fatally imprudent step, by one of
my own sex, who, under the mask of friendship,
drew me on to ruin. Yet think not your Charlotte
was so lost as to voluntarily rush into a life
of infamy; no, my dear mother, deceived by the
specious appearance of my betrayer, and every
suspicion lulled asleep by the most solemn promises
of marriage, I thought not those promises would
so easily be forgotten. I never once reflected that
the man who could stoop to seduction, would not
hesitate to forsake the wretched object of his passion,
whenever his capricious heart grew weary of
her tenderness. When we arrived at this place,
I vainly expected him to fulfil his engagements,
but was at last fatally convinced he had never intended
to make me his wife, or if he had once
thought of it, his mind was now altered. I scorned
to claim from his humanity what I could not obtain
from his love: I was conscious of having forfeited
the only gem that could render me respectable
in the eye of the world. I locked my sorrows
in my own bosom, and bore my injuries in
silence. But how shall I proceed? This man,
this cruel Montraville, for whom I sacrificed honour,
happiness, and the love of my friends, no
longer looks on me with affection, but scorns the
credulous girl whom his art has made miserable.
Could you see me, my dear parents, without
society, without friends, stung with remorse, and
(I feel the burning blush of shame die my cheeks
while I write it) tortured with the pangs of disappointed
love; cut to the soul by the indifference
of him, who, having deprived me of every other
comfort, no longer thinks it worth his while to
sooth the heart where he has planted the thorn of
never-ceasing regret. My daily employment is to
think of you and weep, to pray for your happiness
and deplore my own folly: my nights are scarce
more happy, for if by chance I close my weary
eyes, and hope some small forgetfulness of sorrow,
some little time to pass in sweet oblivion, fancy,
still waking, wafts me home to you: I see your
beloved forms, I kneel and hear the blessed words
of peace and pardon. Extatic joy pervades my
soul; I reach my arms to catch your dear embraces;
the motion chases the illusive dream; I
wake to real misery. At other times I see my father
angry and frowning, point to horrid caves,
where, on the cold damp ground, in the agonies
of death, I see my dear mother and my revered
grand-father. I strive to raise you; you push me
from you, and shrieking cry—“Charlotte, thou
hast murdered me!” Horror and despair tear
exery tortured nerve; I start, and leave my restless
bed, weary and unrefreshed. “Though I have taken up my pen to address
you, my poor injured girl, I feel I am inadequate to
the task; yet, however painful the endeavour, I could
not resolve upon leaving you for ever without
one kind line to bid you adieu, to tell you how my
heart bleeds at the remembrance of what you was, before
you saw the hated Montraville. Even now imagination
paints the scene, when, torn by contending
passions, when, struggling between love and duty,
you sainted in my arms, and I lifted you into
the chaise: I see the agony of your mind, when,
recovering, you sound yourself on the road to
Portsmouth: but how, my gentle girl, how could
you, when so justly impressed with the value of
virtue, how could you, when loving as I thought
you loved me, yield to the solicitations of Belcour? “When we left our native land, that dear
happy land which now contains all that is dear to
the wretched Charlotte, our prospects were the
same; we both, pardon me, Madam, if I say, we
both too easily followed the impulse of our treacherous
hearts, and trusted our happiness on a tempestuous
ocean, where mine has been wrecked and lost
for ever; you have been more fortunate—you are
united to a man of honour and humanity, united
by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, and
admired, and surrounded by innumerable blessings
of which I am bereaved, enjoying those pleasures
which have fled my bosom never to return; alas!
sorrow and deep regret have taken their place. Behold
me, Madam, a poor forsaken wanderer, who
has not where to lay her weary head, wherewith to
supply the wants of nature, or to shield her from
the inclemency of the weather. To you I sue, to
you I look for pity and relief. I ask not to be received
as an intimate or an equal; only for charity's
sweet sake receive me into your hospitable mansion,
allot me the meanest apartment in it, and let me
breath out my soul in prayers for your happiness;
I cannot, I feel I cannot long bear up under the
accumulated woes that pour in upon me; but oh!
my dear Madam, for the love of heaven suffer me
not to expire in the street; and when I am at peace,
as soon I shall be, extend your compassion to my
helpless offspring, should it please heaven that it
should survive its unhappy mother. A gleam of joy
breaks in on my benighted soul while I reflect that
you cannot, will not refuse your protection to the
heart-broken | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 329 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Trials of the human heart | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Will you believe me, Celia, when I
tell you, I wish I was at Bologne
again; that I am dissatisfied and unhappy.
You are surprised. It is nevertheless certainly
true. We formed erroneous opinions of
the world; we thought it a paradise compared
to the solemnity and gloom of our convent.
Trust me, my dear, I have as yet found
nothing, in this gay, busy world, half so
pleasing, as that sweet retirement. But I
forget that this is my first letter, and that
you naturally wish to know every incident
which has happened since our separation.
This innocent curiosity shall be gratified, and
to begin: Looking over some papers which were
lately in possession of my son, I found
some letters which I think proper to return
to you; and am very sorry if any thing
has passed between you that may occasion
you future uneasiness. I am obliged to
you for the very generous sentiments expressed
in those letters, towards my whole
family, and beg leave to inform you, that
your kind wishes, respecting my son's happiness,
are amply fulfilled, as he was yesterday
married to a very amiable woman, possessing
a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 330 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Trials of the human heart | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | This is a charming romantic place, my
dear Celia. There is room for solitude
and deep reflection. Oak-hall is situated in
a very retired part of the country, and has
been the family mansion of the Rooksby's
from time immemorial. The house is antique,
and inspires one's mind with the true
spirit of the days of chivalry. You cannot
think, how often I amuse myself with surveying
its antique battlements, the massy
gates, and deep moat, that surround it;
and while I gaze with a kind of reverential
awe, I fancy, I am perhaps retracing the
steps of many a gallant knight and beauteous
dame who formerly have been inhabitants
of this ancient dwelling. I am a great admirer
of every thing, that wears the face of
antiquity not that I would, were I possessed
of ever so large a fortune, lay out my money
in purchasing a heap of trumpery, that are
really of no intrinsie value, only as the fancy
of the virtuoso stamps them with the appellation
of excellence, because they were made
some hundred years before we were born.
I cannot deny, that I like to examine any
little piece of antiquity, which tends to shew
us the progress of the arts or manufactures,
and when I enjoy the benefit of any thing
useful or convenient I feel a kind of veneration
for the genius, who first invented it,
let it be ever so mean or trifling. I continued in this situation but a few
moments—when I heard a faint voice
call “Meriel,” I turned my head and saw
Kingly emerging from the sea and holding
by part of the wreck—“Oh, Heavens!” said
I, “are you alive then, and is there any
chance of escaping?”—“Some little chance,”
said he, coming near me and beginning to
nutie the cord that was round me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 331 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Reuben and Rachel | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | It was about the middle of the fifteenth century
that the lovely and amiable Isabelle found herself a
widow, reduced from ease and affluence to a very confined
income. Though her circumstances were altered;
her mind elevated, her spirit noble and independent,
was still the same. Isabelle was a native of Spain, of
noble parentage, expanded heart, superior sense, and
highly finished education. The beauty and elegance
of her person, though striking, were but secondary objects
of the esteem and admiration she was sure to excite
wherever she was seen or known. I AM parted from you, my adored Beatina; but
painful as the parting is, I feel it is for our suture advantage.
I am convinced, my beloved wife, that there are
worlds beyond the narrow bounds which our natural
philosophers at present prescribe. I have studied much,
my lovely friend, and am almost certain, that were I
supplied with vessels, men, provisions, and every thing
necessary, I should make discoveries that would occasion
my name to be revered in after ages; and those
who blamed my lovely Beatina for giving herself to her
Columbus, shall say, “You did right, Beatina; Columbus
has an enterprising spirit that will carve out a
fortune, even from a barren waste. For is not the
ocean a barren waste? and yet even from that do I
mean to carve out for my soul's idol an empire, where
she shall reign queen over all, as she does over my
heart. I HAVE been disappointed, my sweet friend, but
be not you disheartened. Thanks be to Heaven, I left
you and my darling boy in a safe retreat, where,
though not enjoying all the advantages your rank in
life might demand, you have at least all the comforts
necessary to the real pleasures of life. CONGRATULATE me, my lovely friend; I am
at length successful! How have I counted the tedious
months that kept me from my soul's idol; and how
often have I feared that my perseverance would be of
no avail, and that I had sacrificed ages of real happiness
(for hours are ages to the heart that loves as mine
does) to the visionary hopes of future greatness. But
I am successful. I shall explore those distant seas, with
which my studies have so well acquainted me, and in
some unknown world seek out a kingdom of which my
Beatina shall be queen. Yes, you shall be queen; for
whatsoever world I find, be it the fairest, greatest, or the
best the sun ever shone on, no man should ever claim a
right to govern it. For it is to a woman I owe the
means of making the great attempt. I am so overjoyed
I cannot proceed methodically; yet I know you
languish to learn every particular that concerns your
Columbus. THOU besom friend of the bravest man that ever
lived, thy queen now claims thee as her friend and sister.
Isabelle is in affliction, and calls on Beatina to
comfort her. Yet how can I ask comfort from you,
when I have none to offer in return? I cannot see
you, lest you curse the hand that supplied the means
for this ill-starred voyage. Our Columbus, the man
whose name shall be revered while time endures, is no
more! He sleeps in the vast ocean; but his memory
shall live forever. THE most humble and grateful of your fervants
addresses you at a moment, when he much fears he
shall never again behold you. I am, with my little
convoy, in a boisterous and almost unknown sea, at a
season of the year when storms prevail, and the inclemency
of the weather renders our safety extremely
precarious. The clouds hang low; the atmosphere is
thick; the hollow murmuring sea, and bleak wind
that whistles through the rigging, portends an approaching
storm. THY father is returned, my dear son, returned to his
native land. But how? Not as an enterprising spirit
whose plans had proved successful, should return;
but as a traitor to his king, loaded with ignominious
chains. Oh! my brave boy, I see thy noble
spirit fire at the intelligence. But beware; conceal
the workings of thy honest soul. To prosper in this
ungrateful world, you must wear the mask of hypocrisy;
wear the semblance of humility, honesty,
patriotism, till you have obtained some favourite point,
then throw them aside as useless, and glory in the success
of your stratagems. HAD I a conveyance, swift as my own impatience,
to forward to my revered mother the joyful tidings of
my father's triumph over his enemies, the wings of
the wind would be too tardy to bear this to your hands.
Yes, my dear mother, Columbus, the great, the enterprizing
Columbus, is restored to all his former dignity,
and even fresh honours are heaped upon him. But I
know you wish me to be particular; and how can I
be more pleasingly employed than in recounting the
noble conduct of a father, and obeying the commands
of the best of mothers? AS the perusal of the inclosed letters and papers
will no doubt awaken in the bosom of my dear Isabelle,
a curiosity to learn the events that followed this triumph
of Columbus over his enemies; and as I think
it necessary to inform her, not only of her descent from
the native kings of Peru, but also of the sate of her
parents, who now, alas! are no more, I have taken
up my pen to trace every circumstance that may tend
to prove your right to the sovereignty of Quito, and
the surrounding territories, if hereafter you should think
it worth contending for. But as I leave you, my dear
child, in the protection of my own family; and am fully
sensible that my nephew, the marquis Guidova, will
take such care of your fortune, (now ample) that by
the time you are of age to peruse these papers, you
will be one of the richest heiresses in Spain; I fondly
hope you will not suffer the vain ambition of bearing
the empty title of queen to influence your conduct, or
tempt you to throw away the real blessings of life in
pursuit of shadows and toys. a “IT is with satisfaction of the purest kind, that I
take up my pen to inform my dear aunt Rachel and my
beloved children, that the business which brought me to
this place is at length finished, and the completion of
it is equal to my most sanguine expectations. WHEN the altar is decorated, the priests at hand,
and the knife is raised, that will terminate existence,
who can blame the poor victim devoted to sacrifice, if
it break the chain by which it is held, asserts the privilege
of nature, and, bounding over the plain, secures
at once both life and liberty? Brother, beloved brother,
they have prepared the altar, but the destined victim
will escape their snares. WILL my dear friend pardon me that I intrude
myself upon her, and by explaining my sorrows, make
her a party in my concerns? I have suffered much
persecution, dear Rachel, since we parted; and to
avoid rushing at once into guilt and misery, I have
taken a step for which the world will censure me. But
what is the world to me? Had I voluntarily assumed
the splendid shackles prepared for me, had I become a
titled wretch, and promised faith and truth to one
man, whilst every wish, every tender thought of my
heart was devoted to another, would the approving
smiles of that misjudging world, the adulation it is ever
ready to pay to splendor and nobility, have compensated
for the sacrifice I should have made of internal
peace, of conscious integrity? No.—Admired, courted,
envied, I should still have been miserable. The
baseness of my conduct would be my daily reproach;
I should have sought to banish reflection by dissipation,
and who can tell where the career of guilt and folly
might have stopped? THERE is such an appearance of candour and
sincerity throughout your whole letter, that I cannot
but believe you innocent; prove yourself so, and on
the receipt of this come immediately to London, and
prepare to follow my fortunes to foreign climes. Our
marriage is no longer a secret; my aunt has discarded
me. I have sold my commission, and in the despair
I felt at your perfidy, have taken passage on board
a vessel bound for Philadelphia. If you love me as
you say, and as I would fain think you do, you will
not hesitate to leave England forever, since it is for
my peace of mind that I should do so. I cannot submit
to live in it below the rank I have been accustomed
to fill. If your affection leads you to be the companion
of my voyage, the sharer and soother of all my
cares, I shall regret neither fortune nor country. If
not, if some stronger attachment binds you to this spot,
Oh Rachel! I cannot bear the thought; but should
it be so, why the farther we are divided the better. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 332 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Sarah | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | YES! Anne, the die is cast—I am a wife. But
a less cheerful bride, one who looks forward
with less hope, perhaps never existed. You
were surprised, you say, to hear to whom I had
relinquished my hand and heart—leave out the
latter, Anne, it had nothing to do with the transaction.
Why were you not here, you say, to
have prevented a union which you are morally
certain will not conduce to my happiness? You
cannot be more certain of it, than I am; but
what could I do? Frederic gone to India; hemmed
round with persuasive meddlers, who, I am
more than half convinced, urged me to this
measure, fearful I should be burthensome to
them; and I was also told it was necessary
for the preservation of my reputation that I
should accept Darnley. I had no natural protector;
my father so far distant he was the same
as dead to me; Frederic gone; my health not
sufficiently established to enable me to undertake
the journey I meditated before you left England;
my finances reduced to a very small portion, and
though most earnestly entreated to forbear,
Darnley continuing his visits. I found I must
accede to his proposals, or be thrown on the
world, censured by my relations, robbed of my
good name, and being poor, open to the pursuits
and insults of the profligate. One thing which
encouraged me to hope I might be tolerably happy
in the union was—though my heart felt no
strong emotions in his favor, it was totally free
from all partiality towards any other. He always
appeared good humored and obliging; and though
his mind was not highly cultivated, I thought
time might improve him in that particular. However,
I was candid with him; told him the situation
of my heart, and asked if he could be content
with receiving attentions which would be
only the result of principle. He seemed to
think this only maidenish affectation, and perfectly
convinced within himself that I loved him
already. “Madam, a personal interview is not sought
from any expected pleasure it may afford, but because
I think it necessary to speak a few words
to you. I must insist on seeing you; if you cannot
come down, I will come to you. “It is certainly painful to me, Mr. Darnley,
to find you voluntarily avoid my society. Perhaps
I can divine the cause, and by removing it
the effect may happily cease. You think my
sex and situation will lead me, when we meet,
to recapitulate some late events, and make disagreeable
remarks thereon. Such a recapitulation
is by no means necessary. Let us meet as
though no such events had ever taken place:
let the whole pass into eternal oblivion: trust
4*
me, it shall not be my fault if it does not. I hope
you will dine at home to day; Anne is engaged,
and if you should dine out also, I shall dine
alone. “You are very much mistaken, Mrs. Darnley,
if you suppose I dread your reproaches: I
know, with all your boasted forbearance, you
dare not utter any, or it is not your regard to
me would prevent you; but pray understand,
madam, if I am not master of my own house, I
am of my actions and person, and shall go out
when and where I please, without consulting
your pleasure; mind your own business, and
don't trouble yourself about me; you have got a
comfortable home, and may go out or come in,
as you please. But you cannot suppose, after
the very polite method which you took to turn
Jessey out of doors, that I can see you with any
degree of temper; and since you have withdrawn
from her your protection, I feel doubly
bound to afford her mine. She is a woman whom
I esteem; she loves me with her whole soul;
she has given incontestable proofs, that her affection
for me supersedes all other considerations;
and had she sooner been freed from her matrimonial
shackles, you would never have been
the wife of “That I am your wife, Mr. Darnley, is more
my misfortune, than my fault. But you are under
a mistake, in supposing Jessey loves you.
No woman can be under the influence of that
sacred passion, (whose power I can conceive,
though as yet I have never felt its influence) who
degrades herself below even the pity of a man of
principle, and for self gratification plunges the object
of her pretended adoration into infamy, by
inciting him to repeated breaches of every sacred
and moral obligation. You say I have a comfortable
home; can that home be so, from
whence domestic peace is banished? You are
your own master—It is well you are so. Would
to God I was as free. I AM exceedingly concerned, my dear Mrs.
Darnley, at the little brulee which has taken
place between my mother and yourself, especially
as she tells me you talk of leaving her; this I
lament, because I think Caroline very much improved
since you have had the entire management
of her; not but that it has been a matter
of surprise to me, that a woman so young, lovely,
and accomplished as yourself, should voluntarily
submit to the humiliation of being subject
to the humor and caprices of any one, and live
in a state of dependence, when they might command
affluence on the very easy terms of sharing
it with an agreeable man, who would think himself
honored by her acceptance of his protection:
and this I know to be your case. The marquis
of H—, who is an intimate friend of lord
Linden's, and whom you have seen at my house
and at my mother's, has often expressed his
fervent admiration of your person, manners and
accomplishments. He was present when my
mother told us of your quarrel; I do assure you
he took your part very highly, called you a
persecuted angel; raved at my mother, and
was setting off post haste, to offer you consolation,
in the form of a young handsome lover and
a settlement; but I stopped him, told him he
must conduct himself with prudence and delicacy,
if he wished to succeed with you—so while he is
writing his amorous epistle, I have scrawled
these hasty lines, to intreat you to give his proposal
a fair perusal, and take it into serious consideration.
Only reflect, my dear, on the
unprotected state, in which you now are, in a
strange place, without friends or money. You will
perhaps say, you have reputation; but, child,
will reputation pay your lodging, or buy you a
new gown when you want one? No, believe me,
poor reputation is many a time left naked in the
street, while those who have disclaimed and
turned her out of doors, are sumptuously clothed,
inhabit palaces, and ride in splendid equipages.
But I will say no more; your own good sense
will direct you; and surely I think you cannot be
so wilfully blind to your own interest, as to refuse
the offers of the marquis. Do, child, be wise for
once, and take the advice of a friend, though I
am arguing against myself to persuade you to do
so. But if you are romantic enough to prefer
dependence; why, if you must leave ma, come
and live with me, and I will take Caroline home;
at any rate, pray do not, in a flight of elevation,
run from those evils which you know, to those of
which at present you can have no conception. THOUGH I have but a few times enjoyed the
pleasure of being in your company, those few
have been enough to awaken in my mind sentiments
of the highest esteem for your talents
and virtues. I have understood from my friend,
lord Linden, that you have connected yourself in
marriage, with a man who knows not how justly
to appreciate your worth; and who has permitted
you to come unprovided and unprotected into
this country, that by the exertion of your abilities,
you may obtain means of subsistence; this,
madam, being the case, prevents my having the
honor of laying myself and fortune at your feet.
But as from the treatment you have experienced
from your husband, every tie must be broken
between you, every obligation dissolved—permit
me to offer you protection and independence;
allow me to hope to be admitted among the
chosen few, whom you may honor with esteem.
I have a neat house, ready for your reception, a
few miles from Dublin, whether you can retire,
until one can be prepared in the city, should you
prefer residing there; a carriage and servants
shall attend your order, free of expense, and a
settlement of five hundred pounds a year during
your life, awaits your acceptance; only allow me
the privilege of passing some hours of every
day in your society, and by studying your
charmingly intelligent countenance, discover and
prevent your wishes, before you have time to
give them utterance. I have desired the person
who brings you this, not to wait for an answer.
I will not hurry your gentle and delicate nature;
take your own time to consider my proposals;
only to give me one comforting gleam of hope,
allow me to see you for five minutes this evening,
at Mrs. Bellamy's; I will call about nine
o'clock; I will not say one word on the subject
of this letter; my visit shall be confined to the
period mentioned; if it is your wish, only receive
me without a frown, and I will live in the hope, that
my future visits (when you are settled in your
own house) will be welcomed with a smile. I
am, madam, with the utmost respect, your sincere
adorer, IN pursuance of your advice, I sought out
Mrs. Bellamy, and waited on her to inquire
after Mrs. Darnley, who I perceived, by your
letter, was a person in whose fate either yourself,
or some of your friends, were particularly
interested. When I discovered who this Mrs.
Bellamy was, I will confess I was surprised how
you could be any way engaged in an inquiry after
a woman who had resided in her family; as
she is the mother of the celebrated Mrs. O'Donnell,
who has alienated the affection of the
(otherwise) worthy lord Linden, from his amiable
lady and her lovely children; and this
Mrs. Bellamy was always supposed to be the
vile agent who instigated the daughter to attempt
to ensnare, and whose counsel afterwards assisted
her to bind fast, the fetters which hold his lordship
in his unworthy bondage. However, I presumed
you had some very good reason for desiring
me to be particular in my inquiry, and I set
in earnest about it. The old gentlewoman received
me with politeness, regretted that it was
not in her power to give me the desired information
where Mrs. Darnley was to be found; said
she had been much deceived in her; that she had
brought her from England with her, to superintend
the education of her grand-daughter; but
that very soon after their arrival in Dublin,
she, Mrs. Darnley, made acquaintance with
some low people in the neighborhood; and
one day when she was out, she had taken her
trunk and gone off, without leaving any message
whatever; and that she imagined she was gone
with a kind of sailor-looking man, who used frequently
to come after her. While she was
speaking, a servant came in to bring a note; of
whom she inquired whether any of the people
below had heard or seen any thing of Darnley,
since she went away? The young woman replied,
that Mrs. O'Donnell's John had said, he
saw her a few days since go into a house in an
alley at the lower end of the town. `It is no
great matter where she is,' replied Mrs. Bellamy,
`for what is she good for? She imposed
on me, when she applied for employment, by
telling an artful tale of her husband's misfortunes;
said necessity had obliged her to separate herself
from him; but I rather think, from what
I have since heard, that he had good reasons for
separating from her.' After this intelligence,
my good sir, you may be sure I felt no very
great curiosity to hear any more about your fair
adventurer; but as you had expressed so ardent
a desire for information, I took down the name
of the alley where the woman said she had been
seen, and went immediately there; inquired at
every house where I thought it was likely I
might find her, describing her person according
to the description given in your letter; I had
almost given up all hope, when going into a house
that stood a little more back than the rest, I
found she was known to the mistress of it, and
had lived there several weeks. THE trouble I am about to give your lordship
may, perhaps, be deemed an impertinent
intrusion; and an apologizing introduction, might
by some, be thought indispensible; but I trust
your lordship will admit the cause, when I have
explained it, of itself a sufficient excuse for the
liberty I take, without my offering any other. I WAS honored with your favor of July 17,
and feel myself impelled to admire a friendship
so ardent and sincere, as that which you profess
to feel for the charming Mrs. Darnley. You
were right in your conjecture, that I should
make instant inquiry after the lovely fugitive,
who had taken such alarm at my letter, and fled
from what she termed my persecution. In that
letter, I told her I would see her in the evening;
and at the hour I had appointed, I repaired to
Mrs. Bellamy's house. Judge of my surprize at
hearing she was gone, and had taken her trunks
with her, leaving no message I inquired how
she was conveyed from the house; and learning
that she went in a hackney coach, on my return
home, I employed one of my servants to
inquire at the stands around, for the man who
had taken up a fare at such an hour, in such a
street—by this man I discovered where he had
taken her, and went in the evening of the following
day, to the lane where he directed me;
intending, if I could not prevail on your fair
friend to favor my suit, to insist upon being her
banker, and serve her even against her will. “THOUGH Lady Bourke has not the pleasure
of a personal acquaintance with Mrs. Darnley,
she knows and respects her character; she
begs Mrs. D. to consider the furniture, &c.
which she will find at Woodland Cottage, as her
own; and use it as such, as long as the situation
Mr. Darnley holds, may render a residence
there agreeable. Lady B. hopes Mrs. D.
will find every accommodation, and enjoy much
happiness in her new habitation.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 333 | Author: | Rowson
Mrs.
1762-1824 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Charlotte's daughter | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | “What are you doing there Lucy?” said Mrs.
Cavendish to a lovely girl, about fifteen years old.
She was kneeling at the feet of an old man sitting
just within the door of a small thatched cottage situated
about five miles from Southampton on the coast
of Hampshire. “What are you doing there child?”
said she, in rather a sharp tone, repeating her question. I am sensible you will blame the step
I am about to take, but I cannot be happy unless as
the wife of Sir Stephen Haynes. Before you will
receive this, I shall be considerably advanced on the
road to Scotland, not that, being my own mistress,
any one has a right to control me, but I dreaded expostulation,
shuddered at the idea of published banns,
or a formal wedding by license, with settlements,
lawyers, and parchments. These things have, I believe,
little to do with love.—” You cannot be surprised, Theresa, after
the explanation which took place between Lady
Mary and myself yesterday, that I should declare
my utter inability to make those settlements which
I talked of before our excursion to the north. I
must beg you to make my acknowledgments to the
dear generous girl for all marks of favour and kindness
bestowed by her on her unworthy, humble
servant, but my finances are in such a state, that
it is totally impossible for me to take a journey to
Wilts, as proposed, or to solicit her company to
France, whither I must repair as speedily as possible,
to rusticate; whilst my affairs in England are put in
train to restore me to some comparative degree of
affluence. My friend, Richard Craftly, Esq. has offered
the cottage to you and your lovely friend as long
as you may please to occupy it. He is, Miss Brenton,
a man of good abilities, amiable disposition, and
possessed of a small but genteel and unincumbered
estate, which upon the death of his mother will be
augmented. He will call on you this afternoon, I
recommend him to your notice. My best wishes
attend you and your fair associate Lady Mary. “From the hour when I closed the eyes of your
beloved, ill fated mother, you, my dear Lucy, have
been the delight and solace of your grandmother and
myself. And your amiable disposition has led us to
hope, that you may in future be the happy inheritress
of the estate and property on which we have lived
above thirty-five years: happy, my child, in bestowing
11*
comfort on others, and doubly happy in the
enjoyment of reflected joy from grateful hearts. “I have sat down, my dear sir, to fulfil
a most unpleasant task in communicating to you by
the desire of our lovely and esteemed friend, Miss
Blakeney, a copy of her grandfather's letter, which
I inclose, thinking it best to keep the original in my
possession. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 334 | Author: | Royall
Anne Newport
1769-1854 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The Tennessean | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | MY ancestors came from England. They were part
of the persecuted dissenters, who sought an asylum in
the wilds of America—of those enterprising few, who
landed at Plymouth, in sixteen hundred and twenty. Dear Friend—You complain, in your last, of the violent
proceedings of your town on the old subject; but it
is trifling, compared to the zeal of our minister.—
Though my health is little improved, since I wrote you
last, yet I went to hear Mr. Williams, last Sabbath. I
was shocked at the discourse; but, dear Thomas, it
would cost me my life, if this were known. He raged,
he stamped, he foamed at the mouth, and all this for a
mere phantom—a shadow. Strange, that our teachers
should set such examples of wrath. I am sure, Christ
enjoins it upon us, to be meek and lowly. But I will try
to give you a plain account of some of the sermon. He
said that “the cross of St. George, in the English colours,
was a downright popish relict; that it was Idolatry,
and popish whoredom, to retain this ensign of hellish
superstition.” But his language would be too tiresome
to you, and withal, not edifying. So much did his
discourse affect the congregation, that they held a meeting,
that same evening, and passed a decree, that it
should be publicly cut out of the colours, and should never
be seen amongst God's people.” I am very doubtful
that this is not the right way—moreover, our minister
and another one, by the name of Roberts, had some
very uncivil talk that same evening. This cannot be
the right way—we have lost it, somehow. We are, in
truth, without teachers; for I would put no more faith
in this madman, Williams, than I would in Satan. It
puts me in mind of a saying of Luther's friend, Mclancthon,
of Wittemberg. He said “that he longed to
be dissolved, and that for two reasons—first, that he
might enjoy the much desired presence of Christ, and
the heavenly church—secondly, that he might be freed
from the cruel and implacable discords of divines.”—
But I shall not, I trust, be long in this turbulent world.
I am heart-sick of it. What a monster is man! Better
had we remained in England:—I could laugh, there;
here I dare not smile. Adieu, dear friend, &c. &c. Dear Charles—So soon as thee receives this letter,
thee will proceed home without delay.—I am ruined!—
All my effects were seized yesterday, to satisfy Clark
& Co. of Liverpool, vs. Burlington & Co. I do not understand
this; I am bewildered; something is wrong
in this business. I did not know that I owed that
house aught, except part of the last importation;
but I know nothing, nor can I do any thing. Haste thee
home with all speed. I am very much indisposed—thy
mother is distracted; we need thy presence and assistance.
The family send their greeting to thy young
friend. Very Dear Friend—Your situation is one that admits
of little relief—nothing but time can heal the wounds of
the heart. But permit me to mingle my tears with
yours—permit me to say that I feel for your sufferings,
and that on a double account; but this is too tender a
subject, and yet I cannot forbear. Dear Charles, forgive
me, for in your breast alone I would repose the secret
of my heart; but I dare not name it—cannot you
guess, oh, dearest Charles? Write to me, quickly, and
let me know. But I am raving—I sat down to console
you, whilst I need consolation myself. I shall see you,
at the end of the term, at all hazards—in the mean time,
2*
let me know whether I may dare to hope—you understand
me. Say to your sister, that her sorrows are
mine. You say she weeps incessantly.—Oh, God! tell
her it wounds me to the heart—never again write to me
thus. Dear Charles, you have pierced my soul. Say
something to relieve me.—Accept the trifle I send you,
until you can make it convenient to return it. Do not let
this mark of my eternal regard for you, wound your
delicacy—you know my heart—you know if I were in
your situation, and you in mine, that I would be proud
to give you this proof of our friendship. Know, from
henceforth, that what is mine is yours. Your very distressed
friend, Sir—Agreeable to your request I waited on Mr.
Hunter and demanded a settlement: he said he was ready,
and forthwith we proceeded to the place where his
books were kept. Upon examining the accounts between
him and your father I am sorry to inform you that he
brings your father in debt. Upon presenting the account
you sent me, he denied the whole; and made use of language
that is useless to repeat to you. I do think myself
that your account is just; but you can get nothing
of Hunter. The property you spoke of was sold a few
days since for the benefit of “Clark & Co.:” therefore
Hunter is insolvent. It is thought, pretty generally,
that the goods were purchased by his friends and with
his own money. You ask of Hunters reputation—he
has hitherto been esteemed an honest man and a fair
dealer; but since your affair, he has fallen very much in
the esteem of the public. It is hinted here that he laid
this plan of treachery when last in Liverpool; the agent
for that house says he failed for the sum for which the
seizure was made. I am very sorry for your situation,
and have no comfort for you but the very poor ones of
patience and resignation. Should you have any farther
commands in this city I will attend to them with pleasure.—Yours,
respectfully, &c. “Dear Henry.—You will receive this by Captain T.,
who has undertaken to visit you and learn your true situation.
Your captivity has afflicted us with the deepest
sorrow; your mother is unconsolable and refuses to be
comforted. Our Government is negociating your ransom,
which is attended with much difficulty; but I expect
it will soon be brought about: if them Spanish dogs
don't cut your throat or something worse, you will receive
one thousand dollars. If that will set you at liberty
I shall think it well laid out. I am in too much
trouble to say more. “You will recollect, said she, that my father promised
to see the Vice Roy and ask his permission for your
friend to deliver the letter; he promised you he would
go that evening and accordingly he went, but was unable
to get an audiance that evening. After his return he
came into my parlour, as he always does when he concludes
the business of the day. Whilst he was talking
in a careless manner, and growing sleepy he yawned and
observed, “Your friend is still here, he has been with me often.
He is disguised in the habit of an Indian, and has two
fleet horses ready, and now the nights being dark, you
may expect him. Heaven grant you may get safe to
your country, where you will sometimes deign to think
of I received your kind letter of November last, in
which you congratulated me on my happy asylum—alas,
my dear brother! this proves how little you know of the
world—much better, had it pleased Divine Providence,
that I had followed my parents to the grave! Much better
for me, had I been destitute of those advantages, to
which alone, perhaps, I owe my present distress. But
I will try and compose myself, if it be possible, for the
purpose of acquainting you with the principal incidents
which have happened to me of late. What has become of you? Have you forgot your
Mary? Are you alive? Oh, for heaven's sake send me
but one line, but one word—I ask no more. But it is in
vain—you cannot be living—what has become of Wilson?
has he too forgot me? Alas then, I have no friend!
ye cannot both be dead!—but I will cease to complain—
Oh that God would take me to himself! There was but
two—but no matter—and yet I cannot think that if living,
you would forget me. My last letter you never answered—I
heeded that not, as I expected to see yourself.
I looked not for a letter, but I looked in vain for either.
This is the last I shall trouble you with; I shall ask no
more for help, where no help is to be found. I received your favour this day: I am truly glad to
hear that you have returned, and that Mary is at length
happy. I have never heard of Dupon since Mrs. Cary
left here—old Mr. Simpson is dead. His oldest daughter,
Clarissa, ran away with Hunter, it is supposed, as
she was missing the night he escaped from prison, and
has never been heard of since. I hasten to reply to both yours of this instant. Hunter
owns the property mentioned in your letter. You
refer to me for information respecting its value: this I
would wish to decline.—In the first place I am not a
judge; and in the second place the price of property is
so fluctuating that it is not easy to say. It might sell to
day six per cent higher than it would to-morrow. “Dear Sir.—Agreeably to my promise, I communicate
the following particulars relative to Miss Simpson. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 335 | Author: | Sargent
Epes
1813-1880 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | What's to be done? | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | On a dark and chilly evening in the last
month of the year, a young portrait-painter
named Stanford was sitting alone in the room
where he practised his art. An easel was before
him, and on it was a painting, although so
dim was the light shed by a solitary candle from
an adjoining table, that it was difficult to distinguish
the figures on the canvass. There was
a fireplace in the apartment, but it no longer
emitted a cheerful warmth, for the last spark
upon the hearth-stone had expired, and the air
was growing colder and colder. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 336 | Author: | Sigourney
L. H.
(Lydia Howard)
1791-1865 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Not far from where the southern limits of Connecticut
meet the waters of the sea, the town of N— is situated.
As you approach from the west, it exhibits a rural aspect,
of meadows intersected by streams, and houses overshadowed
with trees. Viewed from the eastern acclivity,
it seems like a citadel guarded by parapets of rock, and
embosomed in an ampitheatre of hills, whose summits
mark the horizon with a waving line of dark forest green.
Entering at this avenue, you perceive that its habitations
bear few marks of splendour, but many of them, retiring
behind the shelter of lofty elms, exhibit the appearance
of comfort and respectability. Travelling southward about
two miles, through the principal road, the rural features
of the landscape are lost, in the throng of houses, and
bustle of men. The junction of two considerable streams
here forms a beautiful river, which, receiving the tides of
the sea, rushes with a short course into its bosom. “With the circumstances of my escape you were undoubtedly
made acquainted, at the return of my pursuers.
The bearer will inform you that my reception on board
the gallies, and at this place, has been favourable to our
wishes. I am able confidently to assure you, that the suspicions
excited by Arnold are false as himself. Not one of
our officers is supposed by the British to be otherwise than
inimical to their cause. Only one has fallen, one son of perdition.
To have the pleasure of doing this justice to fidelity,
balances the evils of my situation. I was yesterday compelled
to a most afflicting step, but one indispensable to
the completion of our plan. It was necessary for me to
accept a commission in the traitor's legion, that I might
have uninterrupted access to his house. Thither he usually
returns at midnight, and previously to retiring, walks
a short time in his garden. There I am to seize, and gag
him, and with the assistance of this trusty spy, bear him
to a boat, which will be in readiness. In case of interrogation,
we shall say, that we are carrying an intoxicated
soldier to the guard-house. Some of the pales from the
garden fence are to be previously removed, that our silent
passage to the alley may be facilitated. On the night,
which the bearer is commissioned to appoint, meet me at
Hoboken, with twenty of the Virginia cavalry, those
brothers of my soul, and there, God willing, I will deliver
to your hand, the troubler of Israel. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 337 | Author: | Sigourney
L. H.
(Lydia Howard)
1791-1865 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Sketches | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | I was in the full tide of a laborious and absorbing
profession,—of one which imposes on intellect
an unsparing discipline, but ultimately opens the
avenues to wealth and fame. I pursued it, as one
determined on distinction,—as one convinced that
mind may assume a degree of omnipotence over
matter and circumstance, and popular opinion. Ambition's
promptings were strong within me, nor was
its career unprosperous.—I had no reason to complain
that its promises were deceptive, or its harvest
tardy. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 338 | Author: | Sigourney
L. H.
(Lydia Howard)
1791-1865 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Water-drops | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In the environs of one of the large towns of New-England,
a pleasant dwelling attracted the eye of the traveller.
It was a kind of Gothic cottage, whose face of
brown stucco, and pointed windows, were adorned with
clustering vines. Its lawn of green turf was smoothly
shaven, while occasional borders, and circles of dark,
weedless mould, gave nutriment to a multitude of flowers. Louisa is worthy of you.—Return. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 339 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The book of my lady | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | Were these days of fiction, rather than of fact, and
could the popular sense be persuaded to regard that
period of exciting circumstance in past history, called
the era of romance, in any other light than that of a
pleasant dream about to be forgotten, your charms
might once again bring into exercise, not merely the
lay of the minstrel, but the valour of the knight. Instead
of the goosequill, spear and sword might, with
sufficient reason, be lifted in your service. Alas! however,
for the time—it brings forth no such offering. As
an especial rebuke to such glorious errantries as made
the middle ages the prime period of romantic adventure;
state prisons and penitentiaries frown upon us
from every quarter—instead of the warlike and stirring
blasts of the bugle, calling the watchful warder to the
turret, and arousing the sleeping porter to the approach
of the visiter, the tintinnabulary house-bell presents
itself conveniently at the portals, and the liveried servitor
opens the door at the first friendly summons. Romance
knows none of these comforts, and well may
adventure sigh after a period which left something for
achievement to do, in scaling walls and mounting windows.
Had we, my lady, been born in such a period,
doubt not that I should have done something worthy to
be named along with the daring doings of the time.
Doubt not that lance had been lifted, and bugle wound,
and battle done gallantly, in your behalf and for your
love. As the times are, however, this may not be the
case; and all that chivalry may now proffer to his ladylove,
is some little tribute of romance like this,—its
relic and remembrance—comprised in a tiny volume,
quite unworthy of your genius, but all that I can yield
from mine. Pardon me, then, dear lady, that these
pages—many of which have been already uttered in
your ears—have received a name, which, though not
fairly identified with yourself or yours, must nevertheless,
and necessarily, refer to you for that countenance and
favour, which is more than popular applause to me.
May they not prove altogether unworthy your acceptance,
nor seem to be altogether ungracious in your
sight. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 340 | Author: | Simms
William Gilmore
1806-1870 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Guy Rivers | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | In the upper part of the State of Georgia, extending
into the country of the Cherokee Indians—
a region, at this period, fruitful of dispute—lying
at nearly equal distances between the parallel
waters of the Chatahoochie river, and that branch
of it which bears the name of the Chestatee, from a
now almost forgotten but once formidable tribe—
will be found a long reach of comparatively barren
lands, interspersed with hills, which occasionally
aspire to a more elevated title, and garnished only
here and there with a dull, half-withered shrubbery,
relieved at intervals, though even then but imperfectly,
by small clumps of slender pines that fling
out their few and skeleton branches ruggedly and
abruptly against the sky. The entire face of the
scene, if not absolutely desolate, has, at least, a
dreary and melancholy expression, which can
not fail to elicit, in the bosom of the most indifferent
spectator, a feeling of gravity and even gloom.
The sparse clusters of ragged woods, and thin
undergrowth of shrivelled herbage, gave token of
the generally steril character of that destiny,
which seemed to have taken up its abode immediately
within, while presiding over, the place.
All around, as far as the eye could reach, a continual
recurrence of the same objects and outline
arrested and fatigued the gaze; which finally sickened
of long levels of sand, broken with rude hills
of a dull species of rock, and a low shrubbery from
which all living things had taken their departure.
Though thus barren to the eye, this region was not,
however, utterly deficient in resources; and its possessions
were those of a description not a little
attractive to the great majority of mankind. It
was the immediate outpost—the very threshold of
the gold country, now so famous for the prolific
promise of the precious metal; far exceeding, in
the contemplation of the knowing, the lavish abundance
of Mexico and of Peru, in the days of their
palmiest and most prosperous condition. Nor,
though only the frontier and threshold as it were
to these swollen treasures, was the portion of country
now under our survey, though bleak, steril
and to the eye uninviting, wanting in attractions
of its own; it contained the signs and indications
which denoted the fertile regions, nor was it entirely
deficient in the precious mineral itself. Much gold
had been gathered already, with little labour, and
almost upon its surface; and it was perhaps only
because of the little knowledge then had of its
wealth, and of its close proximity to a more productive
territory, that it had been suffered to remain
unexamined and unexplored. Nature, thus,
we may remark, in a section of the world seemingly
unblessed with her bounty, and all ungarnished
with her fruits and flowers, appeared desirous,
however, of redeeming it from the curse
of barrenness, by storing its bosom with a product,
which, only of use to the world in its conventional
necessities, has become, in accordance
with the self-creating wants of society, a necessity
itself; and however the bloom and beauty of her
summer decorations may refresh the eye of the
enthusiast, it would here seem, that, with an extended
policy, she had created another, and perhaps
a larger class, which, in the attainment of those
spoils which are of less obvious and easy acquisition,
would even set at nought those which have
at all times been the peculiar delight and felicity
of the former. Nothing is entirely barren in her
dominions; and, to some spirits, her very solitude
and sterility seem as inviting and grateful, as to
others may appear her rich landscapes and voluptuous
flowers. “I guess I am pretty safe now from the regulators,
and saving my trouble of mind, well enough,
and nothing to complain about. Your animal goes
as slick as grease, and carried me in no time out
of reach of rifle shot—so you see it's only right
to thank God, and you, lawyer; for if God hadn't
touched you, and you hadn't lent me the nag, I
guess it would have been a sore chance for my
bones, in the hands of them savages and beasts of
prey. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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