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241Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Add
 Title:  The piazza tales  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: When I removed into the country, it was to occupy an old-fashioned farm-house, which had no piazza—a deficiency the more regretted, because not only did I like piazzas, as somehow combining the coziness of in-doors with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so pleasant to inspect your thermometer there, but the country round about was such a picture, that in berry time no boy climbs hill or crosses vale without coming upon easels planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters painting there. A very paradise of painters. The circle of the stars cut by the circle of the mountains. At least, so looks it from the house; though, once upon the mountains, no circle of them can you see. Had the site been chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would not have been. The same day, and month, and year, His Honor, Doctor Juan Martinez de Rozas, Councilor of the Royal Audience of this Kingdom, and learned in the law of this Intendency, ordered the captain of the ship San Dominick, Don Benito Cereno, to appear; which he did in his litter, attended by the monk Infelez; of whom he received the oath, which he took by God, our Lord, and a sign of the Cross; under which he promised to tell the truth of whatever he should know and should be asked;—and being interrogated agreeably 11* to the tenor of the act commencing the process, he said, that on the twentieth of May last, he set sail with his ship from the port of Valparaiso, bound to that of Callao; loaded with the produce of the country beside thirty cases of hardware and one hundred and sixty blacks, of both sexes, mostly belonging to Don Alexandro Aranda, gentleman, of the city of Mendoza; that the crew of the ship consisted of thirty-six men, beside the persons who went as passengers; that the negroes were in part as follows: “Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated gentleman that lives. I am a patriot, exiled from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny.
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242Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Add
 Title:  My third book  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “`Mr. Grant,—I have not been a good man. I feel this now, lying here on my death-bed, and I confess it to you the more readily because I do not believe that at heart you are a one whit better one. I must speak plainly and bluntly, for I have no time for circumlocution. I have hardly strength enough left to dictate this to Richard Huntley, my attorney. I have made a brave effort to forgive every body; but it has been the hardest of all to forgive you; for your harshness, your sinful pride, killed my beautiful Margaret. You never loved as I loved her—I, her lover, her husband. There! you will start at that word, I foresee; you will start again at the marriage certificate enfolded in this letter. We were married secretly, as you will perceive, while I was in your very neighborhood. I bound Margaret, when I left her, by a solemn oath, not to make it known until she had my permission. She was a gentle crature, as no one knows better than you, and never thought of disputing the will of any one she loved. My father was dead. I was dependent for all my hopes of future fortune and support on my mother, a very proud, resolute woman. She had a grand match in contemplation for me at that time. I knew it would be no easy matter to reconcile her to its failure, and if she should know just then that I had married as she would have thought so far below me, much as she loved me she would have cast me off forever. This, to a true man, would have been no great matter compared with causing Margaret one hour of trouble, one agony of humiliation. But I was not a true man. I was helpless and imbecile, for I had never been brought up to depend on myself. But I must hasten, for my strength is failing me.
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243Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  Married or single?  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Two sisters were sitting, one evening, in their small private library, adjoining their sleeping apartment, in their step-mother's house, in a fashionable quarter of New York. It matters not in what year, for though this their history makes great pretension to veritableness, it pays no respect whatever to chronology. The youngest—the youngest of course takes precedence in our society—was not past eighteen, and, grown to her full stature, rather above the average height; Grace Herbert differing in most of the faculties, qualities, and circumstances of her being from the average of her sex. To a strictly classical eye she was too thin for her height, but of such exact proportions, so flexible and graceful, that the defect was insignificant. Her features were of the noble cast. Her complexion was neither fair nor brown, but exquisitely smooth and soft. Ordinarily she was pale, and her large dark eye lacked lustre; but a flash from her mind, a gust of passion, or even a gentle throb of affection, would brighten her cheek, light her eye, play over her lips, and even seem to radiate from the waving tresses of her dark hair. In that there was a notable peculiarity. It was dark, and yet so brilliant in certain lights, that in her little court of school-girl friends, where she was queen (by divine right), it was a standing dispute whether its color were golden, auburn, or brown. But it was not form or color that so much distinguished Grace Herbert, as a certain magnanimity in the expression of her face, figure, and movement. “I should have written you as I promised, if I had found any thing to write, but the town has been deuced dull. Now it's waking up; there is a splendid little actress here—one Mrs. Darley; our set patronize her. (`Patronize—audacity!' exclaimed Grace.) Fanny Dawson has come home—a splendid beauty! I and she rode out to Love Lane before breakfast yesterday; my new horse is fine under the saddle—Fanny is finer, but I shan't try my harness there; I am shy of reins; one can't tell who will hold them, so Miss Fanny will be left for my elder—if not my better—” “My letter has lain by a month, and now I have news. Smith, Jones and Co. have gone bankrupt, and poor Bill is on their paper well-nigh to the amount of his fortune; Luckily there's something left, and then there's the little widow's fortune. Well, I go for the children of this world, that are wise in their generation. Commend me to the Londoners in general.—Believe me, as ever, your's faithfully, “You may conceive, but I can not describe, how wretched I feel at our separation. You would hear from me much oftener if I followed the dictates of my heart, but my time is so absorbed that it is quite impossible to find a moment for my truest, darlingest, little friend. I write now to entreat you to match the feathers I send; aren't they loves? I have spent two days in attempting to do it here. New York is a paradise for shops, you know; in this horrid Quaker city there's no variety; at the same time, dearest love, will you look for a sash, the shade of the feathers? You may send me a sample, or you may send me several, if you feel uncertain about the match. It is really trying, the difficulty of matching. I sometimes walk up and down the streets of Philadelphia, hours and hours, to match a lace or a fringe, and so does my mamma. The Grays wear pink bonnets this winter. Mrs. Remson has come out in her old yellow brocade again—the third winter, mamma says—just think of it! Do they hold on to powder yet in New York? I dread its going out—'tis so becoming; It makes me quite wretched that you don't come on this winter, dear little pearl! My hair was superbly dressed at Mrs. Lee's ball; I paid dear for it, though, for Pardessus was engaged ten hours ahead, so I had mine done at three A.M. Of course I didn't feel over well the next day, and General Washington observed it, and said he did not like to see young ladies look pale. As it was the only time he ever spoke to me, he might have found something more pleasing to say; pale or not, I found partners for every dance, and refused nine! But, darling, I must cut short my epistle, and sign myself, your sincere and ever attached friend, “Having a few leisure moments, I sit down to have a little pleasant chat with you. I have still to acknowledge your letter, informing me of the decease of our dear old friend, Lady Hepsy; strange coincidence! that she should have been burned to death, so afraid of fire as she was all her life; but so it is—`Our days a transient period run!' “You will feel for me, dear sister, when I tell you the measles are all over our street. You may be sure I keep the children shut up. Two of them were terribly ill last night, and I sent for Dr. Lee. I was all of a nerve when he came, expecting he would tell me they had the symptoms, but to my inexpressible relief he said it was only the cranberry sauce and mince-pie, and almonds, and raisins, and so on, they had eaten plentifully of at dinner—poor little things! how much they have to suffer in this world!” “This day I am seventeen! and this day I am the happiest creature in the universe. You will guess why, and how, for you prophesied long ago that what has now happened would come to pass. Perhaps your prophecy has led to its fulfillment—certainly hastened it, that I will allow; for since we were at Madame B.'s school, and you talked so much of him, he has been the ideal of my life—every thing that I have imagined of noble and beautiful has been impersonated in Frank Silborn. O think of my felicity! He is mine, I am his; as the clock struck twelve last night we plighted vows, and exchanged rings! O what a bliss is life before me! And yet now I think I would be content to die, my spirit is so raised with a sense of joy ineffable. I can not believe it is but three weeks since Frank's return; my love for him seems to stretch through my whole being. “It is my sad duty to write to you the most sorrowful news—prepare yourself, my child, for it will greatly shock you. Yesterday afternoon—I can scarcely guide my pen— Silborn drove up to his door in a curricle, and insisted on taking the two little boys, who were just dressed for a walk, to ride. Sarah must have seen he was greatly excited—in no state to drive—for the nurse says `she refused decidedly to let the children go;' whereupon he snatched them both, and ran out of the house with them to the carriage. He drove furiously up the street, turned the corner short, ran afoul a loaded wagon, turned over the carriage—the boys, our dear little boys, were thrown against a curb-stone and killed, instantly—both Sarah's little boys— both, Emma—both! “I promised, when we parted, to resume our long-suspended correspondence. With what varied emotions of remorse and gratitude I survey this chasm. O! Emma, how differently life looks, prospectively or retrospectively. After it pleased God to restore my reason, I wasted years of responsible life in helpless misery, and profitless repining. “The rumor you heard (and heard before we did, so complete is our retirement from the world) is confirmed. Walter announced his engagement, in his own way, last evening. `Do you know,' he asked my mother, `whom Augustus Dawson married?' “My filial duty and my unlimited confidence in both your justice and generosity would have induced long since the communication I am about to make, but it was deferred by the griefs my sister's calamities brought upon you. I could not then add another bitter drop to your full cup. I must no longer delay. Six months since—” “I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to become of great value. I have explored titles a century back, when this property was a waste rocky field—now, a noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy is now between descendants of the original purchasers, `Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an elderly gentleman, and two young ladies, who, though somewhat decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy. Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry—there is still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert—Walter Herbert, Esq.—I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver sable, an eye like an eagle, and a heart of gold. The young ladies are his nieces; one, a bright particular star, I have seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten. “Miss Alice requests me, you say, to describe my friend Esterly's wedding. Alas! I have no story to tell; business intervened, and took me out of town, and thus saved all parties from my blundering performance of the office of bridegroom.” “Pardon, my dear Mrs. Clifford, my blotted pages. I have been raining tears over this detail to you of my brief meeting with my father. God only knows how I loved him in life—how I honor him in death! Had I known his condition, I should have come home six months ago. I shall forever regret a gain to myself, at the expense of a loss to him. My step-mother, whose valuable qualities I do full justice to (when I do not come in contact with her), will maintain her housekeeping, and take three or four boarders, and so, `by hook or by crook,' they will live comfortably. I, by means of my own hard work and God's blessing, will start the boys in life, and thus acknowledge a debt to my dear father, which I can never fully pay. Letty is a little jewel, or rather, she is worth all the jewels in a king's crown, being more for use than decoration. Her cheerfulness is obscured just now, of course, for she dearly loved my father; but her pale cheek is, I think, but the livery of the country, which strikes me in painful contrast with the Hebe coloring in England. The dirge-like tone of her voice, too, is but the national note, not so much the voice of sadness as of `sickness.' `Every village has its song,' says Carlisle; I wish ours were a livelier one. “When I think that school-girls' friendships are, for the most part, mere accidents of propinquity, I rejoice that ours, like all true matches, was fore-ordained. I began with making you my pet, I believe you are five years my junior, and now you are my confidante—partly, because you are true as steel, and will not betray what I tell you, and partly that you will not advise me, or chide me; and you are unmarried —kind to kind, is natural. Perhaps you will divine that I am trying to silence my conscience that tells me my sister Eleanor should be my confidante; that a sister—and such a sister!—is the nearest friend, the friend Heaven bestowed; and truly Eleanor would be my elect friend from all the world, but that she is married. She has projected herself into another self, and, though two make one for themselves, they make two for the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friend. Yes, I am getting into the old track famously. Some of my old clients have welcomed me cordially; and though I was cruelly knocked down from those `steeps so hard to climb' of my profession, yet I am in no wise discouraged. True, my competitors shot ahead of me, but I shall gain upon them. There is nothing like the whip and spur of necessity; in our land, the poor workingman is on vantage-ground, the general sympathy is with him, and if he be capable, and in earnest, he has plenty of work to do. I have delivered two Lectures, made up of my foreign observations, which were well received, and filled my pockets. I have had many requests to repeat them. I shall not. A man should not be diverted from his profession by `fancy work.' I have offers from booksellers and editors that will profitably fill my leisure hours, if I have them. Thus, you see, I can answer your inquiry satisfactorily. I do not `regret the obligations' I have assumed for my step-brothers. I have economical quarters, and by avoiding hotel-life, and all superfluous indulgence, I shall compass my great object—their education; and after that, Yankee boys can take care of themselves. * * * “He's a trump—take my word for it, Dates. He lectured at the Mercantile last evening. I went early, and got a seat directly in front of him. It seemed as if he could not keep his eyes off from me! The house was choke-full, and all attention. You might have heard a pin fall. He was posted up about every thing t'other side, and told us a lot about Greece and Athens, and Egypt and Thebes. There were a number of literary characters present, distinguished authors and authoresses that write in the Magazines. He got, they say, $400 by this Lecture alone! Don't he know how to coin money out of talents? He looks like a different individual—so genteel!—you can't think! “All other interests are superseded just now by the alarming illness of Eleanor's boy—her only boy. His illness has come suddenly. But yesterday, he seemed to stand on the hill-top of life, radiant with the rosy tints of morning, casting down into many hearts the hopes and promises of a long, bright day. “Thank you, for the list of scholars—fifteen in your school! These, with the promised five out of it, will supply the deficiencies in our income the next year; and thus, if we make a fortunate disposition of our house, my husband will be enabled to repair his strength by a year's travel in Europe, and rest from work. Thank you, too, for your assurance that I do not interfere with your accomplished musical professor, as my lower terms, according with my inferior ability, also accord with my pupils' smaller means. And thank you, more than all, for your gentle warning, lest, in my eagerness to afford my husband material aid, I lose sight of my first duty; that to my children and household. They are providentially cared for. An elderly cousin of my husband, Effie Lynn, has just lost her home. We are glad to give her the shelter of our's. She is a delicately strung, nervous little body, and will, in a way, increase my cares; but she will also immensely relieve them, as, being most kind, faithful, and fond of children, I can tranquilly leave my girls with her during my working hours.
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244Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  Married or single?  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter, she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications, or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation, followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is through their intervention that he has failed of his election to the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother. I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up —but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began: `I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,' she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred another selection. Your dear father in his life-time tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam, she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne— and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued, `when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances are still quivering. They shall not turn against me. I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit, when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still, have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or, I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty, fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But, my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men, perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday, I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances. This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady, but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember, that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia; you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow, you will very much oblige me. As it is but one day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead. God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis' maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said, `it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out; she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath, and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating, and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis. Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit, though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch, her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me. I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none. I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution, Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom, and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of. I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy. Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child! she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh— did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never, never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And what was more important, she seemed comforted by my presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was not that what you said? My head has been so confused— it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never known, and resources upon which you had never drawn; how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands realities, while it hungers after the good and the true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky, and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr. Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other. `I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.' Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek, saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter, girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother, I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room; you might have told me, mother, when I asked you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing. It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited, May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.' Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess, that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree. His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting, in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain, the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations. L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'” etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked, every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.)
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245Author:  Billings Josh 1818-1885Add
 Title:  Josh Billings, hiz sayings  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The mule is haf hoss, and haf Jackass, and then kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake. Tha weigh more, akordin tu their heft, than enny other kreetur, except a crowbar. Tha kant hear enny quicker, nor further than the hoss, yet their ears are big enuff for snow shoes. You kan trust them with enny one whose life aint worth enny more than the mules. The only wa tu keep them into a paster, is tu turn them into a medder jineing, and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use, just as soon as they will du tu abuse. Tha haint got enny friends, and will live on huckel berry brush, with an ockasional chanse at Kanada thissels. Tha are a modern invenshun, i dont think the Bible deludes tu them at tall. Tha sel for more money than enny other domestik animile. Yu kant tell their age by looking into their mouth, enny more than you kould a Mexican cannons. Tha never hav no dissease that a good club wont heal. If tha ever die tha must kum rite tu life agin, for i never herd nobody sa “ded mule.” Tha are like sum men, very korrupt at harte; ive known them tu be good mules for 6 months, just tu git a good chanse to kick sumbody. I never owned one, nor never mean to, unless there is a United Staits law passed, requiring it. The only reason why tha are pashunt, is bekause tha are ashamed ov themselfs. I have seen eddikated mules in a sirkus. Tha kould kick, and bite, tremenjis. I would not sa what I am forced tu sa again the mule, if his birth want an outrage, and man want tu blame for it. Enny man who is willing tu drive a mule, ought to be exempt by law from running for the legislatur. Tha are the strongest creeturs on earth, and heaviest, ackording tu their sise; I herd tell ov one who fell oph from the tow path, on the Eri kanawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but he kept rite on towing the boat tu the nex stashun, breathing thru his ears, which stuck out ov the water about 2 feet 6 inches; i did'nt see this did, but an auctioneer told me ov it, and i never knew an auctioneer tu lie unless it was absolutely convenient. “Dear Augustus Sidney Bloodgood: Having a fu spare time tew devote terestial things, i take mi pen in hand tew rite yu a fu lines. I am well, and hope theze fu lines will find yu enjoying the same blessin. I hav jist returned from the gardin ov Eden whare i hav bin with Dave Sturgiss, who was killed at the battell ov Gettisburg bi gitting choked with a pease ov hard tacks. The weather iz fine, and there iz evry prospeck ov krops; I never see the potaters look finer. Dri goods is cheap here, yu can buy good factory cottin cloth, yard wide, for eleven cents a yard and hav thred thrown in. I see the Widder Bostwick yesterday, she looks as starched up as ever.
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246Author:  Shillaber B. P. (Benjamin Penhallow) 1814-1890Add
 Title:  Knitting-work  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Gentlemen: It has suddenly occurred to me that a preface is altogether unnecessary, and, therefore, I positively decline writing one, inasmuch as I have commenced five already, and been compelled to abandon them all, from sheer inability to complete them. Prefaces have always seemed to me like drummers for a show, calling upon people to “come up and see the elephant,” with a slight exaggeration of the merit of the animal to be exhibited; and though, in the present case, such enlargement of the fact would not be necessary, still those disposed to be captious might read our promises with incredulity. Mrs. Partington, no less than the Roman dame, should be above suspicion; therefore, this heralding should be avoided, and her name left with only its olden reputation resting about it, like the halo of cobweb and dust about an ancient vintage of port. Her coädjutors, Dr. Spooner, Old Roger, and Wideswarth, representing the profound, the jolly, and the sentimental, need no endorsement among the enlightened many who will buy this book; and we can safely leave them, as lawyers sometimes do their cases when they have nothing to say, without argument. Again, all will see for themselves the acid and sugar, and spirit and water, comprised in the contents of the volume, — forming the components of a sort of intellectual punch, of which they can partake to any extent, without headache or heartache, as the sedate therein forms a judicious corrective of the eccentric and gay which might intoxicate. The illustrations, by Hoppin, tell their own story, and need no further commendation than their great excellence. The local meaning of many of the sayings and doings of the book will, of course, be readily understood, without explanation or apology; and the new matter will be distinguished from the old, by the quality of novelty that generally attaches to that with which we are not familiar. I thought somewhat of giving the name beneath each individual represented in our frontispiece; but the idea was dispelled in a moment, by the reflection that Mrs. Partington — the central sun of our social system — could not be misinterpreted; while Dr. Spooner, Prof. Wideswarth, Old Roger, and Ike, were equally well defined; and the skill of the artist in depicting them needed no aid. Therefore, all things considered, I think we had better let the book slip from its dock quietly, and drift out into the tide of publication, to be borne by this or that eddy of feeling to such success as it may deserve, without the formality of prefatory bottle-breaking. I leave the matter, then, as a settled thing, that we will not have a preface. When Mrs. Partington first moved from Beanville, and the young scion of the Partington stock was exposed to the temptations of city life and city associations, it was thought advisable to appoint a “guardeen” over him. Ike was not a bad boy, in the wicked sense of the word bad; but he had a constant proclivity for tormenting every one that he came in contact with; a resistless tendency for having a hand in everything that was going on; a mischievous bent, that led him into continual trouble, that brought on him reproaches from all sides, and secured for him a reputation that made him answerable for everything of a wrong character that was done in the neighborhood. A barber's pole could not be removed from the barber's door and placed beside the broker's, but it must be imputed to “that plaguy Ike;” all clandestine pulls at door-bells in the evenings were done by “that plaguy Ike;” if a ball or an arrow made a mistake and dashed through a window, the ball or the arrow belonged to “that plaguy Ike;” if on April Fool's day a piece of paper were found pasted on a door-step, putting grave housekeepers to the trouble and mortification of trying to pick up an imagined letter, the blame was laid to “that plaguy Ike;” and if a voice was heard from round the corner crying “April Fool!” or “sold,” those who heard it said, at once, it was “that plaguy Ike's.” Many a thing he had thus to answer for that he did n't do, as well as many that he did, until Mrs. Partington became convinced of the necessity of securing some one to look after him besides herself. “Miss Parkinson: Your boy has been and tied a culinary utensile to the caudle appendidge of a canine favorite of ourn, an indignity that wee shall never submit to. He is a reproach to the neighborhood, and you must punish him severally. Daring Outrage. — Last evening a burglarious attempt was made to enter the house of Mr. T. Speed, in — street; but the burglar threw down a bust of Shakespeare in the attempt, which attracted the attention of Mr. Muggins, passing at the time, who pursued the ruffian over a shed, and boldly attacked him in Marsh alley, when the villain drew a pistol and threatened to shoot his assailant, who persistingly stuck to him until a blow from the butt of the pistol knocked him down, and the rascal escaped, leaving his hat on the premises, in which was the name O. Hush. Mr. Muggins treated him very severely, and it is believed the atrocious wretch may be detected by the injury he received. The police are upon his track. “Mr. Milling: Be wary of Upshur. A pitcher that goes too often to the well may come back broken. “Mr. Milling. — Sir: You may deem me a scoundrel; but I am to be pitied. I have been led into the temptation of speculation, have compromised our firm in its prosecution, and have fled, like Cain, with the brand of disgrace on my name. But, while thus leaving like a thief, I solemnly promise that my future shall be devoted to a reparation of the trouble I have caused. You shall not hear from me until I am able to wipe the stain from the name of yours, most ungratefully, “My dear Madam: I am a man of few words — a friend of your late husband — with means sufficient to carry out what I propose. I wish to return a portion of the benefit he conferred upon me, a poor boy. I am aware of your family circumstances, and would relieve a portion of your burden. Your youngest daughter should receive an education. I have the ability to secure it, and would deem it a favor to be allowed to incur the expense attending it. The only condition I propose is that no sense of obligation may be allowed to overpower you, and no effort be made to discover the writer. “Dear Partelot: Please excuse me to the family. I am suddenly called to Mulberry-street. My sister has arrived from the country. My regards to Mrs. M., and Misses Matilda and Lily.
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247Author:  Shillaber B. P. (Benjamin Penhallow) 1814-1890Add
 Title:  Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others of the family  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: 677EAF. Page 013. In-line Illustration. Image of a gun, a sword, a framed profile of a man. “Perfigis retch: — your our is cum... Mete me to-morrar outside the Inglish lines, and Ile giv yu Jessy. Yours respectively, “Dear Mother, — It grieves me to bid you farewell, but longer sufferance from father's tyrannical usage is impossible. I go to seek my fortune, and when we meet again may it be when he and I shall have learned a lesson from our separation, and the alienation of father and child may be forgotten in the renewed intercourse of man and man. Farewell, mother, and may you be more happy than I should have been able to make you had I lived with you a thousand years. Farewell. Remember sometimes your poor boy,
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248Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  As good as a comedy, or, The Tennesseean's story  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Let us start fairly, and not on an empty stomach. Reader, we begin with a Georgia breakfast. We are at one of those plain, unpretending, but substantial farm-houses, which, in the interior of Georgia, and other Southern States, distinguished more especially the older inhabitants; those who, from time immemorial, have appeared pretty much as we find them now. These all date back beyond the Revolution; the usual epoch, in our country, at which an ancient family may be permitted to begin. The region is one of those lovely spots among the barrens of middle Georgia, in which, surveyed from the proper point of view, there is nothing barren. You are not to suppose the settlement an old one, by any means, for it is not more than twenty or twenty-five years since all the contiguous territory within a space of sixty miles was rescued from the savages. But our family is an old one; inheriting all the pride, the tastes, and the feelings which belonged to the old Southern “Continentaler.” This will be apparent as we proceed; as it is apparent, in fact, to the eye which contrasts the exterior of its dwelling with that of the neighboring settlements among which it harbors. The spot, though undistinguished by surprising scenery, is a very lovely one, and not unfrequent in the middle country of the Atlantic Southern States. It presents a pleasing prospect under a single glance of the eye, of smooth lawn, and gentle acclivity, and lofty forest growth. A streamlet, or branch, as it is here called, winds along, murmuring as it goes, at the foot of a gentle eminence which is crowned with a luxuriant wealth of pine and cedar. Looking up from this spot while your steed drinks, you behold, perched on another gentle swell of ground, as snug and handsome an edifice as our forest country usually affords; none of your overgrown ambitious establishments, but a trim tidy dwelling, consisting of a single story of wood upon a brick basement, and surrounded on three sides by a most glorious piazza. The lawn slopes away, for several hundred yards, an even and very gradual descent even to the road; a broad tract, well sprinkled with noble trees, oaks, oranges, and cedars, with here and there a clump of towering pines, under which steeds are grazing, in whose slender and symmetrical forms, clean legs, and glossy skins, you may discern instant signs of those superior foreign breeds which the Southern planter so much affects. The house, neatly painted white, with green blinds and shutters, is kept in admirable trim; and, from the agreeable arrangement of trees and shrubbery, it would seem that the place had been laid out and was tenanted by those who brought good taste and a becoming sense of the beautiful to the task. There was no great exercise of art, it is true. That is not pretended. But nature was not suffered to have her own way entirely, was not suffered to overrun the face of the land with her luxuriance; nor was man so savage as to strip her utterly of all her graceful decorations— a crime which we are too frequently called upon to deplore and to denounce, when we contemplate the habitations even of the wealthy among our people, particularly in the South, despoiled, by barbarity, of all their shade-trees, and denuded of all the grace and softness which these necessarily confer upon the landscape. Here, the glance seemed to rest satisfied with what it beheld, and to want for nothing. There might be bigger houses, and loftier structures, of more ambitious design and more commanding proportion; but this was certainly very neat, and very much in its place. Its white outlines caught your eye, glinting through openings of the forest, approaching by the road on either hand, for some distance before you drew nigh, and with such an air of peace and sweetness, that you were insensibly prepared to regard its inmates as very good and well-bred people. Nor are we wrong in these conjectures. But of this hereafter. At this moment, you may see a very splendid iron-gray charger, saddled, and fastened in the shade, some twenty steps from the dwelling. Lift your eye to the piazza, and you behold the owner. A finer-looking fellow lives not in the country. Tall, well made, and muscular, he treads the piazza like a prince. The freedom of carriage which belongs to the gentlemen in our forest country is inimitable, is not to be acquired by art, and is due to the fact that they suffer from no laborious occupation, undergo no drudgery, and are subject to no confinement, which, in childhood, contract the shoulders into a stoop, depress the spirits, enfeeble the energies, and wofully impair the freedom and elegance of the deportment. Constant exercise on foot and horseback, the fox hunt and the chase; these, with other sylvan sports, do wonders for the physique, the grace and the bearing of the country gentleman of the South. The person before us is one of the noblest specimens of his class. A frank and handsome countenance, with a skin clear and inclining to the florid; a bright, martial blue eye; a full chin; thick, massive locks of dark brown hair, and lips that express a rare sweetness, and only do not smile, sufficiently distinguish his peculiarities of face. His dress is simple, after an ordinary fashion of the country, but is surprisingly neat and becoming. A loose blouse, rather more after the Choctaw than the Parisian pattern, does not lessen the symmetry of his shape. His trousers are not so loose as to conceal the fine muscular developments of his lower limbs; nor does his loose negligée neckcloth, simply folded about the neck, prevent the display of a column which admirably sustains the intellectual and massive head which crowns it, and which we now behold uncovered. Booted and spurred, he appears ready for a journey, walks the piazza with something of impatience in his manner, and frequently stops to shade his eyes from the glare, as he strains them in exploring the distant highway. You see that he is young, scarcely twenty-two; eager in his impulses, restive under restraint, and better able to endure and struggle with the conflict than to wait for its slow approaches. Suddenly he starts. He turns to a call from within, and a matron lady appears at the entrance of the dwelling, and joins him in the piazza. He turns to her with respect and fondness. She is his mother; a stately dame, with features like his own; a manner at once easy and dignified; an eye grave, but benevolent; and a voice whose slow, subdued accents possess a rare sweetness not unmingled with command.
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249Author:  Spofford Harriet Elizabeth Prescott 1835-1921Add
 Title:  New-England legends  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The islands about the harbors of all our New England rivers are so wild, and would seem to have offered so many advantages, that they have always been supposed, by the ruder population, to be the hiding-place of piratical treasures, and particularly of Captain Kidd's; and the secretion, among rocks and sands, of chests of jewels stripped from noble Spanish ladies who have walked the awful plank, with shotbags full of diamonds, and ingots of pure gold, is one of the tenets of the vulgar faith. This belief has ranged up and down the whole shore with more freedom than the pirates ever did, and the legends on the subject are legion —from the old Frenchman of Passamaquoddy Bay to the wild stories of the Jersey and Carolina sandbars too countless for memory, the Fireship off Newport, the Shrieking Woman of Marblehead, and the Lynn Mariner who, while burying his treasure in a cave, was sealed up alive by a thunderbolt that cleft the rock, and whom some one, under spiritual inspiration, spent lately a dozen years in vain endeavor to unearth. The parties that have equipped themselves with hazel-rods and spades, and proceeded, at the dead of night, in search of these riches, without turning their heads or uttering the Divine Name, and, digging till they struck metal, have met with all manner of ghostly appearances, from the little naked negro sitting and crying on the edge of the hogshead of doubloons, to the ball of fire sailing straight up the creek, till it hangs trembling on the tide just opposite the excavation into which it shoots with the speed of lightning, so terrifying and bewildering the treasure-seekers that when all is over they fail to find again the place of their late labor—the parties that have met with these adventures would, perhaps, cease to waste much more of their time in such pursuits in this part of the country if they knew that Captain Kidd had never landed north of Block Island until, with fatal temerity, he brought his vessel into Boston, and that every penny of his gains was known and was accounted for, while as to Bradish, Tew, and the rest of that genry, they wasted everything as they went in riotous living, and could never have had a dollar to hide, and no disposition to hide it if they had; and whatever they did possess they took with them when, quietly abandoning their ships to the officers of the law, they went up the creeks and rivers in boats, and dispersed themselves throughout the country. “Received of Bishop Fenwick, the sum of seventy-nine dollars and twenty cents, the same being taxes assessed by the Assessors of the town of Charlestown, upon the land and buildings of the late Convent of Mount Benedict, for the year 1834, and which were this day demanded by Solomon Hovey, Jr., Collector, agreeably to instructions received by him from the Assessors, to that effect, although said buildings had been destroyed by a mob in August last. “Honor Governor my friend You my friend. I desire your worship and your power, because I hope you can do some great matters—this one. I am poor and naked and I have no men at my place because I afraid allways Mohogs he will kill me every day and night. If your worship when please pray help me you no let Mohogs kill me at my place at Malamake Rever called Panukkog and Natukkog, I will submit your worship and your power. — And now I want pouder and such alminishun, shatt and guns, because I have forth at my home and I plant theare. “Now this day I com your house, I want se you, and I bring my hand at before you I want shake hand to you if your worship when please then you receive my hand then shake your hand and my hand. You my friend because I remember at old time when live my grant father and grant mother then Englishmen com this country, then my grant father and Englishmen they make a good govenant, they friend allwayes, my grant father leving at place called Malamake Rever, other name chef Natukkog and Panukkog, that one rever great many names, and I bring you this few skins at this first time I will give you my friend. This all Indian hand. “Please your Worship—I will intreat you matther, you my friend now; this, if my Indian he do you long, pray you no put your law, because som my Indians fooll, some men much love drunk then he no know what he do, maybe he do mischif when he drunk, if so pray you must let me know what he done because I will ponis him what have done, you, you my friend, if you desire my business then sent me I will help you if I can. “Mr. Mason — Pray I want speake you a few words if your worship when please, because I com parfas. I will speake this governor but he go away so he say at last night, and so far I understand this governor his power that your power now, so he speak his own mouth. Pray if you take what I want pray come to me because I want go hom at this day. “Honorable Sir—The Governor and Council having this day received a letter from Major Hinchman, of Chelmsford, that some Indians are come into them, who report that there is a gathering of Indians in or about Pennacook, with design of mischief to the English. Among the said Indians one Hawkins is said to be a principal designer, and that they have a particular design against yourself and Mr. Peter Coffin, which the Council thought it necessary presently to dispatch advice thereof, to give you notice, that you take care of your own safeguard, they intending to endeavor to betray you on a pretension of trade.
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250Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Add
 Title:  Agnes of Sorrento  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The setting sunbeams slant over the antique gateway of Sorrento, fusing into a golden bronze the brown freestone vestments of old Saint Antonio, who with his heavy stone mitre and upraised hands has for centuries kept watch thereupon.
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251Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Add
 Title:  Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining parlor, in the town of P—, in Kentucky. There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some subject with great earnestness. “Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write; will probably try to pass for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has been branded in his right hand with the letter H. “Executor's Sale, — Negroes! — Agreeably to order of court, will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.
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252Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Add
 Title:  Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Tom, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want to go,” she said. “I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True, as you have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites, in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and that of my wife and family scarce perceptible. Well, perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth, I have no wish to.
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253Author:  Taylor Bayard 1825-1878Add
 Title:  John Godfrey's fortunes, related by himself  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: I was sitting at the front window, buried, chin-deep, in the perusal of “Sandford and Merton,” when I heard the latch of the gate click. Looking up, I saw that it was only Neighbor Niles, coming, as usual, in her sun-bonnet, with her bare arms wrapped in her apron, for a chat with mother. I therefore resumed my reading, for Neighbor Niles always burst into the house without knocking, and mother was sure to know who it was by the manner in which the door opened. I had gotten as far into the book as the building of the Robinson-Crusoe hut, and one half of my mind speculated, as I read, whether a similar hut might not be constructed in our garden, in the corner between the snowball-bush and Muley's stable. Bob Simmons would help me, I was sure; only it was scarcely possible to finish it before winter, and then we could n't live in it without a fireplace and a chimney. “My dear Brother, — Yours of the 10th is received. I am now so accustomed to your sarcastic style, that I always know what to expect when I open one of your epistles. I wish you joy of your — well, I must say our new cousin, though I am sorry you did not let me know of the discovery before telling him. He must be gauche and unpresentable in a degree; but then, I suppose, there 's no likelihood of his ever getting into our set. It is time your schooling was finished, so that I might have you for awhile as my chevalier. Between ourselves, I 'm rather tired of going about with” (here the word “Mamma” had evidently been written and then blotted out) “Mrs. Penrose. Not but what she continues to improve, — only, I am never certain of her not committing some niaiserie, which quite puts me out. However, she behaves well enough at home, and I hope you will overcome your prejudice in the end, for my sake. When you know as much about Society as I do, you will see that it 's always best to smooth over what 's irrevocable. People are beginning to forget the scandal, since that affair of Denbigh has given them something else to talk about. We were at Mrs. Delane's ball on Wednesday; I made her put on blue cut velvet, and she did not look so bad. Mrs. Vane nodded, and of course she was triumphant. I think Papa gives me the credit for all that has been done, — I 'm sure I deserve it. It 's a race between Mrs. P. and myself which shall have the new India shawl at Stokes's; but I shall get it, because Mrs. P. knows that I could teach her to blunder awfully as well as to behave correctly, and would do it, in spite of Papa's swearing, if she drives me to desperation. By the by, he has just come into the room, and says, `You are writing to the cub, as usual, I suppose, Matilda.' So there you have him, to the life.” “Respected Friend, I recd. your favor in which you informed me that you was getting on so well and gave the other as you directed. Thought it best to wait for the other's answer, though there is no particular news. Sep Bratton goes to The Buck every day, and there 's high goings on between him and the squire. Your friend Mr. Rand was there again. People say the squire is speculating about Pottsville, and will cut up pretty fat some day, which is no business of mine, but thought you might like to hear. We are all well, and mother and Sue says remember me to him. I guess Ben and her is satisfied with one another, but you need not say I told you. There is a mistress at the school this summer, a right smart young woman, her name is Lavina Wilkins. And hoping these few lines will find you enjoying good health, I remain, “Dear John,” (there were volumes of withheld confession for me in that one adjective): — Towards the end of May the important book appeared. I am sure that no immortal work was ever watched, through its different processes of incarnation, with such tender solicitude. I lingered over the first proofs, the revised proofs, and the printed and folded sheets, with a proud, luxurious interest, and the final consummation — the little volume, bound and lettered — was so precious that I could have kissed the leaves one by one. It seemed incredible that the “John Godfrey” on the title-page really meant myself! A book for me had hitherto possessed a sublime, mystical individuality of its own, and this, which had grown beneath my hand, by stages of manufacture as distinctly material as those which go to the formation of a shoe or a stove, was now to be classed among those silent, eloquent personalities! It might be placed side by side with “Paradise Lost” or “Childe Harold,” on book-shelves; who could tell whither chance or fortune might not carry it, or what young and burning lips it might not help unseal? “I have judged you unjustly, and treated you rudely, Mr. Godfrey. If I have not forfeited the right to make reparation, or you have not lost the desire to receive it, will you call upon me to-morrow evening, at Mrs. Deering's, and oblige “I will come. “Respd. Nephew, — I take my Pen in hand to inform you that Me and your aunt Peggy are injoying good Health and Those Blessings which the Lord Vouchsafes to us. It is a long Time since we have heard anything of you, but suppose you are still ingaged in the same Occupation as at first, and hence direct accordingly, hoping these few Lines may come Safely to hand. “The news contained in your letter of the 7th was quite unexpected, but none the less welcome, for your sake as well as my own. While I still think that the disposal of my little property ought to have been left to myself, I cheerfully acquit you of any intention to do me wrong, and to show that I not only bear no malice, but am willing to retract my hasty insinuations against your character, I will accept your proffered hospitality when I visit Reading. You may expect me within the next four or five days. “My Dear John, — I know why you have not written to me. In fact I knew, months ago, (through Deering,) what was coming, and had conquered whatever soreness was left in my heart. Fortunately my will is also strong in a reflective sense, and I am, moreover, no child to lament over an irretrievable loss. I dare say the future will make it up to me, in some way, if I wait long enough. At any rate, you won't object, my dear old fellow, to have me say — not that I wish you happiness, for you have it, but — that you deserve your double fortune. The other item I picked up from a newspaper; you might have written me that.
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254Author:  Thorpe Thomas Bangs 1815-1878Add
 Title:  The master's house  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: There is not a more charming town in New England, than Malden, so celebrated, and so widely known for its intelligent population, its interesting traditions, and its most excellent seat of learning. Dear Sir,—I understand you desire to purchase some valuable house servants. I have one or two that I would part with, if the trade could be made privately, and treated by you as confidential. I will be at the cross roads, near the old brick kiln, precisely at five o'clock, where we can hold conversation unobserved. Dear Sir,—I have been informed that you wish to purchase a few first class house-servants; I have two that I would part with, for less than their real value, if you can manage to get them in your possession, without giving their owners the pain of going through the separation. They have been carefully raised, and would not be sold, if their owners were not conscientiously impressed that their condition would not be improved, if they were set free. I shall be at your hotel at eleven o'clock to-day, and shall proceed at once to your room, to avoid the suspicion among the neighbors, that I am contemplating selling. You will consider our communications in honor, and trust they will be so treated. Sur,—I've got an old negro woman as wants to be sold, and go to Mobeel, in the State of Mississip'. I wouldn't sell her, if she didn't want to go down to that South country to see her children, as is owned by Mister Brownlaw, who, when he tuck the children, was to buy the old ooman, but didn't have the money, an hasn't sent for her 'cordin' to contract. I will sel her for two hundred and fifty, and I think Brownlaw will give you four hundred on his place, as her son is a carpenter, and I'm told he thinks a heap of him, as he can earn five dollars a day, making bridges on the rale rode. Please say nothing about this, and drop in at my house in the evening, when nobody is about, on the Sandy-hill road, f'ur miles from Colesburg, near the ruins of the old church, with a sign over the door, with my name painted on it. Dear Sir,—I understood last evening, after church was out, that you had come on here to obtain a few choice servants. I have long since been forced to the conclusion, that slavery is a moral evil, and I have rejoiced that I have parted with the few I have owned, to humane masters, which is a great relief to me, in my hours of serious reflection. I have one girl that has been carefully brought up, and we are much attached to her, but I am somewhat advanced in years, as well as her mistress, and we cannot tell at what time she may, in the course of Providence, be thrown without a protector, upon the wide, wicked world. I had determined not to sell her, but seeing you in church the other day, I have become deeply impressed that you 12* are a pious man, and as such, would deal justly with the girl. I have also reflected, that whatever may be my sense of duty, the excitement at the North has been so great, that it makes it perfectly impossible for me to carry out my original intention, of setting the girl free, as I cannot conceive a more dreadful condition, than for a once comfortably clothed and well taken care of negro slave, to be thrown upon the tender mercies of the uncharitable world, and be left, as are the poor white laborers of the free States, to starve, and die a miserable death. It would be difficult to get the girl's consent to be sold, and therefore this matter must be delicately arranged; she will no doubt, at first, be much grieved, but we must judge what is best for her welfare, ourselves, for we know how to provide for her real good. The girl is nearly nineteen years of age. Address “Humanity,” through the post-office, and say where a strictly private interview may be had. Of course this communication will be considered confidential. I trust I may sign myself, in the bonds of brotherly love, “Dear Sir: I received your favor, desiring me to state my opinion of the value of M. Guénon's `Treatise on Milch Cows,' translated from the French.... I immediately commenced the study and application of his method to every cow that came under my observation. I have examined more than one hundred cows, and, after carefully marking their escutcheons. I have become satisfied that M. Guénon's discovery is one of great merit, and can be relied upon as true. I have no doubt that I can judge very nearly as to the quantity and quality of the milk any cow will give at the height of her flow, and also the time she will continue in milk after being with calf. “I have read with great satisfaction M. Guénon's work on Milch Cows, by which one can judge by certain infallible signs the milking qualities of the animal. I have compared the marks he gives for his first-grade Flanders cow, and find they correspond with the escutcheon of my favorite Devon cow `Ellen,' that has taken the first premium at two cattle-shows of the American Institute. My farmer has great faith in M. Guénon's work, and so has one of my neighbors, a knowing Scotch milkman, who keeps fifty cows. He says that, after careful examination, he places confidence in these marks, and they will govern him in his future purchases. I shall hereafter make my selection of the calves I will raise from my choice stocks from the marks given by this author. I think every farmer should own this work. “Having had experience in raising cows, I was pleased to find a treatise on the subject by M. Guénon, of Libourne, in France—which I procured and carefully studied. I think the book more worthy of attention than I believe it has received. I found that his marks of the particular classes and orders of cows agree with nearly all I have had an opportunity to examine. It is easy to ascertain, after studying this book, to which class and order almost every cow belongs, which, as a guide in purchasing milch cows, or of safely deciding which to keep, before we have had time or opportunity to test their qualities as milkers, will far more than repay the price of the book, and the time necessary to a clear understanding of it.
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255Author:  Trowbridge J. T. (John Townsend) 1827-1916Add
 Title:  Coupon bonds, and other stories  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Reverend and dear Sir: — We have made all the arrangements. The Ex. is all right. You preach for Selwyn at Longtrot, on Sunday, the 7th.
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256Author:  Wallace Lew 1827-1905Add
 Title:  The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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257Author:  Phelps Elizabeth Stuart 1844-1911Add
 Title:  The gates ajar  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: ONE week; only one week to-day, this twenty-first of February. My dear Child, — I have been thinking how happy you will be by and by because Roy is happy.
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258Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Add
 Title:  Fun-jottings, or, Laughs I have taken a pen to  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Where art thou, bridegroom of my soul? Thy Ione S— calls to thee from the aching void of her lonely spirit! What name bearest thou? What path walkest thou? How can I, glow-worm like, lift my wings and show thee my lamp of guiding love? Thus wing I these words to thy dwelling-place (for thou art, perhaps, a subscriber to the M—r). Go—truants! Rest not till ye meet his eye. “Dear Tom: If your approaching nuptials are to be sufficiently public to admit of a groomsman, you will make me the happiest of friends by selecting me for that office. “Dear Phil: The devil must have informed you of a secret I supposed safe from all the world. Be assured I should have chosen no one but yourself to support me on the occasion; and however you have discovered my design upon your treasure, a thousand thanks for your generous consent. I expected no less from your noble nature. “Sir: I am intrusted with a delicate commission, which I know not how to broach to you, except by simple proposal. Will you forgive my abrupt brevity, if I inform you, without further preface, that the Countess Nyschriem, a Polish lady of high birth and ample fortune, does you the honor to propose for your hand. If you are disengaged, and your affections are not irrevocably given to another, I can conceive no sufficient obstacle to your acceptance of this brilliant connexion. The countess is twenty-two, and not beautiful, it must in fairness be said; but she has high qualities of head and heart, and is worthy of any man's respect and affection. She has seen you, of course, and conceived a passion for you, of which this is the result. I am directed to add, that should you consent, the following conditions are imposed—that you marry her within four days, making no inquiry except as to her age, rank, and property, and that, without previous interview, she come veiled to the altar. “You will pardon me that I have taken two days to consider the extraordinary proposition made me in your letter. The subject, since it is to be entertained a moment, requires, perhaps, still further reflection—but my reply shall be definite, and as prompt as I can bring myself to be, in a matter so important. “On a summer morning, twelve years ago, a chimney sweep, after doing his work and singing his song, commenced his descent. It was the chimney of a large house, and becoming embarrassed among the flues, he lost his way and found himself on the hearth of a sleeping-chamber occupied by a child. The sun was just breaking through the curtains of the room, a vacated bed showed that some one had risen lately, probably the nurse, and the sweep, with an irresistible impulse, approached the unconscious little sleeper. She lay with her head upon a round arm buried in flaxen curls, and the smile of a dream on her rosy and parted lips. It was a picture of singular loveliness, and something in the heart of that boy-sweep, as he stood and looked upon the child, knelt to it with an agony of worship. The tears gushed to his eyes. He stripped the sooty blanket from his breast, and looked at the skin white upon his side. The contrast between his condition and that of the fair child sleeping before him brought the blood to his blackened brow with the hot rush of lava. He knelt beside the bed on which she slept, took her hand in his sooty grasp, and with a kiss upon the white and dewy fingers, poured his whole soul with passionate earnestness into a resolve. “You will recognize my handwriting again. I have little to say—for I abandon the intention I had formed to comment on your apparent preference. Your happiness is in your own hands. Circumstances which will be explained to you, and which will excuse this abrupt forwardness, compel me to urge you to an immediate choice. On your arrival at home, you will meet me in your father's house, where I shall call to await you. I confess, tremblingly, that I still cherish a hope. If I am not deceived— if you can consent to love me—if my long devotion is to be rewarded—take my hand when you meet me. That moment will decide the value of my life. But be prepared also to name another, if you love him—for there is a necessity, which I cannot 11 explain to you till you have chosen your husband, that this choice should be made on your arrival. Trust and forgive one who has so long loved you!” I have not written to you in your boy's lifetime—that fine lad, a shade taller than yourself, whom I sometimes meet at my tailor's and bootmaker's. I am not very sure, that after the first month (bitter month) of your marriage, I have thought of you for the duration of a revery—fit to be so called. I loved you— lost you—swore your ruin and forgot you—which is love's climax when jilted. And I never expected to think of you again. Start fair, my sweet Violet! This letter will lie on your table when you arrive at Saratoga, and it is intended to prepare you for that critical campaign. You must know the ammunition with which you go into the field. I have seen service, as you know, and from my retirement (on half-pay), can both devise strategy and reconnoitre the enemy's weakness, with discretion. Set your glass before you on the table, and let us hold a frank council of war. My dear Widow: For the wear and tear of your bright eyes in writing me a letter you are duly credited. That for a real half-hour, as long as any ordinary half-hour, such well-contrived illuminations should have concentrated their mortal using on me only, is equal, I am well aware, to a private audience of any two stars in the firmament—eyelashes and petticoats (if not thrown in) turning the comparison a little in your favor. Thanks—of course—piled high as the porphyry pyramid of Papantla! My dear neph-ling: I congratulate you on the attainment of your degree as “Master of Arts.” In other words, I wish the sin of the Faculty well repented of, in having endorsed upon parchment such a barefaced fabrication. Put the document in your pocket, and come away! There will be no occasion to air it before doomsday, probably, and fortunately for you, it will then revert to the Faculty. Quiescat adhuc—as I used to say of my tailor's bills till they came through a lawyer. All asleep around me, dear Ernest, save the birds and insects to whom night is the time for waking. The stars and they are the company of such lovers of the thought-world as you and I, and, considering how beautiful night is, nature seems to have arranged it for a gentler and loftier order of beings, who alternate the conscious possession of the earth with those who wake by day. Shall we think better of ourselves for joining this nightingale troop, or is it (as I sometimes dread) a culpable shunning of the positive duties which belong to us as creatures of sunshine? Alas! this is but one of many shapes in which the same thought comes up to trouble me! In yielding to this passion for solitude —in communing, perhaps selfishly, with my own thoughts, in preference to associating with friends and companions—in writing, spiritually though it be, to you, in preference to thinking tenderly of him—I seem to myself to be doing wrong. Is it so? Can I divide my two natures, and rightfully pour my spirit's reserve freely out to you, while I give to him who thinks me all his own, only the every-day affection which he seems alone to value? Yet the best portion of my nature would be unappreciated else—the noblest questionings of my soul would be without response—the world I most live in would be utterly lonely. I fear to decide the question yet. I am too happy in writing to you. I will defer it, at least, till I have sounded the depths of the well of angels from which I am now quenching my thirst—till I know all the joy and luxury which, it seems to me, the exchange of these innermost breathings of the soul can alone give. You refuse to let me once rest my eyes upon you. I can understand that there might be a timidity in the first thought of meeting one with whom you had corresponded without acquaintance, but it seems to me that a second thought must remind you how much deeper and more sacred than “acquaintance,” our interchange of sympathies has been. Why, dear Ermengarde, you know me better than those who see me every day. My most intimate companion knows me less. Even she to whom I, perhaps, owe all confidence, and who might weep over the reservation of what I have shared with you, had she the enlargement of soul to comprehend it—even she knows me but as a child knows the binding of a book, while you have read me well. Why should you fear to let me once take your features into my memory, that this vague pain of starry distance and separation may be removed or lessened?
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259Author:  Evans Augusta J. (Augusta Jane) 1835-1909Add
 Title:  St. Elmo  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow.” “Madam: In reply to your very extraordinary request I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic chapter of a contemplated book. I am, madam, “Miss Earl: I return your MS., not because it is devoid of merit, but from the conviction that were I to accept it, the day would inevitably come when you would regret its premature publication. While it contains irrefragable evidence of extraordinary ability, and abounds in descriptions of great beauty, your style is characterized by more strength than polish, and is marred by crudities which a dainty public would never tolerate. The subject you have undertaken is beyond your capacity—no woman could successfully handle it—and the sooner you realize your over-estimate of your powers, the sooner your aspirations find their proper level, the sooner you will succeed in your treatment of some theme better suited to your feminine ability. Burn the inclosed MS., whose erudition and archaisms would fatally nauseate the intellectual dyspeptics who read my `Maga,' and write sketches of home-life—descriptions of places and things that you understand better than recondite analogies of ethical creeds and mythologic systems, or the subtle lore of Coptic priests. Remember that women never write histories nor epics; never compose oratorios that go sounding down the centuries; never paint `Last Suppers' and `Judgment Days;' though now and then one gives to the world a pretty ballad that sounds sweet and soothing when sung over a cradle, or another paints a pleasant little genre sketch which will hang appropriately in some quiet corner, and rest and refresh eyes that are weary with gazing at the sublime spiritualism of Fra Bartolomeo, or the gloomy grandeur of Salvator Rosa. If you have any short articles which you desire to see in print, you may forward them, and I will select any for publication, which I think you will not blush to acknowledge in future years. “My Dear Edna: I could not sleep last night in consequence of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter. I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion and assistant at Le Bocage. I can not consent to give you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what would I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always, and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning, and I shall know that you are my own dear, little Edna. “Edna: I send for your examination the contents of the little tomb, which you guarded so faithfully. Read the letters written before I was betrayed. The locket attached to a ribbon was always worn over my heart, and the miniatures which it contains, are those of Agnes Hunt and Murray Hammond. Read all the record, and then judge me, as you hope to be judged. I sit alone, amid the mouldering, blackened ruins of my youth; will you not listen to the prayer of my heart, and the half-smothered pleadings of your own, and come to me in my desolation, and help me to build up a new and noble life? O my darling! you can make me what you will. While you read and ponder, I am praying! Aye, praying for the first time in twenty years! praying that if God ever hears prayer, He will influence your decision, and bring you to me. Edna, my dar ling! I wait for you. “To the mercy of God, and the love of Christ, and the judgment of your own conscience, I commit you. Henceforth we walk different paths, and after to-night, it is my wish that we meet no more on earth. Mr. Murray, I can not lift up your darkened soul; and you would only drag mine down. For your final salvation, I shall never cease to pray, till we stand face to face, before the Bar of God. “My Darling: Will you not permit me to see you before you leave the parsonage? Knowing the peculiar circumstances that brought you back, I can not take advantage of them and thrust myself into your presence without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I felt assured that, much as you might desire to see `Le Bocage,' you would never come here while there was a possibility of meeting me. You, who know something of my wayward, sinful, impatient character, can perhaps imagine what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wrecked, that you are in the next room, and yet, that I must not, shall not see you—my own Edna! Do you wonder that I almost grow desperate at the thought that only a wall—a door—separates me from you, whom I love better than my life? O my darling! Allow me one more interview! Do not make my punishment heavier than I can bear. It is hard—it is bitter enough to know that you can not, or will not trust me; at least let me see your dear face again. Grant me one hour—it may be the last we shall ever spend together in this world.
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260Author:  O'Brien Fitz James 1828-1862Add
 Title:  Diamond lens  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “I am here. Question me.
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