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161Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Add
 Title:  The sea lions, or, The lost sealers  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Roswell was hardly on the ice before a sound of a most portentous sort reached his ear. He knew at once that the field had been rent in twain by outward pressure, and that some new change was to occur that might release or might destroy the schooner. He was on the point of springing forward in order to join Daggett, when a call from the boat arrested his steps.
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162Author:  Cooper James Fenimore 1789-1851Add
 Title:  The ways of the hour  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In one respect, there is a visible improvement in the goodly town of Manhattan, and that is in its architecture. Of its growth, there has never been any question, while many have disputed its pretension to improvement. A vast expansion of mediocrity, though useful and imposing, rarely satisfies either the judgment or the taste; those who possess these qualities, requiring a nearer approach to what is excellent, than can ever be found beneath the term just mentioned.
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163Author:  Penfeather Amabel pseudAdd
 Title:  Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Had there been a predecessor of Mr. Downing in the country, some five-and-twenty years since, to criticise Wyllys-Roof, the home of our friend Elinor, his good taste would no doubt have suggested many improvements, not only in the house itself, but also in the grounds which surrounded it. The building had been erected long before the first Tudor cottage was transported, Loretto-like, across the Atlantic, and was even anterior to the days of Grecian porticoes. It was a comfortable, sensible-looking place, however, such as were planned some eighty or a hundred years since, by men who had fortune enough to do as they pleased, and education enough to be quite superior to all pretension. The house was a low, irregular, wooden building, of ample size for the tastes and habits of its inmates, with broad piazzas, which not only increased its dimensions, but added greatly to the comfort and pleasure of the family by whom it was occupied. “You will be glad to hear that Jane passed the barriers, this morning, with the Howards. She has just finished a letter to Mrs. Graham; and, as she dislikes writing so much, has given me leave to announce her arrival to all at Wyllys-Roof. As Jane enters Paris on one side, I leave it in the opposite direction, for, the day after to-morrow, I am off for Constantinople; a movement which will, no doubt, astonish you, though, I am sure, you will wish me joy of such pleasant prospects. This letter will probably be the last you will hear of me, for some time; not but what I shall write as usual, but these long overland mails, through countries where they suspect revolution or plague, in every letter, often fail to do their duty. In fact, I delayed my journey a week or two, expressly to see Jane, and have a good supply of Longbridge news before setting out. Everybody tells me, I must expect to lose more than half my letters, both ways. This is bad enough, to be sure; but a journey to Greece and Constantinople, would be too full of delights, without some serious drawback. I believe Jane is more tired by answering our questions, and hearing what we have to tell her, than by her voyage. I cannot help wishing, my dear Elinor, that it were you who had arrived in Paris, instead of our pretty little cousin. How I should delight in showing you my favourite view, the quais and the island, from the Pont Royal—the Louvre, too, and the Madeleine. As for Jane, she will, doubtless, find her chief pleasures at Delilles', and the Tuileries — buying finery, and showing it off: it has often puzzled me to find out which some ladies most enjoy. “You have been so kind to me, ever since we moved into your neighbourhood, that I hope you will excuse me for asking your assistance, this morning. I have been a good deal plagued in my kitchen ever since we came into the country this spring. My cook and chamber-maid, who are sisters, are always finding some excuse for wanting to go to the city; and last night they got a letter, or pretended to get one from New York, saying that their father was very sick; and as I didn't know but it might be true, I couldn't refuse them, and they have gone for a week—though I won't be sure it was not for a mere frolic. As it happened, Mr. Taylor and Adeline came back from Saratoga, last night, and brought a house-full of company with them; an old friend of mine whom I had not seen for years, and some new acquaintances of Adeline's. To make matters worse, my nurse, a faithful, good girl, who has lived with me for years, was taken sick this morning; and John, the waiter, had a quarrel with the coachman, and went off in a huff. You know such things always come together. So I have now only the coachman and his daughter, a little girl of twelve, in the house; happily they are both willing, and can do a little of everything. If you know of anybody that I can find to take the place of cook, or housemaid, I shall be truly obliged to you for giving the coachman their names and directions. “I feel unworthy of you, Elinor, and I cannot endure longer to deceive so generous a temper as yours. You must have remarked my emotion this morning—Miss Wyllys now knows all; I refer you to her. I shall never cease to reproach myself for my unpardonable ingratitude. But painful as it is to confess it, it would have been intolerable to play the hypocrite any longer, by continuing to receive proofs of kindness which I no longer deserve. It is my hope, that in time you will forgive me; though I shall never forgive myself. “I do not blame you—your conduct was but natural; one more experienced, or more prudent than myself, would probably have foreseen it. Had you left me in ignorance of the truth until too late, I should then have been miserable indeed. My aunt will take the first opportunity of letting our mutual friends know the position in which it is best we should continue for the future. May you be happy with Jane. “You will not receive this letter until you have reached the age of womanhood, years after your mother has been laid in her grave.
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164Author:  Penfeather Amabel pseudAdd
 Title:  Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is to be feared the reader will find fault with this chapter. But there is no remedy; he must submit quietly to a break of three years in the narrative: having to choose between the unities and the probabilities, we greatly preferred holding to the last. The fault, indeed, of this hiatus, rests entirely with the young folk of Longbridge, whose fortunes we have undertaken to follow; had they remained together, we should, of course, have been faithful to our duty as a chronicler; but our task was not so easy. In the present state of the world, people will move about—especially American people; and making no claim to ubiquity, we were obliged to wait patiently until time brought the wanderers back again, to the neighbourhood where we first made their acquaintance. Shortly after Jane's marriage, the whole party broke up; Jane and her husband went to New-Orleans, where Tallman Taylor was established as partner in a commercial house connected with his father. Hazlehurst passed several years in Mexico and South-America: an old friend of his father's, a distinguished political man, received the appointment of Envoy to Mexico, and offered Harry the post of Secretary of Legation. Hazlehurst had long felt a strong desire to see the southern countries of the continent, and was very glad of so pleasant an arrangement; he left his friend Ellsworth to practise law alone, and accompanied Mr. Henley, the Minister, to Mexico; and from thence removed, after a time, to Brazil. Charlie had been studying his profession in France and Italy, during the same period. Even Elinor was absent from home much more than usual; Miss Wyllys had been out of health for the last year or two; and, on her account, they passed their summers in travelling, and a winter in the West-Indies. At length, however, the party met again on the old ground; and we shall take up the thread of our narrative, during the summer in which the circle was re-united. It is to be hoped that this break in the movement of our tale will be forgiven, when we declare, that the plot is about to thicken; perplexities, troubles, and misfortunes are gathering about our Longbridge friends; a piece of intelligence which will probably cheer the reader's spirits. We have it on the authority of a philosopher, that there is something gratifying to human nature in the calamities of our friends; an axiom which seems true, at least, of all acquaintances made on paper. “It may appear presumptuous in one unknown to you, to address you on a subject so important as that which is the theme of this epistle; but not having the honour of your acquaintance, I am compelled by dire necessity, and the ardent feelings of my heart, to pour forth on paper the expression of the strong admiration with which you have inspired me. Lovely Miss Wyllys, you are but too well known to me, although I scarcely dare to hope that your eye has rested for a moment on the features of your humble adorer. I am a European, one who has moved in the first circles of his native land, and after commencing life as a military man, was compelled by persecution to flee to the hospitable shores of America. Chequered as my life has been, happy, thrice happy shall I consider it, if you will but permit me to devote its remaining years to your service! Without your smiles, the last days of my career will be more gloomy than all that have gone before. But I cannot believe you so cruel, so hard-hearted, as to refuse to admit to your presence, one connected with several families of the nobility and gentry in the north of England, merely because the name of Horace de Vere has been sullied by appearing on the stage. Let me hope—” “If the new store, being erected on your lot in Market-Street, between Fourth and Fifth, is not already leased, you will confer an obligation if you will let us know to whom we must apply for terms, &c., &c. The location and premises being suitable, we should be glad to rent. The best of references can be offered on our part. “When shall we see you at Bloomingdale? You are quite too cruel, to disappoint us so often; we really do not deserve such shabby treatment. Here is the month of June, with its roses, and strawberries, and ten thousand other sweets, and among them you must positively allow us to hope for a visit from our very dear friends at Wyllys-Roof. Should your venerable grandpapa, or my excellent friend, Miss Wyllys be unhappily detained at home, as you feared, do not let that be the means of depriving us of your visit. I need not say that William would be only too happy to drive you to Bloomingdale, at any time you might choose; but if that plan, his plan, should frighten your propriety, I shall be proud to take charge of you myself. Anne is not only pining for your visit, but very tired of answering a dozen times a day, her brother's questions, `When shall we see Miss Wyllys?'—`Is Miss Wyllys never coming?' “My mother wishes me to thank you myself, for your last act of goodness to us—but I can never tell you all we feel on the subject. My dear mother cried with joy all the evening, after she had received your letter. I am going to school according to your wish, as soon as mother can spare me, and I shall study very hard, which will be the best way of thanking you. The music-master says he has no doubt but I can play well enough to give lessons, if I go on as well as I have in the last year; I practise regularly every day. Mother bids me say, that now she feels sure of my Vol. II. — 5 education for the next three years, one of her heaviest cares has been taken away: she says too, that although many friends in the parish have been very good to us, since my dear father was taken away from us, yet `no act of kindness has been so important to us, none so cheering to the heart of the widow and the fatherless, as your generous goodness to her eldest child;' these are her own words. Mother will write to you herself to-morrow. I thank you again, dear Miss Wyllys, for myself, and I remain, very respectfully and very gratefully, “I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, as my late father was not married to you when I went to sea, not long before his death. But I make no doubt that you will not refuse me my rights, now that I step forward to demand them, after leaving others to enjoy them for nearly eighteen years. Things look different to a man near forty, and to a young chap of twenty; I have been thinking of claiming my property for some time, but was told by lawyers that there was too many difficulties in the way, owing partly to my own fault, partly to the fault of others. As long as I was a youngster, I didn't care for anything but having my own way—I snapped my fingers at all the world; but now I am tired of a sea-faring life, and have had hardships enough for one man: since there is a handsome property mine, by right, I am resolved to claim it, through thick and thin. I have left off the bottle, and intend to do my best to be respectable for the rest of my days. I make no doubt but we shall be able to come to some agreement; nor would I object to a compromise for the past, though my lawyers advise me to make no such offer. I shall be pleased, Madam, to pay my respects to you, that we may settle our affairs at a personal meeting, if it suits you to do so. “I regret that I am compelled by the interests of my client, William Stanley, Esquire, to address a lady I respect so highly, upon a subject that must necessarily prove distressing to her, in many different ways.” “The letters addressed by you to Mrs. Stanley, Mr. Wyllys and myself, of the date of last Tuesday, have just reached us. I shall not dwell on the amazement which we naturally felt in receiving a communication so extraordinary, which calls upon us to credit the existence of an individual, whom we have every reason to believe has lain for nearly eighteen years at the bottom of the deep: it will be sufficient that I declare, what you are probably already prepared to hear, that we see no cause for changing our past opinions on this subject. We believe to-day, as we have believed for years, that William Stanley was drowned in the wreck of the Jefferson, during the winter of 181-. We can command to-day, the same proofs which produced conviction at the time when this question was first carefully examined. We have learned no new fact to change the character of these proofs. “I left home, as everybody knows, because I would have my own way in everything. It was against my best interests to be sure, but boys don't think at such times, about anything but having their own will. I suppose that every person connected with my deceased father knows, that my first voyage was made to Russia, in the year 18—, in the ship Dorothy Beck, Jonas Thomson, Master. I was only fourteen years old at the time. My father had taken to heart my going off, and when I came back from Russia he was on the look-out, wrote to me and sent me money, and as soon as he heard we were in port he came after me. Well, I went back with the old gentleman; but we had a quarrel on the road, and I put about again and went to New Bedford, where I shipped in a whaler. We were out only eighteen months, and brought in a full cargo. This time I went home of my own accord, and I staid a great part of one summer. I did think some of quitting the seas; but after a while things didn't work well, and one of my old shipmates coming up into the country to see me, I went off with him. This time I shipped in the Thomas Jefferson, for China. This was in the year 1814, during the last war, when I was about eighteen. Most people, who know anything about William Stanley, think that was the last of him, that he never set foot on American ground again; but they are mistaken, as he himself will take the pains to show. So far I have told nothing but what everybody knows, but now I am going to give a short account of what has happened, since my friends heard from me. Well; the Jefferson sailed, on her voyage to China, in October; she was wrecked on the coast of Africa in December, and it was reported that all hands were lost: so they were, all but one, and that one was William Stanley. I was picked up by a Dutchman, the barque William, bound to Batavia. I kept with the Dutchman for a while, until he went back to Holland. After I had cut adrift from him, I fell in with some Americans, and got some old papers; in one of them I saw my father's second marriage. I knew the name of the lady he had married, but I had never spoken to her. The very next day, one of the men I was with, who came from the same part of the country, told me of my father's death, and said it was the common talk about the neighbourhood, that I was disinherited. This made me very angry; though I wasn't much surprised, after what had passed. I was looking out for a homeward-bound American, to go back, and see how matters stood, when one night that I was drunk, I was carried off by an English officer, who made out I was a runaway. For five years I was kept in different English men-of-war, in the East Indies; at the end of that time I was put on board the Ceres, sloop of war, and I made out to desert from her at last, and got on board an American. I then came home; and here, the first man that I met on shore was Billings, the chap who first persuaded me to go to sea: he knew all about my father's family, and told me it was true I was cut off without a cent, and that Harry Hazlehurst had been adopted by my father. This made me so mad, that I went straight to New Bedford, and shipped in the Sally Andrews, for a whaling voyage. Just before we were to have come home, I exchanged into another whaler, as second-mate, for a year longer. Then I sailed in a Havre liner, as foremast hand, for a while. I found out about this time, that the executors of my father's estate had been advertising for me shortly after his death, while I was in the East Indies; and I went to a lawyer in Baltimore, where I happened to be, and consulted him about claiming the property; but he wouldn't believe a word I said, because I was half-drunk at the time, and told me that I should get in trouble if I didn't keep my mouth shut. Well, I cruized about for a while longer, when at last I went to Longbridge, with some shipmates. I had been there often before, as a lad, and I had some notion of having a talk with Mr. Wyllys, my father's executor; I went to his house one day, but I didn't see him. One of my shipmates, who knew something of my story, and had been a client of Mr. Clapp's, advised me to consult him. I went to his office, but he sent me off like the Baltimore lawyer, because he thought I was drunk. Three years after that I got back to Longbridge again, with a shipmate; but it did me no good, for I got drinking, and had a fit of the horrors. That fit sobered me, though, in the end; it was the worst I had ever had; I should have hanged myself, and there would have been an end of William Stanley and his hard rubs, if it hadn't been for the doctor— I never knew his name, but Mr. Clapp says it was Dr. Van Horne. After this bad fit, they coaxed me into shipping in a temperance whaler. While I was in the Pacific, in this ship, nigh three years, and out of the reach of drink, I had time to think what a fool I had been all my life, for wasting my opportunities. I thought there must be some way of getting back my father's property; Mr. Clapp had said, that if I was really the man I pretended to be, I must have some papers to make it out; but if I hadn't any papers, he couldn't help me, even if I was William Stanley forty times over. It is true, I couldn't show him any documents that time, for I didn't have them with me at Longbridge; but I made up my mind, while I was out on my last voyage, that as soon as I got home, I would give up drinking, get my papers together, and set about doing my best to get back my father's property. We came home last February; I went to work, I kept sober, got my things together, put money by for a lawyer's fee, and then went straight to Longbridge again. I went to Mr. Clapp's office, and first I handed him the money, and then I gave him my papers. I went to him, because he had treated me better than any other lawyer, and told me if I was William Stanley, and could prove it, he could help me better than any other man, for he knew all about my father's will. Well, he hadn't expected ever to see me again; but he heard my story all out this time, read the documents, and at last believed me, and undertook the case. The rest is known to the executors and legatee by this time; and it is to be hoped, that after enjoying my father's estate for nigh twenty years, they will now make it over to his son. “Our application to the family physician proves entirely successful, my dear Hazlehurst; my physiological propensities were not at fault. I had a letter last evening from Dr. H—, who now lives in Baltimore, and he professes himself ready to swear to the formation of young Stanley's hands and feet, which he says resembled those of Mr. Stanley, the father, and the three children, who died before William S. grew up. His account agrees entirely with the portrait of the boy, as it now exists at Wyllys-Roof; the arms and hands are long, the fingers slender, nails elongated; as you well know, Mr. Clapp's client is the very reverse of this—his hands are short and thick, his fingers what, in common parlance, would be called dumpy. I was struck with the fact when I first saw him in the street. Now, what stronger evidence could we have? A slender lad of seventeen may become a heavy, corpulent man of forty, but to change the formation of hands, fingers, and nails, is beyond the reach of even Clapp's cunning. We are much obliged to the artist, for his accuracy in representing the hands of the boy exactly as they were. This testimony I look upon as quite conclusive. As to the Rev. Mr. G—, whose pupil young Stanley was for several years, we find that he is no longer living; but I have obtained the names of several of the young man's companions, who will be able to confirm the fact of his dullness; several of the professors at the University are also living, and will no doubt be able to assist us. I have written a dozen letters on these points, but received no answers as yet. So far so good; we shall succeed, I trust. Mr. Wyllys bids you not forget to find out if Clapp has really been at Greatwood, as we suspected. The ladies send you many kind and encouraging messages. Josephine, as usual, sympathizes in all our movements. She says: `Give Mr. Hazlehurst all sorts of kind greetings from me; anything you please short of my love, which would not be proper, I suppose.' I had a charming row on the river last evening, with the ladies. I never managed a law-suit in such agreeable quarters before. We are greatly distressed by a melancholy accident which befell us scarce an hour since. The Petrel capsized; most of our party are safe; but two of my friends are gone, Hazlehurst and Hubbard! You will understand our grief; mine especially! We shall return immediately.
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165Author:  Davis Charles Augustus 1795-1867Add
 Title:  Letters of J. Downing, major, Downingville militia, Second brigade, to his old friend, Mr. Dwight, of the New-York daily advertiser  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: FROM THE NEW-YORK DAILY ADVERTISER.
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166Author:  Duganne A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey) 1823-1884Add
 Title:  The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was a bitter night in December. The wind howled round the streets and lanes of Boston, entering every crevice, and penetrating, with cutting severity, the frail abodes of poverty, making the shivering tenant draw closer round the dim fire, or crawl beneath the thin covering of his miserable bed. The rich felt it, too!—it swept down the Backbay, and whistled round the trees of the Common—it murmured hoarsely as it blew adown Beacon Street, and rattled the windows, and caused the vanes to creak.—Yes, the rich felt it,—but they felt it, as we perceive the acid in our food, only to enjoy the sweetness more. Stretched on their downy beds, or dozing over their sea-coal fires, they thought not of the houseless and the wanderer, or, if they did, 'twas but to mutter “Poor wretches,” and turn again to their downy slumbers. —for you are still dear to me: I am unjustly suspected, and the time will come when it shall appear so. I can no longer serve you, or be an inmate of your family. Circumstances are against me, but I cannot explain them. I cannot remain. I throw myself again upon the world. May heaven bless you and your family. My dear Brother:—Providence has seen fit to afflict us in a peculiar manner.— Our dear Fanny has been abducted; carried we know not whither. A message, purporting to be from Henry Fowler, came to her a few days since. The man who brought it gave her a locket from her brother and requesting her to meet him on the shore not a hundred rods from our house, and receive a letter from her brother. The thoughtless girl, without consulting me, repaired there. Lucia accompanied her. She will tell you the rest. My poor Fanny! I can write no more. Will you use every means to regain her. Lucia tells me that Richard Martin, your clerk, was there.
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167Author:  Dunlap William 1766-1839Add
 Title:  Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Whoever has been in the city of New-York, the great centre of the commerce of the western world, must remember the marble front of the hall of justice, or City Hall. Standing on the highest ground which the democratic system of filling up hollows by levelling hills, or lifting the low by removing the superfluity of the high, has left to the great commercial metropolis. Lifting its stainless face in the midst of catalpas and elms, poplars and sycamores, the pride of our forests, this structure, towers,—like the protecting genius of the land, inviting strangers to take shelter under the guardianship of law, and promising protection to the oppressed of all nations.
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168Author:  Dunlap William 1766-1839Add
 Title:  Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The wretched Williams, a slave to sensuality, and involved in a labyrinth by his own practices, lived in perpetual fear of losing the reward of his meanness; of being exposed to infamy by the disclosure of that transaction which had given him the means of indulgence. He feared to thwart the perverted inclinations, or the frenzied whims, of his partner. She had been long convinced that his professions of love had been false, and that she had cause for jealousy. She knew, however, that her hold upon him, that grasp which gave her power, was the secret: and she had cunning enough, even in her moments of passion or of voluntary madness, to preserve unbroken the bonds by which she controlled him. She suspended over his coward head the lash he feared. Often she appeared to triumph in the power she possessed, and, in part, revealed the cause. The ungentlemanly epithets you thought proper to use in addressing me last evening at the theatre were passed over, at the time, to avoid a disturbance in a public place, but they require an ample apology. I take this method of informing you who I am and where I am to be found, rather than, in the first place, to trouble a friend. I shall be at home to-morrrow at eleven o'clock, A. M. My late husband, after being sick ever since last August, during which time I had to support him and my poor little ones, was taken from me by death, leaving me without any fuel for this cold winter weather, and my clothes sold and pawned to give him necessaries and bury him. I and my poor children are in a state of starvation. I can't work, for the rheumatism has taken away the use of my limbs: and for the same reason I can't go to the Alderman for help. I send this by a neighbour's child, humbly begging your advice and assistance, as I know, from an acquaintance of an acquaintance of poor sick Mrs. Kent, that you are always ready to help the unfortunate. I hope to see you, dear Miss, as soon as possible, at No. 356 Mott-street. Sir:—I have to apologise for not meeting you at the Albany Coffee-house at the time appointed. I was called to this city on an affair that did not admit of delay. I will be in New-York on any appointed day, previous to my departure for Europe, if it shall be necessary. My friend Thomas Beaglehole, Esq. is intrusted with the adjustment of our affair, and has received my instructions. He will wait upon your friend and receive your determination. If he satisfied, I am: otherwise, on receiving a line from him, I shall wait upon you with all speed.
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169Author:  Fairfield Sumner Lincoln 1803-1844Add
 Title:  The Last Night of Pompeii  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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170Author:  Cox William d. 1851?Add
 Title:  Crayon sketches  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is a wholesome thing to be what is commonly termed “kicked about the world.” Not literally “kicked”—not forcibly propelled by innumerable feet from village to village, from town to town, or from country to country, which can be neither wholesome nor agreeable; but knocked about, tossed about, irregularly jostled over the principal portions of the two hemispheres; sleeping hard and soft, living well when you can, and learning to take what is barely edible and potable ungrumblingly when there is no help for it. Certes, the departure from home and old usages is any thing but pleasant, especially at the outset. It is a sort of secondary “weaning” which the juvenile has to undergo; but like the first process, he is all the healthier and hardier when it is over. In this way, it is a wholesome thing to be tossed about the world. To form odd acquaintance in ships, on the decks of steam boats and tops of coaches; to pick up temporary companions on turnpikes or by hedge-sides; to see humanity in the rough, and learn what stuff life is made of in different places; to mark the shades and points of distinction in men, manners, customs, cookery, and other important matters as you stroll along. What an universal toleration it begets! How it improves and enlarges a man's physical and intellectual tastes and capacities! How diminutively local and ridiculously lilliputian seem his former experiences! He is now no longer bigotted to a doctrine or a dish, but can fall in with one, or eat of the other, however strange and foreign, with a facility that is truly comfortable and commendable: always, indeed, excepting, such doctrines as affect the feelings and sentiments, which he should ever keep “garner'd up” in his “heart of hearts;” and also, always excepting the swallowing of certain substances, so very peculiar in themselves, and so strictly national, that the undisciplined palate of the foreigner instinctively and utterly rejects them, such as the frog of your Frenchman— the garlic of your Spaniard—the compounds termed sausages of your Cockney—the haggis of your Scotchman—the train-oil of your Russian.
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171Author:  Cox William d. 1851?Add
 Title:  Crayon sketches  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In few places are the “lights and shadows” of life more strongly and vividly contrasted than in the streets of a great metropolis; where bloated wealth and hollow-eyed poverty trudge side by side, and gay, fluttering vanity and squalid wretchedness gaze strangely at each other. It is dramatic, but unpleasant; at least until custom has produced the callousness of heart requisite to enable a man to look philosophically on all human sorrow, save his own peculiar portion. Before he has arrived at this state, however, a stroll through the streets of a crowded city is apt to be uncommonly beneficial. It generates a series of practical sermons, for which every poor distressed object furnishes an eloquent text, tending to inculcate gratitude for his own station, charity for the miseries, and toleration for the frailties of others. A back street in London shows a man a few of the realities of life. To use a pugilistic phrase, “it takes the conceit out of him.” I am sometimes sorrier for my own disappointments than for any person's; and occasionally pity and indulge in the tenderest and most delicate sympathy imaginable towards myself, on account of any trivial inconvenience or privation to which I may happen to be subjected; but I have never entered a London by-lane in this frame of mind without walking out “a wiser and a sadder man” at the other end.” There is a vast deal of difference between fanciful or poetical unhappiness and harsh prose misery—plain, unvarnished, substantial misery, arising from tangible wants and physical sufferings. It is too much the fashion of the world to exaggerate and swell into undue importance half real and half imaginary mental woes, and to sneer at and undervalue common bodily evils. Your young poets and lady poetesses (heaven bless them!) and indeed all persons of genteel sensibilities, are continually plunging into the extreme depths of desolation on what would appear to a common-sense man rather insufficient grounds. But going arithmetically to work, it will be a tolerably-sized grief which produces as much pain as a prolonged, stinging tooth-ache; and six-and-thirty hours, or upwards, without victuals, must be almost as bad to bear as slighted love, notwithstanding the assertions of sensitive young ladies (who have chicken at command) to the contrary. Indeed, it has always struck me that going without a dinner must be provocative of a vast deal of pathos; and that it is rather unfair to make such an outcry about “woes that rend the breast,” while the pangs and twinges of the contiguous parts of the body, on a descending scale, are never taken into consideration by those who have never felt them. If this view of things be correct—and it is correct—how much intense suffering does the blessed sun look down upon every day! Ah! who that has seen the gaunt, shrivelled frame—the sharpened features—the bloodless, compressed lips, and sunken greedy eye which famine produces, but has felt sick at heart, and inwardly prayed to be preserved, above all things, from inanition. The omission of even such commonplace things as victuals, will, in an astonishingly short time, convince the most wretchedly romantic youth that ever fell in love, folded his arms, and turned his face moonwards, of the excellent properties, moral and physical, of a beef-steak.
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172Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Add
 Title:  Norman Leslie  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: A brilliant January morning broke over the beautiful city of New-York. Her two magnificent rivers came sweeping and sparkling down into her immense bay, which, bound in like a lake on every side with circling shores, rolled and flashed in the unclouded sunshine. The town itself rose directly from the bosom of the flood, presenting a scene of singular splendour, which, when the western continent shall be better known to European tourists, will be acknowledged to lose nothing by comparison with the picturesque views of Florence or Naples. Her tapering spires, her domes, cupolas, and housetops, her forest of crowded masts, lay bristling and shining in the transparent atmosphere, and beneath a heaven of deep and unstained blue. The lovely waters which washed three sides of the city were covered with ships of all forms, sizes, and nations; delighting the eye with images of grace, animation, and grandeur. Huge vessels of merchandise lay at rest, in large numbers, all regularly swayed round from their anchors into a uniform position by the heavy tide setting from the rivers to the sea. Others, leaning to the wind, their swollen and snowy canvass broadly spread for their flight over the vast ocean, bounded forward, like youth, bright and confident against the future. Some, entering sea-beaten and weary from remote parts of the globe, might be likened, by the contemplative, to age and wisdom, pitying their bold compeers about to encounter the roar and storm from which they themselves were so glad to escape: and yet, to carry the simile further, even as the human mind, which experience does not always enlighten or adversity subdue, ready, after a brief interval of idleness and repose, to forget the past, and refit themselves for enterprise and danger. Hundreds, whose less perilous duties lay within the gates of the harbour, plied to and fro in every direction, crossing and recrossing each other, and enlivening with delightful animation the broad and busy scene. Of these small craft, indeed, the waves were for ever whitened with an incredible number, in the midst of which thundered heavily the splendid and enormous steamers, beautifully formed to shoot through the flood with arrowy swiftness, their clean bright colours shining in the sun, bearing sometimes a thousand persons on excursions of business and pleasure, spouting forth fire and steam like the monstrous dragons of fable, and leaving long tracks of smoke on the blue heaven. Among other evidences of a great maritime power, reposed several giant vessels of war,—those stern, tremendous messengers of the deep, formed to waft, on the wings of heaven, the thunderbolt of death across the solemn world of waters; but now lying, like fortresses, motionless on the tide, and ready to bear over the globe the friendly pledges or the grave demands of a nation which, in the recollection of some of its surviving citizens, was a submissive colony, without power and without a name. You might deem the magnificent city, thus extended upon the flood, Venice, when that wonderful republic held the commerce of the world. In a greater degree, indeed, than London, notwithstanding the superior amount of shipping possessed by the latter, New-York at first strikes the stranger entering into its harbour with signs of commercial prosperity and wealth. In the mighty British metropolis, the vessels lie locked in dockyards, or half buried under fog and smoke. The narrow Thames presents little more than that portion actually in motion; and, in a sail from Margate to town, the vast number are seen only in succession; but here, the whole crowded, broad, and moving panorama breaks at once upon the eye; and through a perfectly pure and bright atmosphere, nothing can be more striking and exquisite.
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173Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Add
 Title:  Norman Leslie  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Hush!” cried the nurse, “he sleeps.”
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174Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Add
 Title:  Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was near the close of a gloomy and cheerless day in November, anno domini 18—, that two ill-clad men were seen to enter one of those minor houses of entertainment which abound in certain localities in the city of New-York. “The insult offered me this morning can only be atoned by affording me the satisfaction due to a gentleman. My friend Piercie Matthison, Esq. the bearer of this, will arrange the necessary details on my part. “Why, oh why am I not permitted an interview on which the whole happiness of my future life depends? Can it be that the lovely and just being whose partiality and goodness hesitated to chide my presumption in tendering vows of love and fidelity, has joined the censorious and heartless world in imputing to me crimes at which my soul recoils? No, no; it cannot be; and yet thrice have I called at your residence without succeeding in obtaining an audience; and when I made the last abortive effort this afternoon, although your matchless form was seen gliding from my sight, yet your servant stated that you were not at home. How then am I to account for this prostration of my dearest hopes? Surely none of Mr. Elwell's family can bear me ill-will, for with none have I the pleasure of an acquaintance, unless that might be termed such which was caused by my introduction to Miss Helen through yourself at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée. Alas, a sudden light bursts on my vision, by whose glare I perceive the unwelcome truth. The rival whose malice has wrought the meshes of the fatal web in which my character is ensnared, has, by some cunningly-devised fable, forced an unwilling conviction of my baseness on your mind; or, what is more probable, has so prejudiced your relatives that they have directed the servant to deny me the happiness of personally exculpating myself from the charges preferred against me. “the riter of these lines happins to bee an unfortunit yuth whu wuld hav bin onnist and industrus if hee hadn't hav bin siddused bi bad cumpennee and got intu scrapes in that are way. now the reesun that i rite this is to tel yu as hou mister sidnee Cliftin has bin usin yur name pruttee cunsidderablee, up to the blak hoal, as wee cal it, whear wee pla lew and wist, and rolet, not to say nothin about a tuch of farrow, and so on. in this hear way, yu sea, mister Sidnee clifton got us al inter trubble last nite; for, ses hee, arter hee had drinked plentee of shampane, slappin his phist on the tabel, ses hee, dam the man as ses Julee borodel ain't the bootifoolest, and the hansimest, and the charminist gal in al york; hear, ses hees, hur helth, and ile cramm the glas doun annee rascils throte what won't go the hoal bumpur. So, yu sea, one uf our larks ses, ses hee, Mistir cliftin, yu can't stuf yur gals doun mi throte, no hou yu can ficks it. ime a sutthern chap, ses hee; so, stranngir, yur barkin up the rong tree. yu think yuv got a grean horn; but mi iis, ses hee, ime a rale missisipee roarer, tru grit to the bak boan. i doan't car a curs for all yur Julees nor Julise. So, yu sea, the fite wus in, and sum won called wach, and the wach cum, and wee was al captivated like innersint lams. nou i thot that yu shuld no hou yur name was insultid, bein as hou ime told yu are a nise yung ladee: so notthin moar at prissint, but rimmains yurs til deth. “How can I convey the sad intelligence of an event which has shipwrecked every hope connected with you and happiness? Briefly, then:—in a fatal hour I consented to a hostile meeting with Mr. Julius Ellingbourne this morning, and the result is, that my antagonist at this moment lies mortally wounded at his lodgings, in the Astor House. That I am in the toils of a most foul and deep-laid conspiracy against my character; that this rash meeting has, in its consequences, severed every hope I might otherwise have entertained of exculpating myself in the opinion of the world; that I have been goaded on by some fiend or fiends in human shape, who have too successfully accomplished my ruin: and that life will, hereafter, be a curse rather than a blessing, are truths which admit not of denial, but will never, I fear, be susceptible of satisfactory explanation. Farewell, then, my life, my love; a long, a last farewell. “Fatal Encounter.—Our readers will recollect the article published in our yesterday's edition, headed `Police Court—Capture extraordinary,' in which the arrest and examination of a knot of gamblers were stated, together with the fact that two citizens, hitherto considered respectable, one a clerk in an extensive mercantile establishment, and the other a gentleman of fashion, were implicated. Although, on that occasion, we were induced to suppress the names of the parties, from respect to the feelings of their friends, yet so public has the exposure become, in consequence of the events which have this morning transpired, that further concealment is neither possible nor expedient. It is therefore our duty, as public journalists, to state that the person first alluded to is Mr. Sydney Clifton, a confidential clerk in the counting-room of Messrs. De Lyle, Howard & Co., and that Julius Ellingbourne, Esquire, a gentleman so well and favourably known in the fashionable world, is the latter. It now appears that circumstances connected with the arrest of the parties led to a hostile meeting at Hoboken, early this morning, when Mr. Ellingbourne received the ball of Clifton in his side, near the region of the heart. From the extremely dangerous character of the wound, it is not expected that the life of Mr. Ellingbourne will be protracted many hours. Thus the vice of gaming, in which this young man indulged, has at length been followed by the commission of murder! What a warning does this fact convey to the youth of our city to abstain from the incipient stages of dissipation, in whose fatal vortex honour, integrity, and even life, are frequently ingulfed.”
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175Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Add
 Title:  Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The elder Mr. De Lyle, whose early attachment to Clifton was evinced by placing him in so favourable a situation in his counting-room, that, with ordinary application, he would speedily acquire all the knowledge requisite to success in mercantile pursuits, learned with the most poignant regret the conspicuous part assigned to his protegé, both in the offences connected with the gamblers, and the duel which succeeded. “Aware that you are on terms of familiar incourse with Mr. Edward De Lyle, I take the liberty of hinting that circumstances have occurred which may tend to inculpate either yourself or him before the public, in relation to transactions with which you are fully acquainted. “The writer of this note has, in happier hours, enjoyed brief opportunities of estimating the talents and virtues of Mr. Sydney Clifton. That the impressions left by the slight intercourse were highly flattering to Mr. C. may be inferred from the reception of this unusual solicitation for its renewal. When slander was busy with the name of Mr. Clifton, the writer, whose station in society is inferior to none, formed the bold plan of dragging forth his detractors from their hiding-places, and exposing their infamy to the eyes of an indignant world. Success having attended her efforts, she has visited England to lay her claims before him whose fair fame she can re-establish. Flattering herself that the deep interest thus manifested in Mr. Clifton's welfare will constitute some claims to his regard, the writer is now ready to communicate her knowledge if he feels disposed to make a corresponding return, by uniting his fate to hers for life. Lest the imagination of Mr. Clifton should picture his correspondent in the lineaments of age, it is proper to say that she has numbered fewer years than himself; and if the good-natured world has not descended to egregious flattery, is not deficient in personal attractions.
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176Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Add
 Title:  The Countess Ida  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was on a pleasant October evening, in the year 1790, that the public diligence which ran between Hamburg and Berlin drew up in the evening at the post of the former town preparatory to starting. The clock struck nine. The four strong horses clattered with their heavy hoofs against the pavement, as if impatient to be off. The conducteur blew an inspiring blast upon his horn, and a small but observant circle of by-standers were collected to gaze on the company of passengers, and the animated scene in which they formed the principal actors. The travellers for the night, who appeared to take their places, were only five in number. The officer of the post, to whom it was committed to superintend the departure of the vehicle and its occupants, appeared with a light, a pen behind his ear, and a paper in his hand. “Mamma begs me to write you our address. We have taken furnished rooms at No. 70 `sous les arbres.' We are also in some difficulty with a horrid man of whom papa bought some things this morning; and mamma says, if you would call in the course of the day, she should be particularly obliged. “Your affectionate letter is received, and I sit down to answer it, half hesitating, notwithstanding the sincere friendship I entertain for you, whether I ought to comply with your wishes, and relate to you all the adventures of my life, and all the apprehensions which agitate my mind. You will not, even from this confession, doubt the sincerity of my sentiments; for you are, my dear Denham, the only man on earth whom I consider my friend. It is melancholy to reflect how few among all my acquaintance I place complete reliance on. Some who could, perhaps, appreciate the nature of true friendship, have their affections occupied elsewhere; and many, who exhibit a desire to become intimate, are not recommended by qualities which alone can make intimacy agreeable. Of the young men whom I have here associated much with, there is one in particular whom I have learned to esteem. Were we together for some years, I fear you would have a rival. But I am in this metropolis only for so short a time, and he is so much engaged with other avocations, that the interest we feel in each other will probably never grow beyond mutual wishes; for what would be the use of cultivating a connexion, of which the short period could scarcely be more pleasant than the inevitable termination would be painful? I see in this young man, however, much which resembles you. He is naturally noble and superior, born amid all the advantages of prosperity, and spending his life in a sphere of fashion and pleasure, among men beneath him in intellect; and yet, while he equals and surpasses them in the elegant frivolities of fashion, he has the taste and resolution to cultivate his understanding, and the wisdom to reason with impartiality and truth upon subjects generally the least understood in such circles. To see him in the drawing-room, you would suppose him only the gay and light homme du monde; while in his study he is evidently fitting himself for a career of usefulness. This much in reply to your inquiry respecting `new friends.' To your entreaty that I should leave off travelling and seek myself out a good wife, I have also something to say. I have many objections to marriage in my case. They are not those which generally influence men who remain bachelors. I have no prejudices against women, or apprehensions of the married state. On the contrary, I soberly believe no man can fulfil his duty, and enjoy all the happiness intended for him, without a family. The pleasures and affections—even the responsibilities, restraints, and cares which they produce, all tend to develop and balance his character, to enlarge his mind, and to keep his heart in a medium point of enjoyment most favourable to health, content, and honour. An old bachelor is almost sure to have some inaccurate notion or loose principle, which the reflection consequent on a family protects a husband and father from. No, my friend, do not suspect me of such flippant objections to matrimony; but there are others which I cannot easily overcome. You are aware of my general history, but I do not think I ever ventured to tell it to you distinctly, for it has been a subject not very agreeable for me to touch upon. I will sketch it for you, however, and let you judge whether it does not offer me solid arguments against marrying. “The circumstances under which we last parted leave me only the alternative to beg you to name a friend to arrange the terms of a meeting at your earliest convenience. “This afternoon, when I found you soliciting from my daughter promises of attachment incompatible with your relations with the Countess Ida Carolan, I used language which, if you did not deserve, the provocation must sufficiently excuse, without other apology from me. If, in anything which I said, you found an acquiescence in your suggestion as to a meeting, I must beg you to consider that I spoke in a state of mind when a just passion predominated over calm reason. Upon reflection, I find that my sense of duty to my family and to my Creator will not permit me to proceed farther in a course, where I can see no possibility of gaining advantage or honour, either in this world or in the next. I decline giving you the meeting you desire, and, at the same time, I forbid your future visits to my house. If I have offered you any disrespect, it is more than counterbalanced by the insult I have suffered at your hands; and, in permitting the affair to drop where it is, I do so, my lord, not without sacrificing M 2 some of the feelings of a man to the duties of a citizen, a father, a husband, and a Christian. “I am on the eve of leaving Berlin, where I shall probably never return again. It is possible that you may misinterpret the motives with which I send you the enclosed letter. I received it from a person of trust, and can vouch for its truth. Mr. Denham, as you will perceive, offers his name also; but I beg you to withhold it from Lord Elkington, as I am willing, should there be any serious responsibility, to take it upon myself. My sole object is to put you in possession of facts which affect the interests of your family. You are at liberty to state that you received them from me; for, while I have nothing to hope from your decision, I have nothing to fear from Lord Elkington's resentment. If any passing weakness has ever caused me to seem to swerve from the path which I ought to pursue in relation to yourself and everything connected with you, that weakness is at an end. If I have ceased, as with pain I perceive I have, to receive your esteem, I hope I have not ceased to deserve it. “Although Lord Elkington is ignorant of the name and existence of the writer of this note, the latter has the most accurate knowledge of your lordship and his affairs. It is not impossible that your lordship may be at first incredulous on reading it, but a few moments' conversation with your lordship's mother will entirely convince you of its truth. I ain't a rich or a great man like your lordship, but fortune has made me the possessor of a secret which has been for some time a source of profit, and which, I freely tell your lordship, I shall use to my own advantage. Your lordship is aware that your noble father, the Earl of Beverly, was married before he united himself to your mother, the present Lady Beverly. That match was unfortunate, as the world well knows; but—I beg to call your lordship's attention to this fact—there is a circumstance connected with it which neither your lordship nor the world knows, viz., that the issue of that marriage yet survives, in the person of a son, who is, in reality, the heir of your father's estate. This secret exists solely and exclusively in my bosom. The son of the Earl of Beverly, for causes which doubtless can be explained, should it be necessary to investigate the matter in a court of justice, went with his mother to the West Indies. The vessel in which they sailed was wrecked, and all on board perished but two persons. One was the child, who was picked up senseless from a spar (to which the mother had attached him, being herself washed overboard and drowned before she could make herself fast); the other individual saved was myself. We were picked up by the same ship, and I was carried, with the child, into Boston. It had happened that I knew the Earl of Beverly having had a boyish passion for a young female in his household, who, before I left England, had revealed to me certain family secrets of a highly important nature, and, among others, that the mother of this child had fled from her husband in consequence of charges against her honour of the vilest kind. I had seen her in the earl's family (then Mr. Lawson), and I recognised her on board the ship which bore us to the New World, although she was there under an assumed name, and was totally unknown to all but myself. Here, then, I found myself with this boy, whom no one in America knew anything of. Being aware that his father had disowned him, I thought that I might serve both the boy and myself by keeping, for a time, the secret of his birth. For years I kept my eye on him, for a finer fellow never walked. His beauty and character at length attracted the attention of a lady, who, hearing of his desolate situation, took him with her to England, at the age of eight years. Dying, she bequeathed him as a legacy to a lady, who educated him till he left the University. It was then that I informed the Earl of Beverly of his existence. That nobleman arranged with me never to reveal the secret, and has paid me for my silence. “The melancholy duty has devolved upon me of informing you of the sudden, and, I fear, fatal malady which has attacked your father. He was reading this morning in his library; a violent ringing of the bell called the servants to his side, when he was found struggling in his fauteuil in a fit of the most alarming description. Doctor B—and Sir Richard L—have pronounced his case incurable. It is not impossible, they say, that he may recover so far as to retain life for months, and perhaps a year; but that he can never again leave his bed, or recover his senses except as a prelude to immediate dissolution, is quite certain. I need not say that we deeply sympathize with the distress which this event will occasion your amiable mother, and the pain it will inflict upon you particularly, as I have been told some coolness had unhappily arisen between your esteemed parent and yourself. I need only say, my dear Elkington, that, while I sympathize profoundly with your grief, I am the most sincere, as I am the first of your friends to congratulate you upon the magnificent inheritance which is about to descend to you, and which, I am quite certain, could not have fallen into more worthy hands. Command me in any way, should necessity detain you some days longer on the Continent. “You are probably aware of the event which has reduced your distinguished father to a bed of death, from which I am advised by his medical attendant he can never rise, and which precludes all idea of his again assuming the care of his affairs. I beg leave, therefore, my lord, to address myself to you, and shall await your orders. “Sir: I take the liberty of addressing you, to ask you to come to my house and visit a certain Monsieur Rossi, a teacher of languages, who lies at my lodgings in a very distressed state. He has begged me to send for you, as he says, although but slightly acquainted with you, you are the only person in town of whom he dare ask a favour, or who knows anything of him. You can see him at any time.
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177Author:  Fay Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick) 1807-1898Add
 Title:  The Countess Ida  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was six when Claude returned to his hotel. He was met at the door by his friend Denham, who had just arrived from London. Of all men, he was the one he most esteemed and loved. He was, in some respects, the antithesis of Claude, and it was, perhaps, this very difference which made them more attached to each other. He was totally without Claude's contemplative habits, but usually acted from impulses which, if not always prudent or wise, were always noble. He was frank, generous, and bold; full of strong affections and quick passions; a faithful friend, and a good hater. In one respect he differed widely from his friend. He held duelling to be a custom, under certain circumstances, sanctioned by necessity, and useful in its effects upon society. Without any particularly serious views of religion, he professed to believe that, in the present state of the world, the meek doctrines of Christianity were permitted at times to give way to other considerations bearing upon individual character and the general harmony of society; in short, he was also a duellist, though in a far different way from the debauched, vindictive, and cruel Elkington. The latter adopted the principle as a mode of shielding himself in a course of profligacy, and of acquiring a notoriety of which a purer mind or a more generous heart would have been ashamed; the former as a means of protecting his person from insult and his name from calumny, and of redressing all unjust injuries directed either against himself or his friends. He thought the world was thronged with persons who might be regarded as beasts of prey, ready to attack those not prepared with means of physical defence, and that the same principle which permitted a traveller to use a pistol against a highwayman, allowed a resort to the same weapon against those who, by force or fraud, encroached too far on the rights and feelings of a gentleman. This subject had often been discussed between these two young men, who each respected, while he opposed the opinion of the other. “This will only be put into your hands in case of my death. You will, before then, be informed on the circumstances which produce it. I saw you struck last night, and I lost all prudence; I interfered, and received a blow myself. I have always been brought up to think a blow ought not to be borne. Death is preferable to dishonour. I know Elkington is a shot, but I can't help it. The custom of society must be complied with. Do not blame me, my wiser and more thoughtful friend. You have your opinion, I mine. I am determined to kill Elkington if I can, unless he make me the humblest apology. This is not to be expected, and I am prepared to fall. I need not say that I have not called on you to arrange the thing for me, as I know you would have taken measures to prevent it; otherwise there is no man on earth I should so readily have chosen. Beaufort I had a slight acquaintance with, and he consented at once. “I am about leaving Berlin, but cannot do so without performing a certain duty to myself, the necessity of which imboldens me to address this request to you. It is also proper that your generous confidence in me should be confirmed; and I beg therefore to enclose to you the accompanying letter from the Marquis of E—; a gentleman, I believe, whom Count Carolan corresponds with, and whose opinions may have some weight. I have a kind of right to press this letter on Count Carolan, who has openly exhibited an acquiescence in the misstatements of Elkington. I leave to his own sense of right the task of protecting my name hereafter. As to my courage—a suspicion of it can only be removed by those occasions which Providence sends, enough to try the temper of our souls on earth, and to furnish us an opportunity to display it to the world when vanity requires. If circumstances have raised a doubt of mine, it is a misfortune which, like shipwreck or pestilence, every man is liable to, and which, if chance does not remedy it, patience must endure. Having deliberately adopted a principle upon this point, I shall adhere to it and abide the consequences. From all other doubts the letter of the Marquis of E— rescues me; and, after perusing it, Count Carolan will at least do me the justice to express himself satisfied, and to acknowledge that my past life has been as irreproachable as it has been unfortunate. “I enclose the letter of the Marquis of E—, as well as your own, without any other reply to the `demand' you make for an acknowledgment of `error' than that men's opinions are their own, and differ in many points more doubtful and important. There is an account at my banker's of £50, which I will thank you to settle. “We beg to inform you, for your government, that the sum hitherto deposited in our hands on your account has been withheld for the ensuing year, and we are instructed that it will not hereafter be continued. “I have been now in prison two months. I am ill —without money, without food—reduced to the common fare of the unhappy inmates of this mournful dwelling. I have to inform you, also, that a fatal pestilence has broken out in the building, and carried off three victims in two days. I request you, in the name of humanity, to release me. I offer you my word of honour not to leave Berlin without paying you. If your object is to get the money, you can never succeed by keeping me here. If your object is to humble my pride, it is humbled as far as a man's should be. If you desire my life—unless I can breathe the air and take a little exercise, your desire will speedily be gratified. My freedom—if you grant it—I shall employ in honourable labour, of which you shall have the first fruits. Believe me, sir, incapable of falsehood. “I have committed the account against you to my lawyer, who has already received his instructions, and I cannot interfere with what now belongs entirely to him. “At the request of the Marquis of E—, and for his account, we hereby open a credit with you in favour of Mr. Claude Wyndham, for £1000 sterling, say one thousand pounds sterling, which you will please to supply him with, as he may require the same, on his presenting to you this letter. “You, who have borne adversity with greatness, will, I trust, meet prosperity with dignity. I have at length succeeded in throwing back the veil which Heaven in its wisdom had allowed to fall over us. You are, as from the first moment my secret presentiment might have taught me, the child of my bosom. Enclosed is a package which I have prepared for you. It reveals your history and mine. I would give you no intimation of my convictions till they were confirmed. Not from my hand should you receive a new disappointment. The bill which accompanies this is your own. Do not hesitate to use it. It is but a small part of the inheritance of which you are now the master. Your father was the Earl of Beverly. That title is now yours. He has just expired, having previously completed all the arrangements essential to your undisputed assumption of his titles and estates. This great blessing of Providence I am fain to receive as a reward for a life spent in the path of right; but, in receiving it, let us not forget that all earthly blessings come mixed with calamity, and that there is no state of steady happiness but beyond the grave. I write to you calmly, my beloved son, from the very intensity of my feelings. I did not put pen to paper till I had calmed them by prayer, and sought from Him who gives and takes away the strength necessary to support me in this mixed hour of joy and sorrow. I have much to tell you, and my bosom yearns to hold you again, my son! Come to me as soon as you can, without neglecting duties more imperative. I have seen you sorely tried, and I know you to be equal to your own guidance; but remember that life is short, and the greatest happiness I can now know is your society. Everything is arranged for you without trouble. On reaching London you will drive to your own mansion in Grosvenor Square, lately occupied by your father, and just as he left it. The Marquis of E— acts as your agent till your arrival, and begs me to say how profoundly he rejoices at this important change in your prospects. Come, my son! I would repeat the sacred name, and I would repeat ever, to the Disposer of human events, my prayer of grateful thanks for being permitted to write myself—your affectionate, “Having just despatched a line to your father, I avail myself of a last moment to tell you I am in London, well and happy. I have heard all by the attentive care of Mr. Wyndham. I know that your father's and uncle's splendid fortunes are entirely sacrificed, but I know also that you are safe, and that makes me happy. Yes, my child, we are beggars—we have nothing; but we shall meet in an hour, and this thought makes all misfortunes supportable.
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178Author:  Flint Timothy 1780-1840Add
 Title:  Francis Berrian, or, The Mexican patriot  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The first night after the junction, I passed in the tent of my classmate, of whom I have spoken. He gave me a succinct, but most interesting narrative of his fortunes since we had separated from each other in the halls of our alma mater. As the materials, the character, and the fate of that interesting body of young men, who were now united with the Mexican patriots, and many of whom at this moment fill the first offices in Louisiana, have never yet been given to the public, and as they are henceforward identified in the same cause with myself, I shall take leave to digress from the thread of my narrative, to give you a very brief outline of the rise and progress of this expedition on Texas, as my classmate gave it to me. “I have wept over the ruin of the amiable family, with whom you fled to the mountains, victims of a sympathy, for which the subjects of it do not thank you. I have a kind of right in what remains of the family, for Wilhelmine has been my companion, and my fixed friend, and she was very amiable and good. Now, that her father and sisters are dead, I feel it to be a duty due to her, to claim, that you now either marry her, or send the poor forlorn girl to me. However you may have thought before, you must surely feel now, that she can no longer reside with you, as formerly. I will receive, cherish, and comfort her, will ask no questions, and will answer for her safety. You cannot mistake your duty, nor my right to this kind of interference. Present her my love and condolence, and show her this.” “I informed you in my last, of my arrival here from Durango. My father was in a continual fret of impatience, lest we should not arrive in season, to anticipate the decree of confiscation. That terrible word confiscation! There is nothing on earth I hate like Don Pedro, and the worst name I can call him, is Confiscation. I am wholly unable to conceive how, or why old men should become so intensely fond of money, about the time that they cease to be able to make any use of it. I believe, he loves me, as the next best thing to money, and the power he has lost, As to my dear, good mother, he may have loved her once; but that is a thing quite gone by. Do you begin to love your husband less, than you did at first, Jacinta? More than once, on the way, he looked sufficiently sternly upon me, reminding me frequently, that if I had not been a perverse and disobedient child, I should have been, at this time, lady of the minister of war, and he, perhaps, prime minister! All would have been safe, and I in a fair way to ascend the topmost round in the ladder of eminence. I have found the advantage of keeping up the fair ascendency that I have won, when this hated subject is discussed. So I told him, that he must have singular notions of the power of the said minister, to communicate honor, for that he well knew, that he was a coward, a liar, and an assassin; and I know not, if I added other epithets; but I had plenty more in my thoughts, and told him, that if it would comfort him to have me die, I was ready to gratify him, but not in that way. Upon the word, I had to encounter a long and bitter philippic, by way of comfortable even ng domestic confabulation. He rung upon the old changes, the folly and idle romanticity of foolish girls, and the absolute necessity of wealth, to any thing like comfortable, or respectable existence, and that one week's endurance of real poverty, genuine love, and a cottage, would restore my brain to VOL. II. 16 common sense, and bring me to beg, as a boon, the favor, which I was now, in the wildness of folly, casting from me. Then it was easy to digress to that dear young man, and to say, that since that ruinous acquaintance, all other men were liars, assassins, and all that My mother, good woman, as the conversation grew sometimes a little warm, put in a kind of neutral interpolation, partaking equally of assent and dissent, attempting to smooth down my father's brow, and remind me of the rights of paternity. Between apprehensions from Indians, patriots, robbers and Royalists, for we seem to be equally obnoxious to all, and this last and most horrid evil of all, confiscation, I had but an uncomfortable time to the city. I had travelled the same journey before, and had seen and felt the grand and beautiful scenery. At this time, my heart was too heavy, and too painfully occupied for me to have any eyes for nature. Our Lady of the Pillar preserve us! I have seen him again, and my heart beats even now so loud, that it disturbs my thoughts, and my pen. I never needed a second look to assure me that it was the very man. I had been driven to the alameda, with our old duena, who was ill, and in company with my daily tormentor. The carriage windows were drawn up on account of the air. He was walking in the streets, and an Irishman, formerly a servant of my father's, was walking behind him. How well I remember the calm and lofty port, the countenance so animated, benevolent, and mild! I gave a half shriek, before I recollected myself; and then it was too late, for my countenance told the tale of what I had seen. His prying and malignant eye soon discovered in the group the person that had arrested mine. He expressed ironical regret at the cause of my alarm, and muttered something implying that he would not have such terrible objects in the way, to annoy me. I gave him a look that I trust he understood, and told him that to filial regard to my father, he must be sensible he owed all my endurance of his presence. “I know,” I cried, “that you are equally cowardly and vindictive. But, venture to touch a hair of his head, and I will move heaven and earth, until an avenger of his cause shall be found. Not that I have or expect ever to have any personal interest in his preservation beyond the common interest, which all ought to have in preserving the virtuous and the good. In this country of distraction and crime, we ought to preserve at least one good person. If you really wish endurance from me, much more, if you expect kindness, expect it only from using moderation and forbearance towards him. Make no use of your bad power towards him, and in the same proportion, you will be sure of my taking a less active part in his favour. If you would promise me with a pledge, on which I might rely, that you would avail yourself of your influence to protect him, I should be willing to promise in my turn, never to see him again.” The standard of the Patriots is again unfurled, I am told, and directly in view of your castle, in the city of Vera Cruz. With how little ceremony they treat emperors, and kings, and great men in these evil days, upon which we are fallen. I suppose the royal cavalier, so dear to you, sees with an equal eye the fighting of Patriots and Imperialists. Both are alike hostile to him and when these parties have mutually worried and weakened each other, he, the third person, can with so much the more ease fall upon the victor and destroy him. To him all this fighting may be matter of indifferent regard. Not so to me. A man dearer to me than liberty, or country, or home, or all the world, except my dearer parents, and, the Virgin forgive me! except my mother, dearer than even they, is going to join himself VOL. II. 17 to the Patriot standard. I sometimes flatter myself that I am a Patriot by instinct. Since I have been acquainted with this man I have learned to read English; I have been deeply engaged in the American history. What a great country! What a noble people! Compare their faces and persons with those of the people here, and what a difference! There is something independent and severe in the appearance and person of these people. There is not a book in my father's library that treats of them, or their history, but what I have thoroughly conned. But to my story; I am extremely cautious how I indulge in the society of this man. If he learned the half of my impatience to enjoy his society, I fear he would hold me cheap. For they say, at least my mother says, that men will not love too much love, or value any thing that comes cheap. In fact I dare not treat myself too much, or too often with that high and intoxicating enjoyment, and I economize every moment of it, and feel as though I had acquired a title to enjoy it by forbearance before the treat. I affect a distance and reserve in his presence, that appears to give him pain, as I know it does me. It is true, he has not complained in words. But there is often a modest remonstrance in his manner which taxes me with cruelty, more painfully than any words he could utter. We had a long walk together yesterday. To give us countenance, and to screen our purpose, Laura started with us, and as soon as we were beyond view, she kindly left us to ourselves. How deeply this child has read the chapter of the heart! And what was the fruit of this solitary ramble? the very anticipation of which was sufficient to rouse my pulses to fever quickness! Why, we walked side by side most lovingly indeed, but as silent as stock doves. He sighed, poor fellow, and I sighed. He said Yea—and I said Amen. He looked at San Puebla, which is now casting up ruddy flames amidst its pillars of smoke, and his eye kindled for a moment, but he soon returned to his sighs again. Once he met me, as I well remember, with a kind of saucy recklessness. But now, when he steals a glance at me, his eye quails, and when to assist me in passing, he takes my hand, his absolutely trembles. My heart thanks him, for I feel that these are the tremors of a subdued heart. He came out at last with the principal secret, and told me that he was about leaving this city for Vera Cruz. It was now my turn to show emotion; and it was at first too great for words. As soon as I became collected from the first surprise, I told him that those who wished him best, wished him nothing better than to stay where he was, and that it was a conduct that militated against his professions to me, to leave a place where he could visit me at his choice. He then informed me, that the Patriot flag was unfurled at Vera Cruz; that his principles, his predilections, and he added, as his cheek reddened, his detestation of Iturbide and his minions forbade him to remain in an inglorious pursuit here, although he could at any moment look at the town of the Mansion of Martha, where honorable men his compatriots were rushing to the tented field. He added, that his determination had been approved by the Conde de Serrea; that he expected appointment and rank in the Patriot army; that there was but one vista through the darkness of his prospects to the only hope of his heart, and that he saw no way for him, but to cut his path through it with his good sword. I know not if I give them rightly, but at the time I thought them pretty words, and I understood the meaning to be that, he had no hope of gaining me, but by gaining distinction and power at the same time. I saw that his heart sunk at the prospect of leaving me; and as he looked dejected and on the minor key, I believe that I threw as much encouragement as I well could into my manner. I am afraid that he thought me too fond, for I think that I pressed his hand and gave him well and fully to know that, in me he had a tried and sure friend in the garrison. Indeed more soft things were said than there is any use in writing. I conjured him to take care of himself and not be rash. I cautioned him against the assassin-dagger of Don Pedro, who is to command the imperial forces against the Patriots; and then I placed before him the dangers of that sultry and sickly climate. I conjured up so many horrors in prospect that my eyes actually filled with tears, and I was obliged to turn away to prevent his seeing them. He had harped on the right string, and I became talkative. I said a thousand things, and some of them I suppose more tender than I should have said. I am sure that he discovered that I was a traitor, for I expressed a decided wish that the Patriots might prevail, and that he might acquire consideration and glory; and if they established a new government, above all things, that he might acquire influence enough to save my father's estate from confiscation. He clearly understood me to mean that, whenever this should be the case, he would be the favored man of my father, as he was now of me. And here, the man habitually so guarded in the expression of his feelings, fell into a most amiable fit of raptures, and made a great many protestations of love and respect and all that, and he talked so fast, and so fervently, and withal managed the thing so well, that I was obliged to let him run on. At seven in the evening I was obliged to tear myself away from him and see my persecutor. I told him so; and told him moreover that when he saw with how much patience I bore this torture, I wished him to copy it. I envy you, for you are daily near him, who occupies all my thoughts. And yet such are the horrible barriers of party and opinion, your noble minds must be at variance, and you cannot meet him, for he is a Patriot and you are a Royalist. So once was I, and I think fiercer than you. See this man, and but for your husband you would be a Patriot too. But you are married, and for your loyalty to your husband and your king you had best not see him. We have had a large pacquet from the Patriots, that is, the Conde has had one, and they have had a battle, the Patriots and Imperialists, and the latter had the advantage. Heaven be praised, my beloved is safe, and Sant' Anna writes that, he behaved gloriously. He was every where in the thickest of he fight, hunting, I dare say, for his Excellency, my admirer. They have appointed him a Colonel, and he has gained influence and respect far beyond his nominal command. Every despatch is full of his conduct and his praises. I rejoice in his glory with trembling. Angels and the blessed Virgin preserve him, and bring him back in safety with his glory! To be admired and promoted in a cause which the Conde espouses, must be real glory. Then I read his own letter to the Conde written in Spanish. The purity of the language and style, would have done credit to the Royal Academy. Of himself he writes with the perfect modesty and simplicity of a great man. There was a chasm in the letter, and there, thought I, had he dared, would have been love for me. I kissed the white interval at the thought. He says, that Sant' Anna is full of courage, that the Patriots are no ways disheartened, and that the people are every day flocking to their standard. Indeed the emperor himself looks in doubt, and his eternal simper was this evening exchanged for a look of anxiety, and he appeared the better for it. He had a great deal to say about his Excellency, and his being the firmest prop of his throne, and how impatient I must be to hear from the army, and how anxious for his return! This man of the muddy head has not yet been admitted to the secret of my likes and dislikes; and he is too destitute of penetration to see what is most palpably passing immediately under his eye. And then, having praised his Excellency, thick and three fold, he began to anoint me in the same way. There are certain little liberties which he thinks it a great honor to bestow upon his favorites. He seemed disposed to take them with me. I repelled them, and in a manner, which could not be mistaken. I will aver, that the man is not wholly destitute of good feeling; for he blushed even to his red whiskers. You have made my heart glad with your letter. You say, that you espouse no cause, that blinds your understanding, or takes away the power of discriminating truth from error, pretension from reality. That is like you. You have taken interest enough in him from his being dear to me, to inquire him out. You delight me by saying, that his deportment has won all praise, triumphed over envy, and even gained the applauses of your husband. Every generous heart ought to feel the difference between an unprincipled adventurer, and the partizan, whose private life and deportment show, that his heart and his principles are in the cause he espouses; and who in private pities, relieves, and spares those men for whose cause he professes to have taken up arms. It is only necessary to look at him, to see that the motives that have carried him to the field are neither interest nor to take side with the strongest. There is something that speaks out when the heart is in earnest. I have never seen a man whose manner so strongly evinces that every thing he does, is matter of conscience and principle. I have this day received a package of your letters at once. I do not wonder at your astonishment that you have had no news of me for a long time. It is a miracle that you should ever hear of me again as an inhabitant of this earth. Oh! what have I not suffered? I have lived fifty years in a month, and I have performed, Oh! such a penance for my sins. Surely, I must have sinned deeply. But I hope my trials have not been without their use. I am sure that I am more sober; that I have acquired some practical philosophy, and that my pulses will never beat so tumultuously again. But you shall have the sad story of my sufferings. The evening after my mother had at last come out with that decided preference for Mr. Berrian, that I mentioned to you; too happy to sit still, and in a frame of mind to muse in the moon-light and inhale the delicious evening breeze, and think upon that man, I bade the dueña walk with me and I took the direction of the lake, for we live near that extremity of the city. It was very imprudent I grant you, in these times of distraction and misrule. But I felt so happy and in such a delightful frame of mind to enjoy the evening! and I felt too as if I was strong in the strength of his protecting arm. We had cleared the city and were approaching the lake before we remarked that a carriage with servants wearing the Imperial livery followed us. An apprehensive suspicion flashed across my mind, but was instantly driven out by a pleasanter train of thought. We continued to walk on for nearly half a league, and the dueña remarked to me that the carriage followed at the same pace and kept the same distance. Ashivering terror of some unknown danger pervaded my mind, as I perceived that she remarked rightly. We immediately turned on our steps for the city. The carriage stopped in a notch of the causeway. Petrified with terror, I stopped too; but not long, for a man muffled in a cloak and followed by two servants made towards me. I shrieked and ran as fast as the unwiedly dueña could follow me. I was overtaken in a moment. The stranger grasped me in his arms, and the servants at the same moment caught the screaming and struggling dueña Indignation and the spirit of my father returned upon me. I sternly asked him what he wanted, for that if it was my money and jewels they were at his service. He replied that he was aware that I had not so mistaken his object; that I could not but have conjectured by whom, and for what purpose he was employed. Lest I should still doubt, he told me that he was ordered to convey me safely and respectfully, if I would allow him, to Xalapa, there to meet my affianced husband; that he was instructed to explain so much of his object in order to allay any unfounded apprehensions, and to set my mind at ease as to my destination. That for the rest, he hoped I would enter the carriage that waited for me, cheerfully, when I knew his purpose; for in that case he was charged to use his best and most respectful exertions to render the journey pleasant. But that his commands were positive, and his business urgent, admitting neither hesitation nor delay; and that his instructions were to bring me to his Excellency at Xalapa, respectfully, if I would, or forcibly if he must; and he begged me to fix upon the alternative. I am too happy to write to any being but you, and I begin to credit the old saw, which asserts that happiness makes us selfish. I left myself at the close of my last, along with my general, at Xalapa. Instead of two hours which he promised me, he staid until late at night. Before he left me, he arranged the terms by a message, on which I might stay at the Carmelite convent in that city, as long as he occupied it with his troops. Protestant and heretic as they held him, he has present power, and, I fear me, that is the divinity most devoutly worshipped here, as elsewhere. He promises the sisterhood protection. He stations a guard without the walls, and is to be admitted within them at any hour that he chooses. They are to afford the shelter of their sanctuary to me, until he carries me back in triumph to Mexico. The convent is a sweet place, the exact retirement for a mind and a heart like mine. It is in valley, like a sweet isle sheltered in a sea of mountains. Here are fine oaks, the sure indications of health. It has orange groves, and the delicious fruits and flowers of every clime. Amidst its bowers run a number of beautiful and limpid brooks, chafing over pebbles. Hither I was removed, escorted by the youthful general and a select body of troops. At midnight he retired and left me to the notes of the pealing organ, the midnight prayers of the sisters, and to communion with my own thoughts. He returned next day in safety to Xalapa. Don Pedro was too far in advance of him, to be overtaken. He immediately selected a garrison and appointed a commander for this city. He has had news from Sant' Anna, who has captured Queretaro. Having settled his arrangements for leaving this city, he spent the greater part of the day alone with me, in the charming gardens and groves of the convent, and such a day! A year of such days would be too much for a state of trial. The next morning he started with his whole force, except the garrison, for Mexico. It was a cheering, and heart-stirring sight, the ceremonial of our leaving, and I think, intended as a kind of fête for me. The troops appeared to be in their gayest attire and in high spirits They filed off in front of the convent gate. The piazza of the convent was filled with all the gaiety and beauty of the city. My general rode a spirited white charger, and many an encomium did the ladies pass upon him little knowing how my heart concurred in all their praises. They all admitted he was the finest looking man they had ever seen. This with ladies is no small praise. As he came up in front and doffed his military cap and waved his plumes, there was a corresponding waving of handkerchiefs, and fair hands, and a general shout of Viva la Republica, and Viva el Capitan Liberador. He dismounted and came up to the gate, which was thrown open for the occasion, kissed the hand of the prioress and other religious sisters, and asked their prayers for the success of his cause. The prioress presented him with a consecrated handkerchief. which received with a respectful address, and what surpris them most, was not his uncommon beauty of form and person, nor his gallant and dignified bearing as an officer, but that he bowed like a king, spoke the true Castilian, and kissed the hand of the prioress, like a devout catholic. I confess, that a little pride mixed with the love in my heart, when he came to me in the presence of such a concourse, and begged the honor of escorting me to Mexico, and to my mother. Some in my case, and feeling as I do, would odiously affect indifference and tranquillity and all that. But I confess I am impatient with the tedious progress of these miserable negotiations. The cities and the provinces are all leaving the standard of the Emperor, and my father's countenance brightens daily, for he too, has become a Patriot; and it is quite amusing to hear one of the most ancient grandees of the Spanish monarchy, talking about liberty and the rights of man, as if a thing of very recent discovery. The Emperor has made the Patriot general proposals, and the papers are all brought to my future husband. I tremble even now, as I read the hated name of the minister of war, signed at the bottom. How everlastingly tedious are these miserable politicians; and they will spin out the simplest trifle to a volume. I have the satisfaction, however, to perceive that the good man is as impatient and as much vexed at this delay, as I am. He says nothing about it, and sturdily continues the air of self-control and the affectation of philosophy. But I see by his manner that he will be glad when all this business is settled. I am glad that it vexes him. We love to see that others have no more philosophy than ourselves. Why should I complain we constantly pass the day together, and we chat like old acquaintances. Instead of fighting the enemy with guns and swords, we fight with proclamations and long speeches. It is a hard thing to keep these stupid gen erals from quarrelling among themselves. My general is constantly throwing water on their fire. Sant' Ann confessed to my father to-day, that but for the North American general, they would all fall together by the ears, and the cause would fail. This evening is to see me no longer Doña de Alvaro. My hand trembles, and if the characters which I trace are a little flurried, I hope you will pardon me, for you have passed through the same ordeal. Let me tell you something about these important arrangements. I well remember and can produce your account of this same business to me in three whole sheets. I will have more conscience with you. First then, the Bishop of Mexico is to solemnize the wedding. He is a venerable man, dignified and unblameable in the discharge of his holy functions, and has retained the confidence and respect of all parties. He could never be prevailed on to take any part in the usurpation of the Emperor. He has always been a friend of my father's, and is known to incline in his feelings towards the Patriots. Secondly, we are to be publicly married in the church of `Nuestra Senora de Guadaloupe,' my patroness, and Laura is to be bridemaid. Poor little thing, her bosom beats almost as mine! The day, too, is my birth-day! What a singular coincidence! Thirdly, my father being president of the provincial junta, there is to be a general illumination. Fourthly, immediately after my return to my father's house, Bryan is to be married to a pretty Irish girl, whom he has found here in the city. Lastly, the first and last wish of my duena's heart is to be gratified in her being immediately after married to Matteo Tonato, the stoutest man in my father's establishment, and the bridegroom and the bride have charged themselves with the expense of a shanty for the one and a casa for the other. The whole is to conclude with a splendid tertulia and fandango. I shall wish all this matter in the Red sea. It is all over. I will give you the details in their order. Just as the sun was setting, my mother and Laura, and two other distinguished young ladies of the city, were assisted by the bridegroom into the state coach. Thirty coaches of invited guests followed. The whole was escorted by a select body of troops, lately under the command of my husband. At the head of the procession was my father accompanied by the Conde de Serra and the first officers of the Junta. Military music, firing of cannon, and ringing of bells marked the commencement of the procession. At the door of the magnificent church we were received by the Bishop and the priesthood of the city, all in their most solemn robes of office. The church, was full to overflowing, and adorned with evergreens, and covered quite to the centre of its vaulted dome with that profusion of splendid flowers in which our city abounds. We walked on flowers up to the altar. The bridegroom conducted himself with his usual dignity and calmness, and, after all, the ceremony was so imposing, and the duties assumed of a character so formidable, that I felt myself trembling and faint, and should have conducted myself foolishly but for the sustaining manner and countenance of my husband. Amidst clouds of incense, the pious minister, dressed in robes of the purest white, performed the solemn services of this Sacrament, and we both pronounced our vows in a firm and decided voice, after the manner of those who had meditated the duties of this relation, and resolved to be faithful to them. The moment the vows were pronounced, we were literally covered with flowers, and saluted with vivas from every quarter of the church. My mother and father embraced and kissed me; and my husband, you know, had now acquired the right to do so. Laura too, kissed me, and whispered me, when returned from the States, to bring her just such a husband, as mine. The Bishop led me back through the aisle of the church, and gave me his benediction at the door. The organ was pealing its grand symphonies, a I was assisted into my carriage. The city, as we drove back, was one dazzling mass of illumination. On all sides was the gaiety of fête, and I much fear of drunk enness. To my great relief after a night of so much fête and gaiety, we were entirely en famille in the morning. I dreaded to see company, and could have chosen to spend the day alone with my husband. But immediately after breakfast drove up the Conde's coach. A card was handed me from Laura, requesting the pleasure of a drive with me. I sent her for word, that, unless she was disposed to give a place to my husband, she must positively excuse me. The message back was, that if he chose to accompany me back, so much the better. He consented to accompany me, and the drive was a pleasant one, except that occasionally when my husband looked another way, Laura gave me looks so wickedly and impertinently inquisitive, that I was obliged to assume matronly airs, look grave, and show her all the difference in deportment, between a wife and a spinster. But she is really a most forward child, and answered me by looks of such merry defiance back again, that I see nothing will cure her but to be able to put on the same official dignity herself. I have received your kind letter and the beautiful rosary accompanying it. I thank you a thousand times for your kind wishes. I have no apprehension on the score on which you warn me. I have no terrors of the weather getting duller after honey moon, as you call it, VOL. II. 22 * I only fear that this more intimate view of things will inspire an idolatry too blind, and that I shall only be too much tempted to surrender my judgment and my reason to the keeping of another. When I loved him at a distance, I knew but the half of his deserts. You must see the manner, and the motive, that he carries with him to the sanctuary of our privacy; you must walk and ride with him, as I do; you must catch his eye as we scramble together up the mountains, or listen to his conversation as we sail together on these sweet lakes; in short you must find him, as I do most full, and rich, and delightful in that “dear spot, our home,” to do full justice to his character. Let the Stoics preach that this life never does, or can yield any thing, but satiety and disappointment. I know better on experience. I could live happily on the treasured recollection of the few days we have had together, for a whole year. If I ever hear foolish girls affecting to be witty again, as I have so often heard them before, in declaiming against the wedded life—by the way, you and I know, with how much sincerity they do it—I will say to them, “Foolish girls, this talk is all stuff.” Be married to worthy men as soon as possible. I have experienced more enjoyment in a day since marriage, than in a year before. Indeed my duena seems another sort of person, she is so happy; and Bryan too, in his strange way, eulogizes matrimony, and his red-cheeked and yellow-haired spouse blushes her consent. I am so much the more delighted with the regularity of your correspondence, as I know you have so many important occupations. You still express curiosity to hear from me, though I have passed that dread bourne where all curiosity and interest generally cease. But I feel that the energies of my affections, so far from having become paralyzed by having passed this bourne, have become more unchanging and more powerful. My conscience tells me it is a duty to write to you so long as you feel any desire to hear from me.
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179Author:  Flint Timothy 1780-1840Add
 Title:  The life and adventures of Arthur Clenning, in two volumes  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Having obtained the ensuing adventures for publication, as the reader will see, a circumstance, which I am about to relate, gave me serious alarm, lest this volume should be classed with the common novels and made up stories of the day. It would give me pain to have it lose the little interest which might appertain to it, as a recital of plain and simple matters of fact. My apprehension that such might be its fate, was excited by hearing, the very evening after I had completed this compilation from the notes of Mr. Clenning, a critical dialogue between two old, spectacled, female, novel-reading, tea-drinking cronies, as they discussed the merits of a recently published novel over their evening tea. I seemed to them to be absorbed in reading the newspapers; but in truth my ears drank every word. The incidents of the story upon which they sat in judgment, were as nearly like this biography of mine as fiction may approach to fact. I considered their opinions a kind of forestalling of my doom. The sprites of the lower country did not pitchfork the fictitious Don Quixotte with more hearty good will to the burning depths, as the real Don Quixotte related their management, than did these excellent old ladies dispose of this book. “The wretch!” said the first; “he has removed the landmarks between history and fable.” “The fool!” said the other; “he does not know how to keep up the appearance of probability.” “My husband inquired on the spot,” said the first, “and the people had never even heard of such a man.” “The block-head!” said the second; “he should have laid the scene just four hundred years back.” “He caricatures nature horribly,” said the first. “He is wholly deficient in art and polish,” said the second. “It is a poor affair from the beginning,” said the first. “The author is only fit to write for the newspapers,” said the second. “He has been an exact and humble copyist of Sir Walter Scott, though he is just a thousand leagues behind him,” said the first. “He is nine hundred miles behind Mr. Cooper, dear man,” said the second.
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180Author:  Flint Timothy 1780-1840Add
 Title:  George Mason, the young backwoodsman, or, 'Don't give up the ship"  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Widow, who weepest sore in the night, and whose tears are on thy cheeks, because thy young children are fatherless, and the husband of thy bosom and thy youth in the dust, dry thy tears. Remember Him, who hath promised to be the husband of the widow, and take courage. Orphan, who hast seen thy venerated father taken from thee by the rude hand of death, and whose thought is, that in the wide world, there is none to love, pity, or protect thee, forget not the gracious Being, who has promised to be a father to the orphan, and remember, that thy business in life is, not to give up to weak and enervating despondence, and waste thy strength in sorrow and tears. Life is neither an anthem nor a funeral hymn, but an assigned task of discipline and struggle, and thou hast to gird thyself, and go to thy duty in the strength of God. I write for the young, the poor, and the desolate; and the moral and the maxim which I wish to inculcate is, that we ought never to despond, either in our religious or our temporal trials. To parents I would say, inculcate the spirit, the duties, and the hopes of religion upon your children in the morning and the evening, in the house and by the way. Instil decision and moral courage into their young bosoms. Teach them incessantly the grand maxim—self-respect. It will go farther to gain them respect, and render them deserving of it, than the bequeathed stores of hoarded coffers. A child, deeply imbued with self-respect, will never disgrace his parents. The inculcation of this single point includes, in my view, the best scope of education. If my powers corresponded to my wishes, I would impress these thoughts in the following brief and unpretending story. The reader will see, if he knows the country, where it is laid, as I do, that it is true to nature. He will comprehend my motive for not being more explicit on many points; and he will not turn away with indifference from the short and simple annals of the poor, for he will remember, that nine in ten of our brethren of the human race are of that class. He will not dare to despise the lowly tenants of the valley, where the Almighty, in his wisdom, has seen fit to place the great mass of our race. It has been for ages the wicked, and unfeeling, and stupid habit of writers, in selecting their scenery and their examples, to act as if they supposed that the rich, the titled, and the distinguished, who dwell in mansions, and fare sumptuously every day, were the only persons, who could display noble thinking and acting; that they were the only characters, whose loves, hopes, fortunes, sufferings, and deeds had any thing in them, worthy of interest, or sympathy. Who, in reading about these favorites of fortune, remembers that they constitute but one in ten thousand of the species? Even those of humble name and fortunes have finally caught the debasing and enslaving prejudice themselves, and exult in the actions, and shed tears of sympathy over the sorrows of the titled and the great, which, had they been recorded of 1* those in their own walk of life, would have been viewed either with indifference or disgust. I well know that the poor can act as nobly, and suffer as bitterly and keenly as the rich. There is as much strength and force and truth of affection in cottages as in palaces. I am a man, and as such, am affected with the noble actions, the joys and sorrows, the love and death of the obscure, as much as of the great. If there be any difference, the deeds, affections, fortunes, and sufferings of the former have more interest; for they are unprompted by vanity, unblazoned by fame, unobscured by affectation, unalloyed by pride and avarice. The actings of the heart are sincere, simple, single. God alone has touched the pendulum with his finger, and the vibrations are invariably true to the purpose of Him who made the movement. If, therefore, reader, you feel with me, you will not turn away with indifference from this, my tale, because you are forewarned, that none of the personages are rich or distinguished. You will believe, that a noble heart can swell in a bosom clad in the meanest habiliments. You will admit the truth as well as the beauty of the poet's declaration, respecting the gems of the sea, and the roses that “waste their sweetness on the desert air;” and you will believe, that incidents, full of tender and solemn interest, have occurred in a log cabin in the forests of the Mississippi.
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