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1Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Add
 Title:  The novels of Charles Brockden Brown  
 Published:  2006 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: Stephen Dudley was a native of New York. He was educated to the profession of a painter. His father's trade was that of an apothecary. But this son, manifesting an attachment to the pencil, he was resolved that it should be gratified. For this end Stephen was sent at an early age to Europe, and not only enjoyed the instructions of Fuzeli and Bartolozzi, but spent a considerable period in Italy, in studying the Augustan and Medicean monuments. It was intended that he should practice his art in his native city, but the young man, though reconciled to this scheme by deference to paternal authority, and by a sense of its propriety, was willing, as long as possible to postpone it. The liberality of his father relieved him from all pecuniary cares. His whole time was devoted to the improvement of his skill in his favorite art, and the enriching of his mind with every valuable accomplishment. He was endowed with a comprehensive genius and indefatigable industry. His progress was proportionably rapid, and he passed his time without much regard to futurity, being too well satisfied with the present to anticipate a change. A change however was unavoidable, and he was obliged at length to pay a reluctant obedience to his father's repeated summons. The death of his wife had rendered his society still more necessary to the old gentleman. An hour ago I was in Second street, and saw you. I followed you till you entered the Indian Queen Tavern. Knowing where you are, I am now preparing to demand an interview. I may be disappointed in this hope, and therefore write you this. Why do I write? For whose use do I pass my time thus? There is no one living who cares a jot for me. There was a time, when a throbbing heart, a trembling hand, and eager eyes, were always prepared to read, and ruminate on the scantiest and poorest scribble that dropped from my pen; but she has disappeared; the veil between us is like death. I need not tell you, my friend, what I have felt, in consequence of your silence. The short note which I received, a fortnight after you had left me, roused my curiosity and my fears, instead of allaying them. You promised me a longer account of some mysterious changes that had taken place in your condition. This I was to receive in a few days. At the end of a week I was impatient. The promised letter did not arrive. Four weeks passed away, and nothing came from you. Yes; the narrative of Morton is true. The simple recital which you give, leaves me no doubt. The money is his, and shall be restored the moment he demands it. For what I have spent, I must a little while be his debtor. This he must consent to lose, for I never can repay it. Indeed, it is not much. Since my change of fortune, I have not been extravagant. A hundred dollars is the most I have laid out, and some of this has been in furniture, which I shall resign to him. "I shall not call on you at Hatfield. I am weary of traversing hills and dales; and my detention in Virginia being longer than I expected, shall go on board a vessel in this port, bound for New York. Contract, in my name, with your old friend, for the present accommodation of the girls, and repair to New York as soon as possible. Search out No.—, Broadway. If I am not there to embrace you, inquire for my wife or daughter, and mention your name. Make haste; the women long to see a youth in whose education I had so large a share; and be sure, by your deportment, not to discredit your instructer, and belie my good report.
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