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UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 (36)
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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 (36)
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1Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Add
 Title:  Hospital sketches  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “I want something to do.”
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2Author:  Twain Mark 1835-1910Add
 Title:  Roughing it  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: My brother had just been appointed Secretary of Nevada Territory — an office of such majesty that it concentrated in itself the duties and dignities of Treasurer, Comptroller, Secretary of State, and Acting Governor in the Governor's absence. A salary of eighteen hundred dollars a year and the title of “Mr. Secretary,” gave to the great position an air of wild and imposing grandeur. I was young and ignorant, and I envied my brother. I coveted his distinction and his financial splendor, but particularly and especially the long, strange journey he was going to make, and the curious new world he was going to explore. He was going to travel! I never had been away from home, and that word “travel” had a seductive charm for me. Pretty soon he would be hundreds and hundreds of miles away on the great plains and deserts, and among the mountains of the Far West, and would see buffaloes and Indians, and prairie dogs, and antelopes, and have all kinds of adventures, and may be get hanged or scalped, and have ever such a fine time, and write home and tell us all about it, and be a hero. And he would see the gold mines and the silver mines, and maybe go about of an afternoon when his work was done, and pick up two or three pailfuls of shining slugs, and nuggets of gold and silver on the hillside. And by and by he would become very rich, and return home by sea, and be able to talk as calmly about San Francisco and the ocean, and “the isthmus” as if it was nothing of any consequence to have seen those marvels face to face. What I suffered in contemplating his happiness, pen cannot describe. And so, when he offered me, in cold blood, the sublime position of private secretary under him, it appeared to me that ENVIOUS CONTEMPLATIONS. 504EAF. Page 020. In-line image of a man standing in plaid pants and talking to a man sitting at a desk reading a news paper. the heavens and the earth passed away, and the firmament was rolled together as a scroll! I had nothing more to desire. My contentment was complete. At the end of an hour or two I was ready for the journey. Not much packing up was necessary, because we were going in the overland stage from the Missouri frontier to Nevada, and passengers were only allowed a small quantity of baggage apiece. There was no Pacific railroad in those fine times of ten or twelve years ago— not a single rail of it. “Dear Sir: I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note. It cannot be possible, Sir, that `turnips restrain passion'—at least the study or contemplation of turnips cannot—for it is this very employment that has scorched our poor friend's mind and sapped his bodily strength.—But if they do restrain it, will you bear with us a little further and explain how they should be prepared? I observe that you say `causes necessary to state,' but you have omitted to state them. `Potatoes do sometimes make vines; turnips remain passive: cause unnecessary to state. Inform the poor widow her lad's efforts will be vain. But diet, bathing, etc. etc., followed uniformly, will wean him from his folly—so fear not.
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3Author:  Cooke John Esten 1830-1886Add
 Title:  Mohun, or, The last days of Lee and his paladins  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Tell, you know who, that I have just seen the honorable Mr. —” (here the writer gave the real name and official position of Mr. X—), “and have had a long conversation with him. He is fully convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke without reserve of matters the most private. He is in high spirits, and looks on the rebel cause as certain to succeed. I never saw one more blinded to the real state of things. Richmond is full of misery, and the people seem in despair, but this high official, who represents the whole government, is evidently certain of Lee's success. I found him in a garrulous mood, and he did not conceal his views. The government has just received heavy supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad—others are coming—the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising—and Lee, he stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch, which he read me, from England. This startled me. There seems no doubt that England is about to recognize the Confederacy. When he had finished reading this dispatch, on the back of which I could see the English postmark, he said to me—these are his words:—`You see, things were never brighter; it is only a question of time; and by holding out a little longer, we shall compel the enemy to retire and give up the contest. With the re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one hundred thousand men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all General Grant's assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause was never more hopeful.' “I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come and see me. Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting, in addition to
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4Author:  Cooke John Esten 1830-1886Add
 Title:  Wearing of the gray  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: These “Personal Portraits” were undertaken with the design of making better known and understood the great actors in the recent struggle who are the subjects of them. “Dear Sir: My telegram will have informed you that I deem a change of commanders in your department necessary, but it is due to your zealous and patriotic services that I should explain the reasons that prompted my action. The situation of affairs is such that we can neglect no means calculated to develop the resources we possess to the greatest extent, and make them as efficient as possible. To this end it is essential that we should have the cheerful and hearty support of the people and the full confidence of the soldiers, without which our efforts would be embarrassed, and our means of resistance weakened. I have reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that you cannot command the united and willing co-operation which is so essential to success. Your reverses in the Valley, of which the public and the army judge chiefly by the results, have, I fear, impaired your influence both with the people and the soldiers, and would add greatly to the difficulties which will, under any circumstances, attend our military operations in S. W. Va. While my own confidence in your ability, zeal, and devotion to the cause, is unimpaired, I have nevertheless felt that I could not oppose what seems to be the current of opinion, without injustice to your reputation and injury to the service. I therefore felt constrained to endeavour to find a commander who would be more likely to develop the strength and resources of the country and inspire the soldiers with confidence, and to accomplish this purpose, thought it proper to yield my own opinion, and defer to that of those to whom alone we can look for support. I am sure that you will understand and appreciate my motives, and that no one will be more ready than yourself to acquiesce in any measure which the interests of the country may seem to require, regardless of all personal considerations. Thanking you for the fidelity and energy with which you have always supported my efforts, and for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested in the service of the country, I am, very respectfully and truly, your obedient servant, “My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own, Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from. Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good. “Know Ye, That reposing special confidence in the patriotism, fidelity, and ability of Antonia J.—, I, James E. B. Stuart, by virtue of the power vested in me as Brigadier-General of the Provisional Army of the Confederate States of America, do hereby appoint and commission her my honorary Aide-de-Camp, to rank as such from this date. She will be obeyed, respected, and admired by all true lovers of a noble nature. “I hereby bind myself, on my word of honour, not to take up arms against the Confederate States, or in any manner give aid and comfort to the Federal cause, until I am regularly exchanged. When I left home, my dear boys, I promised to write to you whenever an opportunity occurred, and give you some of my views and opinions. When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home, I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown) which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to the delights of camp. The Army of Northern Virginia had surrendered! Strange, incredible announcement!
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5Author:  Cozzens Frederic S. (Frederic Swartwout) 1818-1869Add
 Title:  The Sparrowgrass papers, or, Living in the country  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is a good thing to live in the country. To escape from the prison-walls of the metropolis— the great brickery we call “the city”—and to live amid blossoms and leaves, in shadow and sunshine, in moonlight and starlight, in rain, mist, dew, hoar-frost, and drouth, out in the open campaign, and under the blue dome that is bounded by the horizon only. It is a good thing to have a well with dripping buckets, a porch with honey-buds, and sweet-bells, a hive embroidered with nimble bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to the eaves, curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers in your bedroom, a rooster on the roof, and a dog under the piazza.
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6Author:  Cummins Maria S. (Maria Susanna) 1827-1866Add
 Title:  The lamplighter  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it would be light for half an hour or more; but within the close streets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon the wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much earnestness. The house-door, which was open behind her, was close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares, near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the beautiful snow had lost all its purity. “Dear Gertrude: As there were plenty of Boston folks at the wedding, I daresay you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's marriage. He married the widder Holbrook, the same I wrote you about. She was determined to have him, and she's got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain. He likes a quiet life, and he's lost his chance of that,— poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havana, but I guess he thought better of it, and did n't really mean to have her. When we got to New Orleans, however, she was there; and the long and short of it is, she carried her point, and married him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against it, and always treated the widder as pleasantly as could be; but, dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many young folks as there are about all the time now, and so much noise and confusion? For my part, I an't used to it, and don't pretend that I think it's agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude, and will be surprised to find we've got so far as New York, on our way home,—my way home, I should say, for I'm the only one that talks of coming at present. The truth is, I kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there was so much going on I did n't get a chance; and, after that horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I was n't good for anything for a week. But Emily was so anxious to have you written to that I could n't put it off any longer than until to-day. Poor Emily is n't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick, —it's low spirits and nervousness, I suppose, more than anything. She gets tired and worried very quick, and is easily startled and disturbed, which did n't use to be the case. I think likely it's the new wife, and all the nieces, and other disagreeable things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what she was pleased to have her father married again; but she has n't seemed quite happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how sad she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt dreadfully not to get any more letters. To come to the principal thing, however, they are all going to Europe,—Emily and all. I take it it's the new wife's idea; but, whoever proposed the thing, it's all settled now. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I would not hear of such a thing; I would as soon be hung as venture on the sea again, and I told him so, up and down. So now he has written for you to go with Emily; and, if you are not afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always needs somebody, on account of her blindness. I do not think she has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind, for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife. “I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and fit her for her many trials and labors. The letter written soon after Mr. Cooper's death, is the last that has reached me, and I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe; my heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me, but not if she leave any other duty behind. I trust to you, my love, to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness. Mrs. Graham has two nieces who are with us at the hotel. They are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very beautiful girls, especially Belle Clinton, whom you have seen in Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted affection of “Miss Gertrude Flint: I am married, and intend to go abroad on the 28th of April; my daughter will accompany us, and, as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I am induced to propose that you join us in New York, and attend the party, as a companion to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for her. I thus put it in your power, by complying with our wishes, to do away from my mind the recollection of your past behavior; and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the month, it is important you should be here in the course of a fortnight; and, if you will write and name the day, I will myself meet you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston, I hope you will come as soon as possible. As you will be obliged to incur expenses, I enclose a sum of money sufficient to cover them. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, and I will see that all is made right before you leave. Trusting to your being now come to a sense of your duty, I am ready to subscribe myself your friend, “My Dear Mrs. Jeremy: As yesterday was the day on which we expected to sail for Europe, you will be somewhat astonished to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn that the foreign tour is now indefinitely postponed. Only two days since, Mr. Graham was seized with his old complaint, the gout, and the attack proved so violent as seriously to threaten his life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable for months to come. His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as it is possible for him to bear the journey, we shall all hasten to the house in D—. I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces, who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, of course, greatly disappointed at the entire change in their plans for the summer. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to meet him in Paris. “My darling Gertrude: My much-loved child,—for such you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone wrung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to my heart and call you mine. A dozen times before had I been seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. Had I seen you happy, gay and light-hearted, I would not have asked to share your joy, far less would I have east a shadow on your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred, and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for I am a wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe. “My dear, dear Father,—If I may dare to believe that you are so, and, if not that, my best of friends,—how shall I write to you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery! Father! blessed word! O, that my noble friend were indeed my father! Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas! I feel a sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. I never before remember to have heard the name of Philip Amory. My sweet, pure and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, I trust, to my own. Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide world; never had, or could have. One might as well war with an angel of Heaven as with a creatures so holy and lovely as she.
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7Author:  Cummins Maria S. (Maria Susanna) 1827-1866Add
 Title:  Mabel Vaughan  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: On a pleasant midsummer's afternoon, a middle-aged lady, with a mild and thoughtful face, sat alone in her quiet parlor, busily engaged in sewing. It was a country home in which she dwelt, and her low window opened directly into a green and sloping orchard, now fragrant with new-mown hay, the sweet breath of which was borne in on every passing breeze. She was a woman of many cares, and but little leisure, and for more than an hour had not lifted her eyes from her work, when, suddenly attracted by the merry voices of children, she arrested herself in the act of setting a stitch, and, with her needle still poised between finger and thumb, leaned her elbow on the window-sill and for several minutes gazed earnestly and attentively upon a little group collected beneath an opposite tree. They were too far off for their words to be distinguishable, but happiness shone in their faces, mirth rang in their careless shout, and joy danced in all their motions. Whether chasing the light butterfly, pelting each other with tufts of hay, or, in the very exuberance of their spirits, scampering without purpose or rest in the sunshine, they were in every view pictures of infant glee, cheering and happy sights to a mother's heart. Though now and then smiling on their sport, however, the gentle-faced lady at the window was watching them with a more thoughtful and observant gaze than the occasion seemed to warrant, for she saw amid their play what a less careful eye might have failed to discern, and from it she drew a moral. “Dearest May:—After three days and nights of constant travelling, I arrived at the miserable town from which father wrote to you, and found him wretchedly accommodated in a mere barn of a place, every tolerable room in the tavern, and every spare corner in the few private houses, having been appropriated to those of the passengers who were more seriously injured. Father's escape seems almost miraculous, as he was in the front car, which rolled over twice as it fell down 27* the embankment. He has suffered considerably from a bruise on his back, and a sprain in the ancle, which made him quite helpless for a few days. He has, also, had an uncomfortable sensation of dizziness in the head, but that is merely the natural effect of the jar, and has already begun to subside. Do not be anxious about him, for I flatter myself I make a capital doctor, nurse, cook, and housekeeper, all of which offices have devolved upon me. “Dear Miss Mabel,” wrote Lydia, “I'm afraid you don't know that Mrs. Leroy is very sick at the hotel here in New York. I hated to frighten you, and didn't know how to tell you of it without; but mother says you ought to know, for it wouldn't be like you not to come right away. When she first took sick, Cecilia sent for us, and we've been here ever since. Cecilia has gone back to Cape May to wait on another lady. Mother does the best she can, and I try to be of some use. The folks in the hotel are very good, and the doctor comes ever so often; but he can't seem to help her, and she's getting very bad. Oh, Miss Mabel, we wish you were here, and we hope you will start as soon as you get this. “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—Your kind New Year's letter, with all the pleasant reminiscences, affectionate messages, and loving inquiries from yourself and the dear girls, was a most welcome proof of the tender interest with which you have followed me to my new home, and claims a hearty response; though before I have answered half your questions, I fear you will weary of my Western experiences. We have now passed two winters in our new home, and begin to feel ourselves old settlers;—the more so, as no less than thirty families have established themselves in the village since our arrival. As we are a little on the outskirts of the town, however, we have no near neighbor, except Mr. Gracie, the clergyman, who lives across the opposite bit of prairie, and who, with his daughter, are our most intimate and esteemed friends. I have frequently spoken of Helen in my letters, so her name and many points of her disposition and character are no doubt familiar to you. But you cannot imagine the treasure she has been to me, ever since the first moment of our acquaintance. Next to yourself, there is no one to whom I am so much indebted for the ease and pleasure with which I have been enabled to adapt myself to our new circumstances. Care sits so lightly on her shoulders, and she knows so well how to combine employment and recreation, that in her society the most important duties cease to be burdensome, and little mishaps afford only new occasion for merriment. The children of the rough backwoodsmen, who are among her father's parishioners, hear the sound of her horse's feet, and run to meet her the moment she is in sight, sure of some trifling gift, a story, or a ride on the pony, which seems to be common property. If she goes with her basket of medicines to visit the sick, at a distance, she comes back so laden with flowers, you would think she had been a Maying; and an old Canadian Indian woman, to whom she daily reads a chapter in her French Bible, declares her voice more musical than running water. I have never seen father so abstracted with the cares of business that he has not a pleasant word for his fairy nurse, as he calls her, and no bribe is so effectual with the boys, or inducement rather (for I, like you, scorn the use of bribes), as the promise of an evening visit to Helen. As for Harry—but never mind about Harry—sisters are so suspicious, you know, where their brothers are concerned. “Dear Aunt Sabiah:—thus she wrote—I have been wandering about the house for the last half hour, asking myself whether the cottage-roofed chamber above can be made warm in winter, and cool in summer, whether the stairs are not too steep for any but youthful feet to climb, whether our parlor is not too contracted for comfort, and the view from its windows too strange and dreary to ever wear the look of home; and I have concluded, in spite of all disadvantages, that, with love on our side, and the earnest wish to make you happy, you would be far more comfortable here, than in my aunt Ridgway's spacious and richly-furnished mansion. I never dared say this before. I never ventured to breathe the hope I have long had at heart, for I knew your love of old associations, and your dislike of change. But your last letter has made me bold. I cannot bear the thought that you are subjected to such trials, such hardships, and such absolute indignities, as I plainly perceive you have lately been made to suffer, when here you would be independent, appreciated, and beloved. It is true we have not, as we once had, luxuries to offer, but we have all the necessaries and most of the comforts of life, and these, too, in abundance; for our Western lands are so lavish in their produce, that hospitality with us almost ceases to be a virtue. Then, too, although my father, as you well know, has sacrificed everything but this Western property for the payment of his debts, and is unwilling to dispose of any portion of the estate at present, Harry is gradually bringing a large part of it under cultivation, and, if his success continues, the rent which he insists upon paying, will not only furnish us with every needed supply, but enable us to lay by something for the children's education. So, even if your poor hands are dis abled with the rheumatism, you need not fear that your presence here will be the burden which you say it is to my aunt Margaret. On the contrary, we shall hail your coming with delight, and shall rejoice to contribute in every way to your happiness. I have consulted father, who quite agrees with me in my view of the matter, and will, I am sure, be rejoiced to welcome you. The boys are improving very much as they grow older, and now that they have such an ample play-ground, you will not suffer at all from their noise. Our village shop-keeper goes to the eastward every spring for the purchase of goods, and will be a most excellent escort on the journey. You see I am quite taking it for granted you will come, but it is because I feel so truly, dear aunt, that your rightful and natural place is at our hearth-stone, as well as in our hearts; and because I know you so well that I venture to believe you will not disappoint the earnest wishes and hopes of “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—When I look back to the days of my childhood, there ever arises before me the image of one dear friend, whose tender love and devoted care made it a blessed and happy portion of my life, on which memory loves to dwell. When I consider the years which have since intervened, I can not fail to be reminded, that at every step I have been counselled, strengthened and cheered, by the advice, the warnings, and the lessons of this same dear friend; and now that I am about to enter upon a new sphere of duty, I feel an instinctive yearning to still claim a place in her good wishes, her affection, and her prayers. You have cherished the child, encouraged the woman—let me bespeak your loving sympathy for the wife. It does not become me to say much of him to whom, to-morrow, I expect to stand in this new and near relation. Some day, I trust, you will see and know Mr. Percival, and be enabled to judge for yourself. But if genuine simplicity and true manliness of heart and life entitle a man to honor, I may well be proud of the station which he holds, both independently, and in the world's opinion; and if strength of Christian principle is the surest foundation for confidence and trust, I may well believe that the sentiments which he now professes are sincere, and will be lasting. I trust I have not said too much; but indeed, dear Mrs. Herbert, my only fear is that I am not worthy to be the object of his choice; and it is that I may become so, that I chiefly beg an interest in your prayers. Bayard (for you will wish to know him by his Christian name also) is the son of Counsellor Percival, as he was usually called, a lawyer, formerly of high standing in New York city, but now for some years deceased. His widow is still living, vigorous and active, although nearly seventy-six years of age. She, too, is well known in New York and elsewhere, for the active part she has taken in every philanthropic and benevolent scheme; nor does she, even at her present advanced period of life, feel herself excused from exertion, or unfitted for active duty. You will realize this, when I tell you that she has recently taken a house in Cambridge, with the view of furnishing a home for two of her grandsons, now students at Harvard, and that she has invited Alick and Murray also to become members of her family. No proposition could have been more opportune, so far as the boys are concerned; for Alick hopes to be prepared for admission to the University at the commencement of the next collegiate year, and Murray could nowhere pursue, to such advantage, the mathematical studies which are to fit him for his chosen profession—that of an engineer. At first, we all opposed the plan, fearing Madam Percival was assuming too much care; but she over-persuaded my father and Harry, convinced me that she anticipated only pleasure from the charge, and finally carried her point.
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8Author:  Curtis George William 1824-1892Add
 Title:  Prue and I  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: DINNER-TIME.
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9Author:  Curtis George William 1824-1892Add
 Title:  Trumps  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous merchant. No gentleman on 'Change wore more spotless linen or blacker broadcloth. His ample white cravat had an air of absolute wisdom and honesty. It was so very white that his fellow-merchants could not avoid a vague impression that he had taken the church on his way down town, and had so purified himself for business. Indeed a white cravat is strongly to be recommended as a corrective and sedative of the public mind. Its advantages have long been familiar to the clergy; and even, in some desperate cases, politicians have found a resort to it of signal benefit. There are instructive instances, also, in banks and insurance offices of the comfort and value of spotless linen. Combined with highly-polished shoes, it is of inestimable mercantile advantage. “My dear Abel,—You have now nearly reached the age at which, by your grandfather's direction, you were to leave school and enter upon active life. Your grandfather, who had known and respected Mr. Gray in former years, left you, as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, upon condition of your being placed at Mr. Gray's until your nineteenth birthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth birthday you will leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best accounts of you. My plans for you are not quite settled. What are your own wishes? It is late for you to think of college; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man, I see no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin poetry. At your age I was earning my own living. Your mother and the family are well. Your affectionate father, “Dear Abel,—I am very glad to hear from Mr. Gray of your fine progress in study, and your general good character and deportment. I trust you give some of your leisure to solid reading. It is very necessary to improve the mind. I hope you attend to religion. It will help you if you keep a record of Dr. Peewee's texts, and write abstracts of his sermons. Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you are very self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend Mrs. Beacon was here last week, and she says you bow beautifully! That is a great deal for her to admit, for her son Bowdoin is one of the most elegant and presentable young men I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanly indeed. He and Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son, could you not learn to waltz before you come home? It is considered very bad by some people, because you have to put your arm round the lady's waist. But I think it is very foolish for any body to set themselves up against the customs of society. I think if it is permitted in Paris and London, we needn't be so very particular about it in New York. Mr. Dinks and Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very distingué indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister Fanny says the Boston young men stick out their elbows dreadfully when they waltz, and look like owls spinning on invisible teetotums. She declares, too, that all the Boston girls are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beacon and Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance as well as our young men here. And as for the Boston ladies, Mr. Dinks tells Fanny that he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne, who lives in Delafield, who might alter her opinion of the dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a great heiress, C and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know how idle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Alfred Dinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and shakes his head—the truth is, he hasn't much to say for himself. Bless me! I've got to take another sheet. “Dear Sir,—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I thought you would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who will stay at Bunker's. “Dear Aunty,—We're about going away, and we have been so gay that you would suppose I had had `society' enough. Do you remember our talk? There have been a great many people here from every part of the country; and it has been nothing but bowling, walking, riding, dancing, dining at the lake, and listening to music in the moonlight, all the time. Aunt Dinks has been very kind, but although I have met a great many people I have not made many friends. I have seen nobody whom I like as much as Amy Waring or Mr. Lawrence Newt, of whom I wrote you from New York, and they have neither of them been here. I think of Pinewood a great deal, but it seems to me long and long ago that I used to live there. It is strange how much older and different I feel. But I never forget you, dearest Aunty, and I should like this very moment to stand by your side at your window as I used to, and look out at the hills, or, better still, to lie in your lap or on my bed, and hear you sing one of the dear old hymns. I thought I had forgotten them until lately. But I remember them very often now. I think of Pinewood a great deal, and I love you dearly; and yet somehow I do not feel as if I cared to go back there to live. Isn't that strange? Give my love to Grandpa, and tell him I am neither engaged to a foreign minister, nor a New York merchant, nor a Southern planter—nor to any body else. But he must keep up heart, for there's plenty of time yet. Good-by, dear Aunty. I seem to hear you singing, `Oh that I now the rest might know!' Do you know how often you used to sing that? Good-by. “My dear Mr. Newt,—Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather has had a stroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt Dinks has, therefore, resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall go with her. She seems very much affected, indeed, by the news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor says grandfather will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes you could go on with us. I know that you have some kind of association with Pinewood—you have not told me what. In this summer weather you will find it very beautiful; and you know how glad I shall be to have you for my guest. My guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill I must be what my mother would have been—mistress of the house. I shall hardly feel more lonely than I always did when he was active, for we had but little intercourse. In case of his death, which I suppose to be very near, I shall not care to live at the old place. In fact, I do not very clearly see what I am to do. But there is One who does; and I remember my dear old nurse's hymn, `On Thee I cast my care.' Come, if you can. “My dear Belch,—B. Newt, Son, & Co. have stopped. We do not hear of an assignment, so desire you to take steps at once to secure judgment upon the inclosed account. “My dear Sir,—I have just heard of your misfortunes. Don't be dismayed. In the shindy of life every body must have his head broken two or three times, and in our country 'tis a man's duty to fall on his feet. Such men as Abel Newt are not made to fail. I want to see you immediately. “Fellow-Citizens, — Deeply grateful for the honorable trust you have so long confided to me, nothing but the imperative duty of attending to my private affairs, seriously injured by my public occupations, would induce me to resign it into your hands. But while his country may demand much of every patriot, there is a point, which every honest man feels, at which he may retire. I should be deeply grieved to take this step did I not know how many abler representatives you can find in the ranks of that constituency of which any man may be proud. I leave the halls of legislation at a moment when our party is consolidated, when its promise for the future was never more brilliant, and when peace and prosperity seem to have taken up their permanent abode in our happy country, whose triumphant experiment of popular institutions makes every despot shake upon his throne. Gentlemen, in bidding you farewell I can only say that, should the torch of the political incendiary ever be applied to the sublime fabric of our system, and those institutions which were laid in our father's struggles and cemented with their blood, should totter and crumble, I, for one, will be found going down with the ship, and waving the glorious flag of our country above the smouldering ruins of that moral night.
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10Author:  Eggleston Edward 1837-1902Add
 Title:  The end of the world  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “I DON'T believe that you'd care a cent if she did marry a Dutchman! She might as well as to marry some white folks I know.” “If all they say is true, you have quickly changed. I do not hold you by any promises you wish to break. “To whom it may concern: I have a list of eight men connected with the riotous mob which broke into the house of Gottlieb Wehle, a peaceable and unoffending citizen of the United States. The said eight men proceeded to commit an assault and battery on the person of the said Gottlieb Wehle, and even endeavored at one time to take his life. And the said riotous conduct was the result of a conspiracy, and the said assault with intent to kill was with malice aforethought. The said eight men, after having committed grievous outrages upon him by dipping him in the water and by other means, warned the said Wehle not to return to the State. Now, therefore, I give notice to all and several of those concerned in these criminal proceedings that the said Wehle has returned by my advice; and that if so much as a hair of his head or a splinter of his property is touched I will appear against said parties and will prosecute them until I secure the infliction of the severest penalties made and provided for the punishment of such infamous crimes. I hope I am well enough known here to render it certain that if I once begin proceedings nothing but success or my death or the end of the world can stop them.
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11Author:  Halpine Charles G. (Charles Graham) 1829-1868Add
 Title:  The life and adventures, songs, services, and speeches of Private Miles O'Reilly [pseud.] (47th regiment, New York volunteers.)  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: MY Dear N: Our friend, Major Wright, showed me one paragraph of your letter to him, in which you referred, apparently with surprise, to the fact that the attack on Charleston by the iron-clads should have been discontinued “when so few casualties had occurred.” This is so obvious a reflection, on the first hasty view of the affair, and one so radically unjust when we look calmly at the facts, that, in Major Wright's absence (he has gone down the posts along the Florida coast on a tour of inspection) I will venture to occupy your time a few moments on the subject. “Sir:— We take pleasure in inviting you to be present as a guest, on the occasion of a banquet for which we have found an excellent excuse in the person of Private Miles O'Reilly, Forty-seventh regiment New York Volunteers, late a prisoner on Morris Island, South Carolina, but released from durance vile by order of our benevolent and truly amiable President. All guests must bring with them an unlimited supply of good appetite and humor. The napkins, wines and things will be provided by our accomplished caterer. Have to remain here watching my Cabinet. There might be a row in the family if I went away. Telegraphing not a good medium for stories; but have an anecdote appropriate to O'Reilly's case, which I send in letter by this day's mail. Gentlemen,—I regret that a sentiment and surroundings which you can appreciate will not allow me to join your festive assembly. The Navy is not forgetful of the tribute paid by Private O'Reilly to the merit of many of its most deserving officers. In the manly pathos of his reference to the late Fleet Captain George W. Rodgers, in that song for which he suffered imprisonment, he struck strings of the human heart which must vibrate so long as courage can enkindle respect, or the death of a hero and martyr claim the tribute of a tear. Your invitation reaches me just as I am preparing to move upon the enemy's works. Be assured my sympathies are with every movement which aims to acknowledge our indebtedness, as individuals and as a nation, to the private soldiers—the countless, nameless, unrewarded, often disregarded heroes of the musket and bayonet—to whose true patriotism, patient endurance, and courage in the day of danger we, who are generals, owe victory, and the country will yet owe its salvation. Gentlemen,—A recent chill blast from Ohio, coupled with a cold shiver recently caught in Pennsylvania,* have laid me up with an indisposition which confines me to that home in which I am both prized and appreciated. I look upon your banquet with a single eye to the public good; and am far from convinced that it may not soon be even a better investment to take stock in the national fortunes, than to embark with my friend Lamar in that blockaderunning enterprise about which some of my foolish enemies have lately been making a fuss. Just now I am so doubled up with rheumatic twinges that my walk is slantendicular; and I make it my rule never to appear in public when in this attitude. Very candidly and sincerely yours. Dear Develin—Am just polishing off and finishing up Mayor Opdyke. Will be with you in a moment when I get through. Gentlemen—Your invitation is received, but me it does not suit to be of your guests invited. I, who have bearded a Russian Emperor, am not to bow in homage abject to any of the great asses who are in this country heroes made. The President (I have proved it) is a mountebank; Secretary Seward is a faineant and traitor; General McClellan is a traitor and ass. Chase is an ass. I have no doubt Gillmore is an assish asinine ass; as indeed are all the men whose names we in the newspapers see, or in men's mouths hear, there being only one exception, who is with highest consideration, yours, Am worried to death about the New York Police Commissioners. Sometimes think I will remove them; sometimes think that I won't. If I can make up my mind either one way or other, will be with you. If not, will stay here, and do nothing else but try. Gentlemen—I regret that the severe studies and labors in which I am now engaged will not permit me to be present at your very interesting demonstration. Having commenced my investigations of naval science by a close analysis of that most famous vessel of antiquity in which the second great progenitor of our race avoided destruction—and of which, let me add, the so-called models placed in the hands of our children are even ludicrously erroneous when examined by the light of antiquarian science—I have now reached, in my descending studies, the type of vessels used in the great Spanish armada; and it is my hope, ere the termination of an existence already bountifully protracted, to have brought down my researches to that amazing new starting point in naval history—the discoveries and successful experiments of the immortal Fulton! With the introduction of steam as a motor of vessels, a great change, all will admit, has been effected in the conditions of maritime warfare. That change it is my hope, and shall be my unceasing endeavor to grasp and appreciate, if not while in official existence, then in that bright and tranquil period of repose which a grateful country will not fail to afford to the declining years of a conscientious and faithful old public servant. Gentlemen—As you have had the good taste to invite the members of my staff and the most prominent officers of my command, as well as myself, I thank you in their name and in my own. The managers of the late Russian banquet did differently; but those managers were members of the Common Council, which explains, if it does not palliate their offence. Their neglect in this respect extended to the Governor of the State, only one member of whose military family was asked; and to General Dix, who was invited to appear, so far as I can learn, altogether unattended, to meet foreign officers, some of equal, many of inferior, rank—but all attended by their proper retinue. I thank you again in behalf of my staff and the senior officers of the First Division, as also for myself; and beg to assure you that such of us as feel like it, will, with pleasure, avail ourselves of your very kind and hospitable invitation. Let to-day be chronicled as a great day for Ireland, and let it live as the greatest of Thanksgiving Days in American history! This afternoon took place the interesting ceremonial of presenting Private Miles O'Reilly, Forty-seventh Regiment New York Volunteers, to his Excellency the President of the United States, by whom, in turn, the young Milesian warrior and bard of the Tenth army corps was presented to several members of the Cabinet and foreign diplomatic corps, who were paying a Thanksgiving Day call to the President when the cards of General T. F. Meagher and Father Murphy were handed in by Colonel Hay—these gentlemen having kindly consented to act as the chaperons, or social godfathers and godmothers of Private O'Reilly, who was accompanied by Major Kavanagh and Captain Breslin, of the old Sixty-ninth New York, and by Mr. Luke Clark, of the Fifth Ward of your City, as his own “special friends.” The details of this interview will hereafter form an instructive episode in the grand drama of our national history. It was in a manner the apotheosis of democratic principles—an acknowledgment of our indebtedness to the men who carry muskets in our armies. It had its political significance, also, and may prove another link between our soldiers in the field and the present lengthy occupant of the White House, who is understood to be not averse to the prospect of a lengthier lease of that “desirable country residence,” which has none of the modern improvements.
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12Author:  Harte Bret 1836-1902Add
 Title:  The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Respected Sir, — When you read this, I am run away. Never to come back. Never, Never, NEVER. You can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my Amerika's Pride [a highly colored lithograph from a tobacco-box] to Sally Flanders. But don't you give anything to Clytie Morpher. Don't you dare to. Do you know what my oppinion is of her, it is this, she is perfekly disgustin. That is all and no more at present from
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13Author:  Harte Bret 1836-1902Add
 Title:  Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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14Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Add
 Title:  The Blithedale romance  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The evening before my departure for Blithedale, I was returning to my bachelor apartments, after attending the wonderful exhibition of the Veiled Lady, when an elderly man, of rather shabby appearance, met me in an obscure part of the street.
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15Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Add
 Title:  Septimius Felton, or, The elixir of life  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was a day in early spring; and as that sweet, genial time of year and atmosphere calls out tender greenness from the ground, — beautiful flowers, or leaves that look beautiful because so long unseen under the snow and decay, — so the pleasant air and warmth had called out three young people, who sat on a sunny hillside enjoying the warm day and one another. For they were all friends: two of them young men, and playmates from boyhood; the third, a girl who, two or three years younger than themselves, had been the object of their boy-love, their little rustic, childish gallantries, their budding affections; until, growing all towards manhood and womanhood, they had ceased to talk about such matters, perhaps thinking about them the more.
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16Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Add
 Title:  Darkness and daylight  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve long years its massive walls of dark grey stone had frowned in gloomy silence upon the passers-by, the terror of the superstitious ones, who had peopled its halls with ghosts and goblins, saying even that the snowy-haired old man, its owner, had more than once been seen there, moving restlessly from room to room and muttering of the darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair young wife and her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man was not dead, but for years he had been a stranger to his former home. “Dear Sir: — A wholly unexpected event makes it necessary for me to be absent from home for the next few weeks. During this time my house will be shut up, and I shall be very glad if in her daily rides Miss Hastings will occasionally come round this way and see that every thing is straight. I would like much to give the keys into her charge, knowing as I do that I can trust her. The books in my library are at her disposal, as is also the portfolio of drawings, which I will leave upon the writing table. “Dear Sir, — Miss Hastings accepts the great honor of looking after your house, and will see that nothing gets mouldy during your absence. “Darling Miggie: — Nina has been so sick this great long while, and her head is so full of pain. Why don't you come to me, Miggie? I sit and wait and listen till my forehead thumps and thumps, just as a bad nurse thumped it once down in the Asylum. “Poor blind man! Nina is so sorry for you to-night, because she knows that what she has to tell you will crush the strong life all out of your big heart, and leave it as cold and dead as she will be when Victor reads this to you. There won't be any Nina then, for Miggie and Arthur, and a heap more, will have gone with her way out where both my mothers are lying, and Miggie'll cry, I reckon, when she hears the gravel stones rattling down just over my head, but I shall know they cannot hit me, for the coffin-lid will be between, and Nina'll lie so still. No more pain; no more buzzing; no more headache; no more darkness; won't it be grand, the rest I'm going to. I shan't be crazy in Heaven. Arthur says so, and he knows. “.... It will be dreadful at first, I know, and may be all three of the darknesses will close around you for a 14 time, — darkness of the heart, darkness of the brain, and darkness of the eyes, but it will clear away and the daylight will break, in which you will be happier than in calling Miggie your wife, and knowing how she shrinks from you, suffering your caresses only because she knows she must, but feeling so sick at her stomach all the time, and wishing you wouldn't touch her. I know just how it feels, for when Arthur kissed me, or took my hand, or even came in my sight, before the buzz got into my head, it made me so cold and faint and ugly, the way the Yankees mean, knowing he was my husband when I wanted Charlie Hudson. Don't subject Miggie to this horrid fate. Be generous and give her up to Arthur. He may not deserve her more than you, but she loves him the best and that makes a heap of difference.
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17Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Add
 Title:  The pillar of fire, or, Israel in bondage  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “I trust, my dear Sesostris,” he writes, “that you are passing your time both with pleasure and profit, in visiting places of interest in the valley of the Lower Nile, and in studying the manners and usages of the people. You will find the pyramids an exhaustless source of attraction. From the priests, who are the most intelligent and learned class in Egypt, you will obtain all the information respecting those mysterious monuments of the past, which is known, besides many legends. “Your Majesty,—I address my letter to you from this petty castle, though, albeit, the stronghold of your kingdom seaward, over which you have made me governor. For a subject, this would be a post of honor. For me, the son of your husband's brother, your royal nephew, it is but an honorable exile from a court where you fear my presence. Honorable, do I say?—rather, dishonorable; for am I not a prince of the blood of the Pharaohs? But let this pass, your majesty. I do not insist upon any thing based upon mere lineage. I feel that I was aggrieved by the birth of Remeses. I see that you turn pale. Do not do so yet. You must read further before the blood wholly leaves your cheek. I repeat, I am aggrieved by the `birth of Remeses.' You see I quote the last three words. Ere you close this letter, your majesty will know why I mark them thus. Your husband, the vicegerent of the Thisitic kingdom of the South, after leaving his capital, Thebes, at the head of a great army, died like a soldier descended from a line of a thousand warrior kings, in combat with the Ethiopian. I was then, for your majesty was without offspring, the heir to the throne of Egypt. I was the son of your husband's younger brother. Though but three years old when your lord was slain, I had learned the lesson that I was to be king of Egypt, when I became a man. But to the surprise of all men, of your council of priests, and your cabinet of statesmen, lo! you soon afterwards became a mother, when no evidences of this promise had been apparent! Nay, do not cast down this letter, O queen! Read it to the end! It is important you should know all. “Your Majesty,—I write from my pavilion pitched at the foot of the Libyan mountains. I need not forewarn you of the subject of this letter, when I assure you that within the hour I have received intelligence from Memphis, that you are about to abdicate your throne in favor of Remeses, your suppositious son. This intelligence does not surprise me. When I was in Lower Egypt, I saw through you and your policy. I perceived that while you feared me, you resolved to defeat my power over you. This purpose, to surrender the sceptre of the two Egypts, I can penetrate. You design, thereby, securely to place Remeses beyond my power to harm him, for that, being king, if I lift a finger he can destroy me. I admire your policy, and bow in homage to your diplomacy. But, O queen, both you and Remeses are in my power! Nay, do not flash your imperial eyes at this assertion. Hear me for a few moments.
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18Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Add
 Title:  The Prince of the House of David, or, Three years in the Holy City  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: My Dear Father:—My first duty, as it is my highest pleasure, is to comply with your command to write you as soon as I arrived at Jerusalem; and this letter, while it conveys to you intelligence of my arrival, will confirm to you my filial obedience. “Dearest Ruth:—I fear you have been impatient at my long silence; but I love you not less, though you do not often hear from me. Now that I am safe I will write to you, which I would not do in a state of uncertainty. Know that after our ship left Cesarea for Crete, we were caught by a north wind, and in striving to make the east end of the island, we lost way, and were driven upon Africa, where we were wrecked, losing all our cargo, and the lives of many who sailed with us. With others, I was taken by the barbarians, and carried inland to a country of rocky mountains, and there became a bondman to one of the chief men of the nation wherein I was captivated. At length, inspired by a consciousness of the anguish you and my beloved mother must suffer, should you never more hear tidings of me, I resolved to effect my escape. After great perils, I reached the sea-side, and at the expiration of many days, by following the coast, I was taken on board by a small ship of Cyprus, and conveyed to Alexandria. The vessel was owned by a rich merchant of my own people, Manassah Benjamin Ben Israel, who, finding me sick and destitute of all things, just as I escaped, took me home to his hospitable house, and treated me as a son till I recovered my health and strength; saying that he had a daughter far away, in Judea, and he hoped that if she ever needed the aid of strangers, God would repay him by making them kind to her.” “The bearer, beloved, is one of the disciples of Jesus. His name is Bartimeus. He was blind and poor, and subsisted by begging; and, as you see, his sight is restored, and he insists now on going from town to town where he has been known as a blind man, to proclaim what Jesus has done for him. He takes this to you. I write to say that I wish thou mayest prosper in all things, and find the health for which thou and thy cousin sought the air of Mount Tabor. I have no greater joy than to hear of your welfare. This letter cometh beseeching thee, lady, that as we love one another unfeignedly, so may we soon be united in that holy union which God hath blessed and commanded. I would have thee bear in remembrance that thou gavest thy promise hereto when last we met at Nazareth. But, having much to say hereupon, I will not commit it to paper and ink; but by to-morrow, or the day after, I trust to come to you, and speak with you, dearly beloved, face to face, those things which come now to my lips. Farewell, lady, and peace be with you, and all in your house. Greet thy friends in my name, letting them know that we shall shortly be with you, with Amos, your father, now our dear brother in the Lord. There are many things which I have seen and heard touching my holy Master, Jesus, and his holy mission to the world, which I will declare unto you when we meet, that you also may have fellowship with us in those things which we know and believe concerning him. My Master saluteth thee and all in your house; Amos, also, greeteth thee with 10* a kiss. This is the second epistle I have written unto you from Nazareth.”
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19Author:  James Henry 1843-1916Add
 Title:  A passionate pilgrim  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “My dear Friend, — I have every hope of being happy, but I am to go to Wiesbaden to learn my fate. Madame Blumenthal goes thither this afternoon to spend a few days, and she allows me to accompany her. Give me your good wishes; you shall hear of the event. “I 'm happy — I 'm accepted — an hour ago. I can hardly believe it 's your poor old
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20Author:  Johnston Richard Malcolm 1822-1898Add
 Title:  Dukesborough tales  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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