| | 101 | Author: | Bird
Robert Montgomery
1806-1854 | Add | | | Title: | Nick of the Woods, Or, the Jibbenainosay  | | | | 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: | If we can believe the immortal poet, from
whom we have taken the above lines, to serve as
our letter of introduction to the gentle reader, the
grief of our first parents for the loss of Paradise
was not so deep and overwhelming but that they
almost immediately found comfort, when they reflected
they had exchanged it for the land of
Eden,—itself a paradise, though an earthly and
unsanctified one: | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 102 | Author: | Bird
Robert Montgomery
1806-1854 | Add | | | Title: | Peter Pilgrim, Or, a Rambler's Recollections | | | | 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: | “Travellers,” quoth Rosalind, the wise
and the witty, “have great reason to be
sad;” an assurance to which I know not
whether I feel inclined to subscribe assent or
not; the opinion of the world, (and to the
opinions of the world I always endeavour, as
a modest man, to square my own,) judging
from the world's practice, being directly the
reverse. To travel is to gain experience, (so
runs the argument;) and to have experience
is to have that which makes us sad. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 103 | Author: | Briggs
Charles F.
(Charles Frederick)
1804-1877 | Add | | | Title: | Bankrupt Stories | | | | 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 with emotions of peculiar gratification to
our Heavenly Father, and his son, the Lord Jesus, that I take up my
pen to address you a few lines; as, but for his merciful interposition
in answer to the prayers of his servant, his unworthy servant, there is
but too much cause to believe that you would now be lying in the dark
prison house of death, where, by his inscrutable Providence, she that
should have been the sharer of your troubles and the promoter of your
pleasures now lies. Blessed be her spirit. But it is my office to heal
and not to open up afresh the wounds of my people. I bless God that
you arrived safely at home, and I trust my very dear young friend, that
your thoughts will be directed to the church, that you may be inclosed
in its broad fold, and that you may be made free by its bondage. For
the blessed privilege that we enjoy in this land, where there is none to
make us afraid, and where we have liberty in Christ, in his church and
ourselves, always excepting the slavery of sin, let us be ever grateful
and magnify his name. “Will you have the goodness to call and see me at the earliest
moment possible? I have something to communicate of great importance
to yourself and others in whom you are interested. Do
not fail to call. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 104 | Author: | Brooks
Maria Gowen
1794 or 5-1845 | Add | | | Title: | Idomen, Or, the Vale of Yumuri | | | | 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: | Various misfortunes had determined me to
visit the new world. Far advanced in the path
of life, my wishes were few. I sought only gold
enough to retire to some humble recess; and
hoped for no other pleasure, than to find at
last, some being capable of friendship, that I
might sometimes unburthen my heart, by expressing
my real sentiments. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 105 | Author: | Brown
Charles Brockden
1771-1810 | Add | | | Title: | Wieland, or the Transformation | | | | 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: | I Feel little reluctance in complying with your
request. You know not fully the cause of my
sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my
distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must
necessarily fail. Yet the tale that I am going to tell
is not intended as a claim upon your sympathy. In
the midst of my despair, I do not dildain to contribute
what little I can to the benefit of mankind.
I acknowledge your right to be informed of the
events that have lately happened in my family.
Make what use of the tale you shall think proper.
If it be communicated to the world, it will inculcate
the duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify
the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable
evils that flow from an erroneous or
imperfect discipline. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 106 | Author: | Brown
Charles Brockden
1771-1810 | Add | | | Title: | Arthur Mervyn, Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793 | | | | 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: | Here ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its incidents
were of no common kind. During this season
of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been
numerous, and I had not suffered them to pass unimproved.
The occurrences which fell within my own
experience bore a general resemblance to those which
had just been related, but they did not hinder the latter
from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty.
They served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of
the tale. Where does this letter you promised me, stay all
this while? Indeed, Arthur, you torment me more
than I deserve, and more than I could ever find it in
my heart to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must
say so, though I offend you. I must write, though
you do not deserve that I should, and though I fear
I am in a humor not very fit for writing. I had better
go to my chamber and weep: weep at your—unkindness,
I was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only
forgetfulness: and yet what can be more unkind than
forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you.
Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness,
only brings you nearer, and makes me see you
more distinctly. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 107 | Author: | Brown
Charles Brockden
1771-1810 | Add | | | Title: | Clara Howard | | | | 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: | What could excite in you any
curiosity as to my affairs? You once knew
me a simple lad, plying the file and tweezers
at the bench of a watchmaker, with
no prospect before me but of labouring,
for a few years, at least, as a petty and
obscure journeyman, at the same bench
where I worked five years as an apprentice.
I was sprung from obscurity, destitute
of property, of parents, of paternal
friends; was full of that rustic diffidence,
that inveterate humility, which are alone
sufficient to divert from us the stream of
fortune's favours. 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. 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 niece, 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 instructor, and
belie my good report. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 108 | Author: | Brown
Charles Brockden
1771-1810 | Add | | | Title: | Jane Talbot | | | | 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: | I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience
whispers me, and though vanity is
eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge
that she is seldom successful. Conscience tells
me it is folly, it is guilt to wrap up my existence
in one frail mortal; to employ all my
thoughts, to lavish all my affections upon one
object; to doat upon a human being, who, as
such, must be the heir of many frailties, and
whom I know to be not without his faults; to
enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be grateful
for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease,
life itself for his sake. “If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives
A a
for doing so, entitle you to nothing but
compassion, while your present conduct lays
claim, not only to forgiveness, but to gratitude.
The letter you entrust to me, shall be applied
to no purpose but that which you proposed by
writing it. Inclosed, is the paper you request,
the seal unbroken and its contents unread. In
this, as in all cases, I have no stronger wish
than to act as | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 109 | Author: | Brown
William Hill
1765-1793 | Add | | | Title: | The Power of Sympathy, Or, the Triumph of Nature | | | | 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: | I AM sometimes mortified to find
the books which I recommend to your
perusal, are not always applicable to the situation
of an American lady. The general
observations of some English books are the
most useful things contained in them; the
principal parts being chiefly filled with local
deseriptions, which a young woman here is
frequently at a loss to understand. “TO the man for whom my bleeding
heart yet retains its wonted affection, though
the author of my guilt and misery, do I
address my feeble complaint---O! Harrington,
I am verging to a long eternity---and
Q 2
it is with difficulty I support myself while
my trembling hand traces the dictates of
my heart. Indisposed as I am---and unable
as I feel to prosecute this task---I however
collect all my powers to bid you a long
---a final farewell. “WE have a scene of distress at our house
peculiarly pathetick and affecting, and of
which you, perhaps, are the sole author—You
have had a criminal connexion with Miss
Fawcet—you have turned her upon the world
inhumanly—but chance—rather let me say
Providence, hath directed her footsteps to my
dwelling, where she is kindly entertained,
and will be so, as long as she remains in this
wilderness world, which is to be, I fear, but
a short time---And shall she not, though she
hath been decoyed from the road that leadeth
to peace, long life and happiness---
shall she not, if she return with tears of repentance
and contrition, be entitled to our
love and charity? Yes---this is my doctrine
---If I behold any child of human nature
distressed and forlorn, and in real want of the
necessities of life, must I restrain or withhold
the hand of charity---must I cease to recal
the departing spirit of them that are ready to
perish, until I make diligent inquiry into
their circumstances and character? Surely,
my friend, it is a duty incumbent on us by
the ties of humanity and fellow feeling, and
by the duty imposed on us by our holy religion,
equally to extend the hand of relief
to all the necessitous—however they may be
circumstanced in the great family of mankind. “PERMIT me, my ever honoured
friend, to return you thanks for your late favours—need
I add—an acknowledgment
for your liberality? No—your heart supplies
a source of pleasure which is constantly
nourished by your goodness and universal
charity.— “YOU are about to marry a young lady
of great beauty and accomplishments—I beg
you to bestow a few serious thoughts on this
important business—Let me claim your attention,
while I disclose an affair, which materially
concerns you—Harriot must not be
your wife—You know your father is averse
to your early connecting yourself in marriage
with any woman—The duty we owe a parent
is sacred, but this is not the only barrier
to your marriage—the ties of consanguinity
prevent it—She is your SISTER—
Your father, or Miss Harrington, will inform
you more particularly—It is sufficient for
me to have hinted it in time.—I am, with
the most perfect esteem, and sincere wishes
for your happiness, your | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 111 | Author: | Calvert
George Henry
1803-1889 | Add | | | Title: | A Volume from the Life of Herbert Barclay | | | | 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: | “Do you recollect when you were last with
us, you asked me, on occasion of my describing
some of the scenes of my youthful days,
to give you a chapter from my early life? If
you have forgotten your request and my promise
to comply with it, the accompanying
manuscript will remind you of both, and at
the same time of the proverb—“Give him an
inch and he will take an ell.” A short time
after you left us, I one day got Alfred to
make me some good pens, and taking a sheet
of his large school paper, that I might have
“room and verge enough,” I sat down to fulfil
my promise. I soon found myself at the end
of the sheet with my chapter unfinished, and
1*
what I had written appearing to me very meager.
The effort, however, created an interest
in the occupation. Half-buried recollections
with their trains of association rose up. The
motives of pleasure and curiosity added themselves
to the simple purpose of keeping my
word to you. The design of enveloping fact
in fiction grew out of them. I resolved to
give you half a dozen chapters instead of
one; and here you have the result of this resolve
in the form of a volume—and an exemplification
of the growth of great things out of
small. When I tell you, that the task of writing
it has afforded me much pleasure, I know I
furnish you with a motive to bear patiently the
task of reading it. My wife, too, has been
highly amused with the productions of “my
book,” as she calls it. She has indeed contributed
to it. The proper names are all testimonials
of her genius for fiction. She claims
to have supplied, besides, useful hints, and
even to have made several important corrections:
most of these claims, however, are questionable.
You will be wrong if you ascribe
to her any portion of my character. I alone
am answerable for the liberties which in that
picture fiction has taken with fact. Whatever
difficulty you may have in discerning the proportions
in which they are mingled, you will
have none when I tell you that you have a
sincere friend in “P. S. How soon shall we see you again in
this part of Maryland? Alfred asks often
when you are coming back. His partiality
for you is owing chiefly, I believe, to his triumphs
over you in geography.” —“Had I observed that Herbert's natural
dispositions exposed him to be particularly injured
by pursuing this course, I should not
have permitted him to pursue it. Respect
for his father's injunctions would have yielded
to regard for his welfare. Indeed, in disregarding
such injunctions from such a motive,
I should have felt, that I was doing a duty
towards my brother himself, as well as towards
my nephew. But Herbert, has, I think,
lost less by the imperfections of education,
than most young persons lose. He has run
smoothly over the customary course, learning
the little that can be learnt in it, with such
readiness, that acquisition has not been to him
an irksome labor, nor absence from his teachers,
liberation from prison. He has none
of the disgust for study, which is so often
the strongest impression brought away from
school. Besides, with the will and opportunity,
a young man of twenty can, in a great
measure, make up for early deficiencies.” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 112 | Author: | Caruthers
William Alexander
1802-1846 | Add | | | Title: | The Kentuckian in New-York, Or, the Adventures of Three Southerns | | | | 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: | Towards the latter part of the summer of 18—,
on one of those cool, delightful, and invigorating
mornings which are frequent in the southern regions
of the United States, there issued from the
principal hotel on the valley-side of Harper's Ferry
two travellers, attended by a venerable and stately
southern slave. The experienced eye of the old
ferryman, as he stood in his flat-bottomed boat
awaiting the arrival of this party, discovered at
once that our travellers were from the far South. “Five long years have we lived under the same
roof, pursued the same studies, or rather the same
studies pursued us;—engaged in the same dissipation,
drank of the same sour wine, shed the same
vinous tears, discussed the same dinners and suppers,
enjoyed the same dances,—stag dances, I
mean,—played the same music, belonged to the
same society, and, I was going to say, fallen in love
with the same nymphs; but that brings me to the
subject of this letter. I am in for it! Yes, you
may well look surprised! It is a fact! Who is
the lady? you ask. I will tell you,—that is, if I can;
her name is St. Clair. O! she is the most lovely,
modest, weeping, melancholy, blue-eyed, fairhaired,
and mysterious little creature you ever
beheld. If you could only see her bend that white
neck, and rest her head upon that small hand, her
eye lost in profound thought, until the lower lid
just overflows, and a tear steals gently down that
most lovely cheek; and then see her start up
stealthily to join again in the conversation, with
the most innocent consciousness of guilt imaginable;
—but what is it that brings these tears to sadden
the heart of one so youthful and so innocent?
`There's the rub,' as Hamlet says. Yourself,
Lamar, and I were unanimous, as you perhaps
remember, that men generally suffer in proportion
to their crimes, even in this world. I here renounce
that opinion, with all others founded upon
college logic. A half-taught college boy, in the
pride of his little learning and stubborn opinions, is
little better than an innocent. But, you ought to
see this fair sufferer in order fully to appreciate
the foregoing opinion. You would see child-like
innocence—intelligence—benevolence; in short,
all that is good, in her sad but lovely countenance. “Thus far I have flown before the wind—sand,
I should have said. At any rate, here I am, in this
town of German religionists. Here dwells the first
unanimous people I have ever seen. They are
Moravians; and every thing is managed by this
little community for the common benefit. They
have one tavern, one store, one doctor, one tanner,
one potter, and so on in every trade or occupation.
Besides these, they have a church, and a
flourishing female seminary. The latter is conducted
upon the utilitarian plan—each lady, in turn,
has to perform the offices of cook, laundress, and
gardener; and, I need hardly say, that it is admirably
conducted. After I had visited all these
establishments — for every respectable looking
stranger is waited upon by some one appointed for
that purpose to conduct him thither,—I returned
to the large, cool, and comfortable inn, and had
scarcely seated myself to enjoy the comforts of
nicotiana, when a small billet was handed to me
by a handsomely dressed and polite black servant
with a glazed hat, which not a little astonished me,
you may be sure. I had not a living acquaintance
in the whole state that I knew of; except, indeed,
old Father Bagby, the master of ceremonies to the
little community. It could not be a challenge
from some Hans Von Puffenburg of these quiet
burghers: so I concluded it must be a billetdoux
from some of the beautiful creatures at the
seminary on the hill. You can easily imagine,
therefore, that I was no long time in tearing it
open; when, behold! it was, in good truth, from a
lady. Can you guess who? No. Then take the
note itself entire. “ `If, as I believe, you are the same Mr. Randolph
who was a room and class-mate of my son
Victor Chevillere, in college, I will be very glad
to see you. The servant will show you to our little
parlour. “ `I am the luckiest dog alive,' said I, jumping
nearly over the negro's head. `Is your young
mistress here also.' “I TOLD you in my last of our surprise at the
little coincidence of the number on the card, and
that on the house where the lady alighted, with
whom Lamar had exchanged some intelligent
glances in her more girlish days; but I did not
complete the relation, which I will do presently. “The day being Sunday, I sent old Cato this
morning to arouse Lamar quite early, in order to
ascertain if he was disposed to walk before breakfast,
and view some of the boasted parks, groves,
and gardens of these hospitable Gothamites. Old
Cato soon returned, saying that Lamar had but
that moment fallen asleep, but that he would be
with me as soon as he could make a hasty toilet;
hasty it indeed was, for he was not many minutes
behind Cato, in his morning-gown and slippers,
yawning and stretching his clenched fists through
the room as if he had sat in his chair all night. “10 o'clock P. M. “Events which seem to me worth recording,
crowd upon us so fast now, that it is almost impossible
to give you, according to promise, even a
profile view of our movements. “I have seen her, Randolph, and seen her far
more captivating and beautiful than ever! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 113 | Author: | Caruthers
William Alexander
1802-1846 | Add | | | Title: | The Kentuckian in New-York, Or, the Adventures of Three Southerns | | | | 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: | “You will be surprised to learn that this letter
is written in bed, on a large old portfolio of yours,
while I am propped up with chairs and pillows behind;
all during the doctor's absence, and against
the urgent entreaties of the whole house. “The change in Virginia's deportment has been
to me a curious subject of study and reflection. I
dare not say that it has been entirely disinterested
study, but perhaps it was none the less close and
minute on that account. We are apt to investigate
those engines which operate upon ourselves
very philosophically. But before I go any farther,
permit me to correct an error into which I fear
I have led you, because I had honestly fallen into
it myself. I stated to you that my sickness had
cast out devils for me, and that I was altogether a
changed and reformed man. It is no such thing;
I feel the devil of mischief and fun in me even
now. It was nothing more than a natural depression
of animal spirits, consequent upon the low
state of my stomach and pulsations. The doctor
was my priest on the occasion. He subdued the
old Adam in me for a time, by the assistance of
his lancet and the whole vegetable and mineral
kingdom, worked up into shot and bullets vulgarly
called pills, by the aid of which these same doctors,
I believe, often do a deal of execution; at all
events this disciple fleeced me of a goodly quantity
of the flesh upon my ribs; none of his shot
happened to be mortal; but, nevertheless, I would
advise you to keep out of the reach of their magazines.
The muzzle of a pill-box is as terrible to
me now, as the mysterious dark hole in the end of
a forty-two-pounder; and a blister-plaster as awful
as an army with banners. As for cupping-glasses
and scarificators, they are neither more nor less
than instruments of torture, borrowed from the
Spanish inquisition. But above all, deliver me
from the point of a seton-needle! Did you ever
see a cruel boy string fish on a stick before they
were dead? He runs the stick through the gills,
tearing and torturing as it goes; so do these disciples
of Esculapius; they seize a piece of your
skin, no matter how scarce the article may be,—
no matter if your lips do not cover your teeth, and
the bones of your nose look white through the attenuated
sheath! Away goes this surgical bayonet
through a handful of it, armed with a piece of gum
elastic, which is left sticking there, the sensation on
the back of your neck being as if the ramrod of a
small swivel had been shot through it; and there
you must sit, or stand, or lie, with this huge thing
all the while poking your head forward, as if you
had a pillory on your back. “I have deferred the closing of this letter a day
longer than I intended when I penned the above.
The fact is, I was not so much in the humour for
writing as I expected. I was compelled to order
your horse and take my first ride, and you may be
sure that I did not restrain his mettle. What
would you argue from this? That I was successful?
or defeated? I should suppose neither, from
that circumstance alone, say you,—as you would
be apt to ride down your impetuosity in either
case. `They tell me hereabouts you're married. Well,
hurrah for old Kentuck, I say, and her sister Carolina.
I'm married, too! yes, and I believe everybody's
married, nearabouts, as far as I can learn.
It's twisted strange, ain't it, when a feller gets half
corned,[5]
[5]Western term for drunk.
everybody reels round; and when a feller
gets married, everybody else should get married
just at that particular time. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 114 | Author: | Caruthers
William Alexander
1802-1846 | Add | | | Title: | The Cavaliers of Virginia, Or, the Recluse of Jamestown | | | | 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 romance of history pertains to no human
annals more strikingly than to the early settlement
of Virginia. The mind of the reader at once
reverts to the names of Raleigh, Smith, and Pocahontas.
The traveller's memory pictures in a
moment the ivy-mantled ruin of old Jamestown. Sir—I seize the first moment of your appearance
in public, restored to health, to demand the
satisfaction due for the grievous insult put upon
me, on the night of the Anniversary Celebration,
16*
in presence of the assembled gentry of the Colony.
All proper arrangements will be made by my
friend Ludwell, who will also await your answer.
I have the honour to be your most obedient servant, Sir—Your note by the hands of Mr. Ludwell
was this moment received. Your challenge is accepted.
To-morrow morning at sunrise I will
meet you. The length of my weapon will be
furnished by my friend Dudley, who will convey
this to Mr. Ludwell, as well as make all other
arrangements on my behalf. I have the honour
to be, yours, &c. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 115 | Author: | Caruthers
William Alexander
1802-1846 | Add | | | Title: | The Cavaliers of Virginia, Or, the Recluse of Jamestown | | | | 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 lightning streamed athwart the heavens
in quick and vivid flashes. One peal of thunder
after another echoed from cliff to cliff, while a
driving storm of rain, wind and hail, made the
face of nature black and dismal. There was something
frightfully congenial in this uproar of the
contending elements with the storm raging in Bacon's
heart, as he rushed from the scene of the
catastrophe we have just witnessed. The darkness
which succeeded the lurid and sulphureous
flashes was not more complete and unfathomable
than the black despair of his own soul.
These vivid contrasts of light and gloom were
the only stimulants of which he was susceptible,
and they were welcomed as the light of his path!
By their guidance he wildly rushed to his stable,
saddled, led forth, and mounted his noble charger,
his own head still uncovered. For once the gallant
animal felt himself uncontrolled master of his
movements, fleet as the wind his nimble heels
measured the narrow limits of the island. A sudden
glare of intense light served for an instant to
reveal both to horse and rider that they stood upon
the brink of the river, and a single indication of the
rider's will was followed by a plunge into the
troubled waves. Nobly and majestically he rose
and sank with the swelling surges. His master
sat erect in the saddle and felt his benumbed faculties
revived, as he communed with the storm.
The raging elements appeared to sympathize with
the tumult of his own bosom. He laughed in horrid
unison with the gambols of the lightning, and
yelled with savage delight as the muttering thunder
rolled over his head. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 116 | Author: | Caruthers
William Alexander
1802-1846 | Add | | | Title: | The Knights of the Horse-shoe | | | | 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: | Dear Sir—This letter will be handed to you by one of the most unfortunate
adherents of the Pretender. Start not my dear Sir—he is but one of the
Scottish jacobins, and will in no wise compromise you. The very fact of his
seeking your country is evidence enough if it were wanting, that he desires to
be at peace from the toils and dangers of political partizanship. These are
claims enough for citizenship you may think, but not warrant sufficient to
claim your personal friendship. He has these also, for he was one of those
unfortunate men who befriended and supported your late kinsman to the last.
He protests that he will in no wise compromise your Excellency with the ministry
or their adherents on your side of the water, and has begged me not to
write, but knowing that you would delight to befriend so staunch an adherent
of the unfortunate General, I have insisted on his taking a sealed packet at
all events, as it would contain other matters than those relating purely to
himself. And now for those matters. He will be accompanied by a great
many ruined families of rather a higher class than that from which your immigrants
are generally furnished—they, too, are worn out in spirit and in fortune,
with the ceaseless struggles between the hereditary claimant of the
crown and the present occupant. They see, also, breakers ahead. The
Queen's health is far from being stable, and in case of her sudden demise
there will be an awful struggle here. Are they not right then to gather up
the little remnant of their property and seek an asylum on your peaceful
shores? Your note of last night, containing an invitation to Temple Farm, from
Kate, has just been received. I will go, but for a reason, among others,
which I fear my ever kind friend, Kate, will consider any thing but complimentary—it
is because this house is haunted, and I can no longer stay in it.
Look not so grave, dear father, 'tis no ghost. I wish it was, or he was, for
it is that same tedious, tiresome, persecuting, Harry Lee. I have been most
anxiously expecting your return; but, as it seems, you have become a permanent
fixture at Temple Farm, it is but right that I should grow along side
of the parent stem. The townsfolk are even more anxious for your return
than I am. I tell them you ran away from practice, but it seems the more
you desire to run away from it, the more they run after you. Few people in
this dreary world have been able to effect so much unmixed good as you have,
and for that, I thank God. Dear Father, I have no desire to live but for your
sake, and that the short time we are to live together may not be diminished by
any act of mine, I will be with you presently. Our poor pensioners and invalids
are all doing as well as usual, and I leave them in the hands of the Rev.
Mr. Jones, who, I know, will care for them as we would. He is surely one
of God's chosen instruments for doing good in this world. He has shouldered
his cross in earnest, and devoutly does he labor to advance the Redeemer's
kingdom. “Dear Sir.—You will no doubt be surprised that I date this letter from
the county jail, instead of the barracks, but, Sir, so it is—deeply mortifying
as it is to me to state the fact. I had scarcely alighted in the capital, after
marching the soldiers to the garrison, before I was waited upon by the Deputy
Sheriff of the county, with a bail writ, (or whatever that process is called
by which the law seizes a man's person,) at the suit of Henry Lee, Esq.,
and for the very money which your Excellency was mainly instrumental in
procuring at his hands for me. You will recollect, no doubt, that as a mere
matter of form, (so the gentleman expressed it,) I gave him a note of hand
for the amount. Unfortunately I paid away part of the sum for my passage
money, and the remainder to recruit my dilapidated wardrobe, so that instant
payment was out of the question. None of my new and kind friends were
in the city. I had, indeed, hoped to find the good Doctor at home, but unfortunately
for me he was absent in the country. “Dear Sir: I owe you an apology for the very abrupt manner in which I
left your house, where I had been tacitly, as it were, left in charge of the
ladies; but the fact is, Sir, that I found the young person whom you had hastily
employed as Tutor, presumptuous and impertinent, and that I must either
degrade myself by a personal encounter with him, or leave the premises. I
chose the latter, and had hoped to have paid my respects to your Excellency
before you left the capital, but was detained by unavoidable legal business until
you had unfortunately left the city. It is useless now to enter into particulars
as to his conduct in your absence; for the evidence is now before
me, that he is such a gross impostor and swindler, that it is scarcely worth
while to inquire into minor particulars of conduct. While I was in the very
act of consulting Attorney General Clayton, (who is also my own legal adviser,)
about the steps necessary to be taken in order to repossess the funds
out of which I weakly suffer myself to be cheated, I received a ship letter by
way of York. Whom does your Excellency suppose that letter was from?
Why, sir, from Mr. Henry Hall, my cousin, the real gentleman, whose name
and character this base impostor had assumed for the lowest purposes. You
will recollect that I had written to the young man before this person appeared
at your house, informing him of my aunt's will. This letter which I
have received is in answer to that one, and states among other things that
the writer would sail in the very first vessel for this country after the one
which would bring the letter, so that by the time that this pseudo Mr. Hall
manages to release himself from prison, where I have snugly stowed him,
the real personage, whose name he has assumed, will be here to confront
him. I am delighted that I am thus able to relieve your Excellency from
the disagreeable duty of unmasking the impostor; for if your Excellency
will permit me to say so, your kindly nature had so far led you astray with
regard to this man, that you might have found it rather unpleasant to deal
with him. Leave all that to me, Sir—I will give him his deserts, be well assured;
and if he escapes with whole ears and a sound skin, he may thank
the clemency of the law, and not mine. Dear Ellen: Such a friendship as ours can bear the imposition with which
I am about to tax you. You know the sad tale of this poor Indian girl, and
how it lacerates all our hearts afresh, even to look upon her; and knowing
this, you will do all those little kindnesses for her that we cannot, and which
her situation requires. She sees that we cannot look upon her with complacency,
and now she misinterprets it. God knows we wish to wreak no vengeance
upon her for my poor brother's death. Do make her sensible of all
this. You, my dear Ellen, that know so well how to compass these delicate
offices so much better than any one else—do give her all the comfort the case
admits of, and administer such consolation as her peculiar nature requires.
Explain to her our feelings, and that they are the farthest in the world
removed from unkindness Oh, Ellen, you know what a shock we have sustained,
and will, I know, acquit us of any mawkish sensibility in the case.
I trust her entirely to your kindness and discretion. My father has just
stepped in, and anticipating my object, begged to see this note; and he now
begs me to say to you, that Wingina must be closely watched, else her brother
will contrive some subtle scheme to whisk her off again. I again resume my sweet correspondence with you, after an interval it
seems to me of an age: computed by what I have (may I not say we have)
suffered. But during all my unexampled difficulties and trials, one constant
soarce of consolation remained to me. It was your steady constancy. It is
true, that for a time, I was laboring under a delusion in regard to it, but even
during that time, you were as unwavering as before. No portion of blame
can attach to you, that I was led astray. You, my Ellen, have been like my
evening and morning star—the last ray of serene comfort at night, and the
brightest dawn of hope in the morning. From day to day, and from year to
year, have you clung to the memory of the youth to whom you plighted your
young affections—through good and through evil report—through life and in
death, (as was supposed) you have without wavering or turning aside, cherished
the first bright morning dream of youthful love. Do you know, my
Ellen, that the world scarcely believes in the reality of such early attachments
enduring to the end. The heartless throng know not, my sweet playmate, of
the little romantic world we possess within ourselves. They have all gone
astray after strange gods, and cannot believe that others will be more true and
devoted than they have been. Especially has the odium of all such failures
been laid to the charge of your sex, but I am sure unjustly. The first slight
or unkindness nearly always proceeds from the other, and this slight or unkindness
cannot be blazoned to the world—it is hidden within the recesses of
the sufferer's heart, and pride (perhaps proper maidenly pride) prevents it from
ever being known. How happy are we my Ellen, that not a shadow of distrust
has fallen out between us—if indeed I except your momentary confounding
me with the gentleman whose name I had assumed, and my temporary
mistake about my brother's marriage with you. You see I have brought
myself to write that name. While I am upon the subject of Miss Elliot's
engagement, permit me to explain one thing which I omitted in the hurry of
departure, and the confusion which attended all its exciting scenes. That
young lady though present at the masking scene at the Governor's house, and
knowing of my design to present myself in disguise, among my old associates,
was not made acquainted with the name or occupation which I would assume.
The resolution to adopt that name was seized upon after the departure of that
young lady and her father. Hence her supposition, on hearing that Mr. Hall
had arrived in the Colony, that it was her own Henry. I am led to think of
these things, by seeing, so frequently, this young gentleman, with whom I
was, and am, on the most intimate terms. His distress of mind is truly pitiable—he
appears like one physically alive and well, and yet dead to all hope.
Not absolutely dead to all hope either, for you should have seen how the blessed,
but dormant, faculty flashed up for a moment or two, when I told him, a
little while ago, that there was a prospect of an expedition being sent ahead of
the troops, in pursuit of the assassins and robbers who murdered our old friend
and stole his mistress. Oh, if he could be sent off upon such an expedition,
what a blessed relief the activity and excitement of the pursuit would be to
him. But the Governor, though sympathizing fully with him and me, would
not consent to it, and I must say his reasons were to me, satisfactory; not so,
however, with my poor friend; he is dissatisfied with the Governor on account
of it, and if it were not for my restraining and urgent counsel, he would start
off, single handed, in pursuit. The fact is, his apprehensions for the fate of
the poor girl, whether dead or alive, are so desponding, that the madness and
rashness of such an adventure, only add new charms to it, in his eyes, and I
can only seduce him from such wild designs by dwelling upon the known
clemency of the Indians to other females, who have for months and years
remained captives with them. I have exhausted all my recollections of the
kind, and I have put the scout, Jarvis, in possession of his dreadful secret, and
commanded him to detail all his knowledge favorable to my views. At this
very moment he is walking with Joe, among the tall pines, his melancholy
eye wandering among the stars, while Joe is telling a long story of a Mrs.
Thompson, who was taken prisoner by them and carried beyond the mountains.
I at first suspected my new forest friend, of romancing in the wildest
vein, and inventing as he went along, for the justifiable purpose, as it seemed
to me, of plucking the rooted sorrow from the heart of my friend, but I am
satisfied now that it is a true narrative, because he recounted several circumstances
about the route to the mountains, which he had before told me he had
procured from an old lady, who had been a prisoner among the Indians. Seeing
that he was, for the time, so absorbed with the story of the scout, I have
stolen away, my Ellen, to hold this sweet converse with you. If you had but
known the charming girl, about whom my friend thus mourns, you would
neither be surprised nor jealous that even I feel an anxious interest in her fate.
Think too of her sad history,—the loss of her uncle by whom she was adopted,
and upon whom she doted as a father, little less fond than the real one whom
she has now lost, also. Think, too, of the dreadful manner of their two deaths
—of her nearest and dearest kinsmen. Then bring before your mind the
highly educated, delicate and sensitive girl herself—torn from the reeking
body of her deceased parent; and borne a captive among a rude and wild people,
not one word of whose language she understands. Oh its a dreadful fate
for one like her. She is a most lovely girl in every sense of the word, and as
good as she is beautiful! I feel a double interest in her fate, because her
sad lot is so much like my own. We were first wrecked by the same disastrous
political storm—thrown upon the same shores, and among the same
people for a time. Well Bill, I'm dad shamed if I don't bust if I don't write to you a spell—the
fact is Bill, I've kept company with these here gold laced gentry so long that
I'm gettin' spiled—fact! I rubbed myself all over last night head and ears
with salt for fear on't. Yes, and if you and Charley and Ikey don't take keer,
I'll cut you when I come back. But without any joke at all about it, I've got
into the greatest mess that ever the likes of you clapped eyes on. There's
that Mr. Hall—the real genuine Mr. Hall, the one as come last; O Lord if you
could only see how he takes on—dash my flint, if I don't think he's a leetle
teched in the upper story. All day long he rides that black horse—(and he's
dressed in black you know) and looks as if he was a goin' to his grandmother's
funeral. Poor lad, they say he's got cause enough, the yaller niggers have
run away with his sweet heart, but you don't know nothin' about them sort of
tender things, Bill, its only a throwin' of pearls before swine to tell you of 'em,
else I would tell you that Mr. Hall and me is exactly in the same fix. Yes,
you and Charley may laugh, confound you, if so be you ever spell this out,
We're exactly in the same situation—the yaller niggers has run away with
my sweet heart too. You know the little Ingin gal that asked me for that
lock 'o hair, but you know al about it and what's the use of swettin' over agin.
Well, Squire Lee, that Mr. Hall that was tried for killin' the Governor's son;
well, he says she's a ruined gal, and to hear him talk, you'd think that she
was dead and buried and he a sayin' of the funeral service over her. I tell you
Bill, these gentry are queerish folks, they don't know nothin' of human nature.
He says he wants to know if I would take another man's cast off mistress.
Now, Bill, ain't her lover dead, and could'nt I make an honest woman of her,
by a marryin' of her, I'd like to know that. But the best part of the story is
to come yit. The Governor's been axed about it, and he's all agreed, and says
moreover, that he'll settle fifty pounds a year on me, if the gal will have me.
So you see, Bill, she's a fortune. Did'nt I tell you that I was a goin to seek
my fortune, and that you had better come along. But I've talked about myself
long enough, now let me tell you something of our betters. The old
Governor, I tell you what, he's a tip top old feller, in the field. He don't know
nothing about fightin' Ingins yit, but I'll tell you, he'll catch it mighty quick;
he makes every one stand up to the rack, and as for running away from an
enemy, it ain't in his dictionary. I am told he drinks gunpowder every mornin'
in his bitters, and as for shootin,' he's tip top at that, too. He thinks nothin'
of takin' off a wild turkeys' head with them there pistols of his'n. You may'nt
believe the story about the gunpowder, but I got from old June, his shoe black,
who sleeps behind his tent, and I reckon he ought to know, if any body does.
He rides a hoss as if he rammed down the gunpowder with half a dozen ramrods.
You ought to see him a ridin' a review of a mornin'. I swang if his
cocked hat don't look like a pictur', and I'm told he's all riddled with bullets
too, and that he sometimes picks the lead out of his teeth yit. He's a a whole
team, Bill; set that down in your books. The next man to the Governor is Mr.
Frank, that I told you of a while ago; he belongs to the gunpowder breed too
he's got an eye like a eagle, and, Bill when they made a gintleman of him they
spiled one of the best scouts in all these parts. If there's any fightin' you
take my word for it, he'll have his share. Some of the men do say that he was
for upsettin' the Queen when he was to England, and that's the reason he came
over in disguise. One thing I know, he's got no airs about him; he talks to
me just as he does to the Governor, and this present writin', as the lawyers say,
is writ on his camp stool and with his pen and paper. I guess he'll find his pen
druv up to the stump. Well, I suppose you want to know what I call this
camp nigger foot for. I'll tell you, for I christened it myself. I was a followin'
of a fresh trail as hard as one of the Governor's bounds arter a buck—
when what should we light upon, but the track of of a big nigger's foot in the
mud here among em—fact! I told the Governor afore I seed the print of
the nigger's foot that they had had some spy or another at Williamsburg, else
they would'nt a know'd the waggons as had the powder in 'em. Oh, I forgot
to tell you that the yaller raskels killed one of the sentinels, and stole a heap
of powder and lead. Yes, and they had the wagon tops marked with red paint. The ink would blister the paper, could I be guilty of the hypocrisy of commencing
a letter to you with an endearing epithet, after all that is past and
gone. Indeed, it was my intention never to have addressed you again in
any manner this side of the grave. I thought you had done your worst
towards me and mine, and I was resolved, if I could not forgive, that I would
at least bear it in silence. But I was mistaken, you had not done your worst,
as this night's experience teaches me. I find that my heart yearns towards every
thing connected with the happy days of our infancy. Over many of these
you have power, and through these you can wound me grievously. I do not,
and will not, charge you with suborning one of our father's faithful servants
to his own ruin and disgrace. I leave it entirely with you and your God.—
But if even innocent, (which I trust in God you are,) yet you are responsible
for their conduct. Nay, the world, even your old associates here, hold you
now as the accessory before the fact, to this poor fellow's crime. Oh, Henry,
how have your passions led you on, from step to step, to this degradation!
Can you be the proud boy that I once knew as an affectionate brother? But
I will not be weak; my object in writing is merely a matter of business. I
have a proposition to make to you—it is that you abandon your home and
country forever. Start not, but listen to me. You know that you will be
largely indebted to me for the yearly proceeds of my property, every cent of
which you have drawn, and which I understand you will not be able to repay,
without sacrificing your own property. Now, I propose to give you a clear
quittance for the whole of it, if you will sail for Europe before my return, and
take poor Cæsar with you. I know that you can find means to liberate him—
indeed, I do not think the Governor himself will be much displeased to find
this scheme carried into effect upon his return. Reflect well upon it, and may
God forgive you for your past errors. I shall never cease to pray not only for
that, but that I may myself learn to grant you that tree and full forgiveness
which I daily ask him for myself. Dear Frank.—But a few days have elapsed since your departure, yet it
seems an age. Short as the time is, however, I must write now in compliance
with my promise, or lose all opportunity of writing, until the expedition is on
its return. The courier who takes this, it is hoped, will overtake you near the
foot of the mountains. First and foremost, then, I must be selfish enough to
begin at home. Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh, and I
suppose the pen writeth. You will, I am sure, be surprised to learn that my
father seems to miss your society even more than I. After your departure,
he would sit up for hours, wrapped up in his own thoughts. At first I did not
heed this particularly, because he often does so, when any of his patients are
sick unto death; but I soon found that my caresses—a successful remedy
generally—were entirely unheeded; and once I saw a tear stealing down
his dear and venerable face. I could submit tacitly no longer, but begged him
to tell me what disturbed him. He said he was beginning to find out my
value just as he was about to lose me. “Dear father,” said I “I will never,
never leave you. We have been too long all in all to each other!” Was I
not right, Frank, in giving him this assurance, and will you not doubly assure
him, when you come back? I know you will. “How can you make any such
promise, my child,” he asked, “when you have given your whole heart and
soul to another?” Now, was not this a strange speech for the good old man
to make? Do you not discover a little—just a little—jealousy in it? I
thought I did, and I laughed at the idea, though the tears were coursing each
other down his cheeks faster than ever; and I taxed him with the strange
manifestation. “Well,” said he, “have you not been wife, and daughter,
and companion, and comforter, and nurse, and every thing to me—and how
can I live, when all that gives life and cheerfulness to my house is gone?
It will be putting out the light of mine eyes—for my Ellen, all is dark
and dreary, when your shadow does not fall within the range of these
fast failing orbs.” According to promise, you see I have begun to write you a letter—and
one dozen have I commenced before, but tore them up, because I did not
know exactly what word to prefix to your name. First I tried plain Bernard—that
looked too cold and abrupt; and then Mr. Moore—and that appeared
too business like and formal; and then I began without any prefix at
all. At last, I went to Ellen in my distress, and she rated me roundly for
being ashamed to salute with an endearing epithet a man to whom I had promised
my hand, and given my heart. Nor was that all—she took me to task
for still wrapping myself up in that reserve which the world compels us to
wear, instead of endeavoring, as is my duty, (you know I call her Mrs. Duty,)
to establish an unreserved confidence between us, and to learn and betray at
the same time all those peculiarities of thought and feeling which go to make
up our identity. As I told her, that is the very thing which I dread. My Dear, Sir—At length we have scaled the Blue Mountains, but
not without a sharp skirmish with the savages, and many of them, I am
sorry to say, were of those who so lately received our bounty, and were
besides objects of such deep solicitude to us. All our labors, my dear
Sir, towards civilizing and christianizing even the tributaries, have been
worse than thrown away. Mr. Boyle's splendid scheme of philanthropy is
a failure, and we, his humble agents, have no other consolation left, but
a consciousness of having done our duty, with a perseverance which
neither scorn nor scepticism could not turn aside. Let it not be
said hereafter, that no effort was made in Virginis to treat the Aborigines
with the same spirit of clemency and mildness which was so successful
in Pennsylvania. Far greater efforts have been made by us, than was
ever made in that favored colony. The difference in the result is no
doubt owing to the fact, that the subjects with whom we have had to
deal were irretrievably spoiled before they came under our charge—not
so with those of Pennsylvania. I mention these things to you, because you
know that it was my determination when I sat out, to cross the mountains,
peaceably if I could, and forcibly if I must. The latter has been the alternative
forced upon me. From almost the very moment of setting out, our
steps have been dogged, and our flanks harrassed by these lawless men, and
more than one murder has been committed upon our sentries. But of
these things we can converse when we meet. I suppose you are anxious to
hear something of the country, which I have so long desired to see with my
own eyes. Well, Sir, the descriptions given to us at Temple Farm by the
interpreter were not at all exaggerated, and were, besides, wonderfully accurate
in a geographical point of view. It is indeed true enough that there are
double ranges of mountains, and that the sources of the Mississippi do not
rise here. We are now in a valley between these ranges, with the western
mountains distinctly in view, and the eastern ones immediately in our rear.
This valley seems to extend for hundreds of miles to the northeast and south-west,
and may be some fifty or sixty broad. I learn from my prisoners that
it has been mostly kept sacred by the Indians as a choice hunting ground, and
has not been the permanent residence of any of them, but that they came
and squatted during the hunting season. All this the interpreter kept (very
wisely, as he thought, no doubt) to himself. We have not yet seen the
miraculous boiling and medicinal springs, nor the bridge across the mountains;
but parties of exploration are daily going out, and such extravagant
accounts as they give of the game, and the country, and the rivers, and the
magnificent prospects, beggar my pen to describe. I can see enough, my dear
Sir, from the heights in my near neighborhood, to know that it is one of the
most charming retreats in the world. I do not hesitate to predict that a
second Virginia will grow up here, which will rival the famed shores of the
Chesapeake; but the products will be different, and the people must be different;
for it is a colder region. We have already had nipping frosts, and some
ice upon the borders of the streams. I am once more writing from a couch of some pain and suffering, but thank
God not like the last from which I addressed you that dismal letter, which I
then supposed would be my last. I have no such apprehensions now. My
wounds are in a fair way, and I am even permitted to walk about this large
tent—(the Governor's marquee) and above all, I am permitted to write to you. My Dear Sir: I have received your letter of the 5th inst., and in reply to it,
can only say what I some years past said to my friend George W. Summers,*
*The Hon. Geo. W. Summers, the present representative in Congress, from the Kenawha District,
in Virginia.
on the subject of your letter. I said to him, that I had seen in the possession
of the eldest branch of my family, a Golden Horse-Shoe set with garnets,
and having inscribed on it the motto: “Sic juval transcendere montes,” which
from tradition, I always understood was presented by Governor Spotswood, to
my Grandfather, as one of many gentlemen who acompanied him across the
mountains. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 118 | Author: | Child
Lydia Maria Francis
1802-1880 | Add | | | Title: | Letters from New York | | | | 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: | You ask what is now my opinion of this great Babylon:
and playfully remind me of former philippics, and a long
string of vituperative alliterations, such as magnificence and
mud, finery and filth, diamonds and dirt, bullion and brass
tape, &c. &c. Nor do you forget my first impression of
the city, when we arrived at early dawn, amid fog and
drizzling rain, the expiring lamps adding their smoke to the
impure air, and close beside us a boat called the “Fairy
Queen,” laden with dead hogs. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 119 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Add | | | Title: | The Spy | | | | 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 the year 1780, that a solitary
traveller was seen pursuing his way through
one of the numerous little valleys of West-Chester.
The easterly wind, with its chilling dampness,
and increasing violence, gave unerring notice of
the approach of a storm, which, as usual, might
be expected to continue for several days: and the
experienced eye of the traveller was turned, in
vain, through the darkness of the evening, in quest
of some convenient shelter, in which, for the term
of his confinement by the rain, that already began
to mix with the atmosphere in a thick mist,
he might obtain such accommodations as his age
and purposes required. Nothing, however, offered,
but the small and inconvenient tenements
of the lower order of inhabitants, with whom, in
that immediate neighbourhood, he did not think it
either safe or politic to trust himself. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 120 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Add | | | Title: | Lionel Lincoln, Or, the Leaguer of Boston | | | | 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: | No American can be ignorant of the principal
events that induced the parliament of Great
Britain, in 1774, to lay those impolitic restrictions
on the port of Boston, which so effectually destroyed
the trade of the chief town in her western
colonies. Nor should it be unknown to any American,
how nobly, and with what devotedness to
the great principles of the controversy, the inhabitants
of the adjacent town of Salem refused to
profit by the situation of their neighbours and fellow-subjects.
In consequence of these impolitic
measures of the English government, and of the
laudable unanimity among the capitalists of the
times, it became a rare sight to see the canvass of
any other vessels than such as wore the pennants
of the king, whitening the forsaken waters of Massachusetts
bay. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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