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61Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Romance of Travel  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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62Author:  Kirkland Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda) 1801-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  Forest Life  
 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 any body may be excused for writing a book, it is the dweller in the wilderness; and this must, I think, be evident to all who give the matter a moment's reflection. My neighbor, Mrs. Rower, says, indeed, that there are books enough in the world, and one too many; but it will never do to consult the neighbors, since what is said of a prophet is doubly true of an author. Indeed, it is of very little use to consult any body. What is written from impulse is generally the most readable, and this fact is an encouragement to those who are conscious of no particular qualification beyond a desire to write. People write because they cannot help it. The heart longs for sympathy, and when it cannot be found close at hand, will seek it the world over. We never tell our thoughts but with the hope of an echo in the thoughts of others. We set forth in the most attractive guise the treasures of our fancy, because we hope to warm into life imaginations like our own. If the desire for sympathy could lie dormant for a time, there would be no more new books, and we should find leisure to read those already written.
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63Author:  Kirkland Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda) 1801-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  Forest Life  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: A year and a half had elapsed since the abstraction of the grapes, and the skin had grown over Seymour's knuckles, and also the bark over certain letters which he had carved in very high places on some of Mr. Hay's forest-trees; and, sympathetically perhaps, a suitable covering over the wounds made in his heart by the scornful eyes of the unconscious Caroline. His figure had changed its proportions, as if by a wire-drawing process, since what it had gained in length was evidently subtracted from its breadth. The potato redness of his cheeks had subsided into a more presentable complexion, and his teeth were whiter than ever, while the yawns which used to exhibit them unseasonably had given place to a tolerable flow of conversation, scarcely tinctured by mauvaise honte. In short, considering that he was endowed with a good share of common sense, he was really a handsome young man. Not but some moss was still discoverable. It takes a good while to rub off inborn rusticity, especially when there is much force of character. The soft are more easily moulded. Is it possible, my dear Williamson, that after your experience of the world's utter hollowness—its laborious pleasures and its heart-wringing disappointments—you can still be surprised at my preference of a country life? you, who have sounded to its core the heart of fashionable society in the old world and the new, tested the value of its friendship, and found it less than nothing; sifted its pretensions of every kind, and expressed a thousand times your disgust at their falseness—you think it absurd in me to venture upon so desperate a plan as retirement? You consider me as a man who has taken his last, worst step; and who will soon deserve to be set aside by his friends as an irreclaimable enthusiast. Perhaps you are right as to the folly of the thing, but that remains to be proved; and I shall at least take care that my error, if it be one, shall not be irrevocable. * * * Since my last we have taken up our abode in the wilderness in good earnest,—not in “sober sadness,” as you think the phrase ought to be shaped. There is, to be sure, an insignificant village within two or three miles of us, but our house is the only dwelling on our little clearing— the immense trunks of trees, seemingly as old as the creation, walling us in on every side. There is an indescribable charm in this sort of solitary possession. In Alexander Selkirk's case, I grant that the idea of being “monarch of all I survey,” with an impassable ocean around my narrow empire, might suggest some inconvenient ideas. The knowledge that the breathing and sentient world is within a few minutes' walk, forms, it must be owned, no unpleasant difference between our lot and his. But with this knowledge, snugly in the background, not obtrusive, but ready for use, comparative solitude has charms, believe me. The constant sighing of the wind through the forest leaves; the wild and various noises of which we have not yet learned to distinguish one from the other—distinct yet softly mingled—clearly audible, yet only loud enough to make us remark more frequently the silence which they seem scarcely to disturb, such masses of deep shade that even in the sunny spots the light seems tinged with green—these things fill the mind with images of repose, of leisure, of freedom, of tranquil happiness, untrammelled by pride and ceremony;—of unbounded opportunity for reflection, with the richest materials for the cultivation of our better nature. Why have I not written you a dozen letters before this time? I can give you no decent or rational apology. Perhaps, because I have had too much leisure—perhaps too many things to say. Something of this sort it certainly must be, for I have none of the ordinary excuses to offer for neglect of my dear correspondent. Think any thing but that I love you less. This is the very place in which to cherish loving memories. But as to writing, this wild seclusion has so many charms for me, this delicious summer weather so many seductions, that my days glide away imperceptibly, leaving scarcely a trace of any thing accomplished during their flight. I rise in the morning determined upon the most strenuous industry. I hoped to have been before this time so deeply engaged with studs and siding, casings and cornice, that letter-writing would have been out of the question. But my lumber is at the saw-mill, and all the horses in the neighborhood are too busy to be spared for my service. I must have, of course, horses of my own, but it is necessary first to build a stable, so that I am at present dependent on hiring them when necessary. This, I begin to perceive, will cause unpleasant delays, since each man keeps no more horses than he needs for his own purposes. Here is a difficulty which recurs at every turn, in the country. There is nothing like a division of labor or capital. Every body tills the ground, and, consequently, each must provide a complete equipment of whatever is necessary for his business, or lose the seasons when business may be done to best advantage. At this season, in particular, this difficulty is increased, because the most important business of the year is crowded into the space of a few months. Those who hire extra help at no other period, now employ as much as they are able to pay, which increases much the usual scarcity of laborers. It is the time of year, too, when people in new countries are apt to be attacked by the train of ills arising from marsh miasmata, and this again diminishes the supply of able hands. I studied your last in the cool morning hour which I often devote to a ramble over the wooded hills which rise near our little cottage. I seated myself on a fallen tree, in a spot where I might have mused all day without seeing a human face, or hearing any sound more suggestive of civilization than the pretty tinkling of the numerous bells which help to find our wandering cattle. What a place in which to read a letter that seemed as if it might have been written after a stupid party, or in the agonies which attend a “spent ball.” (Vide T. Hood.) Those are not your real sentiments, my dear Kate; you do not believe life to be the scene of ennui, suffering, or mere endurance, which you persuaded yourself to think it just then. If I thought you did, I should desire nothing so much as to have your hand in mine for just such a ramble and just such a lounge as gave me the opportunity for reflecting on your letter; I am sure I could make you own that life has its hours of calm and unexciting, but high enjoyment. With your capabilities, think whether there must not be something amiss in a plan or habit of being that subjects you to these seasons of depression and disgust. Is that tone of chilling, I might say killing ridicule, which prevails in certain circles, towards every thing which does not approach a particular arbitrary standard, a wholesome one for our mental condition? I believe not; for I have never known one who adopted it fully, who had not at times a most uneasy consciousness that no one could possibly be entirely secure from its stings. Then there is a restless emulation, felt in a greater or less degree by all who have thrown themselves on the arena of fashionable life, which is, in my sober view, the enemy of repose. I am not now attempting to assign a cause for that particular fit of the blues which gave such a dark coloring to the beginning of your letter. I am only like the physician who recalls to his patient's mind the atmospheric influence that may have had an unfavorable effect upon his symptoms. You will conclude I must have determined to retort upon you in some degree the scorn which you cannot help feeling for the stupidity of a country life, by taking the first opportunity to hint that there are some evils from which the dweller in the wilds is exempt. On the other hand, I admit that in solitude we are apt to become mere theorists, or dreamers, if you will. Ideal excellence is very cheap; theory and sentiment may be wrought up to great accuracy and perfection; and it is an easy error to content ourselves with these, without seeking to ascertain whether we are capable of the action and sacrifice which must prove that we are in earnest. You are right, certainly, in thinking that in society we have occasion for more strenuous and energetic virtues; but yet, even here, there is no day which does not offer its opportunities for effort and self-denial, and in a very humble and unenticing form too. But we shall never settle this question, for the simple reason that virtue is at home every where alike; so I will spare you further lecture. Next to seeing yourself, my dear Williamson, I can scarcely think of any thing that would have afforded me more pleasure than the sight of a friend of yours bearing credentials under your hand and seal. And over and above this title to my esteem, Mr. Ellis brings with him an open letter of recommendation in that very handsome and pleasing countenance of his, and a frank and hearty manner which put us quite at ease with him directly, notwithstanding a certain awkward consciousness of the narrowness of our present accommodations, which might have made a visit from any other stranger rather embarrassing. His willingness to be pleased, his relish for the amusing points of the half-savage state, and the good-humor with which he laughed off sundry rather vexatious contre-temps really endeared him to us all. Half a dozen men of his turn of mind for neighbors, with wives of “kindred strain,” would create a paradise in these woods, if there could be one on earth. A letter is certainly your due, my dear Catharine; but yours of some fortnight since,—all kind, and lively, and sympathizing, and conceding, as it is,—deserves a better reply than this dripping sky will help me to indite. Why is it that I, who ever loved so dearly a rainy day in town, find it suggestive of—not melancholy—for melancholy and I are strangers—but of stupid things, in the country? To account for the difference drives me into the region of small philosophies. In the one case there is the quiet that bustle has made precious, the leisure which in visiting weather one is apt to see slip from one's grasp unimproved; a contrast like that which we feel on turning from the dusty pathway into the cool shade—a protected shade, as of a garden, where one locks the gate and looks up with satisfaction at high walls, impassable by foot unprivileged. In the other—the contrary case—we have leisure in sunshine as well as leisure in the rain; we have abundance of quiet at all seasons, and no company at any, so that when the rain comes it can but deprive us of our accustomed liberty of foot. The pattering sound so famed for its lulling powers is but too effectual when it falls on roofs not much above our heads; and the disconsolate looking cattle, the poor shivering fowls huddled together under every sheltering covert, and the continuous snore of cat and dog as they doze on the mats—all tend towards our infectious drowsiness, that is much more apt to hint the dreamy sweetness of a canto or two of the Faery Queene, than the duteous and spirited exercise of the pen, even in such service as yours. Yet I have broken the spell of “Sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin.” by the magic aid of a third reading of your letter. And now I defy even the “Ever drizling raine upon the lofte, Mixt with a murmuring winde.” * * * Ought a letter to be a transcript of one's better mind, or only of one's present and temporary humor? If the former, I must throw away the pen, I fear, for some time to come. If the latter, I have only to scrawl the single word AGUE a thousand times on the face of my paper, or write it once in letters which would cover the whole surface. I have no other thought, I can no longer say, “My mind my kingdom is.” Didn't I say something, in one of my late letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid coloring of those days has been toned down by some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of the delicious period here called “Indian summer,” Florella and I have done little else but wander about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves. If the Indians named this season, it must have been from a conviction that such a sky and such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven, where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested. If you can imagine a view in which the magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you may form some notion of our November landscape. I have grown very lazy of late,—so much so, that even letter-writing has become quite a task. Perhaps it is only that I so much prefer flying over this fine, hard, smooth snow in a sleigh, that I feel a chill of impatience at in-door employment. I make a point of duty of Charlotte's daily lessons, but beyond that I am but idle just now. The weather has been so excessively cold for some days that we have had much ado to keep comfortably warm, even with the aid of great stoves in the hall and kitchen, and bountiful wood fires elsewhere. These wood fires are the very image of abundance, and they are so enlivening that I am becoming quite fond of them, though they require much more attention than coal, and will, occasionally, snap terribly, even to the further side of the room, though the rug is generally the sufferer. An infant of one of our neighbors was badly burned, a day or two since, by a coal which flew into the cradle at a great distance from the fire. I marvel daily that destructive fires are not more frequent, when I see beds surrounded with light cotton curtains so near the immense fires which are kept in log-houses. How much more rational would be worsted hangings! Once more, with pen in hand, dearest Catharine; and oh, how glad and how thankful to find myself so well and so happy! I could have written you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I shall not have said forth half my say before I shall be reduced to my dormouse condition again. I have examined the sheets you put into my hands, and am happy to say, that I think your work will be found, both by teachers and pupils a valuable auxiliary in the acquisition of the French language. The manner in which you have obviated the principal difficulties in the first lessons, and the general plan of the work, make it a very useful first book for those who are old enough to study with some degree of judgment and discrimination. I have examined the sheets of the New Practical Translator, and believe that the work will be very useful as an introduction to the translating French into English, as it affords an easy explanation of most of the difficulties that are apt to embarrass beginners. I have long felt the want of a “First Book” for beginners in the French Language, upon the progressive principles which you have adopted, and shall show how sincere I am in this recommendation of your undertaking, by the immediate introduction of the “New Practical Translator” into my school. I have looked over the sheets of your “New Practical Translator,” and am much pleased both with the plan of the work, and with the style of its execution. It must form a valuable accession to the means already within the reach of the young for acquiring a knowledge of the French Language; and, if it finds with the public that measure of favour which it merits, I am satisfied that you will have no cause to complain that your labours, in this department of instruction, have not been well received or well rewarded. I have examined attentively the plan of your “New Practical Translator,” and, to some extent, the mode in which the plan has been executed. The work appears to me to be well adapted to promote the improvement of those who are commencing the study of the French Language. The real difficulties, in the progress of the student, he is furnished with the means of overcoming, while such as will yield to moderate industry, he is judiciously left to surmount by his own efforts. I have examined, with care, “The New Practical Translator,” by Mr. Bugard. The plan and execution of the author appear to me judicious, and I am acquainted with no elementary work, so well adapted for communicating a knowledge of the French language. I have examined with much pleasure the sheets of the French Practical Translator, which you were kind enough to send me. As far as I am able to judge, I should think it would be found a very useful auxiliary to the French instructer. I concur fully in the opinion of the work, expressed by Mr. T. B. Hayward. —It gives me much pleasure to express the high opinion I entertain of the “New French Practical Translator,” as an introduction to the study of the French language. The plan of it is very judicious. While those difficulties are removed which perplex and discourage young learners, it demands sufficient exercise of the pupil's own powers to keep alive the interest arising from the consciousness of successful effort. I should be happy if I could from my own knowledge give you a recommendation of your book, the Practical Translator. But, from my own little knowledge and from the most thorough information I can obtain, I am satisfied that we have no so valuable book of its kind for the study of the French language, and have therefore introduced it into my school. I have examined with much pleasure the new French Practical Translator, which you were so kind as to send me. I consider it a very valuable book for beginners, as it removes many difficulties, which have heretofore embarrassed them. I shall immediately introduce it into my school. —It gives me great pleasure to add my testimonial in favour of your “New Practical Translator,” to the many you have already received. I have used the work with a great many pupils in this institution, and find it a very excellent and interesting manual. It is of great service in removing the difficulties which beginners encounter at the commencement of their French Studies. I wish you much success in introducing it into our Schools and Academies.
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64Author:  Allston Washington 1779-1843Requires cookie*
 Title:  Monaldi  
 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: Among the students of a seminary at Bologna were two friends, more remarkable for their attachment to each other, than for any resemblance in their minds or dispositions. Indeed there was so little else in common between them, that hardly two boys could be found more unlike. The character of Maldura, the eldest, was bold, grasping, and ostentatious; while that of Monaldi, timid and gentle, seemed to shrink from observation. The one, proud and impatient, was ever laboring for distinction; the world, palpable, visible, audible, was his idol; he lived only in externals, and could neither act nor feel but for effect; even his secret reveries having an outward direction, as if he could not think without a view to praise, and anxiously referring to the opinion of others; in short, his nightly and his daily dreams had but one subject — the talk and the eye of the crowd. The other, silent and meditative, seldom looked out of himself either for applause or enjoyment; if he ever did so, it was only that he might add to, or sympathize in the triumph of another; this done, he retired again, as it were to a world of his own, where thoughts and feelings, filling the place of men and things, could always supply him with occupation and amusement.
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65Author:  Bacon Delia Salter 1811-1859Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Bride of Fort Edward  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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66Author:  Belknap Jeremy 1744-1798Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Foresters  
 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: To perform the promise which I made to you before I began my journey, I will give you such an account of this, once forest, but now cultivated and pleasant country, as I can collect from my conversation with its inhabitants, and from the perusal of their old family papers, which they have kindly permitted me to look into for my entertainment. By these means I have acquainted myself with the story of their first planting, consequent improvements and present state; the recital of which will occupy the hours which I shall be able to spare from business, company and sleep, during my residence among them.
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67Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Bandits of the Osage  
 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: “`My dear son, God be with you! I am dying, and can never see you again on earth, but will in the land of spirits. My strength is failing—I have but a few minutes to live, and will devote them to you. You have often questioned me of your father. I have delayed answering you,—but the time has now come when it is necessary you should know all. God give me strength to pen, and you to read the secret of my life!—and Ronald, dear Ronald, whatever you do, do not reproach, do not curse my memory! I shall enter but little into detail, for time and strength will not permit. At the age of twelve I was left an orphan, and was taken in charge of some distant relatives of my mother, with whom I lived in easy circumstances, until the age of sixteen. They were not wealthy, and yet had enough wherewithal to live independent. They treated me with much affection, and life passed pleasantly for four years. At the age of sixteen, I accidentally became acquainted with Walter Langdon, only son of Sir Edgar Langdon, whose large estate and residence—for he was very wealthy— was but a few miles distant. He found opportunity and declared his attachment, but at the same time informed me that our relations on either side would be opposed to our union, and begged me to make no mention of it, but to prepare myself and elope with him; that when the ceremony was over, and no alternative, all parties would become reconciled. He was young, handsome, and accomplished—his powers of conversation brilliant. He plead with a warmth of passion I could not withstand—for know, Ronald, I loved him, with the ardent first love of a girl of sixteen, and I consented. Alas! Ronald, that I am forced to tell you more: this rash act was my ruin!
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68Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Renegade  
 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: That portion of territory known throughout Christendom as Kentucky, was, at an early period, the theatre of some of the wildest tragedies, most hardy contested and bloody scenes ever placed on record. In fact its very name, derived from the Indian word Kan-tuck-kee, and which was applied to it long before its discovery by the whites, is peculiarly significant in meaning—being no less than “the dark and bloody ground.” History makes no mention of its being inhabited prior to its settlement by the present race, but rather serves to aid us in the inference, that from time immemorial it was used as a “neutral ground,” whereon the different savage tribes were wont to meet in deadly strife; and hence the portentious name by which it was known among them. But notwithstanding its ominous title, Kentucky, when first beheld by the white hunter, presented all the attractions he would have envied in Paradise itself. The climate was congenial to his feelings— the country was devoid of savages—while its thick tangles of green cane— abounding with deer, elk, bears, buffaloes, panthers, wolves and wild cats, and its more open woods with pheasant, turkey and partridges—made it the full realization of his hopes—his longings. What more could he ask? And when he again stood among his friends, beyond the Alleghanies, is it to be wondered at that his excited feelings, aided by distance, should lead him to describe it as the El Dorado of the world? Such indeed he did describe it; and to such glowing descriptions, Kentucky is doubtless partially indebted for her settlement so much in advance of the surrounding territory. “Dear Son:—If in the land of the living, return as speedily as possible to your afflicted and anxious parents, who are even now mourning you as dead. You can return in safety; for your cousin, whom you supposed you had fatally wounded, recovered therefrom, and publicly exonerated you from all blame in the matter. He is now, however, no more—having died of late with the scarlet fever. Elvira, his wife, is also dead. She died insane. As a partial restitution for the injury done you, your cousin has made you heir by will, to all his property, real estate and personal, amounting, it is said, to over twenty thousand dollars. Your mother is in feeble health, caused by anxiety on your account. For further information, inquire of the messenger who will bear you this.
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69Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Trapper's Bride, Or, Spirit of Adventure  
 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 in the autumn of 18— that I isited the city of New York for the first ime. I had long been desirous of seeing hat great city, the grand commercial and mercantile emporium of the western world: the London of America. This city is one of the oldest in the United States, and by far the largest in the Republic, and decidedly the most important in a business point of view. Its mercantile interests are greater and vastly more extended, than are those of any other city in the Union. Early in the history of this country it was founded by a colony of Dutch, a people then widely known for the spirit and energy with which they carried on mercantile pursuits, and more especially for their commercial operations. This spirit they brought with them to their new home: and, as the town grew in importance, and increased in wealth, they pushed their branches of business, which were found profitable to them, besides being more to their liking than any other pursuits in life: and in this way they gained an advance over the other settlements in the country, which they have ever since continued to hold. New York possesses by its location all the natural advantages for commercial pursuit. Its wide harbor, which affords a safe anchorage for the largest ships, looks out upon the boundless ocean, which is traversed at this time by its thousands of stout, staunch vessels. Its intercourse with foreign nations across the ocean is extremely easy from this circumstance, and its active citizens saw this advantage from the first; it was the strong inducement which led them to settle on that narrow neck of land upon which the city is built, and as I have said, early turned their attention to the subject of navigation, and to embark in the pursuits of commerce. As the country grew, and the population increased, foreign trade also became more profitable, and this city was the port that received the returning ships laden with the treasures and luxuries of foreign climes, and in turn sent them back freighted with the surplus productions of our own land, to be exchanged in distant countries. At the date of my story, the city had become large and wealthy. It had already secured the largest share of trade in foreign staples and commodities from other parts of our country, and merchants from other cities on the sea-board as well as inland cities and towns came here to purchase their stocks. Merchants from all parts of the country flowed to New York, as offering the best chance to do business profitably, and advantageously; and foreigners, also, who came to this country, were pretty sure to make this port on their arrival, and quite as sure to remain and engage in business in this enterprising and prosperous city. From successful business, many of the city merchants grew very wealthy, and retiring from active business, they built for themselves elegant mansions in which they resided in the bosom of their families, enjoying all the comforts and pleasures, both social and domestic, their amassed wealth could purchase for them; hence there grew up in this city, and very naturally too, an aristocracy of wealth, and with wealth an aristocracy of fashion; indeed this city soon became what in truth it has ever since continued to be, the source and fountain of the fashion. Here were to be seen the latest styles of female costume; here the fashionable bean got the cue for the approved and last method of the tie of his cravat, or the color and size of his coat buttons, the length and shape of his whiskers and moustaches. In fact, in this respect, New York is to America what Paris is to France; and here you will ever find a crowd devoted to the gay goddess whose temples are the milliners, the mantua-makers, tailors and barbers' shops.
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70Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  Calavar, Or, the Knight of the Conquest  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In the year of Grace fifteen hundred and twenty, upon a day in the month of May thereof, the sun rose over the islands of the new deep, and the mountains that divided it from an ocean yet unknown, and looked upon the havoc, which, in the name of God, a Christian people were working-upon the loveliest of his regions. He had seen, in the revolution of a day, the strange transformations which a few years had brought upon all the climes and races of his love. The standard of Portugal waved from the minarets of the east; a Portuguese admiral swept the Persian Gulf, and bombarded the walls of Ormuz; a Portuguese viceroy held his court on the shores of the Indian ocean; the princes of the eastern continent had exchanged their bracelets of gold for the iron fetters of the invader; and among the odours of the Spice Islands, the fumes of frankincense ascended to the God of their new masters. He passed on his course: the breakers that dashed upon the sands of Africa, were not whiter than the squadrons that rolled among them; the chapel was built on the shore, and under the shadow of the crucifix was fastened the first rivet in the slavery of her miserable children. Then rose he over the blue Atlantic: the new continent emerged from the dusky deep; the ships of discoverers were penetrating its estuaries and straits, from the Isles of Fire even to the frozen promontories of Labrador; and the roar of cannon went up to heaven, mingled with the groans and blood of naked savages. But peace had descended upon the islands of America; the gentle tribes of these paradises of ocean wept in subjection over the graves of more than half their race; hamlets and cities were springing up in their valleys and on their coasts; the culverin bellowed from the fortress, the bell pealed from the monastery; and the civilization and vices of Europe had supplanted the barbarism and innocence of the feeble native. Still, as he careered to the west, new spectacles were displayed before him; the followers of Balboa had built a proud city on the shores, and were launching their hasty barks on the surges of the New Ocean; the hunter of the Fountain of Youth was perishing under the arrows of the wild warriors of Florida, and armed Spaniards were at last retreating before a pagan multitude. One more sight of pomp and of grief awaited him: he rose on the mountains of Mexico; the trumpet of the Spaniards echoed among the peaks; he looked upon the bay of Ulua, and, as his beams stole tremblingly over the swelling current, they fell upon the black hulls and furled canvas of a great fleet riding tranquilly at its moorings. The fate of Mexico was in the scales of destiny; the second army of invaders had been poured upon her shores. In truth, it was a goodly sight to look upon the armed vessels that thronged this unfrequented bay; for peacefully and majestically they slept on the tide, and as the morning hymn of the mariners swelled faintly on the air, one would have thought they bore with them to the heathen the tidings of great joy, and the good-will and grace of their divine faith, instead of the earthly passions which were to cover the land with lamentation and death.
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71Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Infidel, Or, the Fall of Mexico  
 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 traveller, who wanders at the present day along the northern and eastern borders of the Lake of Tezcuco, searches in vain for those monuments of aboriginal grandeur, which surrounded it in the age of Montezuma. The lake itself, which, not so much from the saltness of its flood as from the vastness of its expanse, was called by Cortes the Sea of Anahuac, is no longer worthy of the name. The labours of that unhappy race of men, whose bondage the famous Conquistador cemented in the blood of their forefathers, have conducted, through the bowels of a mountain, the waters of its great tributaries, the pools of San Cristobal and Zumpango; and these, rushing down the channel of the Tula, or river of Montezuma, and mingled with the surges of the great Gulf, support fleets of modern argosies, instead of piraguas and chinampas, and expend upon foundering ships-of-war the wrath, which, in their ancient beds, was wasted upon reeds and bulrushes. With the waters, which rippled through their streets, have vanished the numberless towns and cities, that once beautified the margin of the Alpine sea; the towers have fallen, the lofty pyramids melted into earth or air, and the palaces and tombs of kings will be looked for in vain, under tangled copses of thistle and prickly-pear.
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72Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Infidel, Or, the Fall of Mexico  
 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: Before sunrise on the following morning, many a feathered band of allies from distant tribes was pouring into Tezcuco; for this was the day on which the Captain-General had appointed to review his whole force, assign the several divisions to the command of his favourite officers, and expound the system of warfare, by which he expected to reduce the doomed Tenochtitlan. The multitudes that were collected by midday would be beyond our belief, did we not know that the royal valley, and every neighbouring nook of Anahuac capable of cultivation, were covered by a population almost as dense as that which makes an ant-heap of the `Celestial Empire,' at this day.
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73Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 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: When the soldier recovered his senses, it was to wonder again at the change that had come over the scene. The loud yells, the bitter taunts, the mocking laughs, were heard no more; and nothing broke the silence of the wilderness, save the stir of the leaf in the breeze, and the ripple of the river against its pebbly banks below. He glanced a moment from the bush in which he was lying, in search of the barbarians who had lately covered the slope of the hill, but all had vanished; captor and captive had alike fled; and the sparrow twittering among the stunted bushes, and the grasshopper singing in the grass, were the only living objects to be seen. The thong was still upon his wrists, and as he felt it rankling in his flesh, he almost believed that his savage captors, with a refinement in cruelty the more remarkable as it must have robbed them of the sight of his dying agonies, had left him thus bound and wounded, to perish miserably in the wilderness alone.
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74Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Adventures of Robin Day  
 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: Sylla, the Roman dictator, is, as far as I know, the only great man on record who attributed his advancement to good luck; all other great men being modestly content to refer their successes in life to their own merits; insisting, with the philosophers, that there is not, in reality, any such thing as luck at all, good, bad, or indifferent, but that every man's fortune, whether happy or evil, is referable to his own agency, the direct result of his own wise or foolish actions. Such may be the fact, for aught I can say, (it is a comfortable doctrinef or the fortunate,) and I do not pretend to controvert it; but of one thing I am very certain, namely, that whether there be bad luck in the world or not, there is an abundance of those unhappy personages who are commonly considered its victims—that is to say, unlucky dogs; of which race I was undoubtedly born a member.
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75Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Adventures of Robin Day  
 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: Much as I had reason to fear and detest this remarkable personage, Captain Brown, by whom I had been so basely defrauded and cheated into a participation in knavery, and who, I had cause from his own confessions, to believe was, or had once been, a noted pirate; yet my feelings at sight of him mingled something like satisfaction with my fear and resentment. I was so forlorn and helpless in the midst of embarrassment and danger, so much in want of a friend to counsel and assist me, that even Captain Hellcat's countenance appeared to me desirable: at such a moment, I could have accepted the friendship almost of Old Nick himself. He had done me a great deal of mischief, to be sure; but, in my present situation, it was scarce possible he could do me any more. From his courage and worldly experience, nay even from his good will—for I almost looked upon him as a friend, though a mischievous and dangerous one—much was to be expected: and, besides, our adventures together had established a kind of community of interests between us, at least to a certain extent, (were we not house-robbers and runaways together?) which, I thought, must ensure me his good offices, at this moment of difficulty and distress. I resolved, in a word, having no other way to help myself, to throw myself upon his friendship, and trust to him for rescue from the dangers that beset me.
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76Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Edgar Huntly, Or, Memoirs of a Sleep-walker  
 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: Next morning I stored a small bag with meat and bread, and throwing an axe on my shoulder, set out, without informing any one of my intentions, for the hill. My passage was rendered more difficult by these incumbrances, but my perseverance surmounted every impediment, and I gained, in a few hours, the foot of the tree, whose trunk was to serve me for a bridge. In this journey I saw no traces of the fugitive.
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77Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 Title:  Ormond, Or, the Secret Witness  
 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: Stephen Dudley was a native of New-York. He was educated to the profession of a painter. His father's trade was that or an apothecary. But this son, manifesting an attachment to the pencil, he was resolved that it should be gratified. For this end Stephen was sent at an early age to Europe, and not only enjoyed the instructions of Fuzeli and Bartolozzi, but spent a considerable period in Italy, in studying the Augustan and Medicean monuments. It was intended that he should practise his art in his native city, but the young man, though reconciled to this scheme by deference to paternal authority, and by a sense of its propriety, was willing, as long as possible to postpone it. The liberality of his father relieved him from all pecuniary cares. His whole time was devoted to the improvement of his skill in his favorite art, and the enriching of his mind with every valuable accomplishment. He was endowed with a comprehensive genius and indefatigable industry. His progress was proportionably rapid, and he passed his time without much regard to futurity, being too well satisfied with the present to anticipate a change. A change however was unavoidable, and he was obliged at length to pay a reluctant obedience to his father's repeated summons. The death of his wife had rendered his society still more necessary to the old gentleman.
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78Author:  Brown Charles Brockden 1771-1810Requires cookie*
 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: I was resident in this city during the year 1793. Many motives contributed to detain me, though departure was easy and commodious, and my friends were generally solicitous for me to go. It is not my purpose to enumerate these motives, or to dwell on my present concerns and transactions, but merely to compose a narrative of some incidents with which my situation made me acquainted.
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79Author:  Brown William Hill 1765-1793Requires cookie*
 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: You may now felicitate me— I have had an interview with the charmer I informed you of. Alas! where were the thoughtfulness and circumspection of my friend Worthy? I did not possess them, and am graceless enough to acknowledge it. He would have considered the consequences, before he had resolved upon the project. But you call me, with some degree of truth, a strange medley of contradiction— the moralist and the amoroso—the sentiment and the sensibility—are interwoven in my constitution, so that nature and grace are at continual fisticuffs.—To the point:—
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80Author:  Child Lydia Maria Francis 1802-1880Requires cookie*
 Title:  Fact and Fiction  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In very ancient times there dwelt, among the Phrygian hills, an old shepherd and shepherdess, named Mygdomus and Arisba. From youth they had tended flocks and herds on the Idean mountains. Their only child, a blooming boy of six years, had been killed by falling from a precipice. Arisba's heart overflowed with maternal instinct, which she yearned inexpressibly to lavish on some object; but though they laid many offerings on the altars of the gods, with fervent supplications, there came to them no other child. —Black and hevy is my hart for the news I have to tell you. James is in prison, concarnin a bit of paper, that he passed for money. Sorra a one of the nabors but will be lettin down the tears, when they hear o' the same. I don't know the rights of the case; but I will never believe he was a boy to disgrace an honest family. Perhaps some other man's sin is upon him. It may be some comfort to you to know that his time will be out in a year and a half, any how. I have not seen James sense I come to Ameriky; but I heern tell of what I have writ. The blessed Mother of Heaven keep your harts from sinkin down with this hevy sorrow. Your frind and nabor,
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