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161Author:  Harte Bret 1836-1902Requires cookie*
 Title:  The luck of Roaring Camp, and other sketches  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Respected Sir, — When you read this, I am run away. Never to come back. Never, Never, NEVER. You can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my Amerika's Pride [a highly colored lithograph from a tobacco-box] to Sally Flanders. But don't you give anything to Clytie Morpher. Don't you dare to. Do you know what my oppinion is of her, it is this, she is perfekly disgustin. That is all and no more at present from
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162Author:  Harte Bret 1836-1902Requires cookie*
 Title:  Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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163Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Blithedale romance  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The evening before my departure for Blithedale, I was returning to my bachelor apartments, after attending the wonderful exhibition of the Veiled Lady, when an elderly man, of rather shabby appearance, met me in an obscure part of the street.
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164Author:  Hawthorne Nathaniel 1804-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  Septimius Felton, or, The elixir of life  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was a day in early spring; and as that sweet, genial time of year and atmosphere calls out tender greenness from the ground, — beautiful flowers, or leaves that look beautiful because so long unseen under the snow and decay, — so the pleasant air and warmth had called out three young people, who sat on a sunny hillside enjoying the warm day and one another. For they were all friends: two of them young men, and playmates from boyhood; the third, a girl who, two or three years younger than themselves, had been the object of their boy-love, their little rustic, childish gallantries, their budding affections; until, growing all towards manhood and womanhood, they had ceased to talk about such matters, perhaps thinking about them the more.
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165Author:  Holmes Mary Jane 1825-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Darkness and daylight  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve long years its massive walls of dark grey stone had frowned in gloomy silence upon the passers-by, the terror of the superstitious ones, who had peopled its halls with ghosts and goblins, saying even that the snowy-haired old man, its owner, had more than once been seen there, moving restlessly from room to room and muttering of the darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair young wife and her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man was not dead, but for years he had been a stranger to his former home. “Dear Sir: — A wholly unexpected event makes it necessary for me to be absent from home for the next few weeks. During this time my house will be shut up, and I shall be very glad if in her daily rides Miss Hastings will occasionally come round this way and see that every thing is straight. I would like much to give the keys into her charge, knowing as I do that I can trust her. The books in my library are at her disposal, as is also the portfolio of drawings, which I will leave upon the writing table. “Dear Sir, — Miss Hastings accepts the great honor of looking after your house, and will see that nothing gets mouldy during your absence. “Darling Miggie: — Nina has been so sick this great long while, and her head is so full of pain. Why don't you come to me, Miggie? I sit and wait and listen till my forehead thumps and thumps, just as a bad nurse thumped it once down in the Asylum. “Poor blind man! Nina is so sorry for you to-night, because she knows that what she has to tell you will crush the strong life all out of your big heart, and leave it as cold and dead as she will be when Victor reads this to you. There won't be any Nina then, for Miggie and Arthur, and a heap more, will have gone with her way out where both my mothers are lying, and Miggie'll cry, I reckon, when she hears the gravel stones rattling down just over my head, but I shall know they cannot hit me, for the coffin-lid will be between, and Nina'll lie so still. No more pain; no more buzzing; no more headache; no more darkness; won't it be grand, the rest I'm going to. I shan't be crazy in Heaven. Arthur says so, and he knows. “.... It will be dreadful at first, I know, and may be all three of the darknesses will close around you for a 14 time, — darkness of the heart, darkness of the brain, and darkness of the eyes, but it will clear away and the daylight will break, in which you will be happier than in calling Miggie your wife, and knowing how she shrinks from you, suffering your caresses only because she knows she must, but feeling so sick at her stomach all the time, and wishing you wouldn't touch her. I know just how it feels, for when Arthur kissed me, or took my hand, or even came in my sight, before the buzz got into my head, it made me so cold and faint and ugly, the way the Yankees mean, knowing he was my husband when I wanted Charlie Hudson. Don't subject Miggie to this horrid fate. Be generous and give her up to Arthur. He may not deserve her more than you, but she loves him the best and that makes a heap of difference.
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166Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  The pillar of fire, or, Israel in bondage  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “I trust, my dear Sesostris,” he writes, “that you are passing your time both with pleasure and profit, in visiting places of interest in the valley of the Lower Nile, and in studying the manners and usages of the people. You will find the pyramids an exhaustless source of attraction. From the priests, who are the most intelligent and learned class in Egypt, you will obtain all the information respecting those mysterious monuments of the past, which is known, besides many legends. “Your Majesty,—I address my letter to you from this petty castle, though, albeit, the stronghold of your kingdom seaward, over which you have made me governor. For a subject, this would be a post of honor. For me, the son of your husband's brother, your royal nephew, it is but an honorable exile from a court where you fear my presence. Honorable, do I say?—rather, dishonorable; for am I not a prince of the blood of the Pharaohs? But let this pass, your majesty. I do not insist upon any thing based upon mere lineage. I feel that I was aggrieved by the birth of Remeses. I see that you turn pale. Do not do so yet. You must read further before the blood wholly leaves your cheek. I repeat, I am aggrieved by the `birth of Remeses.' You see I quote the last three words. Ere you close this letter, your majesty will know why I mark them thus. Your husband, the vicegerent of the Thisitic kingdom of the South, after leaving his capital, Thebes, at the head of a great army, died like a soldier descended from a line of a thousand warrior kings, in combat with the Ethiopian. I was then, for your majesty was without offspring, the heir to the throne of Egypt. I was the son of your husband's younger brother. Though but three years old when your lord was slain, I had learned the lesson that I was to be king of Egypt, when I became a man. But to the surprise of all men, of your council of priests, and your cabinet of statesmen, lo! you soon afterwards became a mother, when no evidences of this promise had been apparent! Nay, do not cast down this letter, O queen! Read it to the end! It is important you should know all. “Your Majesty,—I write from my pavilion pitched at the foot of the Libyan mountains. I need not forewarn you of the subject of this letter, when I assure you that within the hour I have received intelligence from Memphis, that you are about to abdicate your throne in favor of Remeses, your suppositious son. This intelligence does not surprise me. When I was in Lower Egypt, I saw through you and your policy. I perceived that while you feared me, you resolved to defeat my power over you. This purpose, to surrender the sceptre of the two Egypts, I can penetrate. You design, thereby, securely to place Remeses beyond my power to harm him, for that, being king, if I lift a finger he can destroy me. I admire your policy, and bow in homage to your diplomacy. But, O queen, both you and Remeses are in my power! Nay, do not flash your imperial eyes at this assertion. Hear me for a few moments.
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167Author:  Ingraham J. H. (Joseph Holt) 1809-1860Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Prince of the House of David, or, Three years in the Holy City  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: My Dear Father:—My first duty, as it is my highest pleasure, is to comply with your command to write you as soon as I arrived at Jerusalem; and this letter, while it conveys to you intelligence of my arrival, will confirm to you my filial obedience. “Dearest Ruth:—I fear you have been impatient at my long silence; but I love you not less, though you do not often hear from me. Now that I am safe I will write to you, which I would not do in a state of uncertainty. Know that after our ship left Cesarea for Crete, we were caught by a north wind, and in striving to make the east end of the island, we lost way, and were driven upon Africa, where we were wrecked, losing all our cargo, and the lives of many who sailed with us. With others, I was taken by the barbarians, and carried inland to a country of rocky mountains, and there became a bondman to one of the chief men of the nation wherein I was captivated. At length, inspired by a consciousness of the anguish you and my beloved mother must suffer, should you never more hear tidings of me, I resolved to effect my escape. After great perils, I reached the sea-side, and at the expiration of many days, by following the coast, I was taken on board by a small ship of Cyprus, and conveyed to Alexandria. The vessel was owned by a rich merchant of my own people, Manassah Benjamin Ben Israel, who, finding me sick and destitute of all things, just as I escaped, took me home to his hospitable house, and treated me as a son till I recovered my health and strength; saying that he had a daughter far away, in Judea, and he hoped that if she ever needed the aid of strangers, God would repay him by making them kind to her.” “The bearer, beloved, is one of the disciples of Jesus. His name is Bartimeus. He was blind and poor, and subsisted by begging; and, as you see, his sight is restored, and he insists now on going from town to town where he has been known as a blind man, to proclaim what Jesus has done for him. He takes this to you. I write to say that I wish thou mayest prosper in all things, and find the health for which thou and thy cousin sought the air of Mount Tabor. I have no greater joy than to hear of your welfare. This letter cometh beseeching thee, lady, that as we love one another unfeignedly, so may we soon be united in that holy union which God hath blessed and commanded. I would have thee bear in remembrance that thou gavest thy promise hereto when last we met at Nazareth. But, having much to say hereupon, I will not commit it to paper and ink; but by to-morrow, or the day after, I trust to come to you, and speak with you, dearly beloved, face to face, those things which come now to my lips. Farewell, lady, and peace be with you, and all in your house. Greet thy friends in my name, letting them know that we shall shortly be with you, with Amos, your father, now our dear brother in the Lord. There are many things which I have seen and heard touching my holy Master, Jesus, and his holy mission to the world, which I will declare unto you when we meet, that you also may have fellowship with us in those things which we know and believe concerning him. My Master saluteth thee and all in your house; Amos, also, greeteth thee with 10* a kiss. This is the second epistle I have written unto you from Nazareth.”
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168Author:  James Henry 1843-1916Requires cookie*
 Title:  A passionate pilgrim  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “My dear Friend, — I have every hope of being happy, but I am to go to Wiesbaden to learn my fate. Madame Blumenthal goes thither this afternoon to spend a few days, and she allows me to accompany her. Give me your good wishes; you shall hear of the event. “I 'm happy — I 'm accepted — an hour ago. I can hardly believe it 's your poor old
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169Author:  Johnston Richard Malcolm 1822-1898Requires cookie*
 Title:  Dukesborough tales  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
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170Author:  Judd Sylvester 1813-1853Requires cookie*
 Title:  Margaret  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Didymus Hart being summoned to this Committee, on the information of sundry witnesses, that the said Hart on the 27th day of this month, had violated the laws of the Continental and Provincial Congress, and done other acts contrary to the liberties of the country, appeared, and after due proof being made of said charge, the said Hart was pleased to make a full confession thereof, and in the most equivocal and insulting manner attempted to vindicate said conduct, to wit:— “Whereas I, the subscriber, have from the perverseness of my wicked heart maliciously and scandalously abused the character and proceedings of the Continental and Provincial Congress, Selectmen of this town, and the Committees of Safety in general, I do hereby declare, that at the time of my doing it, I knew the said abuses to be the most scandalous falsehoods, and that I did it for the sole purpose of abusing those bodies of men, and affronting my townsmen, and all the friends of liberty throughout the Continent. Being now fully sensible of my wickedness and notorious falsehoods, I humbly beg pardon of those worthy characters I have so scandalously abused, and voluntarily renouncing my former principles, do promise for the future to render my conduct unexceptionable to my countrymen, by strictly adhering to the measures of Congress, and desire this my confession may be printed in the Kidderminster Chronicle for three weeks successively.
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171Author:  Judd Sylvester 1813-1853Requires cookie*
 Title:  Margaret  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: My dear Anna:—You told me to write you every thing; but how shall I utter myself? How can I give shape or definition to what I am? Easy were it for me to tell you what I am not. Has a volcano burst within me? Has a tornado prostrated me? If you were to excavate the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be, would you find only charred effigies of things, silent fountains of old emotions, deserted streets of a once busy and harmonious life, skeletons of hopes stricken down in the act of running from impending danger? With Rose, I would forget myself, that to which this writing recalls me. She says I can endure the prospect better than she. If this be so, it must be attributed to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am in ruins, and so are all things about me. Yet in the windfall some trees are new sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding the shattered edifice. View me as you will, I think I am a doit improving. Do I begin existence wholly anew, or rise I up from the chaos of an earlier condition? What is the transition—from myself to myself, or from myself to another? What is the link between Molly Hart and Margaret Brückmann, can you tell? In which of the climacterics do I now exist? I am witheringly afflicted. Chilion is not! “Te sine, væ misero mihi! lilia nigra videntur, Palentesque rosæ, nec dulce rubens hyacinthus!” The vision of those days distracts me, the remembrance of my brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and the sun is pale at midday. In Scotland are Caves of Music, deep pits where unseen water keeps up a sort of midnight melody. I am such a cave. Chilion flows through me, a nethermost, mournfullest dirge. Then, too, Ma is so silent; her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes and weaves, hour after hour; I fear she will never smile again. Pa has lost his glow of countenance; he has grown absolutely pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip on his leathern apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens me. Nimrod comes down from the Ledge and does his best to enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows not how to be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the time of Chilion's trial, and hobbles out to Chilion's boat, where he sits by the hour. Rose is soothing and active, but she has a load at her own heart, which, in truth, I need help her bear. Isabel rides up almost every day, full of sympathy and generous love. Deacon Ramsdill, Master Elliman, Mrs. Bowker aud others, have made us kind visits. Sibyl Radney comes and milks the cow, and does some of my little chores. Yesterday, Rose and Isabel went with me to the burying-ground. Good old Philip Davis, the Sexton, so I have been told, had the courage and the kindness to go one night and cover Chilion's grave with green sod. It is by itself apart, in one corner of the grounds. Few persons have been near it, and the tall grass has grown rank about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved in weeping. Murmur I could not; an inarticulate, ungovernable anguish was all I could feel. O my brother! I knew not I had such a brother; I knew not I loved such a brother!—We found a dandelion budding on it—when I was little, he taught me to love dandelions! Rose folded me in her arms, Isabel prayed for me. I thought of the blood-sweating agony of Him, the Divine Sufferer; it penetrated and subdued mine. Mrs. Bowker gave me a lady's slipper, taken from the plant Chilion sent her. There is a fancy that flowers die, when those who have tended them do. Will Chilion's flowers live? There are many of us who will fulfil his love towards them. I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive VOL. II. 18 under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I am externally more calm, my nerves are less susceptable, I sleep more soundly, and Margaret says there is some color in my cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric circles, I can say the three outer ones approximate a healthy and natural state. But the fourth, the innermost, the central core, what can I say of that? I dare not look in there, I dare not reflect upon myself. One thing, I have no real guilt to harass me; I only call to mind my follies. My ambition has ever centered upon a solitary acquisition, and for that alone have the energies of my being been spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating, tender, great, solemn sympathy. Beguiled by this desire, I mistook the demonstrations of a selfish passion for tokens of a noble heart. Betrayed beyond the bounds of strict propriety, I became an object of the censure of mankind. Too proud to confess, or too much confounded to explain my innocence, I suffered the penalties of positive infamy. It always seemed ot me that I was placid by nature, and moderate in my sensations. This opposition created in me a new nature; my calamities have imparted heat to my temper and acrimony to my judgment. I became impetuous, vehement, and, as it were, possessed. A new consciousness was revived, both of what I was and of what the world was. Up to that time I had floated on with tolerable serenity, trusting myself and others, and ever hoping for the best. Then commenced my contention and despair. I became all at once sensible of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom literal coals of fire are put. My heart swelled to enormous proportions; it became diseased, and dreadfully painful. It spread itself through my system, tyrannized over my thought, and fed upon the choicest strength of my being. My intellect was darkened, I became an atheist. Under these circumstances, which you already know something about, after having long kept it hidden, I declared myself to Margaret. She had sufficient penetration to understand me and magnanimity to love me; she awed me by her superior, uniform goodness. I availed myself of a moment when she was in tears to unfold the cause of my own. I rejoiced in her weakness, because I thought thereby I could find entrance to her greatness. The melancholy, to me most melancholy, events of her brother's death, I need not recapitulate. The end of my being is accomplished! The prophecy of my life is fulfilled! My dreams have gone out in realities! The Cross is erected on Mons Christi! Yesterday, the Anniversary of our National Independence, was the event consummated. The sacred emblem was made by Mr. Palmer, from a superb block, of the purest marble, out of his quarry, and is twenty feet high. We met near the Brook Kedron, on the Via Salutaris. There were all the members of Christ Church, the Masonic Corps, and a multitude of others. I was to lead the procession, supported by Mr. Evelyn; they had me seated on a milk-white horse, dressed in white, with a wreath of twin flower vines on my head. Then followed the Cross, borne on the shoulders of twenty-four young men; next came the Bishop and wife, the Deacons and their wives, Christ Church members, two-and-two, man and woman; these were succeeded by the Masons, and the line was closed by the people at large. On the Head was a band of Christ Church musicians, playing the Triumphs of Jesus, which we got from Germany. We came over the Brook Kedron, traversed what we have made the broad and ornamental Via Salutaris, and entered the Avenue of the Beautiful. At the foot of the hill I dismounted. By a winding gravel-walk I went up—with a trembling, joyous step I went—followed by the Cross-bearers. Reaching the summit, I wound the arms and head of the Cross about with evergreens; the young men raised it in its place, a solid granite plinth. Returning, we assembled under the Butternut, in the Avenue of the Beautiful, where Edward made a discourse to the people; some idea of which I would like to convey to you. “Livingston.—We have long kept silence about the VOL. II. 26 movements in this place; but the matter has become too public to excuse any further negligence. Over the Red Dragon of Infidelity they have drawn the skin of the Papal Beast, and tricked the Monster with the trappings of Harlotry! On the ruins of one of our Churches they have erected a Temple to Human Pride and Carnal Reasoning. The contamination is spreading far and wide; and unless something be attempted, the Kingdom of God in our midst must soon be surrendered to the arts of Satan. It is understood that the Rev. Mr. L—, of B—, has openly and repeatedly exchanged pulpits with the man who, having denied his Lord and Master, they have had the hardihood to invest with the robes of the Christian Office. Brethren, shall we sleep, while the enemy is sowing tares in our midst?
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172Author:  Landon Melville D. (Melville De Lancey) 1839-1910Requires cookie*
 Title:  Saratoga in 1901  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: OFF FOR SARATOGA 628EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Images of a steamship, a train, and a couple on horses. “My dear Mr. Perkins, Congress Hall— Many of my aristocratic guests are grieved at the reports which have gained credence relative to the young gentlemen holding the young ladies' hands, evenings, on the hotel balconies. They also say that it is a very common thing for them to be seen smiling, and that dancing is not an unknown amusement among them. I now invite you to come and investigate for yourself. I assign for the use of yourself and wife a suite of cheerful front rooms overlooking the Catholic church and the graveyard, from the windows of which you will be able to see everything going on in our hotel. “I notice the paragraph in the Commercial. It is to be hoped you will not use names. I am an old, gray-haired man. I have lived a life of usefulness, and have been long honored as a member of the open Board of Brokers in New York. If I have been indiscreet in a thoughtless moment, I beg of you not to ruin everything by using my name in connection with any developments which you propose to make. Come and see me. I will remain in my room all day. “As God is my witness, you have been wrongly informed if you have heard anything detrimental to my character. I have been a vestryman of Grace Church for fifteen years. I am incapable of any such actions; besides, I have a devoted wife, and we are very fond of each other. I gave $25,000 to the Dudley Observatory and $50,000 to Cornell University, and have been a subscriber to the Commercial for seventeen years. I am incapable of such indiscretion. Whatever other church-members do, I am as pure as a new-born babe. Come and see me or give us your company at dinner. I am almost always at church or on the balcony with my wife. I saw one paragraphe en ze journal, ze Commourshal, about ze grande scandale of which you have accuse me. I write this as a friend of yours. You have been deceived. Some of our people came down to Congress Hall, and told these scandalous things out of spite. Baron Flourins has been a little exclusive. We have kept him entirely in our clique. The rest are mad because we have not introduced him. He is a dear duck of a man, as harmless as he is handsome. My dear Son Eli:—Your St. Alban's High Church letter was read with a great deal of interest here in our home church, but it made us all feel very bad. We are sorry that you have gone to the wicked city, where you so soon forget the simple teaching of the old Church of your childhood, and go headlong into these false, new-fangled notions about Ritualism. You ask us to board up the windows of the old church, bar out the sunlight, and burn flickering tallow candles. You ask us to tear out the old galleries of the church, to dismiss the girls from the choir, and dress the farm boys up in night-gowns, as you do in the city. You ask us to do away with good old Dr. Watts and sing opera songs selected by the organist of St. Alban's and arranged for the boy singers by the middle fiddler of a German band. You ask me to tear up our charts and maps, and decorate the church with blue and gold “hallelujahs” and gilded crosses. O my son, we cannot do it! We prefer to go on in the good old way. If God will not save us because we do not burn candles—if He will not forgive our sins because we look straight up to Heaven, and confess them directly to Him, then I fear we must perish. My dear boy, does not the Bible say: `I said I would confess my sins unto the Lord, and so THOU forgavest the wickedness of my sin?' Then do not, I pray you, my son, depend upon any forgiveness of sin which men may grant. Eli, if you are bad, do not expect any man to forgive you, but go right straight to your Maker, the way your mother taught you in your childhood. Suppose you confess your sins to a priest? My dear Mother:—Your letter has caused me much anxiety. After sleeping with it under my pillow, I went up yesterday, as you requested, to the Church of “St. Mary the Virgin,” on West Forty-fifth street, near Seventh avenue. Since my conversion to the High Church Ritualistic faith, my dear mother, I have usually attended Dr. Ewer's church. I love Dr. Ewer. “This is our new idea. All the girls have agreed to it. We call it the honorable dodge, and we are bound to put through every flirting fellow in New York on it. The idea is—but I'll tell you how I practiced it last night and you'll understand it better. But you know it is a secret, and of course you are to be trusted. I wish to ask your sympathy and advice on a subject that has long been weighing on my mind, and that is—flirting.
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173Author:  Lanier Sidney 1842-1881Requires cookie*
 Title:  Tiger-lilies  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “Would 'st thou an adventure? Follow the bearer. “Inclosed is a letter handed me to-day by a neighbor. He does not wish to be mixed up in the business and asks my advice. The writer of the letter is a connection of his. Of course, as a loyal citizen, I cannot leave this letter and its information to pass unnoticed, and therefore send it to you immediately. “To Mister Jeems Horniddy, My deer Cuzzin Jeems: hope you air well and these few lines will find you enjoinin the saim. I lef ole Tennessy some munths ago, I was brought from thar with mi hands tied as you mought say. The Cornscrip brought me. I was hid whare I thot the Devil hisself couldn find me, but ole man Sterlin he cum and showed whar I was and they took me and sent me to the rigiment. He foun out whare I was hid by a darn ongentlemunly trick, a-peirootin thu the bushes as he is always a-Dooin. An if I dont root him out for it I hoap I may go too hell damn him and I have deserted from the rigiment and cum down hear to smithfield whare thar aint no cornscrip. Thar is sum scouts down hear and ole Sterlins son is wun of thum, and so is brother Cain I thot he had moar sense and I am agwine to fule em to death i am agwine to make em put me across the river and then see em captivated every wun of thum brother Cain and all and what did thay drag me from hoam and fambly for? which I havent been married to her moar than a year and a rite young babi and they a starvin and me not thar.
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174Author:  Locke David Ross 1833-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Nasby papers  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: There is now 15 niggers, men, wimin and childern, or ruther, mail, femail and yung, in Wingert's Corners, and yisterday another arrove. I am bekomin alarmed, fer ef they inkreese at this rate, in suthin over sixty yeres they'll hev a majority in the town, and may, ef they git mene enuff, tyrannize over us, even ez we air tyrannizin over them. The danger is imminent! Alreddy our poor white inhabitans is out uv employment to make room fer that nigger—even now our shops and factories is full uv that nigger, to the grate detriment uv a white inhabitant who hez a family 2 support, and our Poor Hows and Jail is full uv him.
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175Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  Moby-Dick, or, The whale  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
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176Author:  Melville Herman 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  The piazza tales  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: When I removed into the country, it was to occupy an old-fashioned farm-house, which had no piazza—a deficiency the more regretted, because not only did I like piazzas, as somehow combining the coziness of in-doors with the freedom of out-doors, and it is so pleasant to inspect your thermometer there, but the country round about was such a picture, that in berry time no boy climbs hill or crosses vale without coming upon easels planted in every nook, and sun-burnt painters painting there. A very paradise of painters. The circle of the stars cut by the circle of the mountains. At least, so looks it from the house; though, once upon the mountains, no circle of them can you see. Had the site been chosen five rods off, this charmed ring would not have been. The same day, and month, and year, His Honor, Doctor Juan Martinez de Rozas, Councilor of the Royal Audience of this Kingdom, and learned in the law of this Intendency, ordered the captain of the ship San Dominick, Don Benito Cereno, to appear; which he did in his litter, attended by the monk Infelez; of whom he received the oath, which he took by God, our Lord, and a sign of the Cross; under which he promised to tell the truth of whatever he should know and should be asked;—and being interrogated agreeably 11* to the tenor of the act commencing the process, he said, that on the twentieth of May last, he set sail with his ship from the port of Valparaiso, bound to that of Callao; loaded with the produce of the country beside thirty cases of hardware and one hundred and sixty blacks, of both sexes, mostly belonging to Don Alexandro Aranda, gentleman, of the city of Mendoza; that the crew of the ship consisted of thirty-six men, beside the persons who went as passengers; that the negroes were in part as follows: “Sir: I am the most unfortunate ill-treated gentleman that lives. I am a patriot, exiled from my country by the cruel hand of tyranny.
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177Author:  Moulton Louise Chandler 1835-1908Requires cookie*
 Title:  My third book  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “`Mr. Grant,—I have not been a good man. I feel this now, lying here on my death-bed, and I confess it to you the more readily because I do not believe that at heart you are a one whit better one. I must speak plainly and bluntly, for I have no time for circumlocution. I have hardly strength enough left to dictate this to Richard Huntley, my attorney. I have made a brave effort to forgive every body; but it has been the hardest of all to forgive you; for your harshness, your sinful pride, killed my beautiful Margaret. You never loved as I loved her—I, her lover, her husband. There! you will start at that word, I foresee; you will start again at the marriage certificate enfolded in this letter. We were married secretly, as you will perceive, while I was in your very neighborhood. I bound Margaret, when I left her, by a solemn oath, not to make it known until she had my permission. She was a gentle crature, as no one knows better than you, and never thought of disputing the will of any one she loved. My father was dead. I was dependent for all my hopes of future fortune and support on my mother, a very proud, resolute woman. She had a grand match in contemplation for me at that time. I knew it would be no easy matter to reconcile her to its failure, and if she should know just then that I had married as she would have thought so far below me, much as she loved me she would have cast me off forever. This, to a true man, would have been no great matter compared with causing Margaret one hour of trouble, one agony of humiliation. But I was not a true man. I was helpless and imbecile, for I had never been brought up to depend on myself. But I must hasten, for my strength is failing me.
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178Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Married or single?  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Two sisters were sitting, one evening, in their small private library, adjoining their sleeping apartment, in their step-mother's house, in a fashionable quarter of New York. It matters not in what year, for though this their history makes great pretension to veritableness, it pays no respect whatever to chronology. The youngest—the youngest of course takes precedence in our society—was not past eighteen, and, grown to her full stature, rather above the average height; Grace Herbert differing in most of the faculties, qualities, and circumstances of her being from the average of her sex. To a strictly classical eye she was too thin for her height, but of such exact proportions, so flexible and graceful, that the defect was insignificant. Her features were of the noble cast. Her complexion was neither fair nor brown, but exquisitely smooth and soft. Ordinarily she was pale, and her large dark eye lacked lustre; but a flash from her mind, a gust of passion, or even a gentle throb of affection, would brighten her cheek, light her eye, play over her lips, and even seem to radiate from the waving tresses of her dark hair. In that there was a notable peculiarity. It was dark, and yet so brilliant in certain lights, that in her little court of school-girl friends, where she was queen (by divine right), it was a standing dispute whether its color were golden, auburn, or brown. But it was not form or color that so much distinguished Grace Herbert, as a certain magnanimity in the expression of her face, figure, and movement. “I should have written you as I promised, if I had found any thing to write, but the town has been deuced dull. Now it's waking up; there is a splendid little actress here—one Mrs. Darley; our set patronize her. (`Patronize—audacity!' exclaimed Grace.) Fanny Dawson has come home—a splendid beauty! I and she rode out to Love Lane before breakfast yesterday; my new horse is fine under the saddle—Fanny is finer, but I shan't try my harness there; I am shy of reins; one can't tell who will hold them, so Miss Fanny will be left for my elder—if not my better—” “My letter has lain by a month, and now I have news. Smith, Jones and Co. have gone bankrupt, and poor Bill is on their paper well-nigh to the amount of his fortune; Luckily there's something left, and then there's the little widow's fortune. Well, I go for the children of this world, that are wise in their generation. Commend me to the Londoners in general.—Believe me, as ever, your's faithfully, “You may conceive, but I can not describe, how wretched I feel at our separation. You would hear from me much oftener if I followed the dictates of my heart, but my time is so absorbed that it is quite impossible to find a moment for my truest, darlingest, little friend. I write now to entreat you to match the feathers I send; aren't they loves? I have spent two days in attempting to do it here. New York is a paradise for shops, you know; in this horrid Quaker city there's no variety; at the same time, dearest love, will you look for a sash, the shade of the feathers? You may send me a sample, or you may send me several, if you feel uncertain about the match. It is really trying, the difficulty of matching. I sometimes walk up and down the streets of Philadelphia, hours and hours, to match a lace or a fringe, and so does my mamma. The Grays wear pink bonnets this winter. Mrs. Remson has come out in her old yellow brocade again—the third winter, mamma says—just think of it! Do they hold on to powder yet in New York? I dread its going out—'tis so becoming; It makes me quite wretched that you don't come on this winter, dear little pearl! My hair was superbly dressed at Mrs. Lee's ball; I paid dear for it, though, for Pardessus was engaged ten hours ahead, so I had mine done at three A.M. Of course I didn't feel over well the next day, and General Washington observed it, and said he did not like to see young ladies look pale. As it was the only time he ever spoke to me, he might have found something more pleasing to say; pale or not, I found partners for every dance, and refused nine! But, darling, I must cut short my epistle, and sign myself, your sincere and ever attached friend, “Having a few leisure moments, I sit down to have a little pleasant chat with you. I have still to acknowledge your letter, informing me of the decease of our dear old friend, Lady Hepsy; strange coincidence! that she should have been burned to death, so afraid of fire as she was all her life; but so it is—`Our days a transient period run!' “You will feel for me, dear sister, when I tell you the measles are all over our street. You may be sure I keep the children shut up. Two of them were terribly ill last night, and I sent for Dr. Lee. I was all of a nerve when he came, expecting he would tell me they had the symptoms, but to my inexpressible relief he said it was only the cranberry sauce and mince-pie, and almonds, and raisins, and so on, they had eaten plentifully of at dinner—poor little things! how much they have to suffer in this world!” “This day I am seventeen! and this day I am the happiest creature in the universe. You will guess why, and how, for you prophesied long ago that what has now happened would come to pass. Perhaps your prophecy has led to its fulfillment—certainly hastened it, that I will allow; for since we were at Madame B.'s school, and you talked so much of him, he has been the ideal of my life—every thing that I have imagined of noble and beautiful has been impersonated in Frank Silborn. O think of my felicity! He is mine, I am his; as the clock struck twelve last night we plighted vows, and exchanged rings! O what a bliss is life before me! And yet now I think I would be content to die, my spirit is so raised with a sense of joy ineffable. I can not believe it is but three weeks since Frank's return; my love for him seems to stretch through my whole being. “It is my sad duty to write to you the most sorrowful news—prepare yourself, my child, for it will greatly shock you. Yesterday afternoon—I can scarcely guide my pen— Silborn drove up to his door in a curricle, and insisted on taking the two little boys, who were just dressed for a walk, to ride. Sarah must have seen he was greatly excited—in no state to drive—for the nurse says `she refused decidedly to let the children go;' whereupon he snatched them both, and ran out of the house with them to the carriage. He drove furiously up the street, turned the corner short, ran afoul a loaded wagon, turned over the carriage—the boys, our dear little boys, were thrown against a curb-stone and killed, instantly—both Sarah's little boys— both, Emma—both! “I promised, when we parted, to resume our long-suspended correspondence. With what varied emotions of remorse and gratitude I survey this chasm. O! Emma, how differently life looks, prospectively or retrospectively. After it pleased God to restore my reason, I wasted years of responsible life in helpless misery, and profitless repining. “The rumor you heard (and heard before we did, so complete is our retirement from the world) is confirmed. Walter announced his engagement, in his own way, last evening. `Do you know,' he asked my mother, `whom Augustus Dawson married?' “My filial duty and my unlimited confidence in both your justice and generosity would have induced long since the communication I am about to make, but it was deferred by the griefs my sister's calamities brought upon you. I could not then add another bitter drop to your full cup. I must no longer delay. Six months since—” “I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to become of great value. I have explored titles a century back, when this property was a waste rocky field—now, a noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy is now between descendants of the original purchasers, `Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an elderly gentleman, and two young ladies, who, though somewhat decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy. Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry—there is still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert—Walter Herbert, Esq.—I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver sable, an eye like an eagle, and a heart of gold. The young ladies are his nieces; one, a bright particular star, I have seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten. “Miss Alice requests me, you say, to describe my friend Esterly's wedding. Alas! I have no story to tell; business intervened, and took me out of town, and thus saved all parties from my blundering performance of the office of bridegroom.” “Pardon, my dear Mrs. Clifford, my blotted pages. I have been raining tears over this detail to you of my brief meeting with my father. God only knows how I loved him in life—how I honor him in death! Had I known his condition, I should have come home six months ago. I shall forever regret a gain to myself, at the expense of a loss to him. My step-mother, whose valuable qualities I do full justice to (when I do not come in contact with her), will maintain her housekeeping, and take three or four boarders, and so, `by hook or by crook,' they will live comfortably. I, by means of my own hard work and God's blessing, will start the boys in life, and thus acknowledge a debt to my dear father, which I can never fully pay. Letty is a little jewel, or rather, she is worth all the jewels in a king's crown, being more for use than decoration. Her cheerfulness is obscured just now, of course, for she dearly loved my father; but her pale cheek is, I think, but the livery of the country, which strikes me in painful contrast with the Hebe coloring in England. The dirge-like tone of her voice, too, is but the national note, not so much the voice of sadness as of `sickness.' `Every village has its song,' says Carlisle; I wish ours were a livelier one. “When I think that school-girls' friendships are, for the most part, mere accidents of propinquity, I rejoice that ours, like all true matches, was fore-ordained. I began with making you my pet, I believe you are five years my junior, and now you are my confidante—partly, because you are true as steel, and will not betray what I tell you, and partly that you will not advise me, or chide me; and you are unmarried —kind to kind, is natural. Perhaps you will divine that I am trying to silence my conscience that tells me my sister Eleanor should be my confidante; that a sister—and such a sister!—is the nearest friend, the friend Heaven bestowed; and truly Eleanor would be my elect friend from all the world, but that she is married. She has projected herself into another self, and, though two make one for themselves, they make two for the rest of us. “Thank you, my dear friend. Yes, I am getting into the old track famously. Some of my old clients have welcomed me cordially; and though I was cruelly knocked down from those `steeps so hard to climb' of my profession, yet I am in no wise discouraged. True, my competitors shot ahead of me, but I shall gain upon them. There is nothing like the whip and spur of necessity; in our land, the poor workingman is on vantage-ground, the general sympathy is with him, and if he be capable, and in earnest, he has plenty of work to do. I have delivered two Lectures, made up of my foreign observations, which were well received, and filled my pockets. I have had many requests to repeat them. I shall not. A man should not be diverted from his profession by `fancy work.' I have offers from booksellers and editors that will profitably fill my leisure hours, if I have them. Thus, you see, I can answer your inquiry satisfactorily. I do not `regret the obligations' I have assumed for my step-brothers. I have economical quarters, and by avoiding hotel-life, and all superfluous indulgence, I shall compass my great object—their education; and after that, Yankee boys can take care of themselves. * * * “He's a trump—take my word for it, Dates. He lectured at the Mercantile last evening. I went early, and got a seat directly in front of him. It seemed as if he could not keep his eyes off from me! The house was choke-full, and all attention. You might have heard a pin fall. He was posted up about every thing t'other side, and told us a lot about Greece and Athens, and Egypt and Thebes. There were a number of literary characters present, distinguished authors and authoresses that write in the Magazines. He got, they say, $400 by this Lecture alone! Don't he know how to coin money out of talents? He looks like a different individual—so genteel!—you can't think! “All other interests are superseded just now by the alarming illness of Eleanor's boy—her only boy. His illness has come suddenly. But yesterday, he seemed to stand on the hill-top of life, radiant with the rosy tints of morning, casting down into many hearts the hopes and promises of a long, bright day. “Thank you, for the list of scholars—fifteen in your school! These, with the promised five out of it, will supply the deficiencies in our income the next year; and thus, if we make a fortunate disposition of our house, my husband will be enabled to repair his strength by a year's travel in Europe, and rest from work. Thank you, too, for your assurance that I do not interfere with your accomplished musical professor, as my lower terms, according with my inferior ability, also accord with my pupils' smaller means. And thank you, more than all, for your gentle warning, lest, in my eagerness to afford my husband material aid, I lose sight of my first duty; that to my children and household. They are providentially cared for. An elderly cousin of my husband, Effie Lynn, has just lost her home. We are glad to give her the shelter of our's. She is a delicately strung, nervous little body, and will, in a way, increase my cares; but she will also immensely relieve them, as, being most kind, faithful, and fond of children, I can tranquilly leave my girls with her during my working hours.
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179Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Requires cookie*
 Title:  Married or single?  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Miss Herbert went in, on her way to her sister's, to Steinberg's music-shop. He was not there. The door was ajar that communicated with a little inner parlor; and while she was tossing over some sheets of music on the counter, she heard voices. One was cheerful, and familiar; the other low, and “full of tears.” “Accept my thanks for an offer, which of course I owe directly or indirectly to you. The appointment proposed neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications, or my inclinations. “Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister,” said the letter, “that his answer is a little crusty. You know how these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation, followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God appoints are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is through their intervention that he has failed of his election to the presidency of — College. I rather rejoice in this failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself pledged by his clerical vow. “I have been passing the evening alone with my mother. I do that dutiful act now and then. My mother is regularly pious, straight-laced, but she discreetly avoids meddling with my affairs. I fancied she had her suspicions after Jessie's sudden demise, but she said nothing—wise in her generation is my mother. `Apropos des bottes,' I met that girl Jessy in the street not long ago—she is shockingly changed—gone like the rest of them. She stopped me, and spoke to me, and who of all the world do you think was with me!—G. H. By Jupiter, Sam, I thought my game was up —but bless these fine young ladies!—bless their voluntary and involuntary blindness! To return to my tête-à-tête with my mother. After a preliminary fidgeting she began: `I have long wished, my son, to speak to you on an interesting subject. The town, you know, Horace, is giving you to Miss Herbert.' I bowed and looked, I'll answer for it, as blank as white paper. `I have no objection to make,' she continued (that is, revered mother, you will not oppose a will you can't control) `I must confess I should have preferred another selection. Your dear father in his life-time tried hard to purchase the beautiful Carlton property next ours, and when I think of what I know to have been his wish, of course it seems to me a pity that you do not prefer Miss Anne Carlton, who is quite as handsome and as superior as Miss Herbert, and more—(I wondered what my mother stumbled at), and more—docile—more like to make a pliant wife. But of course it is for you to decide—it is nothing to me in a worldly point of view.'—Humbug, Sam, she would give her right hand to see me married to Anne— and her `beautiful property.' `It is a trial,' she continued, `when an only son comes to marry; daughters-in-law are not daughters, but mothers are always mothers.' She wiped her eyes, perhaps tears from them, for it is a tremendous struggle to ungrapple her hopes from the Carlton estate. I assured my venerable parent that I felt deeply grateful for her generosity, but I only nibbled at the bait;—it is too soon to pour my confidence into the maternal bosom. The balances are still quivering. They shall not turn against me. I know, Sam, you think me a fool for this dogged pursuit, when, as you say, there are scores of pretty women—Anne Carltons—that I might marry for the asking, or, better still, have without the cost, and risks, and tedium of marriage; or, I may enjoy the swing of youth, you tell me, and at forty, fifty, or sixty buy a pretty young wife. Wives have their price in our pure young republic, and if not quite as cheap as in a Turkish market, they are as surely to be bought. But, my boy, I can not give up the chase now. Like other men, perhaps I `prize the thing ungained more than it is.' Six years since I made a bet with you and recorded it, that I would marry Grace Herbert. When I was a boy, if I set my wishes on a particular apple, on a particular tree, I would break my neck but I got it. My temper is not yet changed! “After the melo-dramatic scene which we shared yesterday, I feel bound to make an appeal to you, not wholly to justify myself, but to state some extenuating circumstances. This is not a fitting subject to discuss with a young lady, but it is thrust upon me, and you must pardon me. A recurrence to the circumstances of my early life will perhaps distill from your kind heart some drops of pity for me. Remember, that I was left at nineteen, when the appetites are keenest, and the love of pleasure uncontrollable, heir of a large fortune, and master of myself. My father, it is too well known, had not been over-strict in his life. With his example, I inherited his constitution. Pardon me, Julia; you are a sensible woman, and will allow their due weight to the grounds of my defence. At nineteen, then, I began my career; I had intimates older than myself, who were deep in the world. I plunged in with them, and I have no great satisfaction in the retrospect of the two years that followed. “I came to town last evening, to be ready to take possession on Friday. I find it very uncomfortable at the Astor House with my children. If you can give me possession tomorrow, you will very much oblige me. As it is but one day in anticipation, and you move so little furniture, I imagine it can not much inconvenience you. Please return by bearer a favorable answer. “You will not be surprised to hear that H. C. and I have come to the end of our long and intricate journey. Shall we have a glad welcome from you, and a blessing from my brother? It began:—“She is dead!—my child, Elise is dead. God's curse has fallen on me—she is dead—gone from me forever and forever. “When I came to this house, I summoned Mrs. Tallis' maid, and inquired for her mistress. `Oh, Miss,' she said, `it would scare you to see her. The poor lady has not left the nursery since first the child was taken ill. You can go in, for she takes no notice who goes in or who comes out; she seems to know nothing but that the child is dead. She has swallowed nothing but a sip of tea or coffee; she has not had a brush through her hair, and only takes her bath, and slips on her dressing-gown, as if she grudges the minutes she's away from Miss Elise's side.' I stopped her prating, and went, as seemed to me best, directly to Mrs. Tallis. Oh, Eleanor, what a spectacle! The last time I saw Augusta Tallis was at Mrs. Seton's ball, splendidly arrayed, brilliantly beautiful! She was now colorless as the little blighted blossom she hung over. Her flesh has melted away; she looks ten years older; and yet, haggard as she is, her hair matted, her dress neglected, her exquisite beauty impressed me as it never did before. It is now instinct with spirit, though the spirit be in prison and in torment. She was kneeling, when I entered, beside her child's little couch, her head lying on her child's low pillow. I went to her and laid my hand on her head. She did not notice me. I stood hoping for some sigh or motion—there was none. I turned my eyes to the child—she looks like a sleeping cherub—so serene, so lovely! Thoughts of the salvation she had wrought for me, flooded my heart. I kissed the shining locks on her temples, and murmured something, I know not what, expressions of my debt to her. The mother started, as if from deep sleep and dreams, and said, `Who is it? what is it?' I sank down beside her, and put my arm around her quivering frame. `Dear friend,' I said, `I have come to thank you and to bless her—you and your child have saved me, Augusta. She inspired you to write that letter to me.' I shall never forget the instant change of her countenance—it was from death to life—from despair to hope. `I thought it was so,' she said; `she seemed to speak to me out of that death silence—to tell me the only thing left for me to do in this world—and I did it—and I shall see her again; shall I? Oh, tell me you believe I shall! that I am not a castaway!' I thought of your caution, Eleanor, and resisted my impulse to fold her to my bosom, and say nothing but the balmiest words I could think of. I spoke yours instead. `Surely I believe you will see your child again,' I said, `if you faithfully receive the admonition our heavenly Father sends to you through her.' `Oh, tell me what it is,' she said, `my head is so weak, so dizzy. Why, there is nothing left for me in this life to do—it is all empty and dark. My husband must hate me, must cast me off—our child has died by my neglect.' Now I soothed her, Eleanor; I begged her to be quiet, and to wait, and by-and-by she would see God's gracious purpose, if she would but look to him—his arms were always outstretched to the returning child. She seemed a little comforted and laid her head on my lap, and the tears flowed with less anguish. But she broke forth again, and wrung her hands and said, `Oh, she was not like any other child! she was so sweet! so bright! such a merry laugh— did you ever hear her laugh? Oh, my heavens, I shall never laugh again! And she could be so quiet. When I had my nervous head-aches she would lie by me for an hour with her little cool hand on my forehead, and if I but sighed she would kiss me; but she will never kiss me again, never, never!' By degrees I soothed away this paroxysm, and she permitted me to lay her on the sofa, and bathe her head, and while I stroked her temples, she fell asleep, and slept naturally for an hour, the first time, her woman avers, since the child became ill; but that can hardly be. Ignorant people are apt to express their sympathy by exaggerating the demonstrations of suffering. When Augusta awoke, she took, without resistance, the nourishment I offered. And what was more important, she seemed comforted by my presence, and ready to open her heart to me. She returned to her child's low couch, and after having sat by her a long time in thoughtful and tearless silence—`Oh, Grace,' she said, `I begin to comprehend what you said to me—that God's dealing with me was supremely wise and loving; was not that what you said? My head has been so confused— it is getting clearer now.' “Have you, reader, ever experienced a great sorrow? and if so, have you not seen afterward how it discloses heights and depths in your spiritual nature which you had never known, and resources upon which you had never drawn; how it produces susceptibilities which you had never before felt; how it induces a tenderness of mind that makes it ductile almost as the clay, and ready to receive the stamp of the divine image; how little animosities and hatreds are banished and forgotten, while the heart has new yearnings toward all that live, and especially toward all that suffer; how the soul sickens at mere shows and appearances, and demands realities, while it hungers after the good and the true; how this world recedes less, while the world of immortality comes on as if now first revealed, and incloses you in its light, just as when the glare of the day is withdrawn and the darkness moves over us, we gaze on a new sky, and bathe in the starry splendors of the milky way?” She wrote:—“Mr. Bates, please send an express to Mr. Archibald Lisle, requesting him to return to New York without delay, on important business of my brother's. “Dear Nelly, you'll not care for these speculations when you are longing to hear of your husband; but you will forgive them, knowing I have always been addicted to what Shakspeare courteously calls `maiden meditation.' I am coming to you on Saturday, with Frank's last words and kisses for you and the children. He went off cheered by a promise I made (and will explain to you), that I will put my shoulder to your obstructed wheel. “Uncle Walter came home yesterday; for home, my house is to be to him henceforth, unless you steal him from me. The children were in transports at seeing him. `You shall never go away from us again!' cried May, sitting on one of his knees, while Nel stuck, like a burr, to the other. `I never will, May,' he replied, `if your mother can find a place in her little box for me; be it in attic or closet.' `A place for you, Uncle Walter, I guess she can—and if mother can't, I can; you can double up and sleep with me in my trundle-bed!' Nel put in her claim, `You can double up double, Uncle Watty,' she said, `and sleep in my tib.' Uncle Walter laughed; Nel brushed a tear from his cheek, saying, `How funny you are, Uncle Watty! to laugh and cry too!' `I have a room ready for dear Uncle Walter, girls!' I said, whereupon May shouted, `Oh, I know, mother, I know it's for Uncle Walter you have been fixing the dining-room; you might have told me, mother, when I asked you what you got the new paper and paint for; and the new bedstead and book-case, and easy chair, and every thing. It was not fair, mother, not to tell me!' `I only waited, May, till Uncle Walter consented to the arrangement—let him come and see if he can manage in our narrow quarters.' Uncle Walter, the girls at his heels, followed me. I confess, that as I opened the door, I thought the room looked pleasant with its pretty new carpet, fresh chintz curtains and covers, and the little decorations with which I had endeavored to set off the few comforts I had been able to stow in a space fifteen by twelve. After looking round with the sweetest satisfaction, Uncle Walter seized a vase of fresh flowers, and on pretence of smelling them, with childlike guile, hid his tears; he need not. The soft emotions become his robust, manly face. I remember your once telling him that his ever-ready smiles and tears denoted his latent youth, and became him, as blossoms do a rugged old tree. His countenance changed, `But Eleanor,' he said, `this was your dining-room?' `It was, Uncle Walter, and I am getting, in the place of a mere convenience, a living, loving soul.' `I accept it, my child,' he said, `as freely as you give it, and we won't quarrel as to which has the best of the bargain, the giver or the receiver. My spirit will have rest with you, and in this “fifteen by twelve,” space for its freest breath. It has been starved, pinched, and chilled long enough in those big Bond-street rooms, where downy beds did not rest me, nor cushioned chairs give me ease. I hated the place from the moment Grace left the house; and to return to it—pah! it would be the wilderness without the manna!' “I have often remarked to you that the affairs of this life never turn out according to our short-sighted expectations. L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. Who could have expected that Mrs. Tallis' rash interference with your prospects would have led to Anne's gain. But so it is. (Then followed a deal of twaddle; `she trusted that Anne would not be dazzled with her brilliant future, and that she herself should “continue humble, and occupied with her duties,'” etc., etc.) The letter concluded, “As I have often remarked, every thing is mixed in this world, and truly, my dear Grace, my happiness is alloyed by the thought of your disappointment. (Thus began the doctor's epistle.)
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180Author:  Billings Josh 1818-1885Requires cookie*
 Title:  Josh Billings, hiz sayings  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The mule is haf hoss, and haf Jackass, and then kums tu a full stop, natur diskovering her mistake. Tha weigh more, akordin tu their heft, than enny other kreetur, except a crowbar. Tha kant hear enny quicker, nor further than the hoss, yet their ears are big enuff for snow shoes. You kan trust them with enny one whose life aint worth enny more than the mules. The only wa tu keep them into a paster, is tu turn them into a medder jineing, and let them jump out. Tha are reddy for use, just as soon as they will du tu abuse. Tha haint got enny friends, and will live on huckel berry brush, with an ockasional chanse at Kanada thissels. Tha are a modern invenshun, i dont think the Bible deludes tu them at tall. Tha sel for more money than enny other domestik animile. Yu kant tell their age by looking into their mouth, enny more than you kould a Mexican cannons. Tha never hav no dissease that a good club wont heal. If tha ever die tha must kum rite tu life agin, for i never herd nobody sa “ded mule.” Tha are like sum men, very korrupt at harte; ive known them tu be good mules for 6 months, just tu git a good chanse to kick sumbody. I never owned one, nor never mean to, unless there is a United Staits law passed, requiring it. The only reason why tha are pashunt, is bekause tha are ashamed ov themselfs. I have seen eddikated mules in a sirkus. Tha kould kick, and bite, tremenjis. I would not sa what I am forced tu sa again the mule, if his birth want an outrage, and man want tu blame for it. Enny man who is willing tu drive a mule, ought to be exempt by law from running for the legislatur. Tha are the strongest creeturs on earth, and heaviest, ackording tu their sise; I herd tell ov one who fell oph from the tow path, on the Eri kanawl, and sunk as soon as he touched bottom, but he kept rite on towing the boat tu the nex stashun, breathing thru his ears, which stuck out ov the water about 2 feet 6 inches; i did'nt see this did, but an auctioneer told me ov it, and i never knew an auctioneer tu lie unless it was absolutely convenient. “Dear Augustus Sidney Bloodgood: Having a fu spare time tew devote terestial things, i take mi pen in hand tew rite yu a fu lines. I am well, and hope theze fu lines will find yu enjoying the same blessin. I hav jist returned from the gardin ov Eden whare i hav bin with Dave Sturgiss, who was killed at the battell ov Gettisburg bi gitting choked with a pease ov hard tacks. The weather iz fine, and there iz evry prospeck ov krops; I never see the potaters look finer. Dri goods is cheap here, yu can buy good factory cottin cloth, yard wide, for eleven cents a yard and hav thred thrown in. I see the Widder Bostwick yesterday, she looks as starched up as ever.
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