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1Author:  Aldrich Thomas Bailey 1836-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Père Antoine's date palm  
 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: Near the Levee, and not far from the old French Cathedral, in New Orleans, stands a fine date-palm, thirty feet in height, growing out in the open air as sturdily as if its sinuous roots were sucking strength from their native earth.
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2Author:  Jones J. B. (John Beauchamp) 1810-1866Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Winkles, or, The merry monomaniacs  
 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: Babbleton was an ancient village near the city of Philadelphia. It had a wharf where the steamboats landed, and a depot where the locomotives whistled. Hence, although the principal mansions were situated on commodious lots, and in many instances separated from each other by broad yards and close fences, it is not to be inferred there was ever a monotonous deficiency of noise and excitement in the place. It had its proud and its miserable, its vanities and its humiliations, its bank and its bakers, its millionaires and its milliners; and was not unfrequently the scene of some of those entertaining comedies of life, which have been considered in all enlightened countries worthy of preservation in veracious and impartial history. Such a record we have attempted to produce; and although the direct manner of narration adopted may offend the taste of the fastidious critic, yet the less acutely discerning reader may possibly deem himself compensated for the labor of perusal, by the reliable assurance of the anthenticity of the story, and the interest attending the occurrences flitting before his mental vision. “My Dear Aunt:—It becomes my melancholy duty to announce a sad calamity—an unexpected suicide—which must affect you deeply. This morning poor Jocko was found suspended from the eve of the portico, and quite dead. That he did it himself, must be evident from the fact that no human being would be likely to climb down to the edge of the roof. It seems that he had driven a large nail into the wood through the last link of his chain, and then sprang over, either dislocuting. his neck, or producing suffocation. I could not hear his struggles, from the distant chamber I occupied, or you should not have been called upon to lament his untimely end. Poor Jocko! As the weather is very warm, I will have his body taken down and packed in ice. It will keep, dear aunt, until I receive your instructions, in regard to the disposition you would have made of it. Every thing shall be done according to your orders. You need not hasten your return to the city. I am quite comfortable here, and the house is kept very quiet from morning till night. My love to mother, sister, uncle, all. “If I see so plainly the imprudence of such disgraceful matches in others, you may suppose I shall be careful to avoid falling into the like silly practices myself. It is true I intend to marry. My nuptials will be celebrated some time during the present year. But the man of my choice will be a gentleman of distinction—a genius of celebrity. You know him, Walter—Mr. Pollen, the poet. If he is poor—if he has been sometimes, as you informed me, without a shirt—that is no disgrace. How was it with Chatterton, Defoe, and even Milton himself? And what lady in the world would not have been honored by being the wife of a Chatterton, a Defoe, a Milton? Shame upon the ladies who permitted them to languish in poverty! I will set an example for the wealthy ladies to follow hereafter. Genius is the very highest kind of aristocracy, because it cannot be conferred by mortal man, nor taken away even by the detracting tongue of women. Farewell. Present my adieus to your mother and Lucy. We will not meet again, unless it be accidentally, and then it is probable there will be no recognition on my part, and I desire there shall be none on yours. You may say to Mr. Lowe that a visit from him would be agreeable to me I believe him to be a gentleman, and would have no objections to his society, if he could answer one or two questions satisfactorily. You may say to him that although I am resolved to marry, I don't expect to feel what the silly girls call a romantic passion for any man. I don't believe in any such nonsense. I want a partner at whist as much as any thing else. “My Dear Niece:—I send my Edith for you, and I desire that you will return with her, by the evening mail. She is discreet, and no one knows her in Babbleton. By accompanying her, your persecutor will not be able to trace you to your asylum. Wear a thick veil, so that he may not recognize your features when you go to the cars. You may safely confide in Edith. She has been my confidant for many years, as your mother knows. She was personally acquainted with the Great Unknown—Sir Walter—and is familiar with the plots and stratagems of villains. She reads for me every night, and has a romantic and literary disposition. Since I received your dear pathetic letter, I have been going over the `Children of the Abbey' again, and find my eyes continually suffused with the miseries of poor Amanda. My dear child! You remind me of her so much, that I am painfully impatient to clasp you to my heart! Do not delay a moment. My love to sister Edith. Tell her not to insist on my Edith having any refreshments, for she never takes any. “Dear Sir: Excuse my bad writing, for you know I write with my left hand, and hold the paper down with my right stump. I saw Col. Oakdale to-day, and he said you would be home to-night, therefore I write. “Here is news from Babbleton,” said Lucy, and narrated in my dear mother's merry vein. Listen, aunt:—“Griselda still keeps my poor brother a close prisoner, while she dashes about in her coach and four. But she has cut all her poor acquaintances, and of course I am blotted out of her books. She passes without calling, and without knowing how heartily I laugh at the ridiculous figure she makes. But she patronized our minister, Mr. Amble, and that is a charitable expenditure, because the money will certainly reach the poor of the parish. Mr. A. you know, has either nine or thirteen (I forget which) children of his own, and they must be provided for. I suppose it is because I could render no assistance, that he has not called on me lately—not, I believe, since my house was sold. Perhaps he did not hear I was the purchaser * * * Still I think Roland is love mad. But his passion is two-fold. He has laid regular siege to Virginia Oakdale, who is my guest, and opens his batteries once or twice every week, and then disappears most mysteriously. I presume he occupies his blue carriage on the alternate days. Virginia never refuses to see him; but the spirited girl laughs at his pretensions, and banters him in such a moeking manner that he must soon despair of making any progress. Why do you not treat him in the same way? Or why do you not marry him, and then have your revenge? It is so absurd to see men of fortune running after the girls, and vainly teasing them for a smile. Marry them, and they will run the other way. Walter is still at Washington, and has not yet received his appointment. I believe he has ceased writing to Virginia. What does it mean? More tomfoolery? Lowe has been absent some time—and I suppose you have seen him. Remember! * * * We had an exciting scene in the street the other day. Sergeant Blore, when stumping on his way to see me, was seized by Mrs. Edwards. She demanded his money—and he cried murder! He tripped her up with his wooden leg and made his escape. But it seems he sprained her ankle, and she has since threatened to bring “an haction” against him for “hassault” and battery! You see how husbands are served! Bill Dizzle gallants Patty O'Pan to church every Sunday. I wrote you how Patty mortally affronted the Arums and Crudles. She kept up till Bill and Susan beat a retreat. It has been a mystery to me how the impudent hussy obtained the means to perpetrate such an annoyance. Some of her finery must have cost a great deal of money, and no one ever supposed Lowe possessed a superabundance of it. By the way, I forgot to mention that Bell Arum has written home a precious budget of news, which her mother, as usual, has published to all her acquaintances. She says she saw you examining the register, and that you were in the habit of wandering about alone and unprotected. She says Mr. Lowe is likewise in the city; and if her ma would put that and that together, she would know as much as the writer, no doubt! And she says they have an invitation to the aristocratic Mrs. Laurel's parties, and that some of the British nobility of the highest rank are expected over this winter. But (she says) if L. W. and Mr. L. are to be met there, she is determined to expose them. “My impudent nephew Walter, who will persist in writing me, notwithstanding I have cast him off for sanctioning his uncle's marriage with that vulgar bonnet-maker (I forget her name), informs me that Mr. Pollen, the silly poet who abandoned my hospitality to borrow a few dirty dollars of the milliner, is now working himself to death in New York to earn a scanty living, which he might have had for nothing by remaining here and behaving himself. He is a fool—just like other poets who have genius, and therefore he ought not to be permitted to kill himself. Enclosed I send a check for a trifling sum payable to bearer, which, perhaps, with delicate management you may induce him to make use of for his own benefit. Perhaps he needs some new shirts. I have seen him twice without any—and I believe he has one of Walter's yet. Speaking of checks and of Walter, I gave my cast-off nephew one when he was on his way to that Babylonian rendezvous of demagogues, which, for some reason—or rather for the want of reason—he did not use. I suppose he gave it to some fool or other poorer than himself. But the cashier of the bank did not pay the money. There needed Walter's name on it, he said, written with his own hand, as it was drawn to his order, or something of the sort, which I did not understand, and did not choose to inquire about. Walter says Lucy is with you. Tell her I have five letters from Ralph Roland begging me to intercede for him. I believe him a knave—but if he writes me again I shall also believe him in earnest, and that the rascal is absolutely in love. It would be a better match than her uncle's, which she attended. “It must be for me,” said Walter. “Put it on the table. I will look at it when I have searched my pockets once more.” Not finding the check, he opened the letter and read as follows: “Misther Walther Wankle, Sir — I have sane Misthress Famble and mi busnes is faxd. She seed you at super and sez she wants to no you. She ses she liks yer lukes, and wud like to sarve you but ses Misther Famble is beging for a nother man. Don't be onasy she kin do mor in a dozzin husbins. Pleases anser this and lave at the barr for your obeydant sarvint “Would you deign to read the news here, if I promise not to be tedious? Well, I promise. The mortgage on our house and grounds has been paid. Will you facilitate me on that? You must not ask where the money came from, for that is a secret upon which to exercise your faculty of guessing. But that is not all. Colonel Oakdale's debt to Roland has been paid. That must be news for you. You would never guess who loaned him the money, and I will tell you, so that you may pour out your gratitude to him should your relations with the family of the senator—we have just heard of his election by the Legislature—ever become more intimate than they have been hitherto. It was John Dowly, whom every one supposed to be in indigent circumstances. Blessings on my old beau. Walter never slept more soundly, or enjoyed more pleasant dreams, than he did in prison. And he had an excellent appetite for breakfast, which was damaged, however, by the contents of the letters and papers brought in by his keeper.
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3Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories  
 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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4Author:  Alcott Louisa May 1832-1888Requires cookie*
 Title:  On Picket Duty, and Other 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: WHAT air you thinkin' of, Phil?
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5Author:  Aldrich Thomas Bailey 1836-1907Requires cookie*
 Title:  Daisy's necklace, and what came of it  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: PROLOGUE. “Come and see me without delay. I have got a— “Sir, — By calling at my office, No. — Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4 P. M., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
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6Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  Cipher  
 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: Spreading this upon the table before him, Mr. Gillies slowly read—but not aloud, for, to have afforded gratuitous information upon his affairs even to the walls and the sea, would have been to do violence to his nature—these words: Pardon the seeming discourtesy of my abrupt departure, and my first signifying it to Francia. I could not see you again, Neria, I could not write to you of less than the whole.
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7Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  Outpost  
 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 last day of October!” said the Sun to himself, — “the last day of my favorite month, and the birthday of my little namesake! See if I don't make the most of it!” “Since writing to you last month, I have been going on with my studies under the Rev. Mr. Brown, as I then mentioned. I do not find that it hurts me to study in the hot weather at all; and I have enjoyed my vacation better this way than if I had been idle. “We shall be at home on Wednesday evening, at six o'clock, and shall bring some guests. You will please prepare tea for eight persons; and make up five beds, three of them single ones. Tell Susan to make the house look as pretty as she can; and send for any thing she or you need in the way of preparation. Yours of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your letters always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the world and the glory thereof, and find that all is vanity, as saith the Preacher. Do not imagine that I am studying divinity instead of medicine; but to-day is Sunday, and I have been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the minister besides.
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8Author:  Austin Jane G. (Jane Goodwin) 1831-1894Requires cookie*
 Title:  The shadow of Moloch mountain  
 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 Brewster Place 454EAF. [Page 005]. In-line image of a house with a straw roof and smoking chimney. In front of the house is a person holding open a gate. “My Dear Niece Beatrice: It is a long time since we heard any thing from you, and I trust that both you and brother Israel are in good health and prospered in your undertakings. We are all in the enjoyment of our usual health, except your grandmother, who has an attack of rheumatism, from standing at the porch-door talking to Jacob, our hired man, about the new calf. This calf is the daughter of Polly, the red and white heifer that you liked so well and dressed with a garland of wild flowers, which she pulled off and eat up. That was last Independence-day, you remember, and you got mostly blue flowers, because, you said, she must be red, blue, and white. The new calf is very pretty, and we think of raising it; but we shall not name it until you come home, as you may have a choice in the matter. Grandfather is very well, considering, and often speaks of you. He says he wants to see you very much, and hopes you will not have grown out of knowledge. He forgets, being old, that you are grown up already, and will not change outwardly any more until you begin to grow old, which I suppose will not be yet. “I know that you will feel remorseful, because, even without fault of your own, you have done me an injustice by your suspicions; and, later on, have dealt me a blow whose wound will endure for years. To natures ike yours, there is no comfort like reparation and atonement. I offer you the opportunity for both in this set of trinkets, brought from India by me for the unknown lady of my love. If you will take them and wear them, I shall feel that we are friends once more, and that you have forgiven yourself and me for the injury that friendship has sustained. Do not refuse me this amends; and believe me always while I live,
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9Author:  Bagby George William 1828-1883Requires cookie*
 Title:  What I did with my fifty millions  
 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: For twenty years at least I had been in the habit of putting myself to sleep by imagining what I would do with the precise sum of fifty millions of dollars. An excellent hypnotic I found it, with no morphine or chloral after-effects. It may have unfitted me for the hard grind of actual life, but no matter now. When it came I was as tranquil as a May morning. The fact is, the transfer was not completed until the close of the month of May, 1876. Negotiations, etc., had been going on for months beforehand, and it has always been a matter of inordinate pride to me that I attended to my regular duties and kept the whole thing a profound secret from my family, friends, and, indeed, everybody in America—the money having come from Hindostan. It required a deal of innocent lying to do this, but secrecy was indispensable to the surprises I meditated, and a surprise, you know, is the very cream of the delight as well of giving as receiving.
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10Author:  Baldwin Joseph G. (Joseph Glover) 1815-1864Requires cookie*
 Title:  The flush times of Alabama and Mississippi  
 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: And what history of that halcyon period, ranging from the year of Grace, 1835, to 1837; that golden era, when shin-plasters were the sole currency; when bank-bills were “as thick as Autumn leaves in Vallambrosa,” and credit was a franchise,—what history of those times would be complete, that left out the name of Ovid Bolus? As well write the biography of Prince Hal, and forbear all mention of Falstaff. In law phrase, the thing would be a “deed without a name,” and void; a most unpardonable casus omissus. My Dear Sir,—Having established, at great expense, and from motives purely patriotic and disinterested, a monthly periodical for the purpose of supplying a desideratum in American Literature, namely, the commemoration and perpetuation of the names, characters, and personal and professional traits and histories of American lawyers and jurists, I have taken the liberty of soliciting your consent to be made the subject of one of the memoirs, which shall adorn the columns of this Journal. This suggestion is made from my knowledge, shared by the intelligence of the whole country, of your distinguished standing and merits in our noble profession; and it is seconded by the wishes and requests of many of the most prominent gentlemen in public and private life, who have the honor of your acquaintance. Dear Sir—I got your letter dated 18 Nov., asking me to send you my life and karackter for your Journal. Im obleeged to you for your perlite say so, and so forth. I got a friend to rite it—my own ritin being mostly perfeshunal. He done it—but he rites such a cussed bad hand I cant rede it: I reckon its all korrect tho'. My Dear Sir—The very interesting sketch of your life requested by us, reached here accompanied by your favor of the 1st inst., for which please receive our thanks. Dear Mr. Editor—In your p. s. which seems to be the creem of your correspondents you say I can't get in your book without paying one hundred and fifty dollars—pretty tall entrants fee! I suppose though children and niggers half price—I believe I will pass. I'll enter a nolly prossy q. O-n-e-h-u-n-d-r-e-d dollars and fifty better! Je-whellikens! We can only give it in our way, and only such parts as we can remember, leaving out most of the episodes, the casual explanations and the slang; which is almost the play of Hamlet with the Prince of Denmark omitted. But, thus emasculated, and Cave's gas let off, here goes a report about as faithful as a Congressman's report of his spoken eloquence when nobody was listening in the House.
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11Author:  Longstreet Augustus Baldwin 1790-1870Requires cookie*
 Title:  Master William Mitten, or, A youth of brilliant talents, who was ruined by bad luck  
 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: Many years ago there lived in a small village in the State of Georgia, a pious widow, who was left with an only son and two daughters. She was in easy circumstances, and managed her temporal concerns with great prudence; so that her estate increased with her years. Her son exhibited, at a very early age, great precocity of genius, and the mother lost no opportunity of letting the world know it. When he was but six years old, he had committed little pieces in prose and poetry, which he delivered with remarkable propriety for his years. He knew as much of the scriptures as any child of that age probably ever knew; and he had already made some progress in geography and mental arithmetic. With all this, he was a very handsome boy. It is not to be wondered at, that his mother should be bringing him out in some department of science, upon all ocoasions; of course; she often brought him out upon very unsuitable occasions, and sometimes kept him out, greatly to the annoyance of her company. Not to praise his performances, would have been discouraging to Master William Mitten, and very mortifying to his mother; accordingly, whether they were well-timed or ill-timed, everybody praised them. The ladies, all of whom loved Mrs. Mitten, were not unfrequently thrown into raptures at the child's exhibitions. They would snatch him up in their arms, kiss him, pronounce him a perfect prodigy, both in beauty of person and power of mind; and declare that they would be willing to go beggars upon the world to have such a child. Others would piously exhort Mrs. Mitten not to set her heart too much upon the child. “They never saw the little creature, without commingled emotions of delight and alarm; so often is it the case that children of such wonderful gifts die early.” Her brother, Capt. David Thomson, a candid, plain-dealing excellent man, often reproved Mrs. M. for parading, as he called it, “her child upon all occasions.” “Having recently understood that you have procured a private teacher, we have ventured to stop your advertisement, though ordered to continue it until forbid, under the impression that you have probably forgotten to have it stopped. If, however, we have been misinformed, we will promptly resume the publication of it. You will find our account below; which as we are much in want of funds, you will oblige us by settling as soon as convenient. Hoping your teacher is all that you could desire in one, “Dear Sir: On taking leave of me, you requested me to give you early information of the standing, conduct, and progress of your nephew; and, as my letter will reach you through the kindness of Mr. Jones, the bearer, nearly or quite a week sooner than it would by regular—or rather irregular—course of mail, I avail myself of the opportunity to comply with your request. William has been under my instruction just a week to-day; and though I would not venture confident predictions of him, upon so short an acquaintance, I will give you my present estimate of him, for what it is worth. If I am not grossly deceived in him, he is destined to a most brilliant future. He was a little rusty in the principles of construction at first—no, in the application of them—for of the principles themselves, he is master, and he improves in the application of them with every lesson. His class was a week ahead of him in the Greek grammar, when he entered it. He has already made up the deficiency, and now stands fully equal to the best in his class in this study—indeed, in all their studies. He is moral, orderly, and studious, and if he will only do half as much for himself as nature has done for him, he will be the pride of his kindred and the boast of his country. You will not be much more delighted at receiving this intelligence, than I am in communicating it. “Dear Mother:—I just write for fear you will feel uneasy if you get no letter from me by this mail. Tom can tell you all about me. Delighted with my boarding house—Fare much better than New's. Health good—Told Mr. Wad'l I wished to go to preach'g with him, if he went to-day, but he don't go till next Sat'y—Best love to all. “My Dearest Boy: Two days after you left us, your Uncle was attacked with bilious fever. The attack is very severe, but we hope not fatal. Last evening he begged that you might be sent for. Come as quick as you can, in mercy to your horse. The Doctor says there is no probability of his dying in four or five days; so do not peril the life of your horse, in your haste to get here. “But the main object of this letter is to offer your son encouragements to return to school. He left here under great depression of spirits, and under the impression that his character was irretrievably lost. No one in this vicinity, in or out of the school, thinks so. Now that the story of his misfortunes is fully understood, every one attributes them to a train of untoward circumstances which surrounded him, on his return hither, rather than to depravity of heart. Indeed, he has some noble traits of character, which almost entirely conceal his faults from the eyes of the public and his school-fellows— I say the public, for though it is a very uncommon thing for the public to know or notice school-boy delinquencies, yet so wide-spread was William's reputation from his performances at our last Examination and Exhibition, that every one who knows him takes an interest in him, and every one, I believe, regards him with more of sympathy than censure. All would rejoice, I doubt not, to hear of his return to the school, and his return to his good habits. Gilbert Hay, his room-mate and bed-fellow, bids me say that he loves him yet, and that the half of his bed is still reserved for him; and the feelings of Gilbert Hay towards him, I believe, are the feelings of nine-tenths of the school towards him. For myself, I shall give him a cordial welcome. But you will naturally ask, what will be my dealings with him, if he return? I answer the question very frankly: I shall feel myself bound to correct him; though in so doing I shall not forget the many circumstances of extenuation in his case. Had he been guilty of but one offence, and that of a veneal nature, I should freely forgive it, as is my custom, with the first offence. But he has been guilty of several offences, and though none of them are very rare in schools, they are, nevertheless, such as I have never allowed to go unpunished in my school, and which I could not allow to escape with impunity in this instance, without setting a dangerous precedent, as well as showing marked partiality. I have reason to believe that William would cheerfully submit to the punishment of his faults, even though it were much severer than it will be, if that would restore him to his lost position; now, I can hardly conceive of anything better calculated to have that effect, than his volunteering to take the punishment which he knows awaits him on his return, when he might perchance avoid it by abandoning the school. But with or without the punishment, he has only to be, for ten months, what he has been for nearly as many, to regain the confidence of everybody. Nothing but the peculiar circumstances of this case, and the very lively interest which I take in the destiny of your highly-gifted son, could have induced me to write a letter so liable to misconstruction, as this is. But brief as is our acquaintance, I think you will credit me, when I assure you, that my own pecuniary interest has had no more to do with it, than yours will have in deliberating upon its contents. Verily, the loss or gain of a scholar is nothing to “When I think, my dearest mother, of the trouble I have given you—how I abused your goodness, and disappointed your reasonable expectations, my conscience smites me, and my cheeks burn with blushes. How could I have been such an ingrate! How could I have sent a pang to the bosom of the sweetest, the kindest, the tenderest, the holiest, the best of mothers! Well, the past is gone, and with it my childish, boyish follies: they have all been forgiven long ago, and no more are to be forgiven in future. That I am to get the first honor in my class is conceded by all the class except four. These four were considered equal competitors for it until I entered the class, and they do not despair yet; but they had as well, for they equal me in nothing but Mathematics, and do not excel me in that. The funds that you allow me ($500 per annum) are more than sufficient to meet all my college expenses, and allow me occasional pleasure rambles during the vacation. What I have written about my stand in College, you will of course understand as intended only for a mother's eye. “All your letters have been received. They have given the Principal of the School great uneasiness, and me great delight. He knows only whence they come—know you whether they have gone; into the most hallowed chamber of my heart. Mail your letters anywhere, but at Princeton; my answers will be returned through a confidante in Morristown. “I have been tormented by strange reports concerning you which I cannot, I will not believe, until they receive some confirmation from your own lips. I will not aggravate your griefs by repeating them now, farther than just to say, that if true, your last brief epistle from Princeton was untrue. “Mr. William Mitten—Sir: Your dismissal from College, and your misrepresentation to me, I could forgive; but I never can forgive your addresses to me, while you were actually engaged to Miss Amanda Ward. “Let them follow the heart of the giver.
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12Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The bandit queen  
 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: BY EMERSON BENNETT,
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13Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  The border rover  
 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 believe it is customary, when an individual sets out to write an autobiography, to begin at the beginning—that is to say, with his first recollection—and give a detailed account of the passing of his earliest years. I shall not adopt this plan; because, in the first place, the earlier years of my existence were not marked with events of peculiar interest to the reader; and in the second place, my narrative is intended merely as a chronicle of the most remarkable scenes and adventures through which I passed after arriving at the age of manhood. It may not be improper, however, to devote a few words to my birth, parentage and past life, in order to fairly introduce myself to the reader, with whom it is my design to make a rather long, and I hope agreeable, journey. “`I shall never cease to remember and pray for the preserver of my life. God bless, preserve and restore you. Shall I ever hear from you again?
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14Author:  Myers P. Hamilton (Peter Hamilton) 1812-1878Requires cookie*
 Title:  The prisoner of the border  
 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: Within view of those mystic mountains, which were long since rendered classic soil by the pen of Irving, and on the banks of that beautiful Hudson, whose charms defy even the power of genius to depict, was the quiet home of Walter Vrail. Not in the days when the ghostly Hendrick and his phantom followers made the rocky halls of the Catskills reverberate with their rumbling balls, and with the clatter of their falling nine-pins, and when their spectral flagon-bearer could be dimly seen at twilight, toiling up the misty ascent to join the shadow revellers, but in these later days, when the quaint old bowlers in doublet and jerkin, have retired deep within the bowels of the mountain, to pursue their endless game undisturbed by the plash of the swift steamboat, or the roar of the linked cars, plunging through dark passes, trembling along narrow ledges, and sending up their shrill scream through all the far recesses of a once holy solitude.
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15Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Requires cookie*
 Title:  Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan  
 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 Christmas eve, that happy period for the young who have parents above the wants and miseries of griping poverty, and notwithstanding a heavy snow was falling, the streets of the goodly city of Philadelphia were thronged with joyous citizens, many of them returning to their cheerful firesides, loaded with toys, which were to greet the eyes of the happy children, when they should awake on the morrow, as the mysterious presents of fabled St. Nicholas. It was a gala time to all but the homeless and destitute; and, alas! there are too many such, who, with fevered eyes, can only look upon the happiness of others through that deep veil of hopeless gloom which shuts out every cheerful ray. To such poor wretches it was a time of open mockery; for they keenly felt that but one tithe of what was now so freely spent for foolish toys, would have provided them against the pangs of starvation and death.
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16Author:  Stowe Harriet Beecher 1811-1896Requires cookie*
 Title:  My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history  
 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 appears to me that the world is returning to its second childhood, and running mad for Stories. Stories! Stories! Stories! everywhere; stories in every paper, in every crevice, crack and corner of the house. Stories fall from the pen faster than leaves of autumn, and of as many shades and colorings. Stories blow over here in whirlwinds from England. Stories are translated from the French, from the Danish, from the Swedish, from the German, from the Russian. There are serial stories for adults in the Atlantic, in the Overland, in the Galaxy, in Harper's, in Scribner's. There are serial stories for youthful pilgrims in Our Young Folks, the Little Corporal, “Oliver Optic,” the Youth's Companion, and very soon we anticipate newspapers with serial stories for the nursery. We shall have those charmingly illustrated magazines, the Cradle, the Rocking Chair, the First Rattle, and the First Tooth, with successive chapters of “Goosy Goosy Gander,” and “Hickory Dickory Dock,” and “Old Mother Hubbard,” extending through twelve, or twenty-four, or forty-eight numbers. MY Dear Friend and Teacher:—I scarcely dare trust myself to look at the date of your kind letter. Can it really be that I have let it he almost a year, hoping, meaning, sincerely intending to answer it, and yet doing nothing about it? Oh! my dear friend, I was a better girl while I was under your care than I am now; in those times I really did my duties; I never put off things, and I came somewhere near satisfying myself. Now, I live in a constant whirl—a whirl that never ceases. I am carried on from day to day, from week to week, from month to month, with nothing to show for it except a succession of what girls call “good times.” I don't read any thing but stories; I don't study; I don't write; I don't sew; I don't draw, or play, or sing, to any real purpose. I just “go into society,” as they call it. I am an idler, and the only thing I am good for is that I help to adorn a house for the entertainment of idlers; that is about all. My Dear Child:—You place me in an embarrassing position in asking me to speak on a subject, when your parents have already declared their wishes. My Dear Friend:—I am glad you have written as you have to Eva. It is perfectly inexplicable to me that a girl of her general strength of character can be so undecided. Eva has been deteriorating ever since she came from Europe. This fashionable life is to mind and body just like a hotbed to tender plants in summer, it wilts everything down. Eva was a good scholar and I had great hopes of her. She had a warm heart; she has really high and noble aspirations, but for two or three years past she has done nothing but run down her health and fritter away her mind on trifles. She is not half the girl she was at school, either mentally or physically, and I am grieved and indignant at the waste. Her only chance of escape and salvation is to marry a true man. My Dear Belle: Thanks for your kind letter with all its congratulations and inquiries,—for though as yet I have no occasion for congratulation, and nothing to answer to inquiry, I appreciate these all the same. My Dear Belle:—I told you I would write the end of my little adventure, and whether the “hermit” comes or not. Yes, my dear, sure enough, he did come, and mamma and we all like him immensely; he had really quite a success among us. Even Ida, who never receives calls, was gracious and allowed him to come into her sanctum because he is a champion of the modern idea about women. Have you seen an article in the “Milky Way” on the “Women of our Times,” taking the modern radical ground? Well, it was by him; it suited Ida to a hair, but some little things in it vexed me because there was a phrase or two about the “fashionable butterflies,” and all that; that comes a great deal too near the truth to be altogether agreeable. I don't care when Ida says such things, because she's another woman, and between ourselves we know there is a deal of nonsense current among us, and if we have a mind to talk about it among ourselves, why its like abusing one's own relations in the bosom of the family, one of the sweetest domestic privileges, you know; but, when lordly man begins to come to judgment and call over the roll of our sins, I am inclined to tell him to look at home, and to say, “Pray, what do you know about us sir?” I stand up for my sex, right or wrong; so you see we had a spicy little controversy, and I made the hermit open his eyes, (and, between us, he has handsome eyes to open). He looked innocently astonished at first to be taken up so briskly, and called to account for his sayings. You see the way these men have of going on and talking without book about us quite blinds them; they can set us down conclusively in the abstract when they don't see us or hear us, but when a real live girl meets them and asks an account of their sayings they begin to be puzzled. However, I must say my lord can talk when he fairly is put up to it. He is a true, serious, earnest-hearted man, and does talk beautifully, and his eyes speak when he is silent. The forepart of the evening, you see we were in a state of most charming agreement; he was in our little “Italy,” and we had the nicest of times going over all the pictures and portfolios and the dear old Italian life; it seems as if we had both of us seen, and thought of, and liked the same things—it was really curious! “Dear Cousin:—I have had no time to keep up correspondence with anybody for the past year. The state of my father's health has required my constant attention, day and night, to a degree that has absorbed all my power, and left no time for writing. For the last six months father has been perfectly helpless with the most distressing form of chronic rheumatism. His sufferings have been protracted and intense, so that it has been wearing even to witness them; and the utmost that I could do seemed to bring very little relief. And when, at last, death closed the scene, it seemed to be in mercy, putting an end to sufferings which were intolerable. My Darling Belle:—I have been a naughty girl to let your letter lie so long. But my darling, it is not true, as you there suggest, that the bonds of sisterly affection, which bound us in school, are growing weaker, and that I no longer trust you as a confidential friend. Believe me, the day will never come, dearest Belle, when I shall cease to unfold to you every innermost feeling. My Dearest Belle:—Since I wrote to you last there have been the strangest changes. I scarcely know what to think. You remember I told you all about Easter Eve, and a certain person's appearance, and about the stolen glove and all that. Your theory of accounting for all this was precisely mine; in fact I could think of no other. And, Belle, if I could only see you I could tell you of a thousand little things that make me certain that he cares for me more than in the way of mere friendship. I thought I could not be mistaken in that. There has been scarcely a day since our acquaintance began when I have not in some way seen him or heard from him; you know all those early services, when he was as constant as the morning, and always walked home with me; then, he and Jim Fellows always spend at least one evening in a week at our house, and there are no end of accidental meetings. For example, when we take our afternoon drives at Central Park we are sure to see them sitting on the benches watching us go by, and it came to be quite a regular thing when we stopped the carriage at the terrace and got out to walk to find them there, and then Alice would go off with Jim Fellows, and Mr. H. and I would stroll up and down among the lilac hedges and in all those lovely little nooks and dells that are so charming. I'm quite sure I never explored the treasures of the Park as I have this Spring. We have rambled everywhere— up hill and down dale—it certainly is the loveliest and most complete imitation of wild nature that ever art perfected. One could fancy one's self deep in the country in some parts of it; far from all the rush and whirl and frivolity of this great, hot, dizzy New York. You may imagine that with all this we have had opportunity to become very intimate. He has told me all about himself, all the history of his life, all about his mother, and his home; it seems hardly possible that one friend could speak more unreservedly to another, and I, dear Belle, have found myself speaking with equal frankness to him. We know each other so perfectly that there has for a long time seemed to be only a thin impalpable cob-web barrier between us; but you know Belle, that airy filmy barrier is something that one would not by a look or a word disturb. For weeks I have felt every day that surely the next time we meet all this must come to a crisis. That he would say in words what he says in looks—in involuntary actions— what in fact I am perfectly sure of. Till he speaks I must be guarded. I must hold myself back from showing him the kindly interest I really feel. For I am proud, as you know, Belle, and have always held the liberty of my heart as a sacred treasure. I have always felt a secret triumph in the consciousness that I did not care for anybody, and that my happiness was wholly in my own hands, and I mean to keep it so. Our friendship is a pleasant thing enough, but I am not going to let it become too necessary, you understand. It isn't that I care so very much, but my curiosity is really excited to know just what the real state of the case is; one wants to investigate interesting phenomena you know. When I saw that little glove movement on Easter Eve I confess I thought the game all in my own hands, and that I could quietly wait to say “checkmate” in due form and due time; but after all nothing came of it; that is, nothing decisive; and I confess I didn't know what to think. Sometimes I have fancied some obstacle or en tanglement or commitment with some other woman—this Cousin Caroline perhaps—but he talks about her to me in the most open and composed manner. Sometimes I fancy he has heard the report of my engagement to Sydney. If he has, why doesn't he ask me about it? I have no objection to telling him, but I certainly shall not open the subject myself. Perhaps, as Ida thinks, he is proud and poor and not willing to be a suitor to a rich young good-for-nothing. Well, that can't be helped, he must be a suitor if he wins me, for I shan't be; he must ask me, for I certainly shan't ask him, that's settled. If he would “ask me pretty,” now, who knows what nice things he might hear? I would tell him, perhaps, how much more one true noble heart is worth in my eyes than all that Wat Sydney has to give. Sometimes I am quite provoked with him that he should look so much, and yet say no more, and I feel a naughty wicked inclination to flirt with somebody else just to make him open those “grands yeux” of his a little wider and to a little better purpose. Sometimes I begin to feel a trifle vindictive and as if I should like to give him a touch of the claw. The claw, my dear, the little pearly claw that we women keep in reserve in the “patte de velours,” our only and most sacred weapon of defense. Dear Henderson:—You need feel no hesitancy about accepting in full every advantage in the position I propose to you, since you may find it weighted with disadvantages and incumbrances you do not dream of. In short, I shall ask of you services for which no money can pay, and till I knew you there was no man in the world of whom I had dared to ask them. I want a friend, courageous, calm, and true, capable of thinking broadly and justly, one superior to ordinary prejudices, who may be to me another, and in some hours a stronger, self. MY DEAREST BELLE:—Since I last wrote you wondrous things have taken place, and of course I must keep you au courant. Dear Hal:—My head buzzes like a swarm of bees. What haven't I done since you left? The Van Arsdels are all packing up and getting ready to move out, and of course I have been up making myself generally useful there. I have been daily call-boy and page to the adorable Alice. Mem:—That girl is a brick! Didn't use to think so, but she's sublime! The way she takes things is so confounded sensible and steady! I respect her—there's not a bit of nonsense about her now—you'd better believe. They are all going up to the old paternal farm to spend the summer with his father, and by Fall there'll be an arrangement to give him an income (Van Arsdel I mean), so that they'll have something to go on. They'll take a house somewhere in New York in the Fall and do fairly; but think what a change to Alice! Dear Hal:—I promised you a family cat, but I am going to do better by you. There is a pair of my kittens that would bring laughter to the cheeks of a dying anchorite. They are just the craziest specimens of pure jollity that flesh, blood, and fur could be wrought into. Who wants a comic opera at a dollar a night when a family cat will supply eight kittens a year? Nobody seems to have found out what kittens are for. I do believe these two kittens of mine would cure the most obstinate hypochondria of mortal man, and, think of it, I am going to give them to you! Their names are Whisky and Frisky, and their ways are past finding out. Dear Sister:—I am so tired out with packing, and all the thousand and one things that have to be attended to! You know mamma is not strong, and now you and Ida are gone, I am the eldest daughter, and take everything on my shoulders. Aunt Maria comes here daily, looking like a hearse, and I really think she depresses mamma as much by her lugubrious ways as she helps. She positively is a most provoking person. She assumes with such certainty that mamma is a fool, and that all that has happened out of the way comes by some fault of hers, that when she has been here a day mamma is sure to have a headache. But I have discovered faculties and strength I never knew I possessed. I have taken on myself the whole work of separating the things we are to keep from those which are to be sold, and those which we are to take into the country with us, from those which are to be stored in New York for our return. I don't know what I should have done if Jim Fellows hadn't been the real considerate friend he is. Papa is overwhelmed with settling up business matters, and one wants to save him every care, and Jim has really been like a brother—looking up a place to store the goods, finding just the nicest kind of a man to cart them, and actually coming in and packing for me, till I told him I knew he must be giving us time that he wanted for himself —and all this with so much fun and jollification that we really have had some merry times over it, and quite shocked Aunt Maria, who insists on maintaining a general demeanor as if there were a corpse in the house. My Dear Eva:—Notwithstanding all that has passed, I cannot help writing to show that interest in your affairs, which it may be presumed, as your aunt and godmother, I have some right to feel, and though I know that my advice always has been disregarded, still I think it my duty to speak, and shall speak. My Dear Old Boy:—I think we have got it. I mean got the house. I am not quite sure what your wife will say, but I happened to meet Miss Alice last night and I told her, and she says she is sure it will do. Hear and understand.
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17Author:  Thorpe Thomas Bangs 1815-1878Requires cookie*
 Title:  The hive of "The bee-hunter"  
 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: Originally, the wild turkey was found scattered throughout the whole of our continent, its habits only differing, where the peculiarity of the seasons compelled it to provide against excessive cold or heat. In the “clearing,” it only lives in its excellent and degenerated descendant of the farm-yard, but in the vast prairies and forests of the “far west,” this bird is still abundant, and makes an important addition to the fare of wild life.
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18Author:  Trowbridge J. T. (John Townsend) 1827-1916Requires cookie*
 Title:  The deserted family, or, Wanderings of an outcast  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: On the afternoon of a quiet summer's day, a weary foot traveller turned aside from a dusty country road, and on the grassy slope of a pleasant hillside sat down upon the ground. With a heavy sigh he removed from his brow a torn and faded straw hat, and brushing back the moist locks of gray hair that fell upon his forehead, gazed sadly down into the beautiful valley before him. “Dearest Cousin: The terrible excitement of this awful day, the confusion around me, the smell of murder which invades my nostrils, the weighty cares on my mind, my unsteady nerves, and the bruised state of the tin pan on the bottom of which I write this letter, must be my apology for the wretched scrawl I send you. “Adored Alice: How I shall write this note I know not. The tin pan which served me as a desk before has been wrested from me by a barbarous multitude. I am driven to use a rough board, which I hold upon my knee. The truth is, I am looked upon as a maniac by some; others consider me a reporter for the Gazette and Recorder. My friends shake their heads doubtfully at my enterprise. But nothing can daunt me. Write I must, and will! “Star of my Existence, dearest Cousin: In the midst of my imperative duties, I snatch a few minutes from my much-occupied time to keep you posted up. I have testified — told the truth — the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I feel relieved. I have done my duty. I have acted — a man! “Meet me to-morrow morning, at ten, in the spot we have called Shadowland.
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19Author:  Trowbridge J. T. (John Townsend) 1827-1916Requires cookie*
 Title:  Neighbor's wives  
 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 three years since old Abel Dane laid down the compass and the chisel on his work-bench in the old shop, and himself on his bed in the new house which he had so lately built for his comfort, and which he never left again until he was carried out by his neighbors. “Come to me, Eliza. Do not remember my unkindness. Let nothing keep you. I am in great trouble. Come at once.
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20Author:  Phelps Elizabeth Stuart 1844-1911Requires cookie*
 Title:  Men, women, and ghosts  
 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: None at all. Understand that, please, to begin with. That you will at once, and distinctly, recall Dr. Sharpe — and his wife, I make no doubt. Indeed, it is because the history is a familiar one, some of the unfamiliar incidents of which have come into my possession, that I undertake to tell it. “I have been so lonely since mother died, that my health, never of the strongest, as you know, has suffered seriously. My physician tells me that something is wrong with the periphrastic action, if you know what that is,” [I suppose Miss Fellows meant the peristaltic action,] “and prophesies something dreadful, (I 've forgotten whether it was to be in the head, or the heart, or the stomach,) if I cannot have change of air and scene this winter. I should dearly love to spend some time with you in your new home, (I fancy it will be drier than the old one,) if convenient to you. If inconvenient, don't hesitate to say so, of course. I hope to hear from you soon.
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