Bookbag (0)
Search:
University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection in subject [X]
1997 in date [X]
Modify Search | New Search
Results:  201 ItemsBrowse by Facet | Title | Author
Sorted by:  
Page: Prev  1 2 3 4 5   ...  Next
Date
collapse1997
expand11 (3)
expand06 (3)
expand04 (3)
expand02 (3)
expand01 (189)
61Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  Home  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In a picturesque district of New England, — it matters not in which of the Eastern States, for in them all there is such unity of character and similarity of condition, that what is true of one may be probable of all, — in one of them there is a sequestered village called Greenbrook. The place derives its name from a stream of water which bears this descriptive appellation,
 Similar Items:  Find
62Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  Tales and Sketches  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: A calm observer who has scarcely lived half the age of man, must look back with a smile at human frailty, rather than with a harsher feeling upon the subjects that have broken the world in which he has lived, (be it a little or a great one,) into opposed and contending parties. The stream for a while glides on with an unbroken surface, a snag interposes, and the waters divide, and fret, and foam around it till chance or time sweep it away, when they again commingle, and flow on in their natural unruffled union. This is the common course of human passions. The subject in dispute may be more or less dignified; the succession to an empire, or to a few acres of sterile land; the rival claims of candidates to the Presidency, or competitors for a village clerkship; the choice of a minister to England, or the minister of our parish; the position of a capital city, or of an obscure meeting house;[1] [1]This fruitful subject of dispute has rent asunder many a village society in New England. the excellence of a Catalini, or of a rustic master of psalmody; a dogma in religion or politics; in short anything, to which, as with the shield in the fable, there are two sides. “Dear Randolph—I thank you a thousand times and so does C—, for the gold eagles. There never was anything in the world so beautiful, I do'nt believe. They are far before the grown up ladies. We shall certainly wear them to meeting next Sabbath, and fix them so every body in the world can see them, and not let the bow of ribbon fall down over them, as Miss Clarke did last Sabbath, cause she has got that old democrat, Doctor Star, for a sweetheart; but I managed her nicely, Randolph. In prayer time when she did not dare move, I whirled round the bow so the eagle stood up bravely, and flashed right in Doctor Star's eyes. I did not care so very much about having an eagle for myself, (though I do now since you have given it to me,) but I thought it very important for C— to wear the federal badge, because her father is a senator in Congress. Father is almost as pleased as we are. I see Clover coming and I must make haste; poor old fellow! I heard his tread when it stormed so awfully last night, and I got father to put him up in our stable. Was not he proper good? It was after prayers, too, and his wig was off and his knee buckles out. There, they all go out of Deacon Garfield's to read Clover's papers. Good by, dear, dear Randolph. “Honoured Sir—It is with no little grief of mind and sadness of heart, that I am necessitated to be so bould as to supplicate your honoured self, with the honourable assembly of your General Court, to extend your mercy and favour once again, to me, and my children. Little did I dream, that I should have occasion to petition in a matter of this nature; but so it is, that through the divine providence and your benignity, my sonn obtayned so much pity and mercy at your hands, to enjoy the life of his mother. Now my supplication to your honours is, to begg affectionately the life of my dear wife. 'Tis true, I have not seen her above this half yeare, and cannot tell how, in the frame of her spirit, she was moved thus againe to run so great a hazard to herself, and perplexity to me and mine, and all her friends and wellwishers. “It is, I believe, or should be, a maxim of the true church, that confession of a sin is the first step towards its expiation.
 Similar Items:  Find
63Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  The Linwoods; Or, "sixty Years Since" in America  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Some two or three years before our revolutionary war, just at the close of day, two girls were seen entering Broadway through a wicket garden-gate, in the rear of a stately mansion which fronted on Broad-street, that being then the court-end of the city—the residence of unquestioned aristocracy— (sic transit gloria mundi!) whence royal favour and European fashions were diffused through the province of New-York. “You must love me, or you could not endure my stupid letters—you that can write so delightfully about nothing, and have so much to write about, while I can tell nothing but what I see, and I see so little! The outward world does not much interest me. It is what I feel that I think of and ponder over; but I know how you detest what you call sentimental letters, so I try to avoid all such subjects. Compared with you I am a child—two years at our age makes a great difference—I am really very childish for a girl almost fourteen, and yet, and yet, Isabella, I sometimes seem to myself to have gone so far beyond childhood, that I have almost forgotten that careless, light-hearted feeling I used to have. I do not think I ever was so light-hearted as some children, and yet I was not serious—at least, not in the right way. Many a time, before I was ten years old, I have sat up in my own little room till twelve o'clock Saturday night, reading, and then slept for an hour and a half through the whole sermon the next morning. I do believe it is the natural depravity of my heart. I never read over twice a piece of heathen poetry that moves me but I can repeat it—and yet, I never could get past `what is effectual calling?' in the Westminster Catechism; and I always was in disgrace on Saturday, when parson Wilson came to the school to hear us recite it:—oh dear, the sight of his wig and three-cornered hat petrified me!” “I have been enjoying a very pretty little episode in my college life, passing the vacation at Westbrook, with your old friends the Lees. A month in a dull little country town would once have seemed to me penance enough for my worst sin, but now it is heaven to get anywhere beyond the sound of college bells—beyond the reach of automaton tutors—periodical recitations—chapel prayers, and college rules. —Never say another word to me of what you hinted in your last letter: indeed, I am too young; and besides, I never should feel easy or happy again with Jasper, if I admitted such a thought. I have had but one opinion since our visit to Effie; not that I believed in her—at least, not much; but I have always known who was first in his thoughts—heart—opinion; and besides, it would be folly in me, knowing his opinions about rank, &c. Mother thinks him very proud, and somewhat vain; and she begins not to be pleased with his frequent visits to Westbrook. She thinks—no, fears, or rather she imagines, that Jasper and I—no, that Jasper or I—no, that I— it is quite too foolish to write, Isabella—mother does not realize what a wide world there is between us. I might possibly, sometimes, think he loved (this last word was carefully effaced, and cared substituted) cared for me, if he did not know you. “Thanks, dear Isabella, for your delightful letter by Jasper—no longer Jasper, I assure you to his face, but Mr. Meredith—oh, I often wish the time back when I was a child, and might call him Jasper, and feel the freedom of a child. I wonder if I should dare to call you Belle now, or even Isabella? Jasper, since his last visit at home, tells me so much of your being `the mirror of fashion— the observed of all observers' (these are his own words—drawing-room terms that were never heard in Westbrook but from his lips), that I feel a sort of fearful shrinking. It is not envy—I am too happy now to envy anybody in the wide world. Eliot is at home, and Jasper is passing a week here. Is it not strange they should be so intimate, when they differ so widely on political topics? I suppose it is because Jasper does not care much about the matter; but this indifference sometimes provokes Eliot. Jasper is very intimate with Pitcairn and Lord Percy; and Eliot thinks they have more influence with him than the honour and interest of his country. Oh, they talk it over for hours and hours, and end, as men always do with their arguments, just where they began. Jasper insists that as long as the quarrel can be made up it is much wisest to stand aloof, and not, `like mad boys, to rush foremost into the first fray;' besides, he says he is tied by a promise to his uncle that he will have nothing to do with these agitating disputes till his education is finished. Mother says (she does not always judge Jasper kindly) that it is very easy and prudent to bind your hands with a promise when you do not choose to lift them. —The world seems turned upside down since I began this letter—war (war, what an appalling sound) has begun—blood has been spilt, and our dear, dear Eliot—but I must tell you first how it all was. Eliot and Jasper were out shooting some miles from Cambridge, when, on coming to the road, they perceived an unusual commotion—old men and young, and even boys, all armed, in wagons, on horseback, and on foot, were coming from all points, and all hurrying onward in one direction. On inquiring into the hurly-burly, they were told that Colonel Smith had marched to Concord to destroy the military stores there; and that our people were gathering from all quarters to oppose his return. Eliot immediately joined them, Jasper did not; but, dear Isabella, I that know you so well, know, whatever others may think, that tories may be true and noble. There was a fight at Lexington. Our brave men had the best of it. Eliot was the first to bring us the news. With a severe wound in his arm, he came ten miles that we need not be alarmed by any reports, knowing, as he told mother, that she was no Spartan mother, to be indifferent whether her son came home with his shield or on his shield. Miss Linwood to Bessie Lee. —A week—a stormy, miserable week has passed since I wrote the above, and it has ended in Herbert's leaving us, and dishonouring his father's name by taking a commission in the rebel service. Papa has of course had a horrible fit of the gout. He says he has for ever cast Herbert out of his affections. Ah! I am not skilled in metaphysics, but I know that we have no power whatever over our affections. Mamma takes it all patiently, and chiefly sorroweth for that Herbert has lost caste by joining the insurgents, whom she thinks little better than so many Jack Cades. “You say, my dear madam, that you have heard `certain reports about me, which you are not willing to believe, and yet cannot utterly discredit.' You say, also, `that though you should revolt with horror from sanctioning your son in those liaisons that are advised by Lord Chesterfield, and others of your friends, yet you see no harm in' loverlike attentions `to young persons in inferior stations; they serve' you add, `to keep alive and cultivate that delicate finesse so essential to the success of a man of the world, and, provided they have no immoral purpose, are quite innocent,' as the object of them must know there is an `impassable gulf between her and her superiors in rank, and is therefore responsible for her mistakes.' I have been thus particular in echoing your words, that I may assure you my conduct is in conformity to their letter and spirit. Tranquillize yourself, my dear madam. There is nothing, in any little fooleries I may be indulging in, to disquiet you for a moment. The person in question is a divine little creature—quite a prodigy for this part of the world, where she lives in a seclusion almost equal to that of Prospero's isle; so that your humble servant, being scarce more than the `third man that e'er she saw,' it would not be to marvel at `if he should be the first that e'er she loved'—and if I am, it is my destiny—my conscience is quite easy— I never have committed myself, nor ever shall: time and absence will soon dissipate her illusions. She is an unaspiring little person, quite aware of the gulf, as you call it, between us. She believes that even if I were lover and hero enough to play the Leander and swim it, my destiny is fixed on the other side. I have no distrust of myself, and I beg you will have none; I am saved from all responsibility as to involving the happiness of this lily of the valley, by her very clear-sighted mother, 7* and her sage of a brother, her natural guardians. “I have arrived thus far, my dear mother, on my journey; and, according to my promise, am beginning the correspondence which is to soften our separation. “My sweet sister Bessie, nothing has afflicted me so much in leaving home as parting from you. I am inclined to believe there can be no stronger nor tenderer affection than that of brother and sister; the sense of protection on one part, and dependance on the other; the sweet recollections of childhood; the unity of interest; and the communion of memory and hope, blend their hearts together into one existence. So it is with us—is it not, my dear sister? With me, certainly; for though, like most young men, I have had my fancies, they have passed by like the summer breeze, and left no trace of their passage. All the love, liking (I cannot find a word to express the essential volatility of the sentiment in my experience of it) that I have ever felt for all my favourites, brown and fair, does not amount to one thousandth part of the immutable affection that I bear you, my dear sister. I speak only of my own experience, Bessie, and, as I well know, against the faith of the world. I should be told that my fraternal love would pale in the fires of another passion, as does a lamp at the shining of the sun; but I don't believe a word of it—do you, Bessie? I am not, my dear sister, playing the inquisitor with you, but fearfully and awkwardly enough approaching a subject on which I thought it would be easier to write than to speak; but I find it cannot be easy to do that, in any mode, which may pain you. —I arrived safely at headquarters on the 22d. Colonel Ashley received me with open arms. He applauded my resolution to join the army, and bestowed his curses liberally (as is his wont on whatever displeases him) on the young men who linger at home, while the gallant spirits of France and Poland are crossing the ocean to volunteer in our cause. He rubbed his hands exultingly when I told him that it was your self-originating decision that I should leave you. `The only son of your mother—that is, the only one to speak of' (forgive him, Sam and Hal), `and she a widow!' he exclaimed. `Let them talk about their Spartan mothers, half men and demimonsters; but look at our women-folks, as tender and as timid of their broods as hens, and as bold and self-sacrificing as martyrs! You come of a good stock, my boy, and so I shall tell the gin'ral. He's old Virginia, my lad; and looks well to blood in man and horse.' —I write under the inspiration of the agreeable consciousness that my letter may pass under the sublime eye of your commander-in-chief, or be scanned and sifted by his underlings. I wish to Heaven that, without endangering your bright orbs, I could infuse some retributive virtue into my ink to strike them blind. But the deuse take them. I defy their oversight. I am not discreet enough to be trusted with military or political secrets, and therefore, like Hotspur's Kate, I can betray none. As to my own private affairs, though I do not flatter myself I have attained a moral eminence which I may challenge the world to survey, yet I'll expose nothing to you, dear Belle, whose opinion I care more for than that of king, lords, and commons, which the whole world may not know without your loving brother being dishonoured thereby: so, on in my usual `streak o' lightning style,' with facts and feelings. “No, no, my dear Belle, I cannot remove to the city—it must not be; and I am sorry the question is again mooted. `A woman, and naturally born to fears,' I may be; but because I have that inconvenient inheritance, I see no reason why I should cherish and augment it. Your imagination, which is rather an active agent, has magnified the terrors of the times; and it seems just now to be unduly excited by the monstrous tales circulated in the city, of the atrocities the Yankees have committed on the tories. I see in Rivington's Gazette, which you wrapped around the sugarplums that you sent the children (thank you), various precious anecdotes of Yankee tigers and tory lambs, forsooth! that are just about as true as the tales of giants and ogres with which your childhood was edified. The Yankees are a civilized race, and never, God bless them! commit gratuitous cruelties. If they still `see it to be duty' (to quote their own Puritan phrase), they will cling to this contest till they have driven the remnant of your Israel, Belle, every tory and Englishman, from the land; but they will commit no episodical murders: it is only the ignorant man that is unnecessarily cruel. They are an instructed, kind-hearted, Christian people; and of this there will be abundant proof while the present war is remembered. Remember, Belle, these people have unadulterated English blood in their veins, which to you should be a prevailing argument in their favour; and believe me, they have a fair portion of the spirit of their freedom-loving and all-daring ancestors. Our English mother, God bless her, too, should have known better than to trammel, scold, and try to whip her sons into obedience, when they had come to man's estate, and were fit to manage their own household. Thank Heaven, I have outlived the prejudices against the people of New-England which my father transmitted to his children. `There they come,' he used to say, when he saw these busy people driving into the manor; `every snow brings them, and, d—n them, every thaw too!'
 Similar Items:  Find
64Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  The Linwoods; Or, "sixty Years Since" in America  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It is reasonable to suppose that the disclosures which occurred in Sir Henry Clinton's library would be immediately followed by their natural sequences: that love declared by one party, and betrayed by the other, would, according to the common usages of society, soon issue in mutual affiancing. But these were not the piping times of peace, and the harmony of events was sadly broken by the discords of the period. —I could have huged you before we parted, I have been so pleased with you from the beginin to the end of this biznes. I felt for you in the loss of your hors, and I can't bear the thots of your riden that sorry jade, that's only been used to prouling about o' nights, on all sorts of diviltry; so I've ordered Gurden to put into your hands a likely oretur, that our fokes at home has sent up to be sold to the ofisers in camp. Take it, my boy, and don't feel beholden to me; for when the war is at end, and it's conveneyent, we'll settle for it. —I perceive by your letters of the first, which, thanks to a kind Providence, have duly come to hand, that it is now nearly three months since you have heard from us. Much good and much evil may befall in three months! Much good have I truly to be grateful for: and chiefly that your life and health have been thus precious in the sight of the Lord, and that you have received honour at the hand of man (of which our good Dr. Wilson made suitable mention in his prayer last Sabbath); and, as I humbly trust, approval from Him who erreth not. “I have read your letters over and over again, till they have fallen to pieces with the continual dropping of my hot tears; but every syllable is imprinted on my heart. You did not believe your `sister would waste her sensibility, the precious food of life, in moping melancholy.' Oh, Eliot, how much better must I have appeared to you than I was! I have been all my life a hypocrite. You believed `my mind had a self-rectifying power,' and I imposed this belief on you! I am ready, now, to bow my head in the dust for it. `Love,' said your letter, `can never be incurable when it is a disease: that is to say, when its object is unworthy.' Ah, my dear brother, there was your fatal mistake. It was I that was unworthy—it was your simple sister that, in her secret, unconfessed thoughts, believed he loved her, knowing all the while that his lot was cast with the high, the gifted, the accomplished—with such as Isabella Linwood, and not with one so humble in condition, so little graced by art as I am. I do not blame him. Heaven knows I do not. `Self-rectifying power!' Eliot, talk to the reed, that has been uprooted and borne away by the tides of the ocean, of its `self-rectifying power!' ” Eliot's maliness was vanquished, and he wept like a child over his sister's letter. He reproached himself for having left home. He bitterly reproached himself for not having foreseen the danger of her long, exclusive, and confiding intercourse with Meredith. He was almost maddened when he thought of the perils to which she must have been exposed, and of his utter inability to save her from one of them. The only solacing thought that occurred to him was the extreme improbability that her fragile and exhausted frame could support the fatigues she must encounter, and that even now, while he wept over her letter (a fortnight had elapsed since it was written), her gentle spirit might have entered upon its eternal rest. —I have just chanced to call at a poor blacksmith's, who, with his worthy family, is at death's door with a protracted intermittent. It seems to me that port, like that I drank with you yesterday, might restore them. As the man looks like too independent an American to beg a favour, I have taken the liberty to give him this order for a bottle or two, telling him, with a poetic truth, that I had wine in your cellar. It is your own fault if all your friends feel that they have a property in your possessions. Adieu.” —Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in the service of your king, has been taken in my camp as a spy, condemned as a spy, and will be hung as a spy. “I have received your note, Jasper; I do not reply to it hastily; hours of watchfulness and reflection at the bedside of my friend have given the maturity of years to my present feeling. I have loved you, I confess it now; not by a treacherous blush, but calmly, deliberately, in my own handwriting, without faltering or emotion of any sort. Yes, I have loved you, if a sentiment springing from a most attachable nature, originating in the accidental intercourse of childhood, fostered by pride, nurtured by flattery, and exaggerated by an excited imagination, can be called love.
 Similar Items:  Find
65Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  Live and Let Live, Or, Domestic Service Illustrated  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was one of the coldest days felt in New-York, during the winter of 182-, that a baker's cart made its accustomed halt before a door in Church-street. It was driven by Charles Lovett, the baker's son, whose ruddy cheeks, quick movement, and beaming eye bespoke health, industry, and a happy temper. This latter attribute seemed somewhat too severely tested by the tardiness of his customer, for in vain had he whistled, clapped his hands, stamped, and repeated his usual cry of “Hurry! hurry!” He at last leaped from his cart on to the broken step of the wretched dwelling, when the upper half of the door was slowly opened, and a thinly-clad girl appeared, who, in answer to his prepared question, “Why, what ails you? are you all asleep?” replied, “Mother does not wish any bread this morning.” “After deliberating and advising with Mrs. Hyde, who has been like the kindest of mothers to us, we have come to a decision which only waits for your approbation. The bakery is sold to Mr. Werner, a German, who, when a stranger and quite destitute, came to the Lovetts, as it seemed, accidentally. Werner was honest and industrious; he understood the business thoroughly, and introduced some improvements. For the last two years he has been a partner, and now he has bought out Charles. His two sisters and their old parents arrived a few weeks since, and a happier family I never saw. How strange that such a train of consequences should come from Werner just coming in to breakfast with us one morning at Mr. Lovett's. This is what Mrs. Hyde says we should call providential. Our Father in heaven provides the opportunity for doing good, and his faithful children improve it. But to our own affairs: it is not five years since Mr. Lovett went to Ohio, and there are already four thousand inhabitants in the village. The people, he says, are very anxious to have the bakery going; the bakehouse is built on the lot Mr. Lovett set off to Charles for his services when he was apprentice to him. Our house is nearly done, and large enough for us all. The ladies in the village will have plenty of work for the girls' millinery and dressmaking establishment, and dear Jemmie will keep Charles's books, and all of us will be in a way to earn an honourable living; all but you, dear mother; the remainder of your life must be rest. You shall be our queen-bee, and we will be your workers. Mrs. Hyde wishes you to consent to the wedding being here; she says it will save time (as we must return here on our way to Pittsburgh) and save the expense of a journey to Massachusetts. Charles likes this plan, and I want you to know our family before I leave it. Mrs. Hyde says she will provide lodgings for you all at a boarding-house near to us. Is not this most kind? Oh, mother, you will like her so much! She has such beautiful manners, not only in the drawing-room and to ladies, but to all, down to the man that sweeps off the flagging, and the poor that beg at her door. She truly seems to see the image of God in every human creature; it makes people civil to speak to her; her manners inspire them with self-respect. She never lowers herself, but raises them. If some people looked as differently as they act to those above and those below them, they would sometimes appear like the “loathly ladie” in the ballad.
 Similar Items:  Find
66Author:  Sedgwick Catharine Maria 1789-1867Add
 Title:  The Boy of Mount Rhigi  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: There is a certain portion of the Tahconnick range of mountains, in the western part of Massachusetts, called Rhigi, said to have been thus named by Swiss emigrants who settled there, and who probably came from the neighborhood of Mount Rhigi, in Switzerland, one of the beautiful resorts of that most beautiful land.[1] [1]There are other similar traces of Swiss settlement in this neighborhood. Bash Bish, the lovely fall now becoming known and celebrated, is a corruption of a very common Swiss name of their minor falls. The love of the father-land is expressed by the names the emigrant gives to the land of his adoption. The Pilgrim bestowed on the New England settlements the names of his old England home — Norfolk, Suffolk, Boston, Northampton, Stockbridge, &c., and the New Englander repeats them in his new home in the far west. “Firstly, I enclose the two dollars you gave me for travelling expenses. I met Mr. Lyman on board the steamboat, and he gave me five dollars, which he said he owed me for my aid in the drawings he made for the New York architect. Fine! After the wet time of parting was over, I was in luck. Mr. Porter would not take any thing for bringing me to the boat, — thirty good miles, — because I helped him pick up apples one day after Jesse Porter broke his arm. I was pretty hungry; but hearing they charged half a dollar for supper, I bought some crackers and cheese before I went on board. So I came to the city for fifty cents. Such bustle and confusion as there was on the wharf where we landed! I made my way through it as well as I could, and inquired the way to Chambers Street, not far, No. —, where Mrs. Dawson lives. I saw the windows were all closed, and so I sat my box of clothes down, and sat on it. I began to feel both lonesome and hungry; nothing seemed like morning — the fresh, beautiful morning of the country. The sun shining on chimneys and brick walls, instead of hill-tops and sparkling waters; not a solitary bird singing; not even a cock crowing. After a while, milkmen began to appear. There was a different one for almost every house, and each made a horrid outcry; and, after a while, a woman came out of a cellar, and took a measure of milk. Though they live in great houses, this seems poverty to me. By and by, there came a lively little driver with baskets full of bread. I remembered Dr. Franklin's account of his buying a loaf of bread and eating it as he walked through the streets of Philadelphia, when first he went there; and, though I do not expect to eat bread in kings' houses, as he afterwards did, I thought there would be no harm in following his example; so I bought a sixpenny loaf of bread, and, with a draught of milk from a milkman, I made a good breakfast. You see, mother, I am determined to make my money last, if possible, till I can earn more, and not call on you or trouble our kind friend Mrs. Dawson. As soon as her blinds were opened, I rung. The man who opened the door smiled when I asked for Mrs. Dawson, and said she would rise in about two hours. How long those two hours were! But when they were over, and I was summoned to her, she was as kind as ever. She told me she had procured for me an excellent place in a retail shop in Broadway, where, if I did as well as my employer expected from her account of me, I should receive enough, even the first year, to pay my board. Before going there, she advised me to secure a boarding-place; she had made inquiries for this, and gave me references, and off I set. I went from one to another. At one there was a multitude of clerks, and a coarse, slatternly housekeeper; at another there was a set of low traders. I went in while they were at dinner, and a very slight observation 13 of their vulgar manners and conversation convinced me they were not associates that I should relish or you would approve. The next was full, and the last was too filthy for any thing. As I came off the steps quite discouraged, there was a little fat lady walking before me in a gray silk gown, and a white shawl, looking as neat as a new pin. Two dirty shavers of boys had filled a squirt-gun in the gutter, and had taken aim at the lady's nice gown. I sprang upon them just in time, wrenched the squirt-gun from their hands, and sent it off out of sight. They began kicking and bawling; and she, turning round, learned the mischief they had intended. She was very thankful to me, very good natured, and talkative. She told me the gown was new, just come home, and she had put it on for a wedding-visit, — a visit to her niece's husband's first cousin; it was her best gown, too; she had heard of the boys playing such tricks; boys would be boys, &c., &c. O, mother dear! her tongue goes by machinery. (Not father's!) She had such a friendly way, and did not seem a very great lady, and asked me so many questions, — my name, where I came from, &c., — that I thought I would tell her what I was in search of. This silenced her for a moment; then she said, “Come home with me, and we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to Plenty, — Plenty is my sister, — and perhaps — but I won't raise expectations yet. We live in Mercer Street, retired and central too.” “It seems to me, dear mother, that I have lived a year in the last fortnight. On the very Monday that I sent you an account of the upshot at Holson's, Mr. Nevis obtained the promise of an excellent situation for me with Messrs. James Bent & Co., where his son, my friend, already is. Mr. Bent is respected as a man of strict integrity, and every part of his establishment is well conducted; and I am to have a salary of $150. Only imagine how rich I shall be! `It never rains, but it pours!' Coming out of Mr. Bent's, who should I meet but Mr. Lyman! He has more work on hand than he can do, — making plans and drawings for the first architect in the city, — and he wanted me to help him. Never was any thing more opportune. The place I am to have at Mr. Bent's will not be vacant till next month, and now I can be earning something; and, to tell the truth, mother, I do need a little fitting up for summer.” “Your present, my dear son, was very acceptable, as a proof of your abiding and ever-thoughtful love; but do not send me any thing more at present. Keep your earnings for your summer's outfit. We want for nothing. Thanks to a kind Providence, my health is good, and Annie's. There is never lack of work for willing hands; and our wants, except for your afflicted father, are small. His cough is severe, and he declines daily, so that the doctor says he should not be surprised if he dropped away at any minute. His appetite continues remarkably. I might find it difficult to satisfy it, but our kind neighbors send in daily of their best. We have plenty of fresh. To-day, dear old Mrs. Allen sent a quarter of a roaster, and your father ate nearly the whole of it. You know he was always remarkably fond of pig. Our neighbors never let him be out of custards, pies, and preserves. You know, Harry, I never liked to call on my neighbors for watchers in sickness, and think that, in most cases, it's much better doing without them; but father feels different. He likes company, he says, when he is awake, and I am no talker. He is able yet to engage his own watchers. He borrows the sheriff's old horse, and jogs round after them. I don't oppose, though I sometimes fear he will die on the road; but it serves to divert him. “My dear cousin, — I am proud to call you so, — Harry Davis, your visit to me has done me, as I humbly hope, great good. I had lived here ten years, within a stone's throw of this jail, and never seen the inside of it. I call myself a Christian. I am a professor. I pray daily in my family for those who are in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity, and yet I have never, till you came here, lifted one of my fingers to loosen these bonds. I pray that missionaries, preaching the good news of salvation, may be sent to the whole human family. I subscribe to charitable societies, — and so I should, as God has prospered me, — and yet I have not done the duty nearest to me. If I had, or if my Christian neighbors had, the scenes of filth, idleness, and iniquity in that jail would never have existed to witness against us. I have taken measures to have that rascally jailer removed. They talk of a disinfecting fluid. There should be a moral disinfection in the character of the man who has the care of the tenants of a jail — morally diseased creatures. It is now three months since I have been with Mr. Bent; and, excepting my poor father's death, life has been all smooth sailing with me. You have been getting on so nicely! Clapham Hale giving such complete satisfaction to Mr. Norton, and you and Annie — as appears by your last letter — surprised with his improved appearance and manly bearing. Does he not seem like one of us?
 Similar Items:  Find
67Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  Martin Faber  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “This is a fearful precipice, but I dare look upon it. What, indeed, may I not dare—what have I not dared! I look before me, and the prospect, to most men full of terrors, has few or none for me. Without adopting too greatly the spirit of cant which makes it a familiar phrase in the mouths of the many, death to me will prove a release from many strifes and terrors. I do not fear death. I look behind me, and though I may regret my crimes, they give me no compunctious apprehensions. They were among the occurrences known to, and a necessary sequence in the progress of time and the world's circumstance. They might have been committed by another as well as by myself. They must have been committed! I was but an instrument in the hands of a power with which I could not contend.
 Similar Items:  Find
68Author:  Simms William Gilmore 1806-1870Add
 Title:  The Wigwam and the Cabin  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Similar Items:  Find
69Author:  Willis Nathaniel Parker 1806-1867Add
 Title:  Romance of Travel  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Similar Items:  Find
70Author:  Kirkland Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda) 1801-1864Add
 Title:  Forest Life  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: If any body may be excused for writing a book, it is the dweller in the wilderness; and this must, I think, be evident to all who give the matter a moment's reflection. My neighbor, Mrs. Rower, says, indeed, that there are books enough in the world, and one too many; but it will never do to consult the neighbors, since what is said of a prophet is doubly true of an author. Indeed, it is of very little use to consult any body. What is written from impulse is generally the most readable, and this fact is an encouragement to those who are conscious of no particular qualification beyond a desire to write. People write because they cannot help it. The heart longs for sympathy, and when it cannot be found close at hand, will seek it the world over. We never tell our thoughts but with the hope of an echo in the thoughts of others. We set forth in the most attractive guise the treasures of our fancy, because we hope to warm into life imaginations like our own. If the desire for sympathy could lie dormant for a time, there would be no more new books, and we should find leisure to read those already written.
 Similar Items:  Find
71Author:  Kirkland Caroline M. (Caroline Matilda) 1801-1864Add
 Title:  Forest Life  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: A year and a half had elapsed since the abstraction of the grapes, and the skin had grown over Seymour's knuckles, and also the bark over certain letters which he had carved in very high places on some of Mr. Hay's forest-trees; and, sympathetically perhaps, a suitable covering over the wounds made in his heart by the scornful eyes of the unconscious Caroline. His figure had changed its proportions, as if by a wire-drawing process, since what it had gained in length was evidently subtracted from its breadth. The potato redness of his cheeks had subsided into a more presentable complexion, and his teeth were whiter than ever, while the yawns which used to exhibit them unseasonably had given place to a tolerable flow of conversation, scarcely tinctured by mauvaise honte. In short, considering that he was endowed with a good share of common sense, he was really a handsome young man. Not but some moss was still discoverable. It takes a good while to rub off inborn rusticity, especially when there is much force of character. The soft are more easily moulded. Is it possible, my dear Williamson, that after your experience of the world's utter hollowness—its laborious pleasures and its heart-wringing disappointments—you can still be surprised at my preference of a country life? you, who have sounded to its core the heart of fashionable society in the old world and the new, tested the value of its friendship, and found it less than nothing; sifted its pretensions of every kind, and expressed a thousand times your disgust at their falseness—you think it absurd in me to venture upon so desperate a plan as retirement? You consider me as a man who has taken his last, worst step; and who will soon deserve to be set aside by his friends as an irreclaimable enthusiast. Perhaps you are right as to the folly of the thing, but that remains to be proved; and I shall at least take care that my error, if it be one, shall not be irrevocable. * * * Since my last we have taken up our abode in the wilderness in good earnest,—not in “sober sadness,” as you think the phrase ought to be shaped. There is, to be sure, an insignificant village within two or three miles of us, but our house is the only dwelling on our little clearing— the immense trunks of trees, seemingly as old as the creation, walling us in on every side. There is an indescribable charm in this sort of solitary possession. In Alexander Selkirk's case, I grant that the idea of being “monarch of all I survey,” with an impassable ocean around my narrow empire, might suggest some inconvenient ideas. The knowledge that the breathing and sentient world is within a few minutes' walk, forms, it must be owned, no unpleasant difference between our lot and his. But with this knowledge, snugly in the background, not obtrusive, but ready for use, comparative solitude has charms, believe me. The constant sighing of the wind through the forest leaves; the wild and various noises of which we have not yet learned to distinguish one from the other—distinct yet softly mingled—clearly audible, yet only loud enough to make us remark more frequently the silence which they seem scarcely to disturb, such masses of deep shade that even in the sunny spots the light seems tinged with green—these things fill the mind with images of repose, of leisure, of freedom, of tranquil happiness, untrammelled by pride and ceremony;—of unbounded opportunity for reflection, with the richest materials for the cultivation of our better nature. Why have I not written you a dozen letters before this time? I can give you no decent or rational apology. Perhaps, because I have had too much leisure—perhaps too many things to say. Something of this sort it certainly must be, for I have none of the ordinary excuses to offer for neglect of my dear correspondent. Think any thing but that I love you less. This is the very place in which to cherish loving memories. But as to writing, this wild seclusion has so many charms for me, this delicious summer weather so many seductions, that my days glide away imperceptibly, leaving scarcely a trace of any thing accomplished during their flight. I rise in the morning determined upon the most strenuous industry. I hoped to have been before this time so deeply engaged with studs and siding, casings and cornice, that letter-writing would have been out of the question. But my lumber is at the saw-mill, and all the horses in the neighborhood are too busy to be spared for my service. I must have, of course, horses of my own, but it is necessary first to build a stable, so that I am at present dependent on hiring them when necessary. This, I begin to perceive, will cause unpleasant delays, since each man keeps no more horses than he needs for his own purposes. Here is a difficulty which recurs at every turn, in the country. There is nothing like a division of labor or capital. Every body tills the ground, and, consequently, each must provide a complete equipment of whatever is necessary for his business, or lose the seasons when business may be done to best advantage. At this season, in particular, this difficulty is increased, because the most important business of the year is crowded into the space of a few months. Those who hire extra help at no other period, now employ as much as they are able to pay, which increases much the usual scarcity of laborers. It is the time of year, too, when people in new countries are apt to be attacked by the train of ills arising from marsh miasmata, and this again diminishes the supply of able hands. I studied your last in the cool morning hour which I often devote to a ramble over the wooded hills which rise near our little cottage. I seated myself on a fallen tree, in a spot where I might have mused all day without seeing a human face, or hearing any sound more suggestive of civilization than the pretty tinkling of the numerous bells which help to find our wandering cattle. What a place in which to read a letter that seemed as if it might have been written after a stupid party, or in the agonies which attend a “spent ball.” (Vide T. Hood.) Those are not your real sentiments, my dear Kate; you do not believe life to be the scene of ennui, suffering, or mere endurance, which you persuaded yourself to think it just then. If I thought you did, I should desire nothing so much as to have your hand in mine for just such a ramble and just such a lounge as gave me the opportunity for reflecting on your letter; I am sure I could make you own that life has its hours of calm and unexciting, but high enjoyment. With your capabilities, think whether there must not be something amiss in a plan or habit of being that subjects you to these seasons of depression and disgust. Is that tone of chilling, I might say killing ridicule, which prevails in certain circles, towards every thing which does not approach a particular arbitrary standard, a wholesome one for our mental condition? I believe not; for I have never known one who adopted it fully, who had not at times a most uneasy consciousness that no one could possibly be entirely secure from its stings. Then there is a restless emulation, felt in a greater or less degree by all who have thrown themselves on the arena of fashionable life, which is, in my sober view, the enemy of repose. I am not now attempting to assign a cause for that particular fit of the blues which gave such a dark coloring to the beginning of your letter. I am only like the physician who recalls to his patient's mind the atmospheric influence that may have had an unfavorable effect upon his symptoms. You will conclude I must have determined to retort upon you in some degree the scorn which you cannot help feeling for the stupidity of a country life, by taking the first opportunity to hint that there are some evils from which the dweller in the wilds is exempt. On the other hand, I admit that in solitude we are apt to become mere theorists, or dreamers, if you will. Ideal excellence is very cheap; theory and sentiment may be wrought up to great accuracy and perfection; and it is an easy error to content ourselves with these, without seeking to ascertain whether we are capable of the action and sacrifice which must prove that we are in earnest. You are right, certainly, in thinking that in society we have occasion for more strenuous and energetic virtues; but yet, even here, there is no day which does not offer its opportunities for effort and self-denial, and in a very humble and unenticing form too. But we shall never settle this question, for the simple reason that virtue is at home every where alike; so I will spare you further lecture. Next to seeing yourself, my dear Williamson, I can scarcely think of any thing that would have afforded me more pleasure than the sight of a friend of yours bearing credentials under your hand and seal. And over and above this title to my esteem, Mr. Ellis brings with him an open letter of recommendation in that very handsome and pleasing countenance of his, and a frank and hearty manner which put us quite at ease with him directly, notwithstanding a certain awkward consciousness of the narrowness of our present accommodations, which might have made a visit from any other stranger rather embarrassing. His willingness to be pleased, his relish for the amusing points of the half-savage state, and the good-humor with which he laughed off sundry rather vexatious contre-temps really endeared him to us all. Half a dozen men of his turn of mind for neighbors, with wives of “kindred strain,” would create a paradise in these woods, if there could be one on earth. A letter is certainly your due, my dear Catharine; but yours of some fortnight since,—all kind, and lively, and sympathizing, and conceding, as it is,—deserves a better reply than this dripping sky will help me to indite. Why is it that I, who ever loved so dearly a rainy day in town, find it suggestive of—not melancholy—for melancholy and I are strangers—but of stupid things, in the country? To account for the difference drives me into the region of small philosophies. In the one case there is the quiet that bustle has made precious, the leisure which in visiting weather one is apt to see slip from one's grasp unimproved; a contrast like that which we feel on turning from the dusty pathway into the cool shade—a protected shade, as of a garden, where one locks the gate and looks up with satisfaction at high walls, impassable by foot unprivileged. In the other—the contrary case—we have leisure in sunshine as well as leisure in the rain; we have abundance of quiet at all seasons, and no company at any, so that when the rain comes it can but deprive us of our accustomed liberty of foot. The pattering sound so famed for its lulling powers is but too effectual when it falls on roofs not much above our heads; and the disconsolate looking cattle, the poor shivering fowls huddled together under every sheltering covert, and the continuous snore of cat and dog as they doze on the mats—all tend towards our infectious drowsiness, that is much more apt to hint the dreamy sweetness of a canto or two of the Faery Queene, than the duteous and spirited exercise of the pen, even in such service as yours. Yet I have broken the spell of “Sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin.” by the magic aid of a third reading of your letter. And now I defy even the “Ever drizling raine upon the lofte, Mixt with a murmuring winde.” * * * Ought a letter to be a transcript of one's better mind, or only of one's present and temporary humor? If the former, I must throw away the pen, I fear, for some time to come. If the latter, I have only to scrawl the single word AGUE a thousand times on the face of my paper, or write it once in letters which would cover the whole surface. I have no other thought, I can no longer say, “My mind my kingdom is.” Didn't I say something, in one of my late letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid coloring of those days has been toned down by some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of the delicious period here called “Indian summer,” Florella and I have done little else but wander about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves. If the Indians named this season, it must have been from a conviction that such a sky and such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven, where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested. If you can imagine a view in which the magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you may form some notion of our November landscape. I have grown very lazy of late,—so much so, that even letter-writing has become quite a task. Perhaps it is only that I so much prefer flying over this fine, hard, smooth snow in a sleigh, that I feel a chill of impatience at in-door employment. I make a point of duty of Charlotte's daily lessons, but beyond that I am but idle just now. The weather has been so excessively cold for some days that we have had much ado to keep comfortably warm, even with the aid of great stoves in the hall and kitchen, and bountiful wood fires elsewhere. These wood fires are the very image of abundance, and they are so enlivening that I am becoming quite fond of them, though they require much more attention than coal, and will, occasionally, snap terribly, even to the further side of the room, though the rug is generally the sufferer. An infant of one of our neighbors was badly burned, a day or two since, by a coal which flew into the cradle at a great distance from the fire. I marvel daily that destructive fires are not more frequent, when I see beds surrounded with light cotton curtains so near the immense fires which are kept in log-houses. How much more rational would be worsted hangings! Once more, with pen in hand, dearest Catharine; and oh, how glad and how thankful to find myself so well and so happy! I could have written you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I shall not have said forth half my say before I shall be reduced to my dormouse condition again. I have examined the sheets you put into my hands, and am happy to say, that I think your work will be found, both by teachers and pupils a valuable auxiliary in the acquisition of the French language. The manner in which you have obviated the principal difficulties in the first lessons, and the general plan of the work, make it a very useful first book for those who are old enough to study with some degree of judgment and discrimination. I have examined the sheets of the New Practical Translator, and believe that the work will be very useful as an introduction to the translating French into English, as it affords an easy explanation of most of the difficulties that are apt to embarrass beginners. I have long felt the want of a “First Book” for beginners in the French Language, upon the progressive principles which you have adopted, and shall show how sincere I am in this recommendation of your undertaking, by the immediate introduction of the “New Practical Translator” into my school. I have looked over the sheets of your “New Practical Translator,” and am much pleased both with the plan of the work, and with the style of its execution. It must form a valuable accession to the means already within the reach of the young for acquiring a knowledge of the French Language; and, if it finds with the public that measure of favour which it merits, I am satisfied that you will have no cause to complain that your labours, in this department of instruction, have not been well received or well rewarded. I have examined attentively the plan of your “New Practical Translator,” and, to some extent, the mode in which the plan has been executed. The work appears to me to be well adapted to promote the improvement of those who are commencing the study of the French Language. The real difficulties, in the progress of the student, he is furnished with the means of overcoming, while such as will yield to moderate industry, he is judiciously left to surmount by his own efforts. I have examined, with care, “The New Practical Translator,” by Mr. Bugard. The plan and execution of the author appear to me judicious, and I am acquainted with no elementary work, so well adapted for communicating a knowledge of the French language. I have examined with much pleasure the sheets of the French Practical Translator, which you were kind enough to send me. As far as I am able to judge, I should think it would be found a very useful auxiliary to the French instructer. I concur fully in the opinion of the work, expressed by Mr. T. B. Hayward. —It gives me much pleasure to express the high opinion I entertain of the “New French Practical Translator,” as an introduction to the study of the French language. The plan of it is very judicious. While those difficulties are removed which perplex and discourage young learners, it demands sufficient exercise of the pupil's own powers to keep alive the interest arising from the consciousness of successful effort. I should be happy if I could from my own knowledge give you a recommendation of your book, the Practical Translator. But, from my own little knowledge and from the most thorough information I can obtain, I am satisfied that we have no so valuable book of its kind for the study of the French language, and have therefore introduced it into my school. I have examined with much pleasure the new French Practical Translator, which you were so kind as to send me. I consider it a very valuable book for beginners, as it removes many difficulties, which have heretofore embarrassed them. I shall immediately introduce it into my school. —It gives me great pleasure to add my testimonial in favour of your “New Practical Translator,” to the many you have already received. I have used the work with a great many pupils in this institution, and find it a very excellent and interesting manual. It is of great service in removing the difficulties which beginners encounter at the commencement of their French Studies. I wish you much success in introducing it into our Schools and Academies.
 Similar Items:  Find
72Author:  Allston Washington 1779-1843Add
 Title:  Monaldi  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Among the students of a seminary at Bologna were two friends, more remarkable for their attachment to each other, than for any resemblance in their minds or dispositions. Indeed there was so little else in common between them, that hardly two boys could be found more unlike. The character of Maldura, the eldest, was bold, grasping, and ostentatious; while that of Monaldi, timid and gentle, seemed to shrink from observation. The one, proud and impatient, was ever laboring for distinction; the world, palpable, visible, audible, was his idol; he lived only in externals, and could neither act nor feel but for effect; even his secret reveries having an outward direction, as if he could not think without a view to praise, and anxiously referring to the opinion of others; in short, his nightly and his daily dreams had but one subject — the talk and the eye of the crowd. The other, silent and meditative, seldom looked out of himself either for applause or enjoyment; if he ever did so, it was only that he might add to, or sympathize in the triumph of another; this done, he retired again, as it were to a world of his own, where thoughts and feelings, filling the place of men and things, could always supply him with occupation and amusement.
 Similar Items:  Find
73Author:  Bacon Delia Salter 1811-1859Add
 Title:  The Bride of Fort Edward  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Similar Items:  Find
74Author:  Belknap Jeremy 1744-1798Add
 Title:  The Foresters  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: To perform the promise which I made to you before I began my journey, I will give you such an account of this, once forest, but now cultivated and pleasant country, as I can collect from my conversation with its inhabitants, and from the perusal of their old family papers, which they have kindly permitted me to look into for my entertainment. By these means I have acquainted myself with the story of their first planting, consequent improvements and present state; the recital of which will occupy the hours which I shall be able to spare from business, company and sleep, during my residence among them.
 Similar Items:  Find
75Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Add
 Title:  The Bandits of the Osage  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: “`My dear son, God be with you! I am dying, and can never see you again on earth, but will in the land of spirits. My strength is failing—I have but a few minutes to live, and will devote them to you. You have often questioned me of your father. I have delayed answering you,—but the time has now come when it is necessary you should know all. God give me strength to pen, and you to read the secret of my life!—and Ronald, dear Ronald, whatever you do, do not reproach, do not curse my memory! I shall enter but little into detail, for time and strength will not permit. At the age of twelve I was left an orphan, and was taken in charge of some distant relatives of my mother, with whom I lived in easy circumstances, until the age of sixteen. They were not wealthy, and yet had enough wherewithal to live independent. They treated me with much affection, and life passed pleasantly for four years. At the age of sixteen, I accidentally became acquainted with Walter Langdon, only son of Sir Edgar Langdon, whose large estate and residence—for he was very wealthy— was but a few miles distant. He found opportunity and declared his attachment, but at the same time informed me that our relations on either side would be opposed to our union, and begged me to make no mention of it, but to prepare myself and elope with him; that when the ceremony was over, and no alternative, all parties would become reconciled. He was young, handsome, and accomplished—his powers of conversation brilliant. He plead with a warmth of passion I could not withstand—for know, Ronald, I loved him, with the ardent first love of a girl of sixteen, and I consented. Alas! Ronald, that I am forced to tell you more: this rash act was my ruin!
 Similar Items:  Find
76Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Add
 Title:  The Renegade  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: That portion of territory known throughout Christendom as Kentucky, was, at an early period, the theatre of some of the wildest tragedies, most hardy contested and bloody scenes ever placed on record. In fact its very name, derived from the Indian word Kan-tuck-kee, and which was applied to it long before its discovery by the whites, is peculiarly significant in meaning—being no less than “the dark and bloody ground.” History makes no mention of its being inhabited prior to its settlement by the present race, but rather serves to aid us in the inference, that from time immemorial it was used as a “neutral ground,” whereon the different savage tribes were wont to meet in deadly strife; and hence the portentious name by which it was known among them. But notwithstanding its ominous title, Kentucky, when first beheld by the white hunter, presented all the attractions he would have envied in Paradise itself. The climate was congenial to his feelings— the country was devoid of savages—while its thick tangles of green cane— abounding with deer, elk, bears, buffaloes, panthers, wolves and wild cats, and its more open woods with pheasant, turkey and partridges—made it the full realization of his hopes—his longings. What more could he ask? And when he again stood among his friends, beyond the Alleghanies, is it to be wondered at that his excited feelings, aided by distance, should lead him to describe it as the El Dorado of the world? Such indeed he did describe it; and to such glowing descriptions, Kentucky is doubtless partially indebted for her settlement so much in advance of the surrounding territory. “Dear Son:—If in the land of the living, return as speedily as possible to your afflicted and anxious parents, who are even now mourning you as dead. You can return in safety; for your cousin, whom you supposed you had fatally wounded, recovered therefrom, and publicly exonerated you from all blame in the matter. He is now, however, no more—having died of late with the scarlet fever. Elvira, his wife, is also dead. She died insane. As a partial restitution for the injury done you, your cousin has made you heir by will, to all his property, real estate and personal, amounting, it is said, to over twenty thousand dollars. Your mother is in feeble health, caused by anxiety on your account. For further information, inquire of the messenger who will bear you this.
 Similar Items:  Find
77Author:  Bennett Emerson 1822-1905Add
 Title:  The Trapper's Bride, Or, Spirit of Adventure  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: It was in the autumn of 18— that I isited the city of New York for the first ime. I had long been desirous of seeing hat great city, the grand commercial and mercantile emporium of the western world: the London of America. This city is one of the oldest in the United States, and by far the largest in the Republic, and decidedly the most important in a business point of view. Its mercantile interests are greater and vastly more extended, than are those of any other city in the Union. Early in the history of this country it was founded by a colony of Dutch, a people then widely known for the spirit and energy with which they carried on mercantile pursuits, and more especially for their commercial operations. This spirit they brought with them to their new home: and, as the town grew in importance, and increased in wealth, they pushed their branches of business, which were found profitable to them, besides being more to their liking than any other pursuits in life: and in this way they gained an advance over the other settlements in the country, which they have ever since continued to hold. New York possesses by its location all the natural advantages for commercial pursuit. Its wide harbor, which affords a safe anchorage for the largest ships, looks out upon the boundless ocean, which is traversed at this time by its thousands of stout, staunch vessels. Its intercourse with foreign nations across the ocean is extremely easy from this circumstance, and its active citizens saw this advantage from the first; it was the strong inducement which led them to settle on that narrow neck of land upon which the city is built, and as I have said, early turned their attention to the subject of navigation, and to embark in the pursuits of commerce. As the country grew, and the population increased, foreign trade also became more profitable, and this city was the port that received the returning ships laden with the treasures and luxuries of foreign climes, and in turn sent them back freighted with the surplus productions of our own land, to be exchanged in distant countries. At the date of my story, the city had become large and wealthy. It had already secured the largest share of trade in foreign staples and commodities from other parts of our country, and merchants from other cities on the sea-board as well as inland cities and towns came here to purchase their stocks. Merchants from all parts of the country flowed to New York, as offering the best chance to do business profitably, and advantageously; and foreigners, also, who came to this country, were pretty sure to make this port on their arrival, and quite as sure to remain and engage in business in this enterprising and prosperous city. From successful business, many of the city merchants grew very wealthy, and retiring from active business, they built for themselves elegant mansions in which they resided in the bosom of their families, enjoying all the comforts and pleasures, both social and domestic, their amassed wealth could purchase for them; hence there grew up in this city, and very naturally too, an aristocracy of wealth, and with wealth an aristocracy of fashion; indeed this city soon became what in truth it has ever since continued to be, the source and fountain of the fashion. Here were to be seen the latest styles of female costume; here the fashionable bean got the cue for the approved and last method of the tie of his cravat, or the color and size of his coat buttons, the length and shape of his whiskers and moustaches. In fact, in this respect, New York is to America what Paris is to France; and here you will ever find a crowd devoted to the gay goddess whose temples are the milliners, the mantua-makers, tailors and barbers' shops.
 Similar Items:  Find
78Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Add
 Title:  Calavar, Or, the Knight of the Conquest  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: In the year of Grace fifteen hundred and twenty, upon a day in the month of May thereof, the sun rose over the islands of the new deep, and the mountains that divided it from an ocean yet unknown, and looked upon the havoc, which, in the name of God, a Christian people were working-upon the loveliest of his regions. He had seen, in the revolution of a day, the strange transformations which a few years had brought upon all the climes and races of his love. The standard of Portugal waved from the minarets of the east; a Portuguese admiral swept the Persian Gulf, and bombarded the walls of Ormuz; a Portuguese viceroy held his court on the shores of the Indian ocean; the princes of the eastern continent had exchanged their bracelets of gold for the iron fetters of the invader; and among the odours of the Spice Islands, the fumes of frankincense ascended to the God of their new masters. He passed on his course: the breakers that dashed upon the sands of Africa, were not whiter than the squadrons that rolled among them; the chapel was built on the shore, and under the shadow of the crucifix was fastened the first rivet in the slavery of her miserable children. Then rose he over the blue Atlantic: the new continent emerged from the dusky deep; the ships of discoverers were penetrating its estuaries and straits, from the Isles of Fire even to the frozen promontories of Labrador; and the roar of cannon went up to heaven, mingled with the groans and blood of naked savages. But peace had descended upon the islands of America; the gentle tribes of these paradises of ocean wept in subjection over the graves of more than half their race; hamlets and cities were springing up in their valleys and on their coasts; the culverin bellowed from the fortress, the bell pealed from the monastery; and the civilization and vices of Europe had supplanted the barbarism and innocence of the feeble native. Still, as he careered to the west, new spectacles were displayed before him; the followers of Balboa had built a proud city on the shores, and were launching their hasty barks on the surges of the New Ocean; the hunter of the Fountain of Youth was perishing under the arrows of the wild warriors of Florida, and armed Spaniards were at last retreating before a pagan multitude. One more sight of pomp and of grief awaited him: he rose on the mountains of Mexico; the trumpet of the Spaniards echoed among the peaks; he looked upon the bay of Ulua, and, as his beams stole tremblingly over the swelling current, they fell upon the black hulls and furled canvas of a great fleet riding tranquilly at its moorings. The fate of Mexico was in the scales of destiny; the second army of invaders had been poured upon her shores. In truth, it was a goodly sight to look upon the armed vessels that thronged this unfrequented bay; for peacefully and majestically they slept on the tide, and as the morning hymn of the mariners swelled faintly on the air, one would have thought they bore with them to the heathen the tidings of great joy, and the good-will and grace of their divine faith, instead of the earthly passions which were to cover the land with lamentation and death.
 Similar Items:  Find
79Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Add
 Title:  The Infidel, Or, the Fall of Mexico  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: The traveller, who wanders at the present day along the northern and eastern borders of the Lake of Tezcuco, searches in vain for those monuments of aboriginal grandeur, which surrounded it in the age of Montezuma. The lake itself, which, not so much from the saltness of its flood as from the vastness of its expanse, was called by Cortes the Sea of Anahuac, is no longer worthy of the name. The labours of that unhappy race of men, whose bondage the famous Conquistador cemented in the blood of their forefathers, have conducted, through the bowels of a mountain, the waters of its great tributaries, the pools of San Cristobal and Zumpango; and these, rushing down the channel of the Tula, or river of Montezuma, and mingled with the surges of the great Gulf, support fleets of modern argosies, instead of piraguas and chinampas, and expend upon foundering ships-of-war the wrath, which, in their ancient beds, was wasted upon reeds and bulrushes. With the waters, which rippled through their streets, have vanished the numberless towns and cities, that once beautified the margin of the Alpine sea; the towers have fallen, the lofty pyramids melted into earth or air, and the palaces and tombs of kings will be looked for in vain, under tangled copses of thistle and prickly-pear.
 Similar Items:  Find
80Author:  Bird Robert Montgomery 1806-1854Add
 Title:  The Infidel, Or, the Fall of Mexico  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Before sunrise on the following morning, many a feathered band of allies from distant tribes was pouring into Tezcuco; for this was the day on which the Captain-General had appointed to review his whole force, assign the several divisions to the command of his favourite officers, and expound the system of warfare, by which he expected to reduce the doomed Tenochtitlan. The multitudes that were collected by midday would be beyond our belief, did we not know that the royal valley, and every neighbouring nook of Anahuac capable of cultivation, were covered by a population almost as dense as that which makes an ant-heap of the `Celestial Empire,' at this day.
 Similar Items:  Find
Page: Prev  1 2 3 4 5   ...  Next