| | 61 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Satanstoe, or, The Littlepage manuscripts  | | | | 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: | Away we went! Guert's aim was the islands, which
carried him nearer home, while it offered a place of retreat,
in the event of the danger's becoming more serious. The
fierce rapidity with which we now moved prevented all conversation,
or even much reflection. The reports of the
rending ice, however, became more and more frequent, first
coming from above, and then from below. More than once
it seemed as if the immense mass of weight that had evidently
collected somewhere near the town of Albany, was
about to pour down upon us in a flood—when the river
would have been swept for miles, by a resistless torrent.
Nevertheless, Guert held on his way; firstly, because he
knew it would be impossible to get on either of the main
shores, anywhere near the point where we happened to be;
and secondly, because, having often seen similar dammings
of the waters, he fancied we were still safe. That the
distant reader may understand the precise character of the
danger we ran, it may be well to give him some notion of
the localities. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 62 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts | | | | 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 father was Cornelius Littlepage, of Satanstoe, in the
county of West Chester, and State of New York; and my
mother was Anneke Mordaunt, of Lilacsbush, a place long
known by that name, which still stands near Kingsbridge,
but on the island of Manhattan, and consequently in one of
the wards of New York, though quite eleven miles from
town. I shall suppose that my readers know the difference
between the Island of Manhattan, and Manhattan Island;
though I have found soi-disant Manhattanese, of mature
years, but of alien birth, who had to be taught it. Lilacsbush,
I repeat therefore, was on the Island of Manhattan,
eleven miles from town, though in the city of New York,
and not on Manhattan Island. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 63 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts | | | | 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: | For the first half hour after I left Ursula Malbone's hut,
I was literally unconscious of whither I was going, or of
what I was about. I can recollect nothing but having passed
quite near to the Onondago, who appeared desirous of
speaking to me, but whom I avoided by a species of instinct
rather than with any design. In fact, fatigue first brought
me fairly to my senses. I had wandered miles and miles,
plunging deeper and deeper into the wilds of the forest, and
this without any aim, or any knowledge of even the direction
in which I was going. Night soon came to cast its
shadows on the earth, and my uncertain course was held
amid the gloom of the hour, united to those of the woods. I
had wearied myself by rapid walking over the uneven surface
of the forest, and finally threw myself on the trunk of
a fallen tree, willing to take some repose. “As you have often professed a strong regard for me, I
now put you to the proof of the sincerity of your protestations.
My dear uncle goes to your father, whom I only
know by report, to demand the release of Major Littlepage,
who, we hear, is a prisoner in the hands of your family,
against all law and right. As it is possible the business of
uncle Chainbearer will be disagreeable to Thousandacres,
and that warm words may pass between them, I ask of your
friendship some efforts to keep the peace; and, particularly,
should anything happen to prevent my uncle from returning,
that you would come to me in the woods—for I shall accompany
the chainbearer to the edge of your clearing—
and let me know it. You will find me there, attended by
one of the blacks, and we can easily meet if you cross the
fields in an eastern direction, as I will send the negro to
find you and to bring you to me. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 64 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The redskins, or, Indian and Injin | | | | 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 uncle Ro and myself had been travelling together in
the East, and had been absent from home fully five years,
when we reached Paris. For eighteen months neither of us
had seen a line from America, when we drove through the
barriers, on our way from Egypt, via Algiers, Marseilles,
and Lyons. Not once, in all that time, had we crossed our
own track, in a way to enable us to pick up a straggling
letter; and all our previous precautions to have the epistles
meet us at different bankers in Italy, Turkey, and Malta,
were thrown away. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 65 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | | | | 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: | We have heard of those who fancied that they beheld a
signal instance of the hand of the Creator in the celebrated
cataract of Niagara. Such instances of the power of sensible
and near objects to influence certain minds, only
prove how much easier it is to impress the imaginations
of the dull with images that are novel, than with those that
are less apparent, though of infinitely greater magnitude.
Thus, it would seem to be strange, indeed, that any human
being should find more to wonder at in any one of the phenomena
of the earth, than in the earth itself; or, should specially
stand astonished at the might of Him who created the
world, when each night brings into view a firmament studded
with other worlds, each equally the work of His hands! | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 66 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | | | | Published: | 1997 | | | | Subjects: | University of Virginia Library, Modern English collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 | | | | Description: | When the bee hunter and corporal Flint thus went forth
at midnight, from the “garrison” of Castle Meal, (chateau
au miel,) as the latter would have expressed it, it was with
no great apprehension of meeting any other than a four-footed
enemy, notwithstanding the blast of the horn the
worthy corporal supposed he had heard. The movements
of the dog seemed to announce such a result rather than
any other, for Hive was taken along as a sort of guide.
Le Bourdon, however, did not permit his mastiff to run
off wide, but, having the animal at perfect command, it
was kept close to his own person. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 67 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The sea lions, or, The lost sealers | | | | 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: | While there is less of that high polish in America that
is obtained by long intercourse with the great world, than
is to be found in nearly every European country, there is
much less positive rusticity also. There, the extremes of
society are widely separated, repelling rather than attracting
each other; while among ourselves, the tendency is to
gravitate towards a common centre. Thus it is, that all
things in America become subject to a mean law that is
productive of a mediocrity which is probably much above
the average of that of most nations; possibly of all, England
excepted; but which is only a mediocrity, after all.
In this way, excellence in nothing is justly appreciated,
nor is it often recognised; and the suffrages of the nation
are pretty uniformly bestowed on qualities of a secondary
class. Numbers have sway, and it is as impossible to resist
them in deciding on merit, as it is to deny their power in
the ballot-boxes; time alone, with its great curative influence,
supplying the remedy that is to restore the public
mind to a healthful state, and give equally to the pretender
and to him who is worthy of renown, his proper place in
the pages of history. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 69 | Author: | Cooper
James Fenimore
1789-1851 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The ways of the hour | | | | Published: | 2006 | | | | 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 one respect, there is a visible improvement in the goodly
town of Manhattan, and that is in its architecture. Of its
growth, there has never been any question, while many have
disputed its pretension to improvement. A vast expansion of
mediocrity, though useful and imposing, rarely satisfies either
the judgment or the taste; those who possess these qualities,
requiring a nearer approach to what is excellent, than can ever
be found beneath the term just mentioned. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 70 | Author: | Penfeather
Amabel
pseud | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | | | | 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: | Had there been a predecessor of Mr. Downing in the
country, some five-and-twenty years since, to criticise Wyllys-Roof,
the home of our friend Elinor, his good taste would
no doubt have suggested many improvements, not only in the
house itself, but also in the grounds which surrounded it.
The building had been erected long before the first Tudor
cottage was transported, Loretto-like, across the Atlantic, and
was even anterior to the days of Grecian porticoes. It was a
comfortable, sensible-looking place, however, such as were
planned some eighty or a hundred years since, by men who
had fortune enough to do as they pleased, and education
enough to be quite superior to all pretension. The house
was a low, irregular, wooden building, of ample size for the
tastes and habits of its inmates, with broad piazzas, which not
only increased its dimensions, but added greatly to the comfort
and pleasure of the family by whom it was occupied. “You will be glad to hear that Jane passed the barriers,
this morning, with the Howards. She has just finished a
letter to Mrs. Graham; and, as she dislikes writing so much,
has given me leave to announce her arrival to all at Wyllys-Roof.
As Jane enters Paris on one side, I leave it in the
opposite direction, for, the day after to-morrow, I am off for
Constantinople; a movement which will, no doubt, astonish
you, though, I am sure, you will wish me joy of such pleasant
prospects. This letter will probably be the last you
will hear of me, for some time; not but what I shall write as
usual, but these long overland mails, through countries
where they suspect revolution or plague, in every letter,
often fail to do their duty. In fact, I delayed my journey a
week or two, expressly to see Jane, and have a good supply
of Longbridge news before setting out. Everybody tells me,
I must expect to lose more than half my letters, both ways.
This is bad enough, to be sure; but a journey to Greece and
Constantinople, would be too full of delights, without some
serious drawback. I believe Jane is more tired by answering
our questions, and hearing what we have to tell her, than
by her voyage. I cannot help wishing, my dear Elinor,
that it were you who had arrived in Paris, instead of our
pretty little cousin. How I should delight in showing you
my favourite view, the quais and the island, from the Pont
Royal—the Louvre, too, and the Madeleine. As for Jane,
she will, doubtless, find her chief pleasures at Delilles', and
the Tuileries — buying finery, and showing it off: it has
often puzzled me to find out which some ladies most enjoy. “You have been so kind to me, ever since we moved into
your neighbourhood, that I hope you will excuse me for
asking your assistance, this morning. I have been a good
deal plagued in my kitchen ever since we came into the
country this spring. My cook and chamber-maid, who are
sisters, are always finding some excuse for wanting to go to
the city; and last night they got a letter, or pretended to get
one from New York, saying that their father was very sick;
and as I didn't know but it might be true, I couldn't refuse
them, and they have gone for a week—though I won't be
sure it was not for a mere frolic. As it happened, Mr.
Taylor and Adeline came back from Saratoga, last night,
and brought a house-full of company with them; an old
friend of mine whom I had not seen for years, and some new
acquaintances of Adeline's. To make matters worse, my
nurse, a faithful, good girl, who has lived with me for years,
was taken sick this morning; and John, the waiter, had a
quarrel with the coachman, and went off in a huff. You
know such things always come together. So I have now
only the coachman and his daughter, a little girl of twelve,
in the house; happily they are both willing, and can do a
little of everything. If you know of anybody that I can
find to take the place of cook, or housemaid, I shall be truly
obliged to you for giving the coachman their names and
directions. “I feel unworthy of you, Elinor, and I cannot endure
longer to deceive so generous a temper as yours. You must
have remarked my emotion this morning—Miss Wyllys now
knows all; I refer you to her. I shall never cease to reproach
myself for my unpardonable ingratitude. But painful
as it is to confess it, it would have been intolerable to play
the hypocrite any longer, by continuing to receive proofs of
kindness which I no longer deserve. It is my hope, that in
time you will forgive me; though I shall never forgive myself. “I do not blame you—your conduct was but natural; one
more experienced, or more prudent than myself, would probably
have foreseen it. Had you left me in ignorance of the
truth until too late, I should then have been miserable indeed.
My aunt will take the first opportunity of letting our mutual
friends know the position in which it is best we should continue
for the future. May you be happy with Jane. “You will not receive this letter until you have reached
the age of womanhood, years after your mother has been
laid in her grave. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 71 | Author: | Penfeather
Amabel
pseud | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | | | | 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 to be feared the reader will find fault with this chapter.
But there is no remedy; he must submit quietly to a break
of three years in the narrative: having to choose between
the unities and the probabilities, we greatly preferred holding
to the last. The fault, indeed, of this hiatus, rests entirely
with the young folk of Longbridge, whose fortunes we have
undertaken to follow; had they remained together, we should,
of course, have been faithful to our duty as a chronicler; but
our task was not so easy. In the present state of the world,
people will move about—especially American people; and
making no claim to ubiquity, we were obliged to wait patiently
until time brought the wanderers back again, to the
neighbourhood where we first made their acquaintance.
Shortly after Jane's marriage, the whole party broke up;
Jane and her husband went to New-Orleans, where Tallman
Taylor was established as partner in a commercial house
connected with his father. Hazlehurst passed several years
in Mexico and South-America: an old friend of his father's,
a distinguished political man, received the appointment of
Envoy to Mexico, and offered Harry the post of Secretary
of Legation. Hazlehurst had long felt a strong desire to see
the southern countries of the continent, and was very glad
of so pleasant an arrangement; he left his friend Ellsworth
to practise law alone, and accompanied Mr. Henley, the
Minister, to Mexico; and from thence removed, after a time,
to Brazil. Charlie had been studying his profession in
France and Italy, during the same period. Even Elinor was
absent from home much more than usual; Miss Wyllys had
been out of health for the last year or two; and, on her account,
they passed their summers in travelling, and a winter
in the West-Indies. At length, however, the party met
again on the old ground; and we shall take up the thread of
our narrative, during the summer in which the circle was
re-united. It is to be hoped that this break in the movement
of our tale will be forgiven, when we declare, that the plot
is about to thicken; perplexities, troubles, and misfortunes
are gathering about our Longbridge friends; a piece of intelligence
which will probably cheer the reader's spirits.
We have it on the authority of a philosopher, that there is
something gratifying to human nature in the calamities of
our friends; an axiom which seems true, at least, of all acquaintances
made on paper. “It may appear presumptuous in one unknown to you, to
address you on a subject so important as that which is the
theme of this epistle; but not having the honour of your acquaintance,
I am compelled by dire necessity, and the ardent
feelings of my heart, to pour forth on paper the expression
of the strong admiration with which you have inspired me.
Lovely Miss Wyllys, you are but too well known to me,
although I scarcely dare to hope that your eye has rested for
a moment on the features of your humble adorer. I am a
European, one who has moved in the first circles of his
native land, and after commencing life as a military man,
was compelled by persecution to flee to the hospitable shores
of America. Chequered as my life has been, happy, thrice
happy shall I consider it, if you will but permit me to devote
its remaining years to your service! Without your smiles,
the last days of my career will be more gloomy than all that
have gone before. But I cannot believe you so cruel, so
hard-hearted, as to refuse to admit to your presence, one
connected with several families of the nobility and gentry in
the north of England, merely because the name of Horace
de Vere has been sullied by appearing on the stage. Let
me hope—” “If the new store, being erected on your lot in Market-Street,
between Fourth and Fifth, is not already leased, you
will confer an obligation if you will let us know to whom
we must apply for terms, &c., &c. The location and premises
being suitable, we should be glad to rent. The best
of references can be offered on our part. “When shall we see you at Bloomingdale? You are
quite too cruel, to disappoint us so often; we really do not
deserve such shabby treatment. Here is the month of June,
with its roses, and strawberries, and ten thousand other
sweets, and among them you must positively allow us to hope
for a visit from our very dear friends at Wyllys-Roof. Should
your venerable grandpapa, or my excellent friend, Miss
Wyllys be unhappily detained at home, as you feared, do
not let that be the means of depriving us of your visit. I
need not say that William would be only too happy to drive
you to Bloomingdale, at any time you might choose; but if
that plan, his plan, should frighten your propriety, I shall be
proud to take charge of you myself. Anne is not only
pining for your visit, but very tired of answering a dozen
times a day, her brother's questions, `When shall we see
Miss Wyllys?'—`Is Miss Wyllys never coming?' “My mother wishes me to thank you myself, for your
last act of goodness to us—but I can never tell you all we
feel on the subject. My dear mother cried with joy all the
evening, after she had received your letter. I am going to
school according to your wish, as soon as mother can spare
me, and I shall study very hard, which will be the best way
of thanking you. The music-master says he has no doubt
but I can play well enough to give lessons, if I go on as
well as I have in the last year; I practise regularly every
day. Mother bids me say, that now she feels sure of my
Vol. II. — 5
education for the next three years, one of her heaviest cares
has been taken away: she says too, that although many
friends in the parish have been very good to us, since my
dear father was taken away from us, yet `no act of kindness
has been so important to us, none so cheering to the heart of
the widow and the fatherless, as your generous goodness to
her eldest child;' these are her own words. Mother will
write to you herself to-morrow. I thank you again, dear
Miss Wyllys, for myself, and I remain, very respectfully and
very gratefully, “I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, as
my late father was not married to you when I went to sea,
not long before his death. But I make no doubt that you
will not refuse me my rights, now that I step forward to
demand them, after leaving others to enjoy them for nearly
eighteen years. Things look different to a man near forty,
and to a young chap of twenty; I have been thinking of
claiming my property for some time, but was told by lawyers
that there was too many difficulties in the way, owing partly
to my own fault, partly to the fault of others. As long as I
was a youngster, I didn't care for anything but having my
own way—I snapped my fingers at all the world; but now
I am tired of a sea-faring life, and have had hardships enough
for one man: since there is a handsome property mine, by
right, I am resolved to claim it, through thick and thin. I
have left off the bottle, and intend to do my best to be respectable
for the rest of my days. I make no doubt but we
shall be able to come to some agreement; nor would I object
to a compromise for the past, though my lawyers advise me
to make no such offer. I shall be pleased, Madam, to pay
my respects to you, that we may settle our affairs at a personal
meeting, if it suits you to do so. “I regret that I am compelled by the interests of my client,
William Stanley, Esquire, to address a lady I respect so
highly, upon a subject that must necessarily prove distressing
to her, in many different ways.” “The letters addressed by you to Mrs. Stanley, Mr.
Wyllys and myself, of the date of last Tuesday, have just
reached us. I shall not dwell on the amazement which we
naturally felt in receiving a communication so extraordinary,
which calls upon us to credit the existence of an individual,
whom we have every reason to believe has lain for nearly
eighteen years at the bottom of the deep: it will be sufficient
that I declare, what you are probably already prepared to
hear, that we see no cause for changing our past opinions on
this subject. We believe to-day, as we have believed for
years, that William Stanley was drowned in the wreck of
the Jefferson, during the winter of 181-. We can command
to-day, the same proofs which produced conviction at the
time when this question was first carefully examined. We
have learned no new fact to change the character of these
proofs. “I left home, as everybody knows, because I would have
my own way in everything. It was against my best interests
to be sure, but boys don't think at such times, about
anything but having their own will. I suppose that every
person connected with my deceased father knows, that my
first voyage was made to Russia, in the year 18—, in the ship
Dorothy Beck, Jonas Thomson, Master. I was only fourteen
years old at the time. My father had taken to heart my
going off, and when I came back from Russia he was on the
look-out, wrote to me and sent me money, and as soon as he
heard we were in port he came after me. Well, I went
back with the old gentleman; but we had a quarrel on the
road, and I put about again and went to New Bedford, where
I shipped in a whaler. We were out only eighteen months,
and brought in a full cargo. This time I went home of my
own accord, and I staid a great part of one summer. I did
think some of quitting the seas; but after a while things
didn't work well, and one of my old shipmates coming up
into the country to see me, I went off with him. This time
I shipped in the Thomas Jefferson, for China. This was in
the year 1814, during the last war, when I was about eighteen.
Most people, who know anything about William Stanley,
think that was the last of him, that he never set foot on
American ground again; but they are mistaken, as he himself
will take the pains to show. So far I have told nothing
but what everybody knows, but now I am going to give a
short account of what has happened, since my friends heard
from me. Well; the Jefferson sailed, on her voyage to
China, in October; she was wrecked on the coast of Africa
in December, and it was reported that all hands were lost:
so they were, all but one, and that one was William Stanley.
I was picked up by a Dutchman, the barque William, bound
to Batavia. I kept with the Dutchman for a while, until he
went back to Holland. After I had cut adrift from him, I
fell in with some Americans, and got some old papers; in
one of them I saw my father's second marriage. I knew
the name of the lady he had married, but I had never spoken
to her. The very next day, one of the men I was with, who
came from the same part of the country, told me of my
father's death, and said it was the common talk about the
neighbourhood, that I was disinherited. This made me very
angry; though I wasn't much surprised, after what had
passed. I was looking out for a homeward-bound American,
to go back, and see how matters stood, when one night that
I was drunk, I was carried off by an English officer, who
made out I was a runaway. For five years I was kept in
different English men-of-war, in the East Indies; at the end
of that time I was put on board the Ceres, sloop of war, and
I made out to desert from her at last, and got on board an
American. I then came home; and here, the first man that
I met on shore was Billings, the chap who first persuaded
me to go to sea: he knew all about my father's family, and
told me it was true I was cut off without a cent, and that
Harry Hazlehurst had been adopted by my father. This
made me so mad, that I went straight to New Bedford, and
shipped in the Sally Andrews, for a whaling voyage. Just
before we were to have come home, I exchanged into another
whaler, as second-mate, for a year longer. Then I sailed in
a Havre liner, as foremast hand, for a while. I found out
about this time, that the executors of my father's estate had
been advertising for me shortly after his death, while I was
in the East Indies; and I went to a lawyer in Baltimore,
where I happened to be, and consulted him about claiming
the property; but he wouldn't believe a word I said, because
I was half-drunk at the time, and told me that I should get
in trouble if I didn't keep my mouth shut. Well, I cruized
about for a while longer, when at last I went to Longbridge,
with some shipmates. I had been there often before, as a
lad, and I had some notion of having a talk with Mr. Wyllys,
my father's executor; I went to his house one day, but I
didn't see him. One of my shipmates, who knew something
of my story, and had been a client of Mr. Clapp's, advised
me to consult him. I went to his office, but he sent me off
like the Baltimore lawyer, because he thought I was drunk.
Three years after that I got back to Longbridge again, with
a shipmate; but it did me no good, for I got drinking, and
had a fit of the horrors. That fit sobered me, though, in the
end; it was the worst I had ever had; I should have hanged
myself, and there would have been an end of William
Stanley and his hard rubs, if it hadn't been for the doctor—
I never knew his name, but Mr. Clapp says it was Dr. Van
Horne. After this bad fit, they coaxed me into shipping in a
temperance whaler. While I was in the Pacific, in this ship,
nigh three years, and out of the reach of drink, I had time
to think what a fool I had been all my life, for wasting my
opportunities. I thought there must be some way of getting
back my father's property; Mr. Clapp had said, that if I was
really the man I pretended to be, I must have some papers
to make it out; but if I hadn't any papers, he couldn't help
me, even if I was William Stanley forty times over. It is
true, I couldn't show him any documents that time, for I
didn't have them with me at Longbridge; but I made up
my mind, while I was out on my last voyage, that as soon as
I got home, I would give up drinking, get my papers together,
and set about doing my best to get back my father's
property. We came home last February; I went to work,
I kept sober, got my things together, put money by for a
lawyer's fee, and then went straight to Longbridge again. I
went to Mr. Clapp's office, and first I handed him the money,
and then I gave him my papers. I went to him, because he
had treated me better than any other lawyer, and told me if
I was William Stanley, and could prove it, he could help
me better than any other man, for he knew all about my
father's will. Well, he hadn't expected ever to see me
again; but he heard my story all out this time, read the
documents, and at last believed me, and undertook the case.
The rest is known to the executors and legatee by this time;
and it is to be hoped, that after enjoying my father's estate
for nigh twenty years, they will now make it over to his son. “Our application to the family physician proves entirely
successful, my dear Hazlehurst; my physiological propensities
were not at fault. I had a letter last evening from Dr.
H—, who now lives in Baltimore, and he professes himself
ready to swear to the formation of young Stanley's hands
and feet, which he says resembled those of Mr. Stanley, the
father, and the three children, who died before William S.
grew up. His account agrees entirely with the portrait of
the boy, as it now exists at Wyllys-Roof; the arms and hands
are long, the fingers slender, nails elongated; as you well
know, Mr. Clapp's client is the very reverse of this—his
hands are short and thick, his fingers what, in common parlance,
would be called dumpy. I was struck with the fact
when I first saw him in the street. Now, what stronger
evidence could we have? A slender lad of seventeen may
become a heavy, corpulent man of forty, but to change the
formation of hands, fingers, and nails, is beyond the reach of
even Clapp's cunning. We are much obliged to the artist,
for his accuracy in representing the hands of the boy exactly
as they were. This testimony I look upon as quite conclusive.
As to the Rev. Mr. G—, whose pupil young Stanley
was for several years, we find that he is no longer living;
but I have obtained the names of several of the young man's
companions, who will be able to confirm the fact of his dullness;
several of the professors at the University are also
living, and will no doubt be able to assist us. I have written
a dozen letters on these points, but received no answers as
yet. So far so good; we shall succeed, I trust. Mr. Wyllys
bids you not forget to find out if Clapp has really been at
Greatwood, as we suspected. The ladies send you many
kind and encouraging messages. Josephine, as usual, sympathizes
in all our movements. She says: `Give Mr. Hazlehurst
all sorts of kind greetings from me; anything you
please short of my love, which would not be proper, I suppose.'
I had a charming row on the river last evening, with
the ladies. I never managed a law-suit in such agreeable
quarters before. We are greatly distressed by a
melancholy accident which befell us scarce an hour since.
The Petrel capsized; most of our party are safe; but two
of my friends are gone, Hazlehurst and Hubbard! You
will understand our grief; mine especially! We shall return
immediately. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 73 | Author: | Duganne
A. J. H.
(Augustine Joseph Hickey)
1823-1884 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude | | | | 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 a bitter night in December. The
wind howled round the streets and lanes of
Boston, entering every crevice, and penetrating,
with cutting severity, the frail abodes of
poverty, making the shivering tenant draw
closer round the dim fire, or crawl beneath
the thin covering of his miserable bed. The
rich felt it, too!—it swept down the Backbay,
and whistled round the trees of the Common—it
murmured hoarsely as it blew adown
Beacon Street, and rattled the windows, and
caused the vanes to creak.—Yes, the rich felt
it,—but they felt it, as we perceive the acid
in our food, only to enjoy the sweetness more.
Stretched on their downy beds, or dozing
over their sea-coal fires, they thought not of
the houseless and the wanderer, or, if they
did, 'twas but to mutter “Poor wretches,”
and turn again to their downy slumbers. —for you are still dear
to me: I am unjustly suspected, and the time
will come when it shall appear so. I can no
longer serve you, or be an inmate of your
family. Circumstances are against me, but
I cannot explain them. I cannot remain. I
throw myself again upon the world. May
heaven bless you and your family. My dear Brother:—Providence has
seen fit to afflict us in a peculiar manner.—
Our dear Fanny has been abducted; carried
we know not whither. A message, purporting
to be from Henry Fowler, came to
her a few days since. The man who
brought it gave her a locket from her brother
and requesting her to meet him on the shore
not a hundred rods from our house, and receive
a letter from her brother. The thoughtless
girl, without consulting me, repaired
there. Lucia accompanied her. She will
tell you the rest. My poor Fanny! I can
write no more. Will you use every means
to regain her. Lucia tells me that Richard
Martin, your clerk, was there. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 74 | Author: | Dunlap
William
1766-1839 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | | | | 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: | Whoever has been in the city of New-York, the great
centre of the commerce of the western world, must remember
the marble front of the hall of justice, or City Hall.
Standing on the highest ground which the democratic system
of filling up hollows by levelling hills, or lifting the low by removing
the superfluity of the high, has left to the great commercial
metropolis. Lifting its stainless face in the midst of
catalpas and elms, poplars and sycamores, the pride of our
forests, this structure, towers,—like the protecting genius of the
land, inviting strangers to take shelter under the guardianship of
law, and promising protection to the oppressed of all nations. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 75 | Author: | Dunlap
William
1766-1839 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | | | | 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 wretched Williams, a slave to sensuality, and involved
in a labyrinth by his own practices, lived in perpetual fear of
losing the reward of his meanness; of being exposed to infamy
by the disclosure of that transaction which had given him the
means of indulgence. He feared to thwart the perverted inclinations,
or the frenzied whims, of his partner. She had
been long convinced that his professions of love had been false,
and that she had cause for jealousy. She knew, however, that
her hold upon him, that grasp which gave her power, was the
secret: and she had cunning enough, even in her moments of
passion or of voluntary madness, to preserve unbroken the
bonds by which she controlled him. She suspended over his
coward head the lash he feared. Often she appeared to triumph
in the power she possessed, and, in part, revealed the
cause. The ungentlemanly epithets you thought proper to
use in addressing me last evening at the theatre were passed
over, at the time, to avoid a disturbance in a public place, but
they require an ample apology. I take this method of informing
you who I am and where I am to be found, rather
than, in the first place, to trouble a friend. I shall be at
home to-morrrow at eleven o'clock, A. M. My late husband, after being sick ever since last August,
during which time I had to support him and my poor
little ones, was taken from me by death, leaving me without
any fuel for this cold winter weather, and my clothes sold
and pawned to give him necessaries and bury him. I and my
poor children are in a state of starvation. I can't work, for
the rheumatism has taken away the use of my limbs: and for
the same reason I can't go to the Alderman for help. I send
this by a neighbour's child, humbly begging your advice and
assistance, as I know, from an acquaintance of an acquaintance
of poor sick Mrs. Kent, that you are always ready to
help the unfortunate. I hope to see you, dear Miss, as soon
as possible, at No. 356 Mott-street. Sir:—I have to apologise for not meeting you at the Albany
Coffee-house at the time appointed. I was called to this
city on an affair that did not admit of delay. I will be in New-York
on any appointed day, previous to my departure for Europe,
if it shall be necessary. My friend Thomas Beaglehole,
Esq. is intrusted with the adjustment of our affair, and has received
my instructions. He will wait upon your friend and
receive your determination. If he satisfied, I am: otherwise,
on receiving a line from him, I shall wait upon you with
all speed. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 77 | Author: | Cox
William
d. 1851? | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Crayon 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: | It is a wholesome thing to be what is commonly
termed “kicked about the world.” Not literally
“kicked”—not forcibly propelled by innumerable
feet from village to village, from town to town, or
from country to country, which can be neither
wholesome nor agreeable; but knocked about,
tossed about, irregularly jostled over the principal
portions of the two hemispheres; sleeping hard
and soft, living well when you can, and learning
to take what is barely edible and potable ungrumblingly
when there is no help for it. Certes, the
departure from home and old usages is any thing
but pleasant, especially at the outset. It is a sort of
secondary “weaning” which the juvenile has to undergo;
but like the first process, he is all the healthier
and hardier when it is over. In this way, it is
a wholesome thing to be tossed about the world.
To form odd acquaintance in ships, on the decks of
steam boats and tops of coaches; to pick up temporary
companions on turnpikes or by hedge-sides;
to see humanity in the rough, and learn what stuff
life is made of in different places; to mark the
shades and points of distinction in men, manners,
customs, cookery, and other important matters as
you stroll along. What an universal toleration it
begets! How it improves and enlarges a man's
physical and intellectual tastes and capacities! How
diminutively local and ridiculously lilliputian seem
his former experiences! He is now no longer bigotted
to a doctrine or a dish, but can fall in with
one, or eat of the other, however strange and foreign,
with a facility that is truly comfortable and
commendable: always, indeed, excepting, such
doctrines as affect the feelings and sentiments, which
he should ever keep “garner'd up” in his “heart of
hearts;” and also, always excepting the swallowing
of certain substances, so very peculiar in themselves,
and so strictly national, that the undisciplined
palate of the foreigner instinctively and utterly
rejects them, such as the frog of your Frenchman—
the garlic of your Spaniard—the compounds termed
sausages of your Cockney—the haggis of your
Scotchman—the train-oil of your Russian. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 78 | Author: | Cox
William
d. 1851? | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Crayon 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: | In few places are the “lights and shadows” of life
more strongly and vividly contrasted than in the
streets of a great metropolis; where bloated wealth
and hollow-eyed poverty trudge side by side, and
gay, fluttering vanity and squalid wretchedness
gaze strangely at each other. It is dramatic, but
unpleasant; at least until custom has produced
the callousness of heart requisite to enable a man
to look philosophically on all human sorrow, save
his own peculiar portion. Before he has arrived at
this state, however, a stroll through the streets of a
crowded city is apt to be uncommonly beneficial.
It generates a series of practical sermons, for which
every poor distressed object furnishes an eloquent
text, tending to inculcate gratitude for his own station,
charity for the miseries, and toleration for the
frailties of others. A back street in London shows
a man a few of the realities of life. To use a pugilistic
phrase, “it takes the conceit out of him.”
I am sometimes sorrier for my own disappointments
than for any person's; and occasionally pity and indulge
in the tenderest and most delicate sympathy
imaginable towards myself, on account of any trivial
inconvenience or privation to which I may
happen to be subjected; but I have never entered
a London by-lane in this frame of mind without
walking out “a wiser and a sadder man” at the
other end.” There is a vast deal of difference between
fanciful or poetical unhappiness and harsh
prose misery—plain, unvarnished, substantial misery,
arising from tangible wants and physical sufferings.
It is too much the fashion of the world
to exaggerate and swell into undue importance
half real and half imaginary mental woes, and to
sneer at and undervalue common bodily evils.
Your young poets and lady poetesses (heaven bless
them!) and indeed all persons of genteel sensibilities,
are continually plunging into the extreme
depths of desolation on what would appear to a
common-sense man rather insufficient grounds.
But going arithmetically to work, it will be a tolerably-sized
grief which produces as much pain as a
prolonged, stinging tooth-ache; and six-and-thirty
hours, or upwards, without victuals, must be almost
as bad to bear as slighted love, notwithstanding the
assertions of sensitive young ladies (who have
chicken at command) to the contrary. Indeed, it
has always struck me that going without a dinner
must be provocative of a vast deal of pathos; and
that it is rather unfair to make such an outcry
about “woes that rend the breast,” while the pangs
and twinges of the contiguous parts of the body, on
a descending scale, are never taken into consideration
by those who have never felt them. If this
view of things be correct—and it is correct—how
much intense suffering does the blessed sun look
down upon every day! Ah! who that has seen
the gaunt, shrivelled frame—the sharpened features—the
bloodless, compressed lips, and sunken
greedy eye which famine produces, but has felt sick
at heart, and inwardly prayed to be preserved,
above all things, from inanition. The omission
of even such commonplace things as victuals,
will, in an astonishingly short time, convince the
most wretchedly romantic youth that ever fell in
love, folded his arms, and turned his face moonwards,
of the excellent properties, moral and physical,
of a beef-steak. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
| 79 | Author: | Fay
Theodore S.
(Theodore Sedgwick)
1807-1898 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | Norman Leslie | | | | 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 brilliant January morning broke over the
beautiful city of New-York. Her two magnificent
rivers came sweeping and sparkling down into her
immense bay, which, bound in like a lake on every
side with circling shores, rolled and flashed in the
unclouded sunshine. The town itself rose directly
from the bosom of the flood, presenting a scene of
singular splendour, which, when the western continent
shall be better known to European tourists,
will be acknowledged to lose nothing by comparison
with the picturesque views of Florence or Naples.
Her tapering spires, her domes, cupolas, and housetops,
her forest of crowded masts, lay bristling and
shining in the transparent atmosphere, and beneath
a heaven of deep and unstained blue. The lovely
waters which washed three sides of the city were
covered with ships of all forms, sizes, and nations;
delighting the eye with images of grace, animation,
and grandeur. Huge vessels of merchandise lay
at rest, in large numbers, all regularly swayed
round from their anchors into a uniform position by
the heavy tide setting from the rivers to the sea.
Others, leaning to the wind, their swollen and
snowy canvass broadly spread for their flight over
the vast ocean, bounded forward, like youth, bright
and confident against the future. Some, entering
sea-beaten and weary from remote parts of the
globe, might be likened, by the contemplative, to
age and wisdom, pitying their bold compeers about
to encounter the roar and storm from which they
themselves were so glad to escape: and yet, to
carry the simile further, even as the human mind,
which experience does not always enlighten or adversity
subdue, ready, after a brief interval of idleness
and repose, to forget the past, and refit themselves
for enterprise and danger. Hundreds, whose
less perilous duties lay within the gates of the harbour,
plied to and fro in every direction, crossing
and recrossing each other, and enlivening with delightful
animation the broad and busy scene. Of
these small craft, indeed, the waves were for ever
whitened with an incredible number, in the midst
of which thundered heavily the splendid and enormous
steamers, beautifully formed to shoot through
the flood with arrowy swiftness, their clean bright
colours shining in the sun, bearing sometimes a
thousand persons on excursions of business and
pleasure, spouting forth fire and steam like the
monstrous dragons of fable, and leaving long tracks
of smoke on the blue heaven. Among other evidences
of a great maritime power, reposed several
giant vessels of war,—those stern, tremendous
messengers of the deep, formed to waft, on the
wings of heaven, the thunderbolt of death across
the solemn world of waters; but now lying, like
fortresses, motionless on the tide, and ready to bear
over the globe the friendly pledges or the grave
demands of a nation which, in the recollection of
some of its surviving citizens, was a submissive
colony, without power and without a name. You
might deem the magnificent city, thus extended
upon the flood, Venice, when that wonderful republic
held the commerce of the world. In a
greater degree, indeed, than London, notwithstanding
the superior amount of shipping possessed by
the latter, New-York at first strikes the stranger
entering into its harbour with signs of commercial
prosperity and wealth. In the mighty British metropolis,
the vessels lie locked in dockyards, or half
buried under fog and smoke. The narrow Thames
presents little more than that portion actually in
motion; and, in a sail from Margate to town, the
vast number are seen only in succession; but here,
the whole crowded, broad, and moving panorama
breaks at once upon the eye; and through a perfectly
pure and bright atmosphere, nothing can be
more striking and exquisite. | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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