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