1800 to 1829 AD Mostly American Authors

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1800 is the year that our country has finally found the home for our Capital in Washington DC and will no longer move from state to state. However, the 1800's were a turbulent testing ground for our country and without the constitution and people who really believed our country would work upon that constitution; we would have dissolved into mini countries like the small European Countries with distinct cultures and rules.
The winning personality of the early 1800's is Parson Weems. Picture this: older gentlemen of a ruddy completion wearing a clerical coat and a quill pen in his hat. He's driving a Jersey wagon stocked with a portable bookcase and a fiddle. He bathes in ponds along his vagabond journey and peddles books that were popular in his day: "Paradise Lost," "Night Thoughts"--(Young), "Seasons,"--(Thomson), "Vicar of Wakefield," "Robinson Crusoe," "Rambler"--(Johnson), "Charlotte Temple," "Wieland," "Ormond," "Voyages,"--(Cook), "Charles XII,"--Voltaire, "Female Policy Detected," "The Arts of a Designing Woman Laid Open," "Compendium of Midwifery, Thomas Paines political works, "Age of Reason," "Animated Nature,"--(Goldsmith), Greek and Latin books and Bibles, as well as works from Baxter, Watts and Bunyan. He not only travels from New England States to the Southern States, he writes as well.
See: http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/book/search?author=weems&amode=words&title=&tmode=words
He is the one who is given credit for the George Washington and the Cherry Tree story -- "I cannot tell a lie, I chopped the tree with my hatchet." The following is an excerpt from his book, "The Life of General Francis Marion":
"And there's the best of the three -- huzza, d--n me,
at him again my hearties."

"Lieutenant Jossilin," said I, "grab them fellows."

You never saw poor devils in such a fright. But soon as they had recovered
the use of their tongues, they swore like troopers that they were
the "most honestest gentlemen in all Carolina."

"Aye! well, I am very glad to hear that, gentlemen," said I,
"for I love honest men prodigiously, and hope the magistrate will confirm
the handsome report you have made of yourselves."

So off we set all together for the magistrate. About dinner time
I ordered a halt at the house of one Johnson, a militia captain,
who appeared quite overwhelmed with joy to see me. ( by Parson Weems)
The next character of importance is Parson's publisher, a Democratic Irishman named Carey
-- both Carey and Weems loved Thomas Jefferson.
Carey, wanting desperately to go to America and set up a newspaper, dressed up as a woman to get a passage.
These characters are worth reading about -- for fun.

There were some books that everyone read because everyone read them. "Tristram Shandy" was one of them
written by Laurence Stern.

1801 THOMAS JEFFERSON BECAME PRESIDENT USA

1805 "Rise, Progress and Termination of the American Revolution" 3 volumes -- Mercy Otis Warren --Mercy wrote in the third person dealing with events in her immediate family. James Otis was her brother, an early advocate of the rights of the colonies. James Warren was her husband, speaker of the Massachusetts House of Representatives. Winslow Warren, the Diplomat, was her son. Her works can be found in the following web address.
See: http://www.americanrevolution.com/MercyOtisWarren.htm
Volume I: From the rise of the Revolution to the Battle at Valley Forge
Volume II: From Saratoga 1778 to Yorktown 1781
Volume III: From Yorktown 1781 to Treaty of Paris 1783
An excerpt: "France, indeed, after the Declaration of Independence, generously lent of her treasures to support the claims of liberty and of the United States against the strong hand of Britain. But Spain kept her fingers on the strings of her purse, though, as observed above, America had sent several agents to the Court of Madrid to solicit aid. Nor was it until the year 1782 that even Holland opened hers to any effective purpose, for the pecuniary calls that accumulated beneath the waste of war, in which their sister republic was involved."

1807 Salmagundi a newspaper by Washington Irving with his brother William and Lad James Kirke Paulding created the literary "newspaper." In its seventeenth issue Irving affixed the nickname "Gotham" — an Anglo-Saxon word meaning Goat's town to New York City. Irving and his collaborators published used a wide variety of pen names including Will Wizard, Lancelot Langstaff, Pindar Cockloft, and Mustapha Rub-a-Dub Keli Khan.
For Irivngs Works see: http://www.online-literature.com/irving/
Like Parson Weems and his publisher, Irving was also a colorful character, and much can be attributed to him:
1. Irving is the first to write for pleasure in the States at a time when writing was for practical and useful purposes.
2. He is the first well known American humorist.
3. He has written the first modern short stories.
4. He is the first to write history and biography as entertainment.
5. He introduced the nonfiction prose as a literary genre.
6. His use of the "Gothic" looks forward to Poe and Brockden Brown.
An excerpt from SalamaGundi -- No. I, Jan. 34, 1807:
"As Everybody knows, or ought to know, what a salmagundi is, we shall spare ourselves the trouble of an explanation, besides, we despise trouble as we do everything low and mean, and hold the man who would incur it unnecessarily as an object worthy of our highest pity and contempt...Our intention is simply to instruct the young, reform the old, correct the town, and castigate the age; this is an arduous task, and therefore we undertake it with confidence. We intend for this purpose to present a striking picture of the town; and as everybody is anxious to see his own phiz on canvas, however stupid or ugly it may be, we have no doubt but the whole town will flock to our exhibition. Our picture will necessarily include a vast variety of figures; and should any gentleman or lady be displeased with the inveterate truth of their likenesses, they may ease their spleen by laughing at those of their neighbors -- this being what we understand by poetical justice..."

1807 "The Columbiad" Joel Barlow (The entire poem: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext05/8clmb10h.htm)
An excerpt follows: PREFACE:
"In preparing this work for publication it seems proper to offer some observations explanatory of its design. The classical reader will perceive the obstacles which necessarily presented themselves in reconciling the nature of the subject with such a manner of treating it as should appear the most poetical, and at the same time the most likely to arrive at that degree of dignity and usefulness to which it ought to aspire.
"The Columbiad is a patriotic poem; the subject is national and historical. Thus far it must be interesting to my countrymen. But most of the events were so recent, so important and so well known, as to render them inflexible to the hand of fiction. The poem therefore could not with propriety be modeled after that regular epic form which the more splendid works of this kind have taken, and on which their success is supposed in a great measure to depend. The attempt would have been highly injudicious; it must have diminished and debased a series of actions which were really great in themselves, and could not be disfigured without losing their interest."
An excerpt of the poem:
"Here then, said Hesper, with a blissful smile,
Behold the fruits of thy long years of toil.
To yon bright borders of Atlantic day
Thy swelling pinions led the trackless way,
And taught mankind such useful deeds to dare,
To trace new seas and happy nations rear;
Till by fraternal hands their sails unfurl'd
Have waved at last in union o'er the world.
"Then let thy steadfast soul no more complain
Of dangers braved and grief’s endured in vain,
Of courts insidious, envy's poison'd stings,
The loss of empire and the frown of kings;
While these broad views thy better thoughts compose
To spurn the malice of insulting foes;
And all the joys descending ages gain,
Repay thy labors and remove thy pain."

1808 "The Indian Princess" James N. Barker (b.1784 d.1858) This play was an early dramatization of the life of Pocahontas. Barker was an American playwright born in Philadelphia and worked in the Treasury Department (off and on) until his death. He wrote 10 plays: The best were "The Indian Princess,"in 1808, "The Court of Love," in 1836, "Superstition" in 1824, and "Marmion" in 1812. In 1814 he was wounded severely in a duel, but in 1820 was well enough to became the mayor of Philadelphia. He also wrote two poems, "The Sisters," and a variation of "Little Red Riding Hood."
Barker used American material and themes -- unusual in his period. (His work is difficult to find)

1809 TO 1817 JAMES MADISON, THE FOURTH PRESIDENT (DOLLY, HIS WIFE) The War of 1812 is considered, Madison's War. While Hamilton believed in strong government, Madison and Jefferson believed in self-reliance. Even though he had 100 slaves on his tobacco plantation in Virginia, he abhorred slavery. "A pure democracy is a society consisting of a small number of citizens, who assemble and administer the government in person." JM

1809 "History of New York" Washington Irving (This book can be found in the Corning Library) An excerpt follows: "In those days did this embryo city present the rare and noble spectacle of a community governed without laws; and thus being left to its own course, and the fostering care of Providence, increased as rapidly as though it had been burdened with a dozen panniers full of those sage laws usually heaped on the backs of young cities--in order to make them grow. And in this particular I greatly admire the wisdom and sound knowledge of human nature displayed by the sage Oloffe the Dreamer and his fellow legislators. For my part, I have not so bad an opinion of mankind as many of my brother philosophers. I do not think poor human nature so sorry a piece of workmanship as they would make it out to be; and as far as I have observed, I am fully satisfied that man, if left to himself, would about as readily go right as wrong. It is only this eternally sounding in his ears that it is his duty to go right which makes him go the very reverse. The noble independence of his nature revolts at this intolerable tyranny of law, and the perpetual interference of officious morality, which are ever besetting his path with finger-posts and directions to "keep to the right, as the law directs;" and like a spirited urchin, he turns directly contrary, and gallops through mud and mire, over hedges and ditches, merely to show that he is a lad of spirit, and out of his leading-strings. And these opinions are amply substantiated by what I have above said of our worthy ancestors; who never being be-preached and be-lectured, and guided and governed by statutes and laws and by-laws, as are their more enlightened descendants, did one and all demean themselves honestly and peaceably, out of pure ignorance, or, in other words--because they knew no better."

1810 "Inchiquin -- The Jesuit Letters" Charles Jared Ingersoll (b.1782 d. 1862) He argued for more intellectual independence and national self-sufficiency. He also wrote a 4-volume on the History of the War of 1812 and several plays.

1811 "Sense and Sensibility" Jane Austen ENGLISH AUTHOR -- You can read online: http://www.online-literature.com/austen/sensibility/
An excerpt: "Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip; and she only likes me now because I supply it."

"Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost good-will."

1812 "The Diverting History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan" James Kirke Paulding (b.1778 d.1860) He was a friend of Washington Irving and contributed to the magazine, "Salamagundi." He also wrote "The Dutchman's Fireside," and "The Life of Washington," along with several other novels. He mainly did satirical work.

1813 "Pride and Prejudice" Jane Austen ENGLISH AUTHOR -- Can be read online: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/1342
It's difficult to choose an excerpt that will explain the style of Austen's writing. I can just say that she is one of my favorites:
"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling
than politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you
a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs.
Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself."

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she
felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them.
Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him,
though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible,
to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.

On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support
herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible
for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone
of gentleness and commiseration, "Let me call your maid. Is
there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A
glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill."

1814 "The Star-Spangled Banner" Francis Scott Key wrote this piece in defense of Fort McHenry in 1814. It became the National Anthem in 1913. Last verse: "...O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand, Between their lov'd homes and the war's desolation; Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us as a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause. it is just, And this be our motto: "In God is our trust" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

1815 "Poems, The North American Review" Philip Freneau (b.1752 d.1832)-- Freneau was recognized as the Revolutionary War Poet. Many of his works can be found: http://www.wsu.edu/~campbelld/amlit/freneau.htm
The following poem: Caty-did:


In a branch of willow hid #
Sings the evening Caty-did: #
From the lofty-locust bough #
Feeding on a drop of dew, #
In her suit of green arrayed #5
Hear her singing in the shade— #
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did! #

While upon a leaf you tread, #
Or repose your little head #
On your sheet of shadows laid, #10
All the day you nothing said: #
Half the night your cheery tongue #
Reveled out its little song,— #
Nothing else but Caty-did. #

From your lodging on the leaf #15
Did you utter joy or grief? #
Did you only mean to say, #
I have had my summer’s day, #
And am passing, soon, away #
To the grave of Caty-did: #20
Poor, unhappy Caty-did! #

But you would have uttered more #
Had you known of nature’s power; #
From the world when you retreat, #
And a leaf’s your winding sheet, #25
Long before your spirit fled, #
Who can tell but nature said,— #
Live again, my Caty-did! #
Live, and chatter Caty-did. #

Tell me, what did Caty do? #30
Did she mean to trouble you? #
Why was Caty not forbid #
To trouble little Caty-did? #
Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, #
Hurting no one while you sing,— #35
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! #

Why continue to complain? #
Caty tells me she again #
Will not give you plague or pain; #
Caty says you may be hid, #40
Caty will not go to bed #
While you sing us Caty-did,— #
Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! #

But, while singing, you forgot #
To tell us what did Caty not: #45
Caty did not think of cold, #
Flocks retiring to the fold, #
Winter with his wrinkles old; #
Winter, that yourself foretold #
When you gave us Caty-did. #50

Stay serenely on your nest; #
Caty now will do her best, #
All she can, to make you blest; #
But you want no human aid,— #
Nature, when she formed you, said, #55
“Independent you are made, #
My dear little Caty-did: #
Soon yourself must disappear #
With the verdure of the year,” #
And to go, we know not where, #60
With your song of Caty-did.


1815 "Thanatopsis" William Cullen Bryant (b.1794 d.1878) Bryant's works online: http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/Bryant/
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's Teachings while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
, With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher --The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The vernal woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning--and the Barcan Desert pierce,
Or lost thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone --
So shalt thou rest--and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living--and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh,
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

1817 JAMES MONROE BECAME PRESIDENT (MONROE DOCTRINE) UNTIL 1825

1817 "To a Waterfowl" William Cullen Bryant
Wither 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of the day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann'd
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere:
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven,
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone.
Will lead my steps aright.

1819 "Rip Van Winkle" Washington Irving An excerpt: "Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky, but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory."
Rip Van Winkle can be found in Irving's work called "The Sketchbook," published in 1819. For his works see: http://www.online-literature.com/irving/

1819 "She Would Be a Soldier" Mordecai Noah (b.1785 d.1851) This work is a drama -- a woman disguises herself as a soldier. He was the first Jewish man born in the United States to reach prominence. He was an editor, journalist, playwright, politician, lawyer, court of appeals judge, New York Port surveyor, a major in the New York military and, foremost, an ardent utopian Zionist.
An excerpt:
CHRISTINE. At last we are at home.—O my breath is nearly gone. You soldiers are so accustomed to marching and countermarching, that you drag me over hedge and briar, like an empty baggage-wagon. Look at my arm, young Mars, you've made it as red as pink, and as rough as—then my hand—don't attempt to kiss it, you—wild man of the woods.
LENOX. Nay, dear Christine, be not offended; if I have passed rapidly over rocks and mountains, it is because you were with me. My heart ever feels light and happy when I am permitted to walk with you; even the air seems newly perfumed, and the birds chaunt more melodiously; and see, I can take my arm out of confinement—your care has done this; your voice administered comfort, and your eyes affection. What do I not owe you?
CHRISTINE. Owe me? Nothing, only one of your best bows, and your prettiest compliments. But I do suspect, my serious cavalier, that your wounds were never as bad as you would have me think. Of late you have taken your recipes with so much grace, have swallowed so many bitter tinctures with a playful smile, that I believe you've been playing the invalid, and would make me your nurse for life—O sinner as you are, what have you to say for yourself?


1820 IS KNOWN AS THE AMERICAN ROMANTIC PERIOD 1820 TO 1860 -- WITH WRITERS SUCH AS EMILY DICKINSON, RALPH WALDO EMERSON, MARGARET FULLER, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL, HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WALT WHITMAN, AND JOHN GREENLIEF WHITTIER.
SEE: http://www.let.rug.nl/usa/LIT/index.htm for lists of American Literature Periods

1821 "The Spy" James Fenimore Cooper (A list of Fenimore Cooper's works online: http://external.oneonta.edu/cooper/ ) Cooper was born 1813 and died 1894. "The Spy" was the first important historical romance of the American Revolution. After this success he moved to New York City for his career.
Cooper's Contributions:
1. The first successful American Historical Romance in the Vein of Sir Walter Scott -- "The Spy" 1821
2. The first sea novel -- "The Pilot" 1824
3. The first attempt at a fully researched historical novel -- "Lincoln Lionel" 1825
4. The first full-scale history of the US Navy -- 1839
5. The first international novel of manners -- "Homeward Bound"
6. The first trilogy in American Fiction -- "Satanstoe" 1845, "The Chainbearer" 1845 "The Redskins" 1846
7. The first and only 5-volume epic romance to carry its mythic hero (Natty Bumpo) from youth to old age.
Cooper's eldest daughter, Susan, was also an accomplished writer.

1823 "The Pioneers" James Fenimore Cooper (entire piece online: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext00/tpnrs10.txt ) An excerpt:
The buck was now within fifty yards of his pursuers, cutting the water
gallantly, and snorting at each breath with terror and his exertions,
while the canoe seemed to dance over the waves as it rose and fell
with the undulations made by its own motion. Leather-Stocking raised
his rifle and freshened the priming, but stood in suspense whether to
slay his victim or not.

“Shall I, John or no?” he said. “It seems but a poor advantage to
take of the dumb thing, too. I won’t; it has taken to the water on
its own natur’, which is the reason that God has given to a deer, and
I’ll give it the lake play; so, John, lay out your arm, and mind the
turn of the buck; it’s easy to catch them, but they’ll turn like a
snake.”

The Indian laughed at the conceit of his friend, but continued to send
the canoe forward with a velocity’ that proceeded much more from skill
than his strength. Both of the old men now used the language of the
Delawares when they spoke.

“Hugh!” exclaimed Mohegan; “the deer turns his head. Hawk-eye, lift
your spear.”

1824 "Tales of a Traveller" Washington Irving

1824 "Hobomok" Lydia Maria Child (b.1802 d.1880)
(entire work online: http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/etcbin/toccer-eafpublic?id=eaf041.xml&tag=public&data=/texts/eaf?=0 )
An excerpt:
"Aye, aye," replied the stern old man, "encamped
as you are in Elim, beside palm-trees and fountains,
you are no doubt looking back for the flesh-pots of
Egypt. You'd be willing enough to leave the little
heritage which God has planted here, in order to
vamp up your frail carcass in French frippery. But
I would have you beware, young damsel. Wot ye
not that the idle follower of Morton, who was drown-
ed in yonder bay, was inwardly given to the vain
forms of the church of England? -- and know ye not,
that was the reason his God left him, and Satan be-
came his convoy?"
She is best known for her work: "OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS" WRITTEN 1844
Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandmother's house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood -
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding",
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound,
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood -
And straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!
Over the river, and through the wood -
Now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

1824 "A Narrative of the Life of Mrs. Mary Jemison" James Seaver Seaver's account of Mary Jemison is considered an accurate account. Seaver talked with Jemison about her life. A great story to read.
Narrative online: http://womenshistory.about.com/library/etext/bl_nlmj06.htm?terms=apache+indian+clothing
Excerpt: "Sullivan arrived at Canandaigua Lake, and had finished his work of destruction there, and it was ascertained that he was about to march to our flats, when our Indians resolved to give him battle on the way, and prevent, if possible, the distresses to which they knew we should be subjected, if he should succeed in reaching our town. Accordingly they sent all their women and children into the woods a little west of Little Beard's Town, in order that we might make a good retreat if it should be necessary, and then, well armed, set out to face the conquering enemy. The place which they fixed upon for their battle ground lay between Honeoy Creek and the head of Connessius Lake."
Another Great site for narratives of captured colonists by the Indians: http://womenshistory.about.com/library/bio/blbio_mary_jemison.htm

1826 "The Last of the Mohicans" James Fenimore Cooper
entire work online: http://www.online-literature.com/cooperj/mohicans/
An Excerpt: "It is enough," he said. "Go, children of the Lenape, the

anger of the Manitou is not done. Why should Tamenund stay?

The pale faces are masters of the earth, and the time of the

red men has not yet come again. My day has been too long.

In the morning I saw the sons of Unamis happy and strong;

and yet, before the night has come, have I lived to see the

last warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans."

1827 "Tamerlane and Other Poems" Edgar Allan Poe (b.1809 d.1849)
Poe's works online: http://www.pambytes.com/poe/poe.html
Tamerlane: Was the first poem published by Poe, in a Boston edition, 1827.


Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme-
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope- that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope- Oh God! I can-
Its fount is holier- more divine-
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again-
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness- a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won unsurpingly-
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar- this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy,
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!- was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!
The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter'd- and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush-
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayer-
The hum of suitors- and the tone
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny which men
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature- be it so:
But father, there liv'd one who, then,
Then- in my boyhood- when their fire
Burn'd with a still intense glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en then who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.
I have no words- alas!- to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are- shadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters- with their meaning- melt
To fantasies- with none.
O, she was worthy of all love!
Love- as in infancy was mine-
'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright-
Pure- as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather-
And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes.
Young Love's first lesson is- the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears-
There was no need to speak the rest-
No need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!
Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone-
I had no being- but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the sea-
Its joy- its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure- the ideal,
Dim vanities of dreams by night-
And dimmer nothings which were real-
(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, and- a name- a name!
Two separate- yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious- have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmur'd at such lowly lot-
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills-
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it naught beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly-
A mingled feeling with my own-
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,
And donn'd a visionary crown-
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me-
But that, among the rabble- men,
Lion ambition is chained down-
And crouches to a keeper's hand-
Not so in deserts where the grand-
The wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne-
And who her sovereign? Timour- he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!
O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birth-
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly-
And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.
What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one-
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown-
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.
I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known-
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believe-
I know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity-
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path-
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly-
The lightning of his eagle eye-
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?

1827 "Hope Leslie" Catharine Maria Sedgwick (b.1789 d.1867) Catharine is best known for her work called "Domestic Fiction." "Hope Leslie" is written in two volumes and is a dramatic conflict between Native Indians and the British Colonists. She was against Puritan oppressiveness but was considered a Protestant and a Patriot.
Catherine's works: http://www.wsu.edu/~campbelld/amlit/sedgwick.htm
Excerpt from "Hope Leslie":
The intercourse of the cousins was renewed with
all the frankness and artlessness of the sunny season
of childish love and confidence. Alice had
been educated in retirement, by her mother, whom
she had recently attended through a long and fatal
illness. She had been almost the exclusive
object of her love, for there was little congeniality
between the father and daughter. The ties
of nature may command all dutiful observances,
but they cannot control the affections. Alice
was deeply afflicted by her bereavement. Her
cousin's serious temper harmonized with her sorrow,
and nature and opportunity soon indissolubly
linked their hearts together.

FANTASTIC SITE FOR WORKS OF SEVERAL EARLY AUTHORS: http://lib.virginia.edu/digital/collections/text/eaf.html?id=eaf339v1&tag=public&data=/texts/eaf?=0