Sargent, Epes, 1813-1880 [1845], Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth: a novel of American life (Burgess, Stringer & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf334].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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[figure description] Top Edge.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Front Cover.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Spine.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Front Edge.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Back Cover.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Bottom Edge.[end figure description]
Preliminaries
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[figure description] Title page.[end figure description]
Title Page
FLEETWOOD,
OR
THE STAIN OF BIRTH.
A NOVEL OF AMERICAN LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR
OF “PHILIP IN SEARCH OF A WIFE,” &C. &C.
“What wonders lie in every day,—had we the sight, as
happily we have not, to decipher it: for is not every meanest
day the conflux of two eternities.”
—Carlyle.
NEW-YORK:
BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY.
1845.
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Acknowledgment
[figure description] Printer's Imprint.[end figure description]
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1845, by
Burgess, Stringer & Co.
In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.
J. R. Winser, Stereotyper,
138 Fulton-street.
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OVERTURE.
[figure description] Page iii.[end figure description]
Thou light of other days, vision joyous though brief,
whose voice was music, and whose presence sunshine!
on the dusty high-way of life, fatigue arrested my footsteps.
I saw a green tree, a grassy knoll, which invited
me to repose. I slept—and my dreams were
happy ones—they were of thee!
Brief the season for slumber! The hour of returning
toil came round. I awoke. And now a book
must be writ. Imagination could find in the realms
of fiction nothing half so charming as thou—thou, lost
reality!
I wrote. But when I remembered the original, I
could have destroyed the picture, which so feebly portrayed
her lineaments. It was too late. What was
writ, was writ. But thou, most gentle critic, would'st
have smiled upon my labors, and not have seen the
injustice which was done thyself; for thou would'st
ever pluck roses so as to leave their thorns behind!
Would that the world were of thy philosophy!
The public know me not. That is one consolation.
They have attributed my former literary trespasses,
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[figure description] Page iv.[end figure description]
and will probably attribute this, to another—to one
who might commit far more flagrant offences, and yet
be forgiven. Be patient, dear sir, under the trying
imputation. Forgive me, if the frail and slippery raft,
composed of two rolling timbers, whereon I stood expecting
momentary submersion, has been floated by
chance under the lee of your handsome yacht, to which
I am well content to owe my parasitical progress.
My publisher remarks that I have said enough. I
consider him infallible in these matters. He gave the
title to my last book—though I must say it struck me
that it was not altogether new—that I had heard something
of the kind before. No matter. Twenty thousand
copies were sold. And so, when he insinuates
that I had better come to a full stop in my overture, I
reply, “You know best, my dear sir,” and throw aside
my pen.
Sargent, Epes, 1813-1880 [1845], Fleetwood, or, The stain of birth: a novel of American life (Burgess, Stringer & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf334].
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