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Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 1, Colonial and Revolutionary Literature: Early National Literature: Part I (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 4 0 Browse Search
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall) 4 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 1 4 0 Browse Search
Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley 2 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: December 20, 1860., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: November 9, 1860., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing) 2 0 Browse Search
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 2 0 Browse Search
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 2 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: January 5, 1861., [Electronic resource] 2 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing). You can also browse the collection for Guy Mannering or search for Guy Mannering in all documents.

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Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 1 (search)
side; others did not observe me, but to her I was the only human presence. Like a guardian spirit she led me through the fields and groves, and every tree, every bird greeted me, and said, what I felt, She is the first angel of your life. One time I had been passing the afternoon with her. She had been playing to me on the harp, and I sat listening in happiness almost unbearable. Some guests were announced. She went into another room to receive them, and I took up her book. It was Guy Mannering, then lately published, and the first of Scott's novels I had ever seen. I opened where her mark lay, and read merely with the feeling of continuing our mutual existence by passing my eyes over the same page where hers had been. It was the description of the rocks on the sea-coast where the little Harry Bertram was lost. I had never seen such places, and my mind was vividly stirred to imagine them. The scene rose before me, very unlike reality, doubtless, but majestic and wild. I w