Far down a narrow street you listen to a long-drawn, melancholy howl—the voice as of one hired to cry in the most mournful tones for whole generations of old pagan Romans who died unconverted; poor devils who worshiped wine and women, and knew nothing better in this world.
— from The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862 Devoted To Literature And National Policy by Various

Take car, dar!—dat ar needle scratch yer little fingers!—poor little fingers!
— from Dred: A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp by Harriet Beecher Stowe

If I can not walk, I can wait on the roadside for some honest passer-by—" "Never, dearest angel; never shall you leave my arms until you promise to put an end to my tortures.
— from The Imprudence of Prue by Sophie Fisher

Placed in a school which was to turn him out a priest, he had decamped, and now seven years later was here in this small town, with fur coat and silk hat, a smart cane—a gentleman of the theatrical profession.
— from Twelve Men by Theodore Dreiser