CHAPTER III.
SEVERAL days passed after this conversation, in the
ordinary quiet of a well regulated family.
Notwithstanding the house of Miss Emmerson stood
in the midst of the numberless villas that adorn
Manhattan Island, the habits of its mistress were
retiring and domestic. Julia was not of an age to
mingle much in society, and Anna had furnished her
with a theme for her meditations, that rather
rendered her averse from the confusion of company.
Her mind was constantly employed in canvassing
the qualities of the unseen Antonio. Her friend had
furnished her with a catalogue of his perfections in
gross, which her active thoughts were busily
arranging into form and substance. But little
practised in the world or its disappoinments {sic},
the visionary girl had already figured to herself a
person to suit these qualities, and the animal was
no less pleasing, than the moral being of her fancy.
What principally delighted Julia in these
contemplations on the acquaintance of Anna, was
the strong inclination he had expressed to know
herself. This flattered her tendency to believe in
the strength of mutual sympathy, and the efficacy
of innate evidence of merit. In the midst of this
pleasing employment of her fancy, she received a
second letter from her friend, in answer to the one
we have already given to our readers; it was
couched in the following words:
"My own dear Julia, my Friend,
"I received your letter with the pleasure I shall
always hear from you, and am truly obliged to you
for your kind offer to make interest with year aunt
to have me spend the next winter in town. To be
with you, is the greatest pleasure I have on earth;
besides, as I know I can write to you as freely as I
think, one can readily tell what a tiresome place
this must be to pass a winter in. There are,
absolutely, but three young men in the whole
county who can be thought in any manner as proper
matches for us; and one has no chance here of
forming such an association as to give a girl an
opportunity of meeting with her congenial spirit, so
that I hope and trust your desire to see me will
continue as strong as mine will ever be to see my
Julia. You say that I have forgotten to give you the
description of our journey and of the lakes that I
promised to send you. No, my Julia, I have not
forgotten the promise, nor you; but the thought of
enjoying such happiness without your dear
company, has been too painful to dwell upon. Of
this you may judge for yourself. Our first journey
was made in the steam-boat to Albany; she is a
moving world. The vessel ploughs through the
billowy waters in onward progress, and the soul is
left in silent harmony to enjoy the change. The
passage of the Highlands is most delightful. Figure
to yourself, my Julia, the rushing waters, lessening
from their expanded width to the degeneracy of the
stagnant pool--rocks rise on rocks in overhanging
mountains, until the weary eye, refusing its natural
office, yields to the fancy what its feeble powers
can never conquer. Clouds impend over their
summits, and the thoughts pierce the vast abyss.
Ah! Julia, these are moments of awful romance;
how the soul longs for the consolations of
friendship. Albany is one of the most picturesque
places in the world; situated most delightfully on
the banks of the Hudson, which here meanders in
sylvan beauty through meadows of ever-green and
desert islands. Words are wanting to paint the
melancholy beauties of the ride to Schenectady,
through gloomy forests, where the silvery pine
waves in solemn grandeur to the sighings of Eolus,
while Boreas threatens in vain their firm-rooted
trunks. But the lakes! Ah! Julia--the lakes! The
most beautiful is the Seneca, named after a Grecian
king. The limpid water, ne'er ruffled by the rude
breathings of the wind, shines with golden tints to
the homage of the rising sun, while the light bark
gallantly lashes the surge, rocking before the
propelling gale, and forcibly brings to the appalled
mind the fleeting hours of time. But I must pause--
my pen refuses to do justice to the subject, and
the remainder will furnish us hours of conversation
during the tedious moments of the delightful visit
to Park-Place. You speak of Antonio--dear girl, with
me the secret is hallowed. He is yet here; his whole
thoughts are of Julia--from my description only, he
has drawn your picture, which is the most striking
in the world; and nothing can tear the dear emblem
from his keeping. He called here yesterday in his
phaeton, and insisted on my riding a few short
miles in his company: I assented, for I knew it was
to talk of my friend. He already feels your worth,
and handed me the following verses, which he
begged me to offer as the sincere homage of his
heart. He intends accompanying my father and me
to town next winter--provided I go.
"Oh! charming image of an artless fair,
"Whose eyes, with lightning, fire the very soul;
"Whose face portrays the mind, and ebon hair
"Gives grace and harmony unto the whole.
"In vain I gaze entranc'd, in vain deplore
"The leagues that roll between the maid and me;
"Lonely I wander on the desert shore,
"And Julia's lovely form can never see.
"But fly, ye fleeting hours, I beg ye fly,
"And bring the time when Anna seeks her friend;
"Haste--Oh haste, or Edward sure must die.
"Arrive--and quickly Edward's sorrows end."
I know you will think with me, that these lines are
beautiful, and merely a faint image of his manly
heart. In the course of our ride, during which he did
nothing but converse on your beauty and merit, he
gave me a detailed narrative of his life. It was
long, but I can do no less than favour you with an
abridgment of it. Edward Stanley was early left an
orphan: no father's guardian eye directed his
footsteps; no mother's fostering care cherished his
infancy. His estate was princely, and his family
noble, being a wronged branch of an English
potentate. During his early youth he had to contend
against the machinations of a malignant uncle, who
would have robbed him of his large possessions,
and left him in black despair, to have eaten the
bread of penury. His courage and understanding,
however, conquered this difficulty, and at the age
of fourteen he was quietly admitted to an
university. Here he continued peacefully to wander
amid the academic bowers, until the blast of war
rung in his ears, and called him to the field of
honour. Edward was ever foremost in the hour of
danger. It was his fate to meet the enemy often,
and as often did "he pluck honour from the pale-
fac'd moon." He fought at Chippewa--bled at the
side of the gallant Lawrence-and nearly laid down
his life on the ensanguined plains of Marengo. But
it would be a fruitless task to include all the scenes
of his danger and his glory. Thanks to the kind
fates which shield the lives of the brave, he yet
lives to adore my Julia. That you may be as happy
as you deserve, and happier than your heart-
stricken friend, is the constant prayer of your
ANNA."
"P. S. Write me soon, and make my very best
respects to your excellent aunt. It was laughable
enough that Charles Weston should be afraid of a
flash of lightning. I mentioned it to Antonio, who
cried, while manly indignation clouded his brow,
'chill penury repressed his noble rage, and froze the
genial current of the soul.' However, say nothing to
Charles about it, I charge you."
{Highlands = the Hudson Highlands, a mountainous
region in Putnam and Dutchess Counties, through
which the Hudson River passes in a deep and
picturesque gorge; Eolus = God of the winds;
Boreas = God of the North wind; Seneca = one of
the Finger Lakes in central New York State; Grecian
king = both the Senecas of antiquity, the
rhetorician (54 BC-39 AD) and his son the
philosopher/statesman (4 BC-65 AD), were, of
course, Romans--in any case, Lake Seneca is named
after the Seneca nation of the Iroquois Indians;
Park-Place = already in 1816 a fashionable street in
lower Manhattan; Chippewa = an American army
defeated the British at Chippewa, in Canada near
Niagara Falls, on July 5, 1814; Lawrence = Captain
James ("Don't give up the ship!") Lawrence (1781-
1813) of the U.S. Frigate Chesapeake was killed on
June 1, 1813, as his ship was captured by H.M.S.
Shannon outside Boston harbor; Marengo = battle
won by Napoleon against the Austrians on June 14,
1800--"Antonio's" military career was truly an
amazing one!; pluck honor.... = slightly misquoted
from Shakespeare, "King Henry IV, Part I," Act I,
Scene 3, line 202; chill penury.... = slightly
misquoted from Thomas Gray, "Elegy in a Country
Churchyard" verse 13}
Julia fairly gasped for breath as she read this
epistle: her very soul was entranced by the song.
Whatever of seeming contradiction there might be
in the letter of her friend, her active mind soon
reconciled. She was now really beloved, and in a
manner most grateful to her heart--by the sole
power of sympathy and congenial feelings.
Whatever might be the adoration of Edward
Stanley, it was more than equalled by the
admiration of this amiable girl. Her very soul
seemed to her to be devoted to his worship; she
thought of him constantly, and pictured out his
various distresses and dangers; she wept at his
sufferings, and rejoiced in his prosperity--and all
this in the short space of one hour. Julia was yet in
the midst of this tumult of feeling, when another
letter was placed in her hands, and on opening it
she read as follows:
"Dear Julia,
"I should have remembered my promise, and come
out and spent a week with you, had not one of
Mary's little boys been quite sick; of course I went
to her until he recovered. But if you will ask aunt
Margaret to send for me, I will come tomorrow with
great pleasure, for I am sure you must find it
solitary, now Miss Miller has left you. Tell aunt to
send by the servant a list of such books as she
wants from Goodrich's, and I will get them for her,
or indeed any thing else that I can do for her or
you. Give my love to aunt, and tell her that,
knowing her eyes are beginning to fail, I have
worked her a cap, which I shall bring with me.
Mamma desires her love to you both, and believe
me to be affectionately your cousin,
KATHERINE EMMERSON."
This was well enough; but as it was merely a letter
of business, one perusal, and that a somewhat
hasty one, was sufficient. Julia loved its writer
more than she suspected herself, but there was
nothing in her manner or character that seemed
calculated to excite strong emotion. In short, all
her excellences were so evident that nothing was
left dependent on innate evidence; and our heroine
seldom dwelt with pleasure on any character that
did not give a scope to her imagination. In
whatever light she viewed the conduct or
disposition of her cousin, she was met by obstinate
facts that admitted of no cavil nor of any
exaggeration.
Turning quickly, therefore, from this barren
contemplation to one better suited to her
inclinations, Julia's thoughts resumed the agreeable
reverie from which she had been awakened. She
also could paint, and after twenty trials she at
length sketched an outline of the figure of a man
that answered to Anna's description, and satisfied
her own eye. Without being conscious of the theft,
she had copied from a print of the Apollo, and
clothed it in the uniform which Bonaparte is said to
have worn. A small scar was traced on the cheek in
such a manner that although it might be fancied as
the ravages of a bullet, it admirably answered all
the purposes of a dimple. Two epaulettes graced
the shoulders of the hero; and before the picture
was done, although it was somewhat at variance
with republican principles, an aristocratical star
glittered on its breast. Had he his birth-right,
thought Julia, it would be there in reality; and this
idea amply justified the innovation. To this image,
which it took several days to complete, certain
verses were addressed also, but they were never
submitted to the confidence of her friend. The
whole subject was now beginning to be too sacred
even for such a communication; and as the mind of
Julia every hour became more entranced with its
new master, her delicacy shrunk from an exposure
of her weakness: it was getting too serious for the
light compositions of epistolary correspondence.
We furnish a copy of the lines, as they me not only
indicative of her feelings, but may give the reader
some idea of the powers of her imagination.
"Beloved image of a god-like mind,
"In sacred privacy thy power I feel;
"What bright perfection in thy form's combin'd!
"How sure to injure, and how kind to heal.
"Thine eagle eye bedazzles e'en the brain,
"Thy gallant brow bespeaks the front of Jove;
"While smiles enchant me, tears in torrents rain,
"And each seductive charm impels to love.
"Ah! hapless maid, why daring dost thou prove
"The hidden dangers of the urchin's dart;
"Why fix thine eye on this, the god of love,
"And heedless think thee to retain thy heart!"
This was but one of fifty similar effusions, in which
Julia poured forth her soul. The flame was kept
alive by frequent letters from her friend, in all of
which she dwelt with rapture on the moment of
their re-union, and never failed to mention Antonio
in a manner that added new fuel to the fire that
already began to consume Julia, and, in some
degree, to undermine her health, at least she
thought so.
In the mean time Katherine Emmerson paid her
promised visit to her friends, and our heroine was
in some degree drawn from her musings on love
and friendship. The manners of this young lady
were conspicuously natural; she had a confirmed
habit of calling things by their right names, and
never dwelt in the least in superlatives. Her
affections seemed centered in the members of her
own family; nor had she ever given Julia the least
reason to believe she preferred her to her own
sister, notwithstanding that sister was married, and
beyond the years of romance. Yet Julia loved her
cousin, and was hardly ever melancholy or out of
spirits when in her company. The cheerful and
affectionate good humour of Katherine was
catching, and all were pleased with her, although
but few discovered the reason. Charles Weston
soon forgot his displeasure, and with the exception
of Julia's hidden uneasiness, the house was one
quiet scene of peaceful content. The party were
sitting at their work the day after the arrival of
Katherine, when Julia thought it a good opportunity
to intimate her wish to have the society of her
friend during the ensuing winter.
"Why did Mr. Miller give up his house in town, I
wonder?" said Julia; "I am sure it was inconsiderate
to his family."
"Rather say, my child, that it was in consideration
to his children that he did so," observed Miss
Emmerson; "his finances would not bear the
expense, and suffer him to provide for his family
after his death."
"I am sure a little money might be spent now, to
indulge his children in society, and they would be
satisfied with less hereafter," continued Julia. "Mr.
Miller must be rich; and think, aunt, he has seven
grown up daughters that he has dragged with him
into the wilderness; only think, Katherine, how
solitary they must be."
"Had I six sisters I could be solitary no where," said
Katherine, simply; "besides, I understand that the
country where Mr. Miller resides is beautiful and
populous."
"Oh! there are men and women enough, I dare say,"
cried Julia; "and the family is large--eleven in the
whole; but they must feel the want of friends in
such a retired place."
"What, with six sisters!" said Katherine, laughing
and shaking her head.
"There is a difference between a sister end a friend,
you know," said Julia, a little surprised.
"I--indeed I have yet to learn that," exclaimed the
other, in a little more astonishment.
"Why you feel affection for your sisters from nature
and habit; but friendship is voluntary, spontaneous,
and a much stronger feeling--friendship is a
sentiment."
"And cannot one feel this sentiment, as you call it,
for a sister?" asked Katherine, smiling.
"I should think not," returned Julia, musing; "I
never had a sister; but it appears to me that the
very familiarity of sisters would be destructive to
friendship."
"Why I thought it was the confidence--the
familiarity--the secrets--which form the very
essence of friendship." cried Katherine; "at least so
I have always heard."
"True," said Julia, eagerly, "you speak true--the
confidence and the secrets--but not the--the--I am
not sure that I express myself well--but the
intimate knowledge that one has of one's own
sister--that I should think would be destructive to
the delicacy of friendship."
"Julia means that a prophet has never honour in his
own country," cried Charles with a laugh--"a
somewhat doubtful compliment to your sex, ladies,
under her application of it."
"But what becomes of your innate evidence of worth
in friendship," asked Miss Emmerson; "I thought
that was the most infallible of all kinds of
testimony: surely that must bring you intimately
acquainted with each other's secret foibles too."
"Oh! no--that is a species of sentimental
knowledge," returned Julia; "it only dwells on the
loftier parts of the character, and never descends to
the minute knowledge which makes us suffer so
much in each other's estimation: it leaves all these
to be filled by the--by the--by the--what shall I call
it?"
"Imagination," said Katherine, dryly.
"Well, by the imagination then: but it is an
imagination that is purified by sentiment, and"--
"Already rendered partial by the innate evidence of
worth," interrupted Charles.
Julia had lost herself in the mazes of her own
ideas, and changed the subject under a secret
suspicion that her companions were amusing
themselves at her expense; she, therefore,
proceeded directly to urge the request of Anna
Miller.
"Oh! aunt, now we are on the subject of friends, I
wish to request you would authorize me to invite
my Anna to pass the next winter with us in Park-
Place."
"I confess, my love," said Miss Emmerson, glancing
her eye at Katherine, "that I had different views for
ourselves next winter: has not Miss Miller a married
sister living in town?"
"Yes, but she has positively refused to ask the dear
girl, I know," said Julia. "Anna is not a favourite
with her sister."
"Very odd that," said the aunt gravely; "there must
be a reason for her dislike then: what can be the
cause of this unusual distaste for each other?"
"Oh!" cried Julia, "it is all the fault of Mrs. Welton;
they quarrelled about something, I don't know
what, but Anna assures me Mrs. Welton is entirely
in fault."
"Indeed!--and you are perfectly sure that Mrs.
Welton is in fault--perhaps Anna has, however, laid
too strong a stress upon the error of her sister,"
observed the aunt.
"Oh! not at all, dear aunt. I can assure you, on my
own knowledge," continued Julia, "Anna was
anxious for a reconciliation, and offered to come
and spend the winter with her sister, but Mrs.
Welton declared positively that she would not have
so selfish a creature round her children: now this
Anna told me herself one day, and wept nearly to
break her heart at the time."
"Perhaps Mrs. Welton was right then," said Miss
Emmerson, "and prudence, if not some other
reason, justified her refusal."
"How can you say so, dear aunt?" interrupted Julia,
with a little impatience, "when I tell you that Anna
herself--my Anna, told me with her own lips, here in
this very house, that Mrs. Welton was entirely to
blame, and that she had never done any thing in
her life to justify the treatment or the remark--now
Anna told me this with her own mouth."
As Julia spoke, the ardour of her feelings brought
the colour to her cheeks and an animation to her
eyes that rendered her doubly handsome; and
Charles Weston, who had watched her varying
countenance with delight, sighed as she concluded,
and rising, left the room.
"I understand that your father intends spending his
winter in Carolina, for his health," said Miss
Emmerson to Katherine.
"Yes," returned the other in a low tone, and
bending over her work to conceal her feelings;
"mother has persuaded him to avoid our winter."
"And you are to be left behind?"
"I am afraid so," was the modest reply.
"And your brother and sister go to Washington
together?"
"That is the arrangement, I believe."
Miss Emmerson said no more, but she turned an
expressive look on her ward, which Julia was too
much occupied with her thoughts to notice. The
illness of her father, and the prospect of a long
separation from her sister, were too much for the
fortitude of Katherine at any time, and hastily
gathering her work in her hand, she left the room
just in time to prevent the tears which streamed
down her cheeks from meeting the eyes of her
companions.
"We ought to ask Katherine to make one of our
family, in the absence of her mother and sister,"
said Miss Emmerson, as soon as the door was
closed.
"Ah! yes," cried Julia, fervently, "by all means: poor
Katherine, how solitary she would be any where
else--I will go this instant and ask her."
"But--stop a moment, my love; you will remember
that we have not room for more than one guest. If
Katherine is asked, Miss Miller cannot be invited.
Let us look at what we are about, and leave
nothing to repent of hereafter."
"Ah! it is true," said Julia, re-seating herself in
great disappointment; "where will poor Katherine
stay then?"
"I know my brother expects that I will take her
under my charge; and, indeed, I think he has right
to ask it of me."
"But she has no such right as my Anna, who is my
bosom friend, you know. Katherine has a right here,
it is true, but it is only such a right"--
"As your own," interrupted the aunt gravely; "you
are the daughter of my sister, and Katherine is the
daughter of my brother."
"True--true--if it be right, lawful right, that is to
decide it, then Katherine must come, I suppose,"
said Julia, a little piqued.
"Let us proceed with caution, my love," said Miss
Emmerson, kissing her niece--"Do you postpone
your invitation until September, when, if you
continue of the same mind, we will give Anna the
desired invitation: in the mean while prepare
yourself for what I know will be a most agreeable
surprise."
