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Tales for Fifteen: or, Imagination and Heart by James Fenimore Cooper (writing under the

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original are represented by ALL CAPITALS.
Annotations by the transcriber are enclosed in
{curly brackets}. A very few obvious typographical
errors have been marked by {sic}.}

TALES FOR FIFTEEN:
OR
IMAGINATION AND HEART.

BY JANE MORGAN.
================

NEW-YORK
C. WILEY, 3 WALL STREET
J. Seymour, printer
1823

Southern District of New-York ss.
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the thirteenth day of
June, in the forty-seventh year of the Independence
of the United States of America, Charles Wiley, of
the said District, hath deposited in this office the
title of a Book, the right whereof he claims as
proprietor, in the words and figures following, to
wit:

"Tales for Fifteen; or Imagination and Heart.
By Jane Morgan."

In conformity with the Act of Congress of the
United States entitled, "An Act for the
encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies
of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the authors and
proprietors of such copies, during the times herein
mentioned." And also to an Act, entitled, "an Act,
supplementary to an Act, for the encouragement of
Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts,
and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such
copies, during the times herein mentioned, and
extending the benefits thereof to the arts of
designing, engraving, and etching historical and
other prints."
JAMES DILL,
Clerk of the Southern District of New-York

PREFACE

WHEN the author of these little tales commenced
them, it was her intention to form a short series of
such stories as, it was hoped, might not be entirely
without moral advantage; but unforeseen
circumstances have prevented their completion,
and, unwilling to delay the publication any longer,
she commits them to the world in their present
unfinished state, without any flattering
anticipations of their reception. They are intended
for the perusal of young women, at that tender age
when the feelings of their nature begin to act on
them most insidiously, and when their minds are
least prepared by reason and experience to contend
with their passions.

"Heart" was intended for a much longer tale, and is
unavoidably incomplete; but it is unnecessary to
point out defects that even the juvenile reader will
soon detect. The author only hopes that if they do
no good, her tales will, at least, do no harm.

IMAGINATION.
---oOo---

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:
Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note,
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me,
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

{Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream" Act
III, Scene 1, lines 137-141}

"DO--write to me often, my dear Anna!" said the
weeping Julia Warren, on parting, for the first time
since their acquaintance, with the young lady whom
she had honoured with the highest place in her
affections. "Think how dreadfully solitary and
miserable I shall be here, without a single
companion, or a soul to converse with, now you are
to be removed two hundred miles into the
wilderness."

"Oh! trust me, my love, I shall not forget you now
or ever," replied her friend, embracing the other
slightly, and, perhaps, rather hastily for so tender
an adieu; at the same time glancing her eye on the
figure of a youth, who stood in silent contemplation
of the scene. "And doubt not but I shall soon tire
you with my correspondence, especially as I more
than suspect it will be subjected to the criticisms of
Mr. Charles Weston." As she concluded, the young
lady curtisied to the youth in a manner that
contradicted, by its flattery, the forced irony of her
remark.

"Never, my dear girl!" exclaimed Miss Warren with
extreme fervour. "The confidence of our friendship
is sacred with me, and nothing, no, nothing, could
ever tempt me to violate such a trust. Charles is
very kind and very indulgent to all my whims, but
he never could obtain such an influence over me as
to become the depositary of my secrets. Nothing
but a friend, like yourself, can do that, my dear
Anna."

"Never! Miss Warren," said the youth with a lip that
betrayed by its tremulous motion the interest he
took in her speech--"never includes a long period of
time. But," he added with a smile of good-
humoured pleasantry, "if admitted to such a
distinction, I should not feel myself competent to
the task of commenting on so much innocence and
purity, as I know I should find in your
correspondence."

"Yes," said Anna, with a little of the energy of her
friend's manner, "you may with truth say so, Mr.
Weston. The imagination of my Julia is as pure as--
as-----" but turning her eyes from the countenance
of Julia to that of the youth, rather suddenly, the
animated pleasure she saw delineated in his
expressive, though plain features, drove the
remainder of the speech from her recollection.

"As her heart!" cried Charles Weston with
emphasis.

"As her heart, Sir," repeated the young lady coldly.

The last adieus were hastily exchanged, and Anna
Miller was handed into her father's gig by Charles
Weston in profound silence. Miss Emmerson, the
maiden aunt of Julia, withdrew from the door,
where she had been conversing with Mr. Miller, and
the travellers departed. Julia followed the vehicle
with her eyes until it was hid by the trees and
shrubbery that covered the lawn, and then withdrew
to her room to give vent to a sorrow that had
sensibly touched her affectionate heart, and in no
trifling degree haunted her lively imagination.

As Miss Emmerson by no means held the good
qualities of the guest, who had just left them, in so
high an estimation as did her niece, she proceeded
quietly and with great composure in the exercise of
her daily duties; not in the least suspecting the
real distress that, from a variety of causes, this
sudden separation had caused to her ward.

The only sister of this good lady had died in giving
birth to a female infant, and the fever of 1805 had,
within a very few years of the death of the mother,
deprived the youthful orphan of her remaining
parent. Her father was a merchant, just
commencing the foundations of what would, in
time, have been a large estate; and as both Miss
Emmerson and her sister were possessed of genteel
independencies, and the aunt had long declared her
intention of remaining single, the fortune of Julia, if
not brilliant, was thought rather large than
otherwise. Miss Emmerson had been educated
immediately after the war of the revolution, and at
a time when the intellect of the women of this
country by no means received that attention it is
thought necessary to bestow on the minds of the
future mothers of our families at the present hour;
and when, indeed, the country itself required too
much of the care of her rulers and patriots to admit
of the consideration of lesser objects. With the
best of hearts and affections devoted to the
welfare of her niece, Miss Emmerson had early
discovered her own incompetency to the labour of
fitting Julia for the world in which she was to live,
and shrunk with timid modesty from the arduous
task of preparing herself, by application and study,
for this sacred duty. The fashions of the day were
rapidly running into the attainment of
accomplishments among the young of her own sex,
and the piano forte was already sending forth its
sonorous harmony from one end of the Union to the
other, while the glittering usefulness of the
tambour-frame was discarded for the pallet and
brush. The walls of our mansions were beginning to
groan with the sickly green of imaginary fields, that
caricatured the beauties of nature; and skies of
sunny brightness, that mocked the golden hues of
even an American sun. The experience of Miss
Emmerson went no further than the simple
evolutions of the country dance, or the deliberate
and dignified procession of the minuet. No wonder,
therefore, that her faculties were bewildered by the
complex movements of the cotillion: and, in short,
as the good lady daily contemplated the
improvements of the female youth around her, she
became each hour more convinced of her own
inability to control, or in any manner to
superintend, the education of her orphan niece.
Julia was, consequently, entrusted to the
government of a select boarding-school; and, as
even the morals of the day were, in some degree,
tinctured with the existing fashions, her mind as
well as her manners were absolutely submitted to
the discretion of an hireling. Notwithstanding this
willing concession of power on the part of Miss
Emmerson, there was no deficiency in ability to
judge between right and wrong in her character; but
the homely nature of her good sense, unassisted by
any confidence in her own powers, was unable to
compete with the dazzling display of
accomplishments which met her in every house
where she visited; and if she sometimes thought
that she could not always discover much of the
useful amid this excess of the agreeable, she rather
attributed the deficiency to her own ignorance than
to any error in the new system of instruction. From
the age of six to that of sixteen, Julia had no other
communications with Miss Emmerson than those
endearments which neither could suppress, and a
constant and assiduous attention on the part of the
aunt to the health and attire of her niece.

{fever of 1805 = New York City had suffered a
major epidemic of yellow fever in the summer of
1805; tambour-frame = a circular frame used to
hold material being embroidered}

Miss Emmerson had a brother residing in the city of
New-York, who was a man of eminence at the bar,
and who, having been educated fifty years ago,
was, from that circumstance, just so much superior
to his successors of his own sex by twenty years,
as his sisters were the losers from the some cause.
The family of Mr. Emmerson was large, and, besides
several sons, he had two daughters, one of whom
remained still unmarried in the house of her father.
Katherine Emmerson was but eighteen months the
senior of Julia Warren; but her father had adopted a
different course from that which was ordinarily
pursued with girls of her expectations. He had
married a woman of sense, and now reaped the
richest blessing of such a connexion in her ability to
superintend the education of her daughter. A
mother's care was employed to correct errors that a
mother's tenderness could only discover; and in the
place of general systems, and comprehensive
theories, was substituted the close and rigorous
watchfulness which adapted the remedy to the
disease; which studied the disposition; and which
knew the failings or merits of the pupil, and could
best tell when to reward, and how to punish. The
consequences were easily to be seen in the
manners and character of their daughter. Her
accomplishments, even where a master had been
employed in their attainment, were naturally
displayed, and suited to her powers. Her manners,
instead of the artificial movements of prescribed
rules, exhibited the chaste and delicate modesty of
refinement, mingled with good principles--such as
were not worn in order to be in character as a
woman and a lady, but were deeply seated, and
formed part, not only of her habits, but, if we may
use the expression, of her nature also. Miss
Emmerson had good sense enough to perceive the
value of such an acquaintance for her ward; but,
unfortunately for her wish to establish an intimacy
between her nieces, Julia had already formed a
friendship at school, and did not conceive her heart
was large enough to admit two at the same time to
its sanctuary. How much Julia was mistaken the
sequel of our tale will show.

So long as Anna Miller was the inmate of the
school, Julia was satisfied to remain also, but the
father of Anna having determined to remove to an
estate in the interior of the country, his daughter
was taken from school; and while the arrangements
were making for the reception of the family on the
banks of the Gennessee, Anna was permitted to
taste, for a short time, the pleasures of the world,
at the residence of Miss Emmerson on the banks of
the Hudson.

{Gennessee = Genesee River, which flows north
through central New York State to Lake Ontario--at
the time of Cooper's story it was still on the
frontier of settlement}

Charles Weston was a distant relative of the good
aunt, and was, like Julia, an orphan, who was
moderately endowed with the goods of fortune. He
was a student in the office of her uncle, and being
a great favourite with Miss Emmerson, spent many
of his leisure hours, during the heats of the
summer, in the retirement of her country residence.

Whatever might be the composure of the maiden
aunt, while Julia was weeping in her chamber over
the long separation that was now to exist between
herself and her friend, young Weston by no means
displayed the same philosophic indifference. He
paced the hall of the building with rapid steps, cast
many a longing glance at the door of his cousin's
room, and then rested himself with an apparent
intention to read the volume he held in his hands;
nor did he in any degree recover his composure
until Julia re-appeared on the landing of the stairs,
moving slowly towards their bottom, when, taking
one long look at her lovely face, which was glowing
with youthful beauty, and if possible more charming
from the traces of tears in her eyes, he coolly
pursued his studies. Julia had recovered her
composure, and Charles Weston felt satisfied. Miss
Emmerson and her niece took their seats quietly
with their work at an open window of the parlour,
and order appeared to be restored in some measure
to the mansion. After pursuing their several
occupations for some minutes with a silence that
had lately been a stranger to them, the aunt
observed--

"You appear to have something new in hand, my
love. Surely you must abound with trimmings, and
yet you are working another already?"

"It is for Anna Miller," said Julia with a flush of
feeling.

"I was in hopes you would perform your promise to
your cousin Katherine, now Miss Miller is gone, and
make your portion of the garments for the Orphan
Asylum," returned Miss Emmerson gravely.

"Oh! cousin Katherine must wait. I promised this
trimming to Anna to remember me by, and I would
not disappoint the dear girl for the world."

"It is not your cousin Katherine, but the Orphans,
who will have to wait; and surely a promise to a
relation is as sacred as one to an acquaintance."

"Acquaintance, aunt!" echoed the niece with
displeasure. "Do not, I entreat you, call Anna an
acquaintance merely. She is my friend--my very
best friend, and I love her as such."

"Thank you, my dear," said the aunt dryly.

"Oh! I mean nothing disrespectful to yourself, dear
aunt," continued Julia. "You know how much I owe
to you, and ought to know that I love you as a
mother."

"And would you prefer Miss Miller to a mother,
then?"

"Surely not in respect, in gratitude, in obedience;
but still I may love her, you know. Indeed, the
feelings are so very different, that they do not at
all interfere with each other--in my heart at least."

"No!" said Miss Emmerson, with a little curiosity--"I
wish you would try and explain this difference to
me, that I may comprehend the distinctions that
you are fond of making."

"Why, nothing is easier, dear aunt!" said Julia with
animation. "You I love because you are kind to me,
attentive to my wants, considerate for my good;
affectionate, and--and--from habit--and you are my
aunt, and take care of me."

"Admirable reasons!" exclaimed Charles Weston,
who had laid aside his book to listen to this
conversation.

"They are forcible ones I must admit," said Miss
Emmerson, smiling affectionately on her niece; "but
now for the other kind of love."

"Why, Anna is my friend, you know," cried Julia,
with eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I love her,
because she has feelings congenial with my own;
she has so much wit, is so amusing, so frank, so
like a girl of talents--so like--like every thing I
admire myself."

"It is a pity that one so highly gifted cannot furnish
herself with frocks," said the aunt, with a little
more than her ordinary dryness of manner, "and
suffer you to work for those who want them more."

"You forget it is in order to remember me," said
Julia, in a manner that spoke her own ideas of the
value of the gift.

"One would think such a friendship would not
require any thing to remind one of its existence,"
returned the aunt.

"Why! it is not that she will forget me without it,
but that she may have something by her to remind
her of me-----" said Julia rapidly, but pausing as the
contradiction struck even herself.

"I understand you perfectly, my child," interrupted
the aunt, "merely as an unnecessary security, you
mean."

"To make assurance doubly sure," cried Charles
Weston with a laugh.

"Oh! you laugh, Mr. Weston," said Julia with a little
anger; "but I have often said, you were incapable of
friendship."

"Try me!" exclaimed the youth fervently. "Do not
condemn me without a trial."

"How can I?" said Julia, laughing in her turn. "You
are not a girl."

"Can girls then only feel friendship?" inquired
Charles, taking the seat which Miss Emmerson had
relinquished.

"I sometimes think so," said Julia, with her own
good-humoured smile. "You are too gross--too
envious--in short, you never see such friendships
between men as exist between women."

"Between girls, I will readily admit," returned the
youth. "But let us examine this question after the
manner of the courts--"

"Nay, if you talk law I shall quit you," interrupted
the young lady gaily.

"Certainly one so learned in the subject need not
dread a cross-examination," cried the youth, in her
own manner.

"Well, proceed," cried the lady. "I have driven aunt
Margaret from the field, and you will fare no better,
I can assure you."

"Men, you say, are too gross to feel a pure
friendship; in the first place, please to explain
yourself on this point."

"Why I mean, that your friendships are generally
interested; that it requires services and good
offices to support it."

{interested = not pure, having an ulterior motive}

"While that of women depends on--"

"Feeling alone."

"But what excites this feeling?" asked Charles with
a smile.

"What? why sympathy--and a knowledge of each
other's good qualities."

"Then you think Miss Miller has more good qualities
than Katherine Emmerson," said Weston.

"When did I ever say so?" cried Julia in surprise.

"I infer it from your loving her better, merely,"
returned the young man with a little of Miss
Emmerson's dryness.

"It would be difficult to compare them," said Julia
after a moment's pause. "Katherine is in the world,
and has had an opportunity of showing her merit;
that Anna has never enjoyed. Katherine is certainly
a most excellent girl, and I like her very much; but
there is no reason to think that Anna will not prove
as fine a young woman as Katherine, when put to
the trial."

"Pray," said the young lawyer with great gravity,
"how many of these bosom, these confidential
friends can a young woman have at the same
time?"

"One, only one--any more than she could have two
lovers," cried Julia quickly.

"Why then did you find it necessary to take that
one from a set, that was untried in the practice of
well-doing, when so excellent a subject as your
cousin Katherine offered?"

"But Anna I know, I feel, is every thing that is good
and sincere, and our sympathies drew us together.
Katherine I loved naturally."

"How naturally?"

"Is it not natural to love your relatives?" said Julia
in surprise.

"No," was the brief answer.

"Surely, Charles Weston, you think me a simpleton.
Does not every parent love its child by natural
instinct?"

"No: no more than you love any of your
amusements from instinct. If the parent was
present with a child that he did not know to be his
own, would instinct, think you, discover their
vicinity?"

"Certainly not, if they had never met before; but
then, as soon as he knew it to be his, he would
love it from nature."

"It is a complicated question, and one that involves
a thousand connected feelings," said Charles. "But
all love, at least all love of the heart, springs from
the causes you mentioned to your aunt--good
offices, a dependence on each other, and habit."

"Yes, and nature too," said the young lady rather
positively; "and I contend, that natural lore, and
love from sympathy, are two distinct things."

"Very different, I allow," said Charles; "only I very
much doubt the durability of that affection which
has no better foundation than fancy."

"You use such queer terms, Charles, that you do
not treat the subject fairly. Calling innate evidence
of worth by the name of fancy, is not candid."

"Now, indeed, your own terms puzzle me," said
Charles, smiling. "What is innate evidence of
worth?"

"Why, a conviction that another possesses all that
you esteem yourself, and is discovered by congenial
feelings and natural sympathies."

"Upon my word, Julia, you are quite a casuist on
this subject. Does love, then, between the sexes
depend on this congenial sympathy and innate
evidence?"

"Now you talk on a subject that I do not
understand," said Julia, blushing; and, catching up
the highly prized work, she ran to her own room,
leaving the young man in a state of mingled
admiration and pity.

CHAPTER II.

AN anxious fortnight was passed by Julia Warren,
after this conversation, without bringing any tidings
from her friend. She watched, with feverish
restlessness, each steam-boat that passed the
door on its busy way towards the metropolis, and
met the servant each day at the gate of the lawn
on his return from the city; but it was only to
receive added disappointments. At length Charles
Weston good-naturedly offered his own services,
laughingly declaring, that his luck was never known
to fail. Julia herself had written several long
epistles to Anna, and it was now the proper time
that some of these should be answered,
independently of the thousand promises from her
friend of writing regularly from every post-office
that she might pass on her route to the Gennessee.
But the happy moment had arrived when
disappointments were to cease.

As usual, Julia was waiting with eager impatience
at the gate, her lovely form occasionally gliding
from the shrubbery to catch a glimpse of the
passengers on the highway, when Charles appeared
riding at a full gallop towards the house; his whole
manner announced success, and Julia sprang into
the middle of the road to take the letter which he
extended towards her.

"I knew I should be successful, and it gives me
almost as much pleasure as yourself that I have
been so," said the youth, dismounting from his
horse and opening the gate that his companion
might pass.

"Thank you--thank you, dear Charles," said Julia
kindly. "I never can forget how good you are to me-
-how much you love to oblige not only me, but
every one around. Excuse me now, I have this dear
letter to read another time, I will thank you as I
ought."

So saying, Julia ran into the summer-house, and
fastening its door, gave herself up to the pleasure
of reading a first letter. Notes and short epistles
from her aunt, with divers letters from Anna written
slyly in the school-room and slipped into her lap,
she was already well acquainted with; but of real,
genuine letters, stamped by the post-office,
rumpled by the mail-bags, consecrated by the
steam-boat, this was certainly the first. This,
indeed, was a real letter: rivers rolled, and vast
tracts of country lay, between herself and its writer,
and that writer was a friend selected on the
testimony of innate evidence. It was necessary for
Julia to pause and breathe before she could open
her letter; and by the time this was done, her busy
fancy had clothed both epistle and writer with so
much excellence, that she was prepared to peruse
the contents with a respect bordering on
enthusiasm: every word must be true--every idea
purity itself. That our readers may know how
accurately sixteen and a brilliant fancy had qualified
her to judge, we shall give them the letter entire.

"My dearest love,

"Oh, Julia! here I am, and such a place!--no town,
no churches, no Broadway, nothing that can make
life desirable; and, I may add, no friend--nobody to
see and talk with, but papa and mamma, and a
house full of brothers and sisters. You can't think
how I miss you, every minute more and more; but I
am not without hopes of persuading pa to let me
spend the winter with your aunt in town. I declare
it makes me sick every time I think of her sweet
house in Park-place. If ever I marry, and be sure I
will, it shall be a man who lives in the city, and
next door to my Julia. Oh! how charming that would
be. Each of us to have one of those delightful new
houses, with the new-fashioned basement stories;
we would run in and out at all hours of the day, and
it would be so convenient to lend and borrow each
other's things. I do think there is no pleasure under
heaven equal to that of wearing things that belong
to your friend. Don't you remember how fond I was
of wearing your clothes at school, though you were
not so fond of changing as myself; but that was no
wonder, for pa's stinginess kept me so shabbily
dressed, that I was ashamed to let you be seen in
them. Oh, Julia! I shall never forget those happy
hours; nor you neither. Apropos--I hope you have
not forgot the frock you promised to work for me, to
remember you by. I long for it dreadfully, and hope
you will send it before the river shuts. I suppose
you and Charles Weston do nothing but ride round
among those beautiful villas on the island, and
take comfort. I do envy you your happiness, I can
tell you; for I think any beau better than none,
though Mr. Weston is not to my taste. I am going
to write you six sheets of paper, for there is
nothing that I so delight in as communing with a
friend at a distance, especially situated as I am
without a soul to say a word to, unless it be my
own sisters. Adieu, my ever, ever beloved Julia--be
to me as I am to you, a friend indeed, one tried
and not found wanting. In haste, your

"ANNA.

"Gennessee, June 15, 1816.

"P. S. Don't forget to jog aunt Emmerson's memory
about asking me to Park-place.

"P. S. June 25th. Not having yet sent my letter,
although I am sure you must be dying with anxiety
to hear how we get on, I must add, that we have a
companion here that would delight you--a Mr.
Edward Stanley. What a delightful name! and he is
as delightful as his name: his eye, his nose, his
whole countenance, are perfect. In short, Julia, he
is just such a man as we used to draw in our
conversation at school. He is rich, and brave, and
sensible, and I do nothing but talk to him of you.
He says, he longs to see you; knows you must be
handsome; is sure you are sensible; and feels that
you are good. Oh! he is worth a dozen Charles
Westons. But you may give my compliments to Mr.
Weston, though I don't suppose he ever thinks it
worth his while to remember such a chick as me. I
should like to hear what he says about me, and I
will tell you all Edward Stanley says of you. Once
more, adieu. Your letters got here safe and in due
season. I let Edward take a peep at them."

The first time Julia read this letter she was
certainly disappointed. It contained no descriptions
of the lovely scenery of the west. The moon had
risen and the sun had set on the lakes of the
interior, and Anna had said not one word of either.
But the third and fourth time of reading began to
afford more pleasure, and at the thirteenth perusal
she pronounced it charming. There was evidently
much to be understood; vacuums that the fancy
could easily fill; and, before Julia had left the
summer-house, the letter was extended, in her
imagination, to the promised six sheets. She
walked slowly through the shrubbery towards the
house, musing on the contents of her letter, or
rather what it might be supposed to contain, and
unconsciously repeating to herself in a low tone--

"Young, handsome, rich, and sensible--just as we
used to paint in our conversation. Oh, how
delightful!"

"Delightful indeed, to possess all those fine
qualities; and who is the happy individual that is so
blessed?" asked Charles Weston, who had been
lingering in the walks with an umbrella to shield her
on her return from an approaching shower.

"Oh!" said Julia, starting, "I did not know you were
near me. I have been reading Anna's sweet letter,"
pressing the paper to her bosom as she spoke.

"Doubtless you must be done by this time, Julia,
and," pointing to the clouds, "you had better hasten
to the house. I knew you would be terrified at the
lightning all alone by yourself in that summer-
house, so I came to protect you."

"You are very good, Charles, but does it lighten?"
said Julia in terror, and hastening her retreat to the
dwelling.

"Your letter must have interested you deeply not to
have noticed the thunder--you, who are so timid
and fearful of the flashes."

"Foolishly fearful, you would say, if you were not
afraid of hurting my feelings, I know," said Julia.

"It is a natural dread, and therefore not to be
laughed at," answered Charles mildly.

"Then there is natural fear, but no natural love, Mr.
Charles; now you are finely caught," cried Julia
exultingly.

"Well, be it so. With me fear is very natural, and I
can almost persuade myself love also."

"I hope you are not a coward, Charles Weston. A
cowardly man is very despicable. I could never love
a cowardly man," said Julia, laughing.

"I don't know whether I am what you call a coward,"
said Charles gravely; "but when in danger I am
always afraid."

The words were hardly uttered before a flash of
lightning, followed instantly by a tremendously
heavy clap of thunder, nearly stupified them both.
The suddenness of the shock had, for a moment,
paralyzed the energy of the youth, while Julia was
nearly insensible. Soon recovering himself,
however, Charles drew her after him into the house,
in time to escape a torrent of rain. The storm was
soon over, and their natural fear and surprise were
a source of mirth for Julia. Women are seldom
ashamed of their fears, for their fright is thought to
be feminine end attractive; but men are less easy
under the imputation of terror, as it is thought to
indicate an absence of manly qualities.

"Oh! you will never make a hero, Charles," cried
Julia, laughing heartily. "It is well you chose the
law instead of the army as a profession."

"I don't know," said the youth, a little nettled," I
think I could muster courage to face a bullet."

"But remember, that you shut your eyes, and bent
nearly double at the flash--now you owned all this
yourself."

"At least he was candid, and acknowledged his
infirmities," said Miss Emmerson, who had been
listening.

"I think most men would have done as I did, at so
heavy and so sudden a clap of thunder, and so very
near too," said Charles, striving to conceal the
uneasiness he felt.

"When apprehension for Julia must have increased
your terror," said the aunt kindly.

"Why, no--I rather believe I thought only of myself
at the moment," returned Charles; "but then, Julia,
you must do me the justice to say, that instantly I
thought of the danger of your taking cold and drew
you into the house."

"Oh! you ran from another clap," said Julia, laughing
till her dark eyes flashed with pleasure, and
shaking her head until her glossy hair fell in ringlets
over her shoulders; "you will never make a hero,
Charles."

"Do you know any one who would have behaved
better, Miss Warren?" said the young man angrily.

"Yes--why--I don't know. Yes, I have heard of one,
I think," answered Julia, slightly colouring; "but,
dear Charles, excuse my laughter," she continued,
holding out her hand; "if you are not a hero, you
are very, very, good."

But Charles Weston, at the moment, would rather
be thought a hero than very, very, good; he,
therefore, rose, and affecting a smile, endeavoured
to say something trifling as he retired.

"You have mortified Charles," said Miss Emmerson,
so soon as he was out of hearing.

"I am sure I hope not," said Julia, with a good deal
of anxiety; "he is the last person I would wish to
offend, he is so very kind."

"No young man of twenty is pleased with being
thought no hero," returned the aunt.

"And yet all are not so," said Julia, "I hardly know
what you mean by a hero; if you mean such men as
Washington, Greene, or Warren, all are surely not
so. These were heroes in deeds, but others may be
equally brave."

{Greene = Nathanael Greene (1742-1786),
Revolutionary General; Warren = Joseph Warren
(1741-1775), Revolutionary war hero, killed at the
Battle of Bunker Hill}

"I mean by a hero, a man whose character is
unstained by any low or degenerate vices, or even
feelings," said Julia, with a little more than her
ordinary enthusiasm; "whose courage is as natural
as it is daring; who is above fear, except of doing
wrong; whose person is an index of his mind, and
whose mind is filled with images of glory; that's
what I call a hero, aunt."

"Then he must be handsome as well as valiant,"
said Miss Emmerson, with a smile that was hardly
perceptible.

"Why that is--is--not absolutely material," replied
Julia, blushing; "but one would wish to have him
handsome too."

"Oh! by all means; it would render his virtues more
striking. But I think you intimated that you knew
such a being," returned Miss Emmerson, fixing her
mild eyes on Julia in a manner that denoted great
interest.

"Did I," said Julia, colouring scarlet; "I am sure--I
have forgotten--it must be a mistake, surely, dear
aunt."

"Very possibly I misunderstood you, my dear," said
Miss Emmerson, rising and withdrawing from the
room, in apparent indifference to the subject.

Julia continued musing on the dialogue which had
passed, and soon had recourse to the letter of her
friend, the postscript of which was all, however,
that she thought necessary to read: on this she
dwelt until the periods were lengthened into
paragraphs, each syllable into words, and each
letter into syllables. Anna Miller had furnished the
outlines of a picture, that the imagination of Julia
had completed. The name of Edward Stanley was
repeated internally so often that she thought it the
sweetest name she had ever heard. His eyes, his
nose, his countenance, were avowed to be
handsome; and her fancy soon gave a colour and
form to each. He was sensible; how sensible, her
friend had not expressly stated; but then the
powers of Anna, great as they undoubtedly were,
could not compass the mighty extent of so gigantic
a mind. Brave, too, Anna had called him. This she
must have learnt from acts of desperate courage
that he had performed in the war which had so
recently terminated; or perhaps he might have even
distinguished himself in the presence of Anna, by
some exploit of cool and determined daring. Her
heart burned to know all the particulars, but how
was she to inquire them. Anna, dear, indiscreet girl,
had already shown her letters, and her delicacy
shrunk from the exposure of her curiosity to its
object. After a multitude of expedients had been
adopted and rejected as impracticable, Julia
resorted to the course of committing her inquiries
to paper, most solemnly enjoining her friend never
to expose her weakness to Mr. Stanley. This,
thought Julia, she never could do; it would be
unjust to me, and indelicate in her. So Julia wrote
as follows, first seeking her own apartment, and
carefully locking the door, that she might devote
her whole attention to friendship, and her letter.

"Dearest Anna,

"Your kind letter reach'd me after many an anxious
hour spent in expectation, and repays me ten-fold
for all my uneasiness. Surely, Anna, there is no one
that can write half so agreeably as yourself. I know
there must be a long--long--epistle for me on the
road, containing those descriptions and incidents
you promised to favour me with: how I long to read
them, and to show them to my aunt Margaret, who,
I believe, does not suspect you to be capable of
doing that which I know, or rather feel, you can.
Knowing from any thing but feeling and the innate
evidence of our sympathies, seems to me
something like heresy in friendship. Oh, Anna! how
could you be so cruel as to show my letters to any
one, and that to a gentleman and a stranger? I
never would have served you so, not even to good
Charles Weston, whom I esteem so highly, and who
really wants neither judgment nor good nature,
though he is dreadfully deficient in fancy. Yet
Charles is a most excellent young man, and I gave
him the compliments you desired; he was so much
flattered by your notice that he could make no
reply, though I doubt not he prized the honour as
he ought. We are all very happy here, only for the
absence of my Anna; but so long as miles of weary
roads and endless rivers run between us, perfect
happiness can never reign in the breast of your
Julia. Anna, I conjure you by all the sacred delicacy
that consecrates our friendship, never to show this
letter, unless you would break my heart: you never
will, I am certain, and therefore I will write to my
Anna in the unreserved manner in which we
conversed, when fate, less cruel than at present,
suffered us to live in the sunshine of each other's
smiles. You speak of a certain person in your letter,
whom, for obvious reasons, I will in future call
ANTONIO. You describe him with the partiality of a
friend; but how can I doubt his being worthy of all
that you say, and more--sensible, brave, rich, and
handsome. From his name, I suppose, of course, he
is well connected. What a constellation of
attractions to centre in one man! But you have not
told me all--his age, his family, his profession;
though I presume he has borne arms in the service
of his country, and that his manly breast is already
covered with the scars of honour. Ah! Anna, "he
jests at scars who never felt a wound." But, my
dear creature, you say that he talks of me: what
under the sun can you find to say of such a poor girl
as myself? Though I suppose you have, in the
fondness of affection, described my person to him
already. I wonder if he likes black eyes and fair
complexion. You can't conceive what a bloom the
country has given me; I really begin to look more
like a milk-maid than a lady. Dear, good aunt
Margaret has been quite sick since you left us, and
for two days I was hardly out of her room; this has
put me back a little in colour, or I should be as
ruddy as the morn. But nothing ought ever to tempt
me to neglect my aunt, and I hope nothing ever
will. Be assured that I shall beg her to write you to
spend the winter with us, for I feel already that
without you life is a perfect blank. You indeed must
have something to enliven it with a little in your
new companions, but here is nobody, just now, but
Charles Weston. Yet he is an excellent companion,
and does every thing he can to make us all happy
and comfortable. Heigho! how I do wish I could see
you, my Anna, and spend one sweet half hour in
the dear confidence of mutual sympathy. But lie
quiet, my throbbing heart, the day approaches
when I shall meet my friend again, and more than
receive a reward for all our griefs. Ah! Anna, never
betray your Julia, and write to me FULLY,
CONFIDINGLY, and often.

"Yours, with all the tenderness of friendship that is
founded on mutual sympathy, congenial souls, and
innate evidence of worth.
JULIA."

"P.S. I should like to know whether Antonio has any
scars in his face, and what battles he was in. Only
think, my dear, poor Charles Weston was frightened
by a clap of thunder--but Charles has an excellent
heart."

This letter was written and read, sealed and kissed,
when Miss Emmerson tapped gently at the door of
her niece and begged admission. Julia flew to open
it, and received her aunt with the guileless pleasure
her presence ever gave her. A few words of
introductory matter were exchanged, when, being
both seated at their needles again, Miss Emmerson
asked--

"To whom have you been writing, my love?"

"To my Anna."

"Do you recollect, my child, that in writing to Miss
Miller, you are writing to one out of your own
family, and whose interests are different from
yours?"

"I do not understand you, aunt," cried Julia in
surprise.

"I mean that you should be guarded in your
correspondence--tell no secrets out"--

"Tell no secrets to my Anna!" exclaimed the niece in
a species of horror. "That would be a death-blow to
our friendship indeed."

"Then let it die," said Miss Emmerson, coolly; "the
affection that cannot survive the loss of such an
excitement, had better be suffered to expire as
soon as possible, or it may raise false
expectations."

"Why, dear aunt, in destroying confidence of this
nature, you destroy the great object of friendship.
Who ever beard of a friendship without secrets?"

"I never had a secret in my life," said Miss
Emmerson simply, "and yet I have had many a
friend."

"Well," said Julia, "yours must have been queer
friends; pray, dear aunt, name one or two of them."

"Your mother was my friend," said Miss Emmerson,
with strong emotion, "and I hope her daughter also
is one."

"Me, my beloved aunt!" cried Julia, throwing herself
into the arms of Miss Emmerson and bursting into
tears; "I am more than a friend, I am your child--
your daughter."

"Whatever be the name you give it, Julia, you are
very near and dear to me," said the aunt, tenderly
kissing her charge: "but tell me, my love, did you
ever feel such emotion in your intercourse with Miss
Miller?"

It was some time before Julia could reply; when,
having suppressed the burst of her feelings, she
answered with a smile--

"Oh! that question is not fair. You have brought me
up; nursed me in sickness; are kind and good to
me; and the idea that you should suppose I did not
love you, was dreadful--But you know I do."

"I firmly believe so, my child; it is you that I would
have know what it is that you love: I am satisfied
for myself. I repeat, did Anna Miller ever excite
such emotions?"

"Certainly not: my love to you is natural; but my
friendship for Anna rests on sympathy, and a
perfect knowledge of her character."

"I am glad, however, that you know her so well,
since you are so intimate. What testimony have
you of all this excellence?"

"Innate evidence. I see it--I feel it--Yes, that is the
best testimony--I feel her good qualities. Yes, my
friendship for Anna forms the spring of my
existence; while any accident or evil to you would
afflict me the same as if done to myself--this is
pure nature, you know."

"I know it is pleasing to learn it, come from what it
will," said the aunt, smiling, and rising to withdraw.

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."

CHAPTER IV.

ALTHOUGH Julia spent most of her time with her
aunt and cousin, opportunities for meditation were
not wanting: in the retirement of her closet she
perused and re-perused the frequent letters of her
friend. The modesty of Julia, or rather shame,
would have prevented her from making Anna
acquainted with all her feelings, but it would have
been treason to her friendship not to have poured
out a little of her soul at the feet of Miss Miller.
Accordingly, in her letters, Julia did not avoid the
name of Antonio. She mentioned it often, but with
womanly delicacy, if not with discretion. The seeds
of constant association had, unknown to herself,
taken deep root, and it was not in the power of
Anna Miller to eradicate impressions which had
been fastened by the example of the aunt, and
cherished by the society of her cousin. Although
deluded, weak, and even indiscreet, Julia was not
indelicate. Yet enough escaped her to have given
any experienced eye an insight into the condition of
her mind, had Anna chosen to have exposed her
letters to any one. The danger of such a
correspondence should alone deter any prudent
female from its indulgence. Society has branded the
man with scorn who dares abuse the confidence of
a woman in this manner; and the dread of the
indignation of his associates makes it an offence
which is rarely committed by the other sex: but
there is no such obligation imposed on women, and
that frequently passes for a joke which harrows
every feeling that is dear to the female breast, and
violates all that is delicate and sensitive in our
nature. Surely, where it is necessary from any
adventitious circumstances to lay the heart open in
this manner, it should only be done to those whose
characters are connected with our own, and who
feel ridicule inflicted on us, as disgrace heaped on
themselves. A peculiar evil of these confidential
friendships is, that they are most liable to occur,
when, from their youth, their victims are the least
guarded; and, at the same time, from inconstancy,
the most liable to change. Happily, however, for
Julia's peace of mind, she foresaw no such dangers
from her intimacy with Anna, and letter and answer
passed between them, at short intervals, during the
remainder of the summer. We shall give but one
more specimen of each, as they have strong
resemblance to one another--we select two that
were written late in August.

"My own and beloved Julia,

"Your letters are the only consolation that my
anxious heart can know in the dreary solitude of
this place. Oh! my friend, how would your tender
heart bleed did you but know the least of my
sufferings; but they are all requited by the
delightful anticipations of Park-Place. I hope your
dear aunt has not found it necessary to lay down
her carriage in the change of the times: write me in
your next about it. Antonio has been here again,
and he solicited an audience with me in private--of
course I granted it, for friendship hallows all that is
done under its mantle. It was a moonlight night--
mild Luna shedding a balmy light on surrounding
objects, and, if possible, rendering my heart more
sensitive than ever. One solitary glimmering star
showed by its paly quiverings the impress of
evening, while not a cloud obscured the vast
firmament of heaven. On such an evening Antonio
could do nothing but converse of my absent friend;
he dwelt on the indescribable grace of your person,
the lustre of your eye, and the vermilion of your
lips, until exhausted language could furnish no
more epithets of rapture: then the transition to
your mind was natural and easy; and it was while
listening to his honied accents that I thought my
Julia herself was talking.

"Soft as the dews from heaven descend, his gentle
accents fell."

Ah, Julia! nothing but a strong pre-possession, and
my friendship for you, could remove the danger of
such a scene. Yes! friend of my heart, I must
acknowledge my weakness. There is a youth in
New-York, who has long been master of my too
sensitive heart, and without him life will be a
burthen. Cruel fate divides us now, but when
invited by your aunt to Park-Place, Oh, rapture
unutterable! I shall be near my Regulus. This,
surely, is all that can be wanting to stimulate my
Julia to get the invitation from her aunt. Antonio
says that if I go to the city this fall, he will hover
near me on the road to guard the friend of Julia;
and that he will eagerly avail himself of my
presence to seek her society. I am called from my
delightful occupation by one of my troublesome
sisters, who wishes me to assist her in some trifle
or other. Make my most profound respects to your
dear, good aunt, and believe me your own true
friend,

ANNA."

{Regulus = prince}

At length Julia thought she had made the discovery
of Anna's reason for her evident desire to spend the
winter in town--like herself, her friend had become
the victim of the soft passion, and from that
moment Julia determined that Katherine Emmerson
must seek another residence, in order that Anna
might breathe love's atmosphere. How much a
desire to see Antonio governed this decision, we
cannot say, but we are certain that, if in the least,
Julia was herself ignorant of the power. With her, it
seemed to be the result of pure, disinterested, and
confiding friendship. In answer, our heroine wrote
as follows:

"My beloved Anna,

"Your kind, consolatory letters are certainly the
solace of my life. Ah! Anna, I have long thought
that some important secret lay heavy at your heart.
The incoherency of your letters, and certain things
too trifling to mention, had made me suspect that
some unusual calamity had befallen you. You do
not mention who Regulus is. I am burning with
curiosity to know, although I doubt not but he is
every way worthy of your choice.

"I have in vain run over in my mind every young
man that we know, but not one of them that I can
find has any of the qualities of a hero. Do relieve
my curiosity in your next, and I may have it in my
power to write you something of his movements.
Oh! Anna, why will you dwell on the name of
Antonio--I am sure I ought not to listen as I do to
what he says--and when we meet, I am afraid that
he will not find all the attractions which your too
partial friendship has portrayed. If he should be
thus disappointed, Oh! Anna--Anna--what would
become of your friend--But I will not dwell an the
horrid idea. Charles Weston is yet here, and
Katherine Emmerson too; so that but for the
thoughts of my absent Anna, and perhaps a little
uneasiness on the subject of Antonio, I might be
perfectly happy. You know how good and friendly
Katherine is, and really Charles does all in his
power to please. If he were only a little more
heroical, he would be a charming young man: for
although he is not very handsome, I don't think you
notice it in the least when you are intimate with
him. Poor Charles, he was terribly mortified about
the flash of lightning--but then all are not brave
alike. Adieu, my Anna--and if you do converse more
with a certain person about, you know whom, let it
be with discretion, or you may raise expectations
she will not equal. Your own JULIA."

"P. S. I had almost forgotten to say that aunt has
promised me that I can ask you to stay with us, if,
after the 20th September, I wish it, as you may be
sure that I will. Aunt keeps her carriage yet, and I
hope will never want it in her old age."

About the time this letter was written, Miss
Emmerson made both of her nieces acquainted with
the promised project that was to give them the
agreeable surprise:--she had long contemplated
going to see "the Falls," and she now intended
putting her plan into execution. Katherine was
herself pressed to make one of the party, but the
young lady, at the same time she owned her wish
to see this far-famed cataract, declined the offer
firmly, but gratefully, on account of her desire to
spend the remaining time with her father and
mother, before they went to the south. Charles
Weston looked from Katherine to Julia during this
dialogue, and for an instant was at a loss to know
which he thought the handsomest of the cousins.
But Julia entered into the feelings of the others so
quickly, and so gracefully offered to give up the
journey, in order that Miss Emmerson might
continue with her brother, that, aided by her
superior beauty, she triumphed. It was evident,
that consideration for her niece was a strong
inducement with the aunt for making the journey,
and the contest became as disinterested as it was
pleasing to the auditors. But the authority of Miss
Emmerson prevailed, and Charles was instantly
enlisted as their escort for the journey. Julia never
looked more beautiful or amiable than during this
short controversy. It had been mentioned by the
aunt that she should take the house of Mr. Miller in
her road, and the information excited an emotion
that brought all her lustre to her eyes, and bloom
to her cheeks. Charles thought it was a burst of
generous friendship, and admired the self-denial
with which she urged her aunt to relinquish the
idea. But Julia was constitutionally generous, and it
was the excess of the quality that made her
enthusiastic and visionary. If she did not deserve
all of Charles's admiration, she was entitled to no
small share of it. As soon as the question was
determined in favour of going, Miss Emmerson and
Katherine withdrew, leaving Charles alone with the
heroine of our tale. Under the age of five-and-
twenty, men commonly act at the instigation of
sudden impulse, and young Weston was not yet
twenty-one. He had long admired Julia for her
beauty and good feelings; he did not see one half
of her folly, and he knew all of her worth; her
enthusiastic friendship for Miss Miller was
forgotten; even her mirth at his own want of
heroism had at the moment escaped his memory--
and the power of the young lady over him was
never greater.

"How admirable in you, Julia," he said, seating
himself by her side, "to urge what was against your
own wishes, in order to oblige your aunt!"

"Do you think so, Charles?" said the other simply;
"but you see I urged it feebly, for I did not prevail."

"No, for you mistook your aunt's wishes, it seems:
she desires to go--but then all the loveliness of the
act was yours."

At the word loveliness, Julia raised her eyes to his
face with a slight blush--it was new language for
Charles Weston to use, and it was just suited to
her feelings. After a moment's pause. however, she
replied--

"You use strong language, cousin Charles, such as
is unusual for you."

"Julia, although I may not often have expressed it,
I have long thought you to be very lovely!"
exclaimed the young man, borne away with his
ardour at the moment.

"Upon my word, Charles, you improve," said Julia,
blushing yet more deeply, and, if possible, looking
still handsomer than before.

"Julia--Miss Warren--you tear my secret from me
before its time--I love you, Julia, and would wish to
make you my wife."

This was certainly very plain English, nor did Julia
misunderstand a syllable of what he said--but it
was entirely new and unexpected to her; she had
lived with Charles Weston with the confidence of a
kinswoman, but had never dreamt of him as a lover.
Indeed, she saw nothing in him that looked like a
being to excite or to entertain such a passion; and
although from the moment of his declaration she
began insensibly to think differently of him, nothing
was farther from her mind than to return his offered
affection. But then the opportunity of making a
sacrifice to her secret love was glorious, and her
frankness forbade her to conceal the truth. Indeed,
what better way was there to destroy the unhappy
passion of Charles, than to convince him of its
hopelessness? These thoughts flashed through her
mind with the rapidity of lightning--and trembling
with the agitation and novelty of her situation, she
answered in a low voice--

"That, Charles, can never be."

"Why never, Julia?" cried the youth, giving way at
once to his long-suppressed feelings--"why never?
Try me, prove me! there is nothing I will not do to
gain your love."

Oh! how seductive to a female ear is the first
declaration of an attachment, especially when
urged by youth and merit!--it assails her heart in
the most vulnerable part, and if it be not fortified
unusually well, seldom fails of success. Happily for
Julia, the image of Antonio presented itself to save
her from infidelity to her old attachment, and she
replied--

"You are kind and good, Charles, and I esteem you
highly--but ask no more, I beg of you."

"Why, if you grant me this, why forbid me to hope
for more?" said the youth eagerly, and looking
really handsome.

Julia hesitated a moment, and let her dark eyes fall
before his ardent gaze, at a loss what to say--but
the face of Apollo in the imperial uniform
interposed to save her.

"I owe it to your candour, Mr. Weston, to own my
weakness--" she said, and hesitated.

"Go on, Julia--my Julia," said Charles, in an
unusually soft voice; "kill me at once, or bid me
live!"

Again Julia paused, and again she looked on her
companion with kinder eyes than usual--when she
felt the picture which lay next her heart, and
proceeded--

"Yes, Mr. Weston, this heart, this foolish, weak
heart is no longer my own."

"How!" exclaimed Charles, in astonishment, "and
have I then a rival, and a successful one too?"

"You have," said Julia, burying her face in her hands
to conceal her blushes.--"But, Mr. Weston, on your
generosity I depend for secrecy--be as generous as
myself."

"Yes--yes--I will conceal my misery from others,"
cried Charles, springing on his feet and rushing
from the room; "would to God I could conceal it
from myself!"

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