Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Books, poems, drama…

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

Part 2 out of 3

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.3 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

Julia was sensibly touched with his distress, and for
an instant there was some regret mingled with self-
satisfaction at her own candour--but then the
delightful reflection soon presented itself of the
gratitude of Antonio when he learnt her generous
conduct, and her self-denial in favour of a man
whom she had as yet never seen.--At the same
time she was resolutely determined never to
mention the occurrence herself--not even to her
Anna.

Miss Emmerson was enabled to discover some
secret uneasiness between Charles and Julia,
although she was by no means able to penetrate
the secret. The good aunt had long anxiously
wished for just such a declaration as had been
made to her niece, and it was one of the last of her
apprehensions that it would not have been
favourably received. Of simple and plain habits
herself, Miss Emmerson was but little versed in the
human heart; she thought that Julia was evidently
happy and pleased with her young kinsman, and
she considered him in every respect a most eligible
connexion for her charge: their joint fortunes would
make an ample estate, and they were alike
affectionate and good-tempered--what more could
be wanting? Nothing however passed in the future
intercourse of the young couple to betray their
secrets, and Miss Emmerson soon forgot her
surmises. Charles was much hurt at Julia's avowal,
and had in vain puzzled his brains to discover who
his rival could be. No young man that was in the
least (so he thought) suitable to his mistress,
visited her, and he gave up his conjectures in
despair of discovering this unknown lover, until
accident or design should draw him into notice.
Little did he suspect the truth. On the other hand,
Julia spent her secret hours in the delightful
consciousness of having now done something that
rendered her worthy of Antonio, with occasional
regret that she was compelled by delicacy and love
to refuse Charles so hastily as she had done.

Very soon after this embarrassing explanation, Julia
received a letter from her friend that was in no way
distinguishable from the rest, except that it
contained the real name of Regulus, which she
declared to be Henry Frederick St. Albans. If Charles
was at a loss to discover Julia's hidden love, Julia
herself was equally uncertain how to know who this
Mr. St. Albans was. After a vast deal of musing, she
remembered that Anna was absent from school
without leave one evening, and had returned alone
with a young man who was unknown to the
mistress. This incident was said, by some, to have
completed her education rather within the usual
time. Julia had herself thought her friend indiscreet,
but on the whole, hardly treated--and they left the
school together. This must have been St. Albans,
and Anna stood fully exculpated in her eyes. The
letter also announced the flattering fact, that
Antonio had already left the country, ordering his
servants and horses home, and that he had gone to
New-York with the intention of hovering around
Julia, in a mask, that she could not possibly
remove, during the dangers of their expected
journey. Anna acknowledged that she had betrayed
Antonio's secret, but pleaded her duty to her friend
in justification. She did not think that Julia would
be able to penetrate his disguise, as he had
declared his intentions so to conceal himself, by
paint and artifice, as to be able to escape
detection. Here was a new source of pleasure to our
heroine: Antonio was already on the wing for the
city, perhaps arrived--nay, might have seen her,
might even now be within a short distance of the
summer-house where she was sitting at the time,
and watching her movements. As this idea
suggested itself, Julia started, and unconsciously
arranging her hair, by bringing forward a neglected
curl, moved with trembling steps towards the
dwelling. At each turn of the walk our heroine threw
a timid eye around in quest of an unknown figure,
and more than once fancied she saw the face of the
god of music peering at her from the friendly covert
of her aunt's shrubbery--and twice she mistook the
light green of a neighbouring cornfield, waving in
the wind, for the coat of Antonio. Julia had so long
associated the idea of her hero with the image in
her bosom, that she had given it perfect identity;
but, on more mature reflection, she was convinced
of her error: he would come disguised, Anna had
told her, and had ordered his servants home; where
that home was, Julia was left in ignorance--but she
fervently hoped, not far removed from her beloved
aunt. The idea of a separation from this
affectionate relative, who had proved a mother to
her in her infancy, gave great pain to her best
feelings; and Julia again internally prayed that the
residence of Antonio might not be far distant.--
What the disguise of her lover would be, Julia could
not imagine--probably, that of a wandering harper:
but then she remembered that there were no
harpers in America, and the very singularity might
betray his secret. Music is the "food of love," and
Julia fancied for a moment that Antonio might
appear as an itinerant organist--but it was only for
a moment; for as soon as she figured to herself the
Apollo form, bending under the awkward load of a
music-grinder, she turned in disgust from the
picture. His taste, thought Julia will protect me
from such a sight--she might have added, his
convenience too. Various disguises presented
themselves to our heroine, until, on a view of the
whole subject, she concluded that Antonio would
not appear as a musician at all, but in some
capacity in which he might continue unsuspected,
near her person, and execute his project of
shielding her from the dangers of travelling. It was
then only as a servant that he could appear, and,
after mature reflection, Julia confidently expected
to see him in the character of a coachman.

Willing to spare her own horses, Miss Emmerson
had already sent to the city for the keeper of a
livery-stable, to come out and contract with her for
a travelling carriage, to convey her to the Falls of
Niagara. The man came, and it is no wonder that
Julia, under her impressions, chose to be present at
the conversation.

"Well then," said Miss Emmerson to the man, "I will
pay you your price, but you must furnish me with
good horses to meet me at Albany--remember that
I take all the useless expense between the two
cities, that I may know whom it is I deal with."

"Miss Emmerson ought to know me pretty well by
this time," said the man; "I have driven her
enough, I think."

"And a driver," continued the lady, musing, "who am
I to have for a driver?" Here Julia became all
attention, trembling and blushing with
apprehension.

"Oh, a driver!" cried the horse-dealer; "I have got
you an excellent driver, one of the first chop in the
city."

{first chop = first rank, highest quality}

Although these were not the terms that our heroine
would have used herself in speaking of this
personage, yet she thought they plainly indicated
his superiority, and she waited in feverish suspense
to hear more.

"He must be steady, and civil, and sober, and
expert, and tender-hearted," said Miss Emmerson,
who thought of any thing but a hero in disguise.

"Yes--yes--yes--yes--yes," replied the stable-
keeper, nodding his head and speaking at each
requisite, "he is all that, I can engage to Miss
Emmerson."

"And his eyesight must be good," continued the
lady, deeply intent on providing well for her
journey; "we may ride late in the evening, and it is
particularly requisite that he have good eyes."

"Yes--yes, ma'am," said the man, in a little
embarrassment that did not escape Julia; "he has
as good an eye as any man in America."

"Of what age is he?" asked Miss Emmerson.

"About fifty," replied the man, thinking years would
he a recommendation.

"Fifty!" exclaimed Julia, in a tone of
disappointment.

"'Tis too old," said Miss Emmerson; "he should he
able to undergo fatigue."

"Well, I may be mistaken--Oh, he can't be more
than forty, or thirty," continued the man, watching
the countenance of Julia; "he is a man that looks
much older than he is."

"Is he strong and active?"

"I guess he is--he's as strong as an ox, and active
as a cat," said the other, determined he should
pass.

"Well, then," said the aunt, in her satisfied way,
"let every thing be ready for us in Albany by next
Tuesday. We shall leave home on Monday."

The man withdrew.

Julia had heard enough--for ox she had substituted
Hercules, and for cat, she read the feathered
Mercury.

CHAPTER V.

THE long expected Monday at length arrived, and
Miss Emmerson and Julia, taking an affectionate
leave of their relatives in the city, went on board
the steam-boat under the protection of Charles
Weston. Here a new scene indeed opened on our
heroine; for some time she even forgot to look
around her in the throng in quest of Antonio. As the
boat glided along the stream, she stood leaning on
one arm of Charles, while Miss Emmerson held the
other, in delighted gaze at the objects, which they
had scarcely distinguished before they were passed.

"See, dear Charles," cried Julia, in a burst of what
she would call natural feeling--"there is our house--
here the summerhouse, and there the little arbour
where you read to us last week Scott's new novel--
how delightful! every thing now seems and feels
like home."

"Would it were a home for us all," said Charles,
gently pressing her arm in his own, and speaking
only to be heard by Julia, "then should I be happy
indeed."

Julia thought no more of Antonio; but while her
delighted eye rested on the well known scenes
around their house, and {as} she stood in the
world, for the first time, leaning on Charles, she
thought him even nearer than their intimacy and
consanguinity made them. But the boat was famous
for her speed, and the house, garden, and every
thing Julia knew, were soon out of sight, and she,
by accident, touching the picture which she had
encased in an old gold setting of her mother's, and
lodged in her bosom, was immediately restored to
her former sense of things. Then her eye glanced
rapidly round the boat, but discovering no face
which in the least resembled disguise, she
abandoned the expectation of meeting her lover
before they reached Albany. Her beauty drew many
an eye on her, however, and catching the steady
and admiring gaze of one or two of the gentlemen,
Julia's heart beat, and her face was covered with
blushes.

She was by no means sure that Antonio would
appear as a coachman--this was merely a
suggestion of her own; and the idea that he might
possibly be one of the gazers, covered her with
confusion: her blushes drew still more attention
and admiration upon her; and we cannot say what
might have been the result of her fascinations, had
not Charles at this instant approached them, and
pointing to a sloop they were passing at the time,
exclaimed--

"See, madam--see, Julia--there is our travelling
equipage on board that sloop, going up to meet us
in Albany."

Our heroine looked as directed, and saw a vessel
moving with tolerable rapidity up the river, within a
short distance from them. On its deck were a
travelling carriage and a pair of horses, and by the
latter stood a man who, by the whip in his head,
was evidently the driver. His stature was tall and
athletic; his complexion dark to near blackness; his
face was buried in whiskers; and his employer had
spoken the truth when he said he had as good an
eye as any men in America--it was large, black, and
might be piercing. But then he had but one--at
least the place where the other ought to be, was
covered by an enormous patch of green silk. This
then was Antonio. It is true, he did not resemble
Apollo, but his disguise altered him so that it was
difficult to determine. As they Moved slowly by the
vessel, the driver recognised Charles, having had an
interview with him the day before, and saluted him
with a low bow--his salutation was noticed by the
young man, who slightly touched his hat, and gave
him a familiar nod in return--Julia, unconsciously,
bent her body, and felt her cheeks glow with
confusion as she rose again. She could not muster
resolution to raise her eyes towards the sloop, but
by a kind of instinctive coquetry dragged her
companion to the other side of the boat. As soon
as she was able to recover her composure, Julia
revolved in her mind the scene which had just
occurred. She had seen Antonio--every thing about
him equalled her expectations--even at the
distance, she had easily discerned the noble dignity
of his manners--his eye gave assurance of his
conscious worth--his very attitude was that of a
gentleman. Not to know him for a man of birth, of
education and of fortune, Julia felt to her would be
impossible; and she trembled lest others, as
discerning as herself, should discover his disguise,
and she in consequence be covered with confusion.
She earnestly hoped his incog. would ever remain
unknown, for her delicacy shrunk at the publicity
and notoriety which would then attend his
attachment. It was certainly delightful to be loved,
and so loved--to be attended, and so attended; but
the heart of Julia was too unpractised to relish the
laugh and observations of a malignant world. "No,
my Antonio," she breathed internally, "hover around
me, shield me from impending dangers, delight me
with your presence, and enchant me with your eye;
but claim me in the guise of a gentleman and a
hero, that no envious tongue may probe the secrets
of our love, nor any profane scoffer ridicule those
sensitive pleasures that he is too unsentimental to
enjoy." With these, and similar thoughts, did Julia
occupy herself, until Charles pointed out to her the
majestic entrance to the Highlands. Our heroine,
who was truly alive to all the charms of nature,
gazed with rapture as the boat plunged between
the mountains on either hand, and turned a wistful
gaze down the river, in the vain hope that Antonio
might, at the same moment, be enjoying the
scene--but the sluggish sloop was now far behind,
and the eye of Antonio, bright as it was, could not
pierce the distance. Julia felt rather relieved than
otherwise, when the vessel which contained her
hero was hid from view by a mountain that they
doubled. Her feelings were much like those of a girl
who had long anxiously waited the declaration of a
favourite youth, had received it, and acknowledged
her own partiality. She felt all the assurance of her
conquest, and would gladly, for a time, avoid the
shame of her own acknowledgment. The passage up
the Hudson furnishes in itself so much to charm the
eye of a novice, that none but one under the
extraordinary circumstances of our heroine, could
have beheld the beauties of the river unmoved. If
Julia did not experience quite as much rapture in
the journey as she had anticipated, she attributed
it to the remarkably delicate situation she was in
with her lover, and possibly to a dread of his being
detected. An officer of his rank and reputation must
be well known, thought she, and he may meet with
acquaintances every where. However, by the
attention of Charles, she passed the day with a
very tolerable proportion of pleasure. Their arrival
at Albany was undistinguished by any remarkable
event, though Julia looked in vain through the
darkness of the night, in quest of the fertile
meadows and desert islands which Anna had
mentioned in her letter. Even the river seemed
straight and uninteresting. But Julia was tired--it
was night--and Antonio was absent.

The following morning Miss Emmerson and her
niece, attended by Charles, took a walk to examine
the beauties of Albany. It did not strike our heroine
as being so picturesque as it had her friend; still it
had novelty, and that lent it many charms it might
have wanted on a more intimate acquaintance.
Their forenoon, however, exhausted the beauties of
this charming town, and they had returned to the
inn, and the ladies were sitting in rather a listless
state when Charles entered the room with a look of
pleasure, and cried "he is here."

"Who!" exclaimed Julia, starting, and trembling like
an aspen.

"He!--Tony," said Charles, in reply.

Julia was unable to say any more; but her aunt,
without noticing her agitation, asked mildly, "And
who is Tony?"

"Why Anthony, the driver--he is here and wishes to
see you."

"Show him up, Charles, and let us learn when he
will be ready to go on."

This was an awful moment to Julia--she was on the
eve of being confronted, in a room, for the first
time, with the man on whom she felt that her
happiness or misery must depend. Although she
knew the vast importance to her of good looks at
such a moment, she looked unusually ill--she was
pale from apprehension, and awkward and
ungraceful from her agitation. She would have given
the world to have got out of the room, but this was
impossible--there was but one door, and through
that he must come. She had just concluded that it
was better to remain in her chair than incur the risk
of fainting in the passage, when he entered,
preceded by Charles. His upper, and part of his
lower lip, were clean shaved; a small part of one
cheek and his nose were to be seen; all the rest of
his face was covered with hair, or hid under the
patch. An enormous coloured handkerchief was tied,
in a particular manner, round his neck; and his coat,
made of plain materials, and somewhat tarnished
with service, was buttoned as close to his throat as
the handkerchief would allow. In short, his whole
attire was that of a common driver of a hack
carriage; and no one who had not previously
received an intimation that his character was
different from his appearance, would at all have
suspected the deception.

"Your name is Anthony?" said Miss Emmerson, as
he bowed to her with due deference.

"Yes, ma'am, Anthony--Tony Sandford," was the
reply--it was uttered in a vulgar nasal tone, that
Julia instantly perceived was counterfeited: but
Miss Emmerson, with perfect innocency, proceeded
in her inquiries.

"Are your horses gentle and good, Tony?" adopting
the familiar nomenclature that seemed most to his
fancy.

"As gentle as e'er a lady in the land," said Tony,
turning his large black eye round the room, and
letting it dwell a moment on the beautiful face of
Julia--her heart throbbed with tumultuous emotion
at the first sound of his voice, and she was highly
amused at the ingenuity he had displayed, in
paying a characteristic compliment to her
gentleness, in this clandestine manner--if he
preserves his incognito so ingeniously he will never
be detected, thought Julia, and all will be well.

"And the carriage," continued Miss Emmerson, "is it
fit to carry us?"

"I can't say how fit it may be to carry sich ladies as
you be, but it is as good a carriage as runs out of
York."

Here was another delicate compliment, thought
Julia, and so artfully concealed under brutal
indifference that it nearly deceived even herself.

"When will you be ready to start?" asked Miss
Emmerson.

"This moment," was the prompt reply--"we can
easily reach Schenectady by sundown."

Here Julia saw the decision and promptitude of a
soldier used to marches and movements, besides
an eager desire to remove her from the bustle of a
large town and thoroughfare, to a retirement where
she would be more particularly under his protection.
Miss Emmerson, on the other hand, saw nothing but
the anxiety of a careful hireling, willing to promote
the interest of his master, who was to be paid for
his conveyance by the job--so differently do sixty
and sixteen judge the same actions! At all events,
the offer was accepted, and the man ordered to
secure the baggage, and prepare for their
immediate departure.

"Why don't you help Antonio on with the baggage,
Charles?" said Julia, as she stood looking at the
driver tottering under the weight of the trunks.
Charles stared a moment with surprise--the name
created no astonishment, but the request did. Julia
had a habit of softening names, that were rather
harsh in themselves, to which he was accustomed.
Peter she called Pierre; Robert was Rubert {sic};
and her aunt's black footman Timothy, she had
designated as Timotheus: but it was not usual for
ladies to request gentlemen to perform menial
offices--until, recollecting that Julia had expressed
unusual solicitude concerning a dressing-box that
contained Anna's letters, he at once supposed it
was to that she wished him to attend. Charles left
the room, and superintended the whole
arrangements, when once enlisted. Julia now felt
that every doubt of the identity of her lover with
this coachman was removed. He had ingeniously
adopted the name of Anthony, as resembling in
sound the one she herself had given him in her
letters. This he undoubtedly had learnt from Anna--
and then Sandford was very much like Stanley--his
patch, his dress, his air--every thing about him
united to confirm her impressions; and Julia, at the
same time she resolved to conduct herself towards
him in their journey with a proper feminine reserve,
thought she could do no less to a man who
submitted to so much to serve her, than to suffer
him to perceive that she was not entirely insensible
to the obligation.

Our heroine could not but admire the knowing
manner with which Antonio took his seat on the
carriage, and the dexterity he discovered in the
management of his horses--this was infallible
evidence of his acquaintance with the animal, and a
sure sign that he was the master of many, and had
long been accustomed to their service. Perhaps,
thought Julia, he has been an officer of cavalry.

In the constant excitement produced by her
situation, Julia could not enter into all the feelings
described by her friend, during the ride to
Schenectady. Its beauties might be melancholy, but
could she be melancholy, and Antonio so near? The
pines might be silvery and lofty, but the proud
stature of majestic man, eclipsed in her eyes all
their beauties. Not so Charles. He early began to
lavish his abuse on the sterile grounds they
passed, and gave any thing but encomiums on the
smoothness of the road they were travelling. In the
latter particular, even the quiet spirit of Miss
Emmerson joined him, and Julia herself was
occasionally made sensible that she was not
reposing "on a bed of roses."

{sterile grounds = the sandy "pine barrens"
between Albany and Schenectady were notorious for
their lack of scenic beauty}

"Do I drive too fast for the ladies?" asked Antonio,
on hearing a slight complaint and a faint scream in
the soft voice of Julia. Oh, how considerate he is!
thought our heroine--how tender!--without his care
I certainly should have been killed in this rude
place. It was expected that as she had complained,
she would answer; and after a moment employed in
rallying her senses for the undertaking, she replied
in a voice of breathing melody--

"Oh! no, Antonio, you are very considerate."

For a world Julia could not have said more; and
Miss Emmerson thought that she had said quite as
much as the occasion required; but Miss Emmerson,
it will be remembered, supposed their driver to be
Anthony Sandford. The hero, himself, on hearing
such a gentle voice so softly replying to his
question, could not refrain from turning his face
into the carriage, and Julia felt her own eyes lower
before his earnest gaze, while her cheeks burned
with the blushes that suffused them. But the look
spoke volumes--he understands my "Antonio,"
thought Julia, and perceives that, to me, he is no
longer unknown. That expressive glance has opened
between us a communication that will cease but
with our lives. Julia now enjoyed, for the remainder
of their journey to Mr. Miller's, one of the greatest
pleasures of love--unsuspected by others, she could
hold communion with him who had her heart, by the
eyes, and a thousand tender and nameless little
offices which give interest to affection, and zest to
passion.

They had now got half way between the two cities,
and Charles took a seat by the side of the driver,
with the intention, as he expressed himself, of
stretching his legs: the carriage was open and light,
so that all of the figures of the two young men
could be seen by the ladies, as well as their
conversation heard. Charles never appeared to less
advantage in his person, thought Julia, than now,
seated by the side of the manly and noble Antonio.
The figure of Charles was light, and by no means
without grace; yet it did not strike the fancy of our
heroine as so fit to shield and support her through
life, as the more robust person of his companion.
Julia herself was, in form, the counterpart of her
mind--she was light, airy, and beautifully softened
in all her outlines. It was impossible to mistake her
for any thing but a lady, and one of the gentlest
passions and sentiments. She felt her own
weakness, and would repose it on the manly
strength of Antonio.

"Which do you call the best of your horses?" asked
Charles, so soon as he had got himself comfortably
seated.

"The off--but both are true as steel," was the
laconic reply. The comparison was new to Julia, and
it evidently denoted a mind accustomed to the
contemplation of arms.

"How long have you followed the business of a
driver, Tony?" said Charles, in the careless manner
of a gentleman when he wishes to introduce
familiarity with an inferior, by seeming to take an
interest in the other's affairs. Julia felt indignant at
the freedom of his manner, and particularly at the
epithet of "Tony"--yet her lover did not in the least
regard either--or rather his manner exhibited no
symptoms of displeasure--he has made up his
mind, thought Julia, to support his disguise, and it
is best for us both that he should.

"Ever since I was sixteen I have been used to
horses," was the reply of Antonio to the question of
Charles--Julia smiled at the ambiguity of the
answer, and was confirmed in her impression that
he had left college at that age to serve in the
cavalry.

"You must understand them well by this time,"
continued Charles, glancing his eye at his
companion as if to judge of his years--"You must be
forty"--Julia fidgeted a little at this guess of
Charles, but soon satisfied herself with the
reflection that his disguise contributed to the error.

"My age is very deceiving," said the man; "I have
seen great hardships in my time, both of body and
mind."

Here Julia could scarcely breathe through anxiety.
Every syllable that he uttered was devoured with
eager curiosity by the enamoured girl--he knew that
she was a listener, and that she understood his
disguise; and doubtless meant, in that indirect
manner, to acquaint her with the incidents of his
life. It was clear that he indicated his age to be
less than what his appearance would have led her
to believe--his sufferings, his cruel sufferings had
changed him.

"The life of a coachman is not hard," said Charles.

"No, sir, far from it--but I have not been a
coachman all my life."

Nothing could be plainer than this--it was a direct
assertion of his degradation by the business in
which he was then engaged.

"In what manner did you lose your eye, Tony," said
Charles, in a tone of sympathy that Julia blessed
him for in her heart, although she knew that the
member was uninjured, and only hidden to favour
his disguise. Antonio hesitated a little in his
answer, and stammered while giving it--"It was in
the wars," at length he got out, and Julia admired
the noble magnanimity which would not allow him,
even in imagination, to suffer in a less glorious
manner--notwithstanding his eye is safe and as
beautiful as the other, he has suffered in the wars,
thought our heroine, and it is pardonable for him to
use the deception, situated as he is--it is nothing
more than an equivoque. But this was touching
Charles on a favourite chord. Little of a hero as
Julia fancied him to be, he delighted in conversing
about the war with those men, who, having acted in
subordinate stations, would give a different view of
the subject from the official accounts, in which he
was deeply read. It was no wonder, therefore, that
he eagerly seized on the present opportunity to
relieve the tedium of a ride between Albany and
Schenectady.

{equivoque = double meaning, a pun}

"In what battle," asked Charles, quickly; "by sea or
by land?"

"By sea," said Antonio, speaking to his horses, with
an evident unwillingness to say any more on the
subject.

Ah! the deception, and the idea of his friend
Lawrence, are too much for his sensibility, thought
Julia; and to relieve him she addressed Charles
herself.

"How far are we from Schenectady, cousin Charles?"

Antonio, certainly, was not her cousin Charles; but
as if he thought the answering such questions to be
his peculiar province, he replied immediately--

"Four miles, ma'am; there's the stone."

There was nothing in the answer itself, or the
manner of its delivery, to attract notice in an
unsuspecting listener; but by Julia it was well
understood--it was the first time he had ever
spoken directly to herself--it was a new era in their
lives--and his body turned half round toward her as
he spoke, showed his manly form to great
advantage; but the impressive and dignified
manner in which he dropped his whip towards the
mile-stone, Julia felt that she never could forget--it
was intended to mark the spot where he had first
addressed her. He had chosen it with taste. The
stone stood under the shade of a solitary oak, and
might easily be fancied to be a monument erected
to commemorate some important event in the lives
of our lovers. Julia ran over in her mind the time
when she should pay an annual visit to that
hallowed place, and leaning on the arm of her
majestic husband, murmur in his ear, "Here, on this
loved spot, did Antonio first address his happy,
thrice happy Julia."

"Well, Tony," said the mild voice of Miss Emmerson,
"the sun is near setting, let us go the four miles as
fast as you please."

"I'm sure, ma'am," said Antonio, with profound
respect, "you don't want to get in more than I do,
for I had no sleep all last night; I'll not keep you
out one minute after night"--so saying, he urged his
horses to a fast trot, and was quite us good as his
word. How delicate in his attentions, and yet how
artfully has he concealed his anxiety on my account
under a feigned desire for sleep, thought Julia.

If any thing had been wanting either to convince
Julia of the truth of her conjecture, or to secure the
conquest of Antonio, our heroine felt that this short
ride had abundantly supplied it.

CHAPTER VI.

THE following day our travellers were on the road
before the sun, and busily pursued their route
through the delightful valley of the Mohawk. It was
now that Julia, in some measure accustomed to her
proximity to her hero, began to enjoy the beauties
of the scenery; her eye dwelt with rapture on each
opening glimpse that they caught of the river, and
took in its gaze meadows of never-failing verdure,
which were beautifully interspersed with elms that
seemed coeval with the country itself. Occasionally
she would draw the attention of her aunt to some
view of particular interest; and if her eager voice
caught the attention of Antonio, and he turned to
gaze, to ponder, and to admire--then Julia felt
happy indeed, for then it was that she felt the
indescribable bliss of sharing our pleasures with
those we love. What heart of sensibility has stood
and coldly gazed on a scene over which the eye,
that it loves to admire, is roving with delight? Who
is there that has yet to learn, that if the strongest
bond to love is propinquity, so is its tenderest tie,
sympathy? In this manner did our lovely heroine
pass a day of hitherto untasted bliss. Antonio
would frequently stop his horses on the summit of
a hill, and Julia understood the motive; turning her
looks in the direction in which she saw the eye of
her lover bent, she would sit in silent and secret
communion with his feelings. In vain Charles
endeavoured to catch her attention--his remarks
were unnoticed, and his simple efforts to please
disregarded. At length, as they advanced towards
the close of their day's ride, Charles, observing a
mountain obtruding itself directly across their path,
and meeting the river, which swept with great
velocity around its base, cried aloud with a laugh--

"Anthony, I wish you would remove your nose!"

"Charles!" exclaimed Julia, shocked at his rude
familiarities with a man of Antonio's elevated
character.

"Poh!" said the young man, in an under tone,
conceiving her surprise to be occasioned by his
lowering himself to joke with an inferior, "he is a
good, honest fellow, and don't mind a joke at all, I
assure you."

Charles was right, for Antonio, moving his face,
with a laugh cried in his turn--"There, sir, my nose
is moved, but you can't see no better, after all."

Julia was amused with his condescension, which
she thought augured perfect good-nature and
affability. After all, thought Julia, if noble and
commanding qualities are necessary to excite
admiration or to command respect, familiar virtues
induce us to love more tenderly, and good temper
is absolutely necessary to contribute to our
comfort. On the whole, she was rather pleased than
otherwise, that Antonio could receive and return
what was evidently intended for a witticism,
although as yet she did not comprehend it. But
Charles did not leave her long in doubt. On the
north side of the Mohawk, and at about fifty miles
from its mouth, is a mountain which, as we have
already said, juts, in a nearly perpendicular
promontory, into the bed of the river; its inclination
is sufficient to admit of its receiving the name of a
nose. Without the least intention of alluding to our
hero, the early settlers had affixed the name of St.
Anthony, who appears to have been a kind of Dutch
deity in this state, and to have monopolized all the
natural noses within her boundaries to himself. The
vulgar idiom made the pronunciation an-TONY's
nose--and all this Charles briefly explained to Miss
Emmerson and her niece by way of giving point to
his own wit. He had hardly made them comprehend
the full brilliancy and beauty of his application of
the mountain to their driver, when they reached the
pass itself. The road was barely sufficient to suffer
two carriages to move by each other without
touching, being from necessity dug out of the base
of the mountain; a precipice of many feet led to the
river, which was high and turbulent at the time;
there was no railing nor any protection on the side
next the water--and in endeavouring to avoid the
unprotected side of the road, two wagons had met
a short time before, and one of them lost a wheel
in the encounter--its owner had gone to a distance
for assistance, leaving the vehicle where it had
fallen. The horses of Antonio, unaccustomed to
such a sight, were with some difficulty driven by
the loaded wagon, and when nearly past the object,
took a sudden fright at its top, which was flapping
in the wind. All the skill and exertions of Antonio to
prevent their backing was useless, and carriage and
horses would inevitably have gone off the bank
together, had not Charles, with admirable presence
of mind, opened a door, and springing out, placed a
billet of wood, which had been used as a base for a
lever in lifting the broken wagon, under one of the
wheels. This checked the horses until Antonio had
time to rally them, and, by using the whip with
energy, bring them into the road again. He certainly
showed great dexterity as a coachman. But,
unhappily, the movement of Charles had been
misunderstood by Julia, and, throwing open the
door, with the blindness of fear, she sprang from
the carriage also: it was on the side next the
water, and her first leap was over the bank; the hill
was not perpendicular, but too steep for Julia to
recover her balance--and partly running, and partly
falling, the unfortunate girl was plunged into the
rapid river. Charles heard the screams of Miss
Emmerson, and caught a glimpse of the dress of
Julia as she sprang from the carriage. He ran to the
bank just in time to see her fall into the water.

{St. Anthony's Nose = this incident probably
occurred at a place on the Mohawk River called
today The Noses, between Fonda and Palatine
Bridge; there is another St. Anthony's Nose on the
Hudson River}

"Oh, God!" he cried, "Julia!--my Julia!"--and, without
seeming to touch the earth, he flew down the bank,
and threw himself headlong into the stream. His
great exertions and nervous arms soon brought him
alongside of Julia, and, happily for them both, an
eddy in the waters drew them to the land. With
some difficulty Charles was enabled to reach the
shore with his burthen.

Julia was not insensible, nor in the least injured.
Her aunt was soon by her side, and folding her in
her arms, poured out her feelings in a torrent of
tears. Charles would not, however, suffer any delay,
or expressions of gratitude--but, forcing both aunt
and niece into the carriage, bid Anthony drive
rapidly to a tavern known to be at no great
distance.--

On their arrival, both Julia and Charles immediately
clad themselves in dry clothes--when Miss
Emmerson commanded the presence of the young
man in her own room. On entering, Charles found
Julia sitting by a fire, a thousand times handsomer,
if possible, than ever. Her eyes were beaming with
gratitude, and her countenance was glowing with
the excitement produced by the danger that she
had encountered.

"Ah! Charles, my dear cousin," cried Julia, rising and
meeting him with both hands extended, "I owe my
life to your bravery and presence of mind."

"And mine too, Charles." said Miss Emmerson; "but
for you, we should have all gone off the hill
together."

"Yes, if Anthony had not managed the horses
admirably, you might have gone indeed," said
Charles, with a modest wish to get rid of their
praise. But this was an unlucky speech for Charles:
he had, unconsciously presented the image of a
rival, at the moment that he hoped he filled all the
thoughts of Julia.

"Ah, Antonio!" she cried, "poor Antonio!--and where
is he?--Why do you not send for him, dear aunt?"

"What, my love, into my bed-chamber!" said Miss
Emmerson, in surprise; "fear has made the girl
crazy!--But, Charles, where is Anthony?"

"In the stable, with the horses, I believe," said the
youth--"no, here he is, under the window, leading
them to the pump."

"Give him this money," said Miss Emmerson, "and
tell him it is for his admirable skill in saving my
life."

Julia saw the danger of an exposure if she
interfered, yet she had the curiosity to go to the
window, and see how Antonio would conduct in the
mortifying dilemma.

"Here, Anthony," said Charles, "Miss Emmerson has
sent you ten dollars, for driving so well, and saving
the carriage."

"Ah! sir, it is no matter--I can ask nothing for that,
I'm sure."

But Charles, accustomed to the backwardness of
the common Americans to receive more than the
price stipulated, still extended his hand towards
the man. Julia saw his embarrassment, and
knowing of no other expedient by which to relieve
him, said, in a voice of persuasion--

"Take it for my sake, Antonio--if it be unworthy of
you, still, take it, to oblige me."

The man no longer hesitated, but took the money,
and gave Julia a look and a bow that sunk deep
into the tablet of her memory--while Charles
thought him extremely well paid for what he had
done, but made due allowances for the excited
state of his cousin's feelings.

"You perceive," said Miss Emmerson, with a smile,
as Julia withdrew from the window, "if Charles be a
little afraid of lightning, he has no dread of the
water."

"Ah! I retract my error," cried Julia; "Charles must
be brave, or he never could have acted so coolly,
and so well."

"Very true, my love," said Miss Emmerson,
excessively gratified to hear her niece praise the
youth; "it is the surest test of courage when men
behave with presence of mind in novel situations.
Those accustomed to particular dangers easily
discharge their duties, because they know, as it
were instinctively, what is to be done. Thus with
Tony--he did well, but, I doubt not, he was horribly
frightened--and for the world he could not have
done what Charles did."

"Not Antonio!" echoed Julia, thrown a little off her
guard--"I would pledge my life, aunt, that Antonio
would have done as much, if not more, than
Charles!"

"Why did he not, then?---It was his place to stop
the carriage---why did he not?"

"It was his place," said Julia, "to manage the
horses, and you acknowledge that he did it well.
Duties incurred, no matter how unworthy of us,
must be discharged; and although we may be
conscious that our merit or our birth entitles us to a
different station from the one we fill, yet a noble
mind will not cease to perform its duty, even in
poverty and disgrace."

Miss Emmerson listened in surprise; but as her
niece often talked in a manner that she did not
comprehend, she attributed it to the improvements
in education, and was satisfied. But Julia had
furnished herself with a clue to what had
occasioned her some uneasiness. At one time she
thought Antonio ought to have left carriage, horses,
every thing, and flown to her rescue, as Charles had
done; but now she saw that the probity of his soul
forbade it. He had, doubtless, by secret means,
induced the owner of the horses to entrust them to
his keeping---and could he, a soldier, one used to
trust and responsibility, forget his duty in the
moment of need? Sooner would the sentinel quit
his post unrelieved---sooner the gallant soldier turn
his back on his enemy---or sooner would Antonio
forget his Julia!

With this view of the propriety of his conduct, Julia
was filled with the desire to let him know that she
approved of what he had done. Surely, if any thing
can be mortifying to a lover, thought our heroine, it
must be to see a rival save the life of his mistress,
while imperious duty chains him to another task.

Young as Julia was, she had already learnt, that it
is not enough for our happiness that we have the
consciousness of doing right, but it is necessary
that others should think we have done so too.

Accordingly, early the following morning she arose,
and wandered around the house, in hopes that
chance would throw her lover in her way, and give
her an opportunity of relieving his mind from the
load of mortification under which she knew he must
be labouring. It was seldom that our heroine had
been in the public bar-room of a tavern--but, in
gliding by the door, she caught a glimpse of
Antonio in the bar; and, impelled by her feelings,
she was near him before she had time to collect her
scattered senses. To be with Antonio, and alone,
Julia felt was dangerous; for his passion might
bring on a declaration, and betray them both to the
public and vulgar notice.--Anxious, therefore, to
effect her object at once, she gently laid her hand
on his arm--Antonio started and turned, while the
glass in his hands fell, with its contents, untasted,
on the floor.

"Rest easy, Antonio," said Julia, in the gentlest
possible tones; "to me your conduct is satisfactory,
and your secret will never be exposed." So saying,
she turned quickly, and glided from the room.

"As I hope to be saved," said Antonio, "I meant
nothing wrong--but should have paid the landlord
the moment he came in"--but Julia heard him not.
Her errand was happily executed, and she was
already by the side of her aunt. On entering the
carriage, Julia noticed the eye of Antonio fixed on
her with peculiar meaning, and she felt that her
conduct had been appreciated.--From this time until
the day of their arrival at the house of Mr. Miller,
nothing material occurred. Antonio rose every hour
in the estimation of Julia, and the young lady
noticed a marked difference in her lover's conduct
towards her. A few miles before they reached the
dwelling, Miss Emmerson observed

"To-morrow will be the twentieth of September;
when I am to know who will be my companion for
the winter, Miss Miller or Katherine."

"Ah! aunt, you may know that now, if I am to
decide," said Julia, "it will be Anna, my Anna,
surely."

Her manner was enthusiastic, and her voice a little
louder than usual. Antonio turned his head, and
their eyes met. Julia read in that glance the
approbation of her generous friendship. Miss
Emmerson was a good deal hurt at this decision of
her niece, who, she thought, knowing her
sentiments, would be induced to have been
satisfied with the visit to Anna, and taken
Katherine for the winter. It was with reluctance that
the aunt abandoned this wish, and, after a pause,
she continued--

"Remember, Julia, that you have not my permission
to ask your friend until the twentieth--we can stay
but one night at Mr. Miller's, but if Anna is to spend
the winter in Park Place, we will return this way
from the Falls, and take her with us to the city."

"Thank you, dear aunt," cried Julia, kissing her with
an affection that almost reconciled Miss Emmerson
to the choice--while Charles Weston whistled "Hail,
Columbia! happy land!"

Julia saw that Antonio pitied her impatience--for
the moment he arrived in sight of Mr. Miller's
house, he put his horses to their speed, and
dashed into the court-yard in the space of a few
minutes. For a little while all was confusion and
joy. Anna seemed delighted to see her friend, and
Julia was in raptures--they flew into each other's
arms--and if their parting embrace was embalmed
in tears, their meeting was enlivened with smiles.
With arms interlocked, they went about the house,
the very pictures of joy.--Even Antonio, at the
moment, was forgotten, and all devoted to
friendship. Nay, as if sensible of the impropriety of
his appearance at that critical instant, he withdrew
himself from observation--and his delicacy was not
lost on Julia. Happy are they who can act in
consonance with their own delicate sentiments, and
rest satisfied with the knowledge that their motives
are understood by those whom it is their greatest
desire to please!---Such, too fortunate Antonio, was
thy lot--for no emotion of thy sensitive mind, no act
of thy scrupulously honourable life, passed
unheeded by thy Julia!--so thought the maiden.

It has been already mentioned that the family of
Mr. Miller was large; and amid the tumult and
confusion of receiving their guests, no opportunity
was afforded to the friends for conversation in
private. The evening passed swiftly, and the hour
for bed arrived without any other communication
between Julia and Anna than whisperings and
pressures of the hands, together with a thousand
glances of peculiar meaning with the eyes. But Julia
did not regret this so much as if Antonio had been
unknown--she had been in his company for four
days, and knew, or thought she knew, already, as
much of his history as Anna herself.--But one
thought distressed her, and that was, that his
residence might be far from the house of her aunt.
This reflection gave the tender-hearted girl real
pain, and her principal wish to converse with Anna
in private was to ascertain her future lot on this
distressing point. No opportunity, however, offered
that night, and Julia saw that in the morning her
time would be limited, for Miss Emmerson desired
Mr. Miller to order her carriage to be in readiness to
start so soon as they had breakfasted.

"When, dear aunt, am I to give Anna the
invitation," said Julia, when they were left alone, "if
you start so early in the morning?"

"The proper time will be, my child, immediately
before we get into the carriage," said Miss
Emmerson, with a sigh of regret at the
determination of her niece; "it will then be more
pointed, and call for an immediate answer."

This satisfied Julia, who knew that it would be
accepted by her friend, and she soon fell asleep, to
dream a little of Anna, and a great deal of Antonio.

The following morning Julia arose with the sun, and
her first employment was to seek her friend. Anna
had also risen, and was waiting impatiently for the
other's appearance, in the vacant parlour.

"Ah! dear Julia," said she, catching her arm and
dragging her to a window, "I thought you would
never come.--Well, are we to spend the winter
together--have you spoken to your dear, dear aunt,
about it?"

"You shall know in good time, my Anna," said Julia,
mindful of the wishes of her aunt, and speaking
with a smile that gave Anna an assurance of her
success.

"Oh! what a delightful winter we will have!" cried
Anna, in rapture.

"I am tongue-tied at present," said Julia, laughing;
"but not on every subject," she continued, blushing
to the eyes; "do tell me of St. Albans--of Regulus--
who is he?"

"Who is he?" echoed Anna--"why, nobody!--one
must have something to write about, you know, to
a friend."

Julia felt sick and faint--her colour left her cheeks
as she forced a smile, and uttered, in a low voice--
"But Antonio--Stanley?"

"A man of straw," cried Anna, with unfeeling levity;
"no such creature in the world, I do assure you!"

Julia made a mighty effort to conquer her emotion,
and wildly seizing Anna by the arm, she pointed to
her aunt's coachman, who was at work on his
carriage at no great distance, and uttered--"For
God's sake, who is HE?"

"He!" cried Anna, in surprise, "why, your driver--and
an ugly wretch he is!--don't you know your own
driver yet?"

Julia burst from her treacherous friend--rushed into
the room of her aunt-and throwing herself into the
arms of Miss Emmerson, wept for an hour as if her
heart would break. Miss Emmerson saw that
something had hurt her feelings excessively, and
that it was something she would not reveal.
Believing that it was a quarrel with her friend, and
hoping at all events that it would interrupt their
intercourse, Miss Emmerson, instead of trying to
discover her niece's secret, employed herself in
persuading her to appear before the family with
composure, and to take leave of them with decency
and respect. In this she succeeded, and the happy
moment arrived. Anna in vain pressed near her
friend to receive the invitation--and her mother
more than once hinted at the thousand pities it was
to separate two that loved one another so fondly.
No invitation was given--and although Anna spent
half a day in searching for a letter, that she
insisted must be left in some romantic place, none
was ever found, nor did any ever arrive.

While resting with her foot on the step of the
carriage, about to enter it, Julia, whose looks were
depressed from shame, saw a fluid that was
discoloured with tobacco fall on her shoe and soil
her stocking. Raising her eyes with disgust, she
perceived that the wind had wafted it from the
mouth of Antonio, as he held open the door--and
the same blast throwing aside his screen of silk,
discovered a face that was deformed with disease,
and wanting of an eye!

Our travellers returned to the city by the way of
Montreal and Lake Champlain; nor was it until Julia
had been the happy wife of Charles Weston for
more than a year, that she could summon
resolution to own that she had once been in love,
like thousands of her sex, "with a man of straw!"

=================================
=

HEART.
---oOo---

"Some live in airy fantasies,
And in the clouds do move,
And some do burn with inward flames--
But few know how to love."
ANON. BALLAD

CHAPTER I.

ON one of those clear, cold days of December,
which so frequently occur in our climate, two very
young women were walking on the fashionable
promenade of New-York. In the person of the elder
of these females there was exhibited nothing more
than the usual indications of youth and health; but
there were a delicacy and an expression of
exquisite feeling in the countenance of her
companion, that caused many a plodding or idle
passenger to turn and renew the gaze, which had
been attracted by so lovely a person. Her figure
was light, and possessed rather a character of
aerial grace, than the usual rounded lines of earthly
beauty; and her face was beaming more with the
sentiments of the soul within, than with the
ordinary charms of complexion and features. It was
precisely that kind of youthful loveliness that a
childless husband would pause to contemplate as
the reality of the visions which his thoughts had
often portrayed, and which his nature coveted as
the only treasure wanting to complete the sum of
his earthly bliss. It truly looked a being to be loved
without the usual alloy of our passions; and there
was a modest ingenuousness which shone in her
air, that gently impelled the hearts of others to
regard its possessor with a species of holy
affection. Amongst the gay throng, however, that
thoughtlessly glided along the Broadway, even this
image of female perfection was suffered to move
unnoticed by hundreds; and it was owing to the
obstruction offered to the passage of the ladies, by
a small crowd that had gathered on the side-walk,
that a gentleman of uncommon personal
endowments enjoyed an opportunity of examining it
with more than ordinary attention. The eldest of
the females drew her companion away from this
impediment to their passage, by moving towards
the opposite side of the street, and observing, as
they crossed, with an indifference in her manner--

"It is nothing, Charlotte, but a drunken man; if
people will drink, they must abide the
consequences."

"He does not seem intoxicated, Maria," replied the
other, in a voice whose tones corresponded with her
appearance; "it is some sudden illness."

"One that, I dare say, he is accustomed to," said
Maria, without having even taken such a look at the
sufferer as would enable her to identify his colour;
"he will be well enough after he has slept."

"But is the pavement a place for him to sleep on?"
rejoined her companion, still gazing towards the
miserable object; "and if he should be ill!--why do
they not raise him?--Why do they suffer him to
injure himself as he does?"

The speaker, at the same time that she shrunk in a
kind of sensitive horror from this exhibition of
human infirmities, now unconsciously stopped, with
an interest in the man that she could not controul,
and thus compelled Maria to pause also. The crowd
had withdrawn from the man, giving him sufficient
room to roll over, in evident pain, while they yet
stood gazing at him, with that indefinable feeling
of curiosity and nerveless sympathy, which
characterises man when not called on to act, by
emulation, vanity, or the practice of well-doing. No
one offered to assist the sufferer, although many
said it ought to be done; some spoke of sending for
those who monopolized the official charity of the
city; many, having satisfied their curiosity, and
finding that the moment for action was arriving,
quietly withdrew from a trouble that would interfere
with their comforts or their business--while a few
felt an impulse to aid the man, but hesitated in
being foremost in doing that which would be
honourable to their feelings, but might not accord
with their condition, or might seem as the
ostentatious display of unusual benevolence.
Where men are congregated, conduct must be
regulated by the touchstone of public opinion; and,
although it is the fashion of New-York to applaud
acts of charity, and to do them too in a particular
manner--it is by no means usual to run to the
assistance of a fellow creature who is lying in
distress on a pavement.

{those who monopolized the official charity = in
1821 the only officially supported charitable
organization in New York City was the City
Dispensary -- municipal aid to others having been
cut off in 1817 on the grounds that charity to the
poor only made them lazy and improvident}

Whatever might be the impulses of the gentleman
whom we have mentioned, his attention was too
much absorbed by the conversation and manner of
the two ladies to regard any thing else, and he
followed them across the street, and stopped also
when they paused to view the scene. He was
inwardly and deeply admiring the most youthful of
the females, for the natural and simple display of
those very qualities that he forgot himself to
exercise, when he was roused with a feeling of
something like mortification, by hearing Charlotte
exclaim, with a slight glow on her cheek--

"Ah! there is George Morton coming--he surely will
not pass the poor man without offering to assist
him."

The gentleman turned his head quickly, and noticed
a youth making his way through the crowd,
successfully, to the side of the sufferer. The
distance was too great to hear what passed--but an
empty coach, whose driver had stopped to gaze
with the rest, was instantly drawn up, and the man
lifted in, and followed by the youth, whose
appearance had effected these movements with the
silence and almost with the quietness of magic.

George Morton was far from possessing the elegant
exterior of the uneasy observer of this scene, yet
were the eyes of the lovely young woman who had
caught his attention, fixed in evident delight on his
person, until it was hid from view in the carriage;
when, drawing a long breath, as if relieved from
great uneasiness, she said, in a low voice--

"I knew that George Morton would not pass him so
unfeelingly--but where are they going?--not far, I
hope, on this cold day--and George without his
great coat."

There was a plaintive and natural melody in the
tones of the speaker's voice, as she thus
unconsciously uttered her concern, that impelled
the listener to advance to the side of the carriage,
where a short conversation passed between the
gentlemen, and the stranger returned to the ladies,
who were yet lingering near the spot, apparently
unwilling to depart from a scene that had so deeply
interested one of them. Raising his hat, the
gentleman, addressing himself to the magnet that
had attracted him, said--

"Your friend declines the offer of my coat, and says
that the carriage is quite warm--they are going to
the alms-house, and I am happy to inform you that
the poor man is already much better, and is
recovering from his fit."

{The New York City Almshouse, at Bellevue on the
East River, housed over 1,500 inmates at a time
(with annual deaths approaching 500), and served
as a last refuge for the destitute of all ages}

Charlotte now for the first time observed the
speaker, and a blush passed over her face as she
courtesied her thanks in silence. But her
companion, aroused from gazing at the finery of a
shop window, by the voice of the stranger, turned
quickly, and with very manifest satisfaction,
exclaimed--

"Bless me! Mr. Delafield--I did not observe you
before!--then you think the poor wretch will not
die?"

"Ah! assuredly not," returned the gentleman,
recognizing the face of an acquaintance, with an
animation he could not conceal: "but how
inadvertent I have been, not to have noticed Miss
Osgood before!"--While speaking, his eyes rested
on the lovely countenance of her friend, as if, by
their direction, he meant to explain the reason of
his remissness.

"We were both too much engaged with the
sufferings of the poor man, for until this moment I
did not observe you," said the lady--with that kind
of instinctive quickness that teaches the fair the
importance of an amiable exterior, in the eyes of
the other sex.

"Doubtless," returned the gentleman, gravely, and
for the first time withdrawing his gaze from the
countenance of Charlotte; but the precaution was
unnecessary:--the young lady had been too much
engrossed with her own sensations to notice the
conduct of others, and from the moment that the
carriage had driven out of right, had kept her eyes
on the ground, as she walked silently and
unobtrusively by the side of her companion.

"Miss Henly--Mr. Seymour Delafield," said Maria.
The silent bow and courtesy that followed this
introduction was succeeded by an animated
discourse between the gentleman and his old
acquaintance, which was, but seldom interrupted by
any remark from their more retiring companion.
Whenever she did speak, however, the gentleman
listened with the most flattering attention, that
was the more remarkable, from the circumstance of
his talking frequently at the same time with Maria
Osgood. The trio took a long walk together, and
returned to the house of Mr. Henly, in time for the
necessary arrangements for the coming dinner. It
was when within a short distance of the dwelling of
Charlotte that the gentleman ventured to allude to
the event that had made them acquainted.

"The fearless manner in which you predicted the
humanity of Mr. Morton, would be highly gratifying
to himself, Miss Henly," he observed; "and were I of
his acquaintance, it should be my task to inform
him of your good opinion."

"I believe Mr. Morton has not now to learn that,"
said Charlotte, simply, but dropping her eyes; "I
have been the next door neighbour of George all my
life, and have seen too much of his goodness of
heart not to have expressed the same opinion
often."

"But not to himself," cried Maria; "so, Mr. Delafield,
if you wish to apprise him of his good fortune, you
have only to attend my music party to-morrow
evening, and I will take particular care that you get
acquainted with the humane hero."

The invitation was gladly accepted, and the
gentleman took his leave at the door of the house.

"Well, Charlotte, you have seen him at last!" cried
Maria, the instant the door had closed; "and I am
dying to know how you like him!"

"To save your life," said the other, laughing, "I will
say a great deal, although you so often accuse me
of taciturnity--but who is HIM?"

"Him! why, Delafield!--Seymour Delafield!--the
pattern for all the beaux--the magnet for all the
belles--and the delight of all the parents in town!"

"His own, too?" inquired Charlotte, a little archly.

"He has none--they are dead and gone--but their
money is left behind, and that brings him fathers
and mothers by the dozen!"

"It is fortunate that he can supply their loss in any
way," said Charlotte, with emphasis.

"To be sure he can; he can do more than you or I
could, my dear; he can pick his parents from the
best in the city--and, therefore, he ought to be well
provided."

"And could he be better provided, as you call it, in
that respect, than ourselves?" asked Miss Henly, a
little reproachfully.

"Oh no, surely not; now if he were a woman, how
soon would he be married!--why, child, they say he
is worth at least three hundred thousand dollars!--
he'd be a bride in a month!"

"And miserable, perhaps, in a year," said Charlotte;
"it is fortunate for him that he is a man, by your
tale, or his wealth might purchase misery for him."

"Oh! no one can be miserable that is well married,"
cried Maria; "Heigho! the idea of old-maidism is too
shocking to think about!"

"Why does not Mr. Delafield get married, then, if
marriage be so very desirable?" said Miss Henly,
smiling at the customary rattle of her companion:
"he can easily get a wife, you say?"

{rattle = trivial chatter}

"It is the difficulty of choosing--there are so many
attentive to him--"

"Maria!"

"Mercy! I beg pardon of female delicacy!--but since
the young man has returned from his travels, he
has been so much--much courted--nay, by the old
people, I mean--and the girls beckon him about so-
-and it's Mr. Delafield, have you read Salmagundi?--
and, Mr. Delafield, have you seen Cooke?--and, Mr.
Delafield, do you think we shall have war?--and
have you seen Bonaparte? And, in short, Mr.
Delafield, with his handsome person, and three
hundred thousand dollars, has been so much of all-
in-all to the ladies, that the man has never time to
choose a wife!"

{Salmagundi = a series of comic essays (1819-
1820) by New York City writer James Kirke Paulding
(1778-1860), emulating an earlier series by
Washington Irving and others; Cooke = probably
Thomas Potter Cooke (1786-1864), a noted English
actor; Bonaparte = Napoleon Bonaparte died on St.
Helena in 1821}

"I really wonder that you never took the office upon
yourself," said Charlotte, busied in throwing aside
her coat and gloves; "you appear to have so much
interest in the gentleman."

"Oh! I did, a month since--the moment that he
landed."

"Indeed! and who was it?"

"Myself."

"And have you told him of your choice?" asked the
other, laughing.

"Not with my tongue: but with my eyes, a thousand
times--and with all that unspeakable language that
female invention can supply:--I go where he goes--
if I see him in the street behind me, I move slowly
and with dignity; still he passes me--if before me, I
am in a hurry--but{"}--

"You pass him?" interrupted Charlotte, amused with
her companion's humour.

"Exactly--we never keep an equal pace; this is the
first time that he has walked with me since he
returned from abroad--and for this honour I am
clearly indebted to yourself."

"To me, Maria?" said Charlotte, in surprise.

"To none other--he talked to me, but he looked at
you. Ah! he knows by instinct that you are an only
child--and I do believe that the wretch knows that I
have twelve brothers and sisters--but you had
better take him, Charlotte; he is worth twenty
George Mortons--at least, in money."

"What have the merits of George Morton and Mr.
Delafield to do with each other?" said Charlotte,
removing her hat, and exhibiting a head of hair that
opportunely fell in rich profusion over her shoulders,
so as to conceal the unusual flush on her,
ordinarily, pale cheek.

This concluded the conversation; for Charlotte
instantly left the room, and was occupied for some
time in giving such orders as her office of assistant
in housekeeping to her mother rendered necessary.

Charlotte Henly was the only child that had been
left from six who were born to her parents, the
others having died in their infancy. The deaths of
the rest of their children had occasioned the
affection of her parents to center in the last of their
offspring with more than common warmth; and the
tenderness of their love was heightened by the
extraordinary qualities of their child. Possessed of
an abundance of the goods of this world, these
doating parents were looking around with intense
anxiety, among their acquaintance, and watching
for the choice that was to determine the worldly
happiness of their daughter.

Charlotte was but seventeen, yet the customs of
the country, and the temptations of her expected
wealth, together with her own attractions, had
already placed her within the notice of the world.
But no symptom of that incipient affection which
was to govern her life, could either of her parents
ever discover; and in the exhibitions of her
attachments, there was nothing to be seen but that
quiet and regulated esteem, which grows out of
association and good sense, and which is so
obviously different from the restless and varying
emotions that are said to belong to the passion of
love.

Maria Osgood was a distant relative, and an early
associate, who, although as different from her
cousin in appearance and character as black is from
white, was still dear to the latter, both from habit
and her unconquerable good nature.

George Morton, the youth of whom such honourable
mention has been made, was the son of a
gentleman who had long resided in the next
dwelling to Mr. Henly in the city, and who also
possessed a country house near his own villa.
These circumstances had induced an intimacy
between the families that was cemented by the
good opinion each entertained of the qualities of
the other, and which had been so long and so often
tried in scenes of happiness and misery, that were
known to both. Young Morton was a few years the
senior of Charlotte; and, at the time of commencing
our tale, was but lately released from his collegiate
labours. His goodness of heart and simplicity of
manners made him an universal favourite; while the
peculiarity of their situation brought him oftener
before the notice of Charlotte than any other young
man of her acquaintance.--But, notwithstanding the
intimation of Maria Osgood, none of their friends in
the least suspected any other feeling to exist
between the youthful pair than the natural and very
obvious one of disinterested esteem. As the family
seated themselves at the dinner table, their guest
exclaimed, in the heedless way that characterised
her manner--

"Oh! Mrs. Henly, I have to congratulate you on the
prospects of your soon having a son, and one so
amiable and attractive as your daughter."

"Indeed!" returned the matron, comprehending the
other's meaning intuitively, "and what may be the
young gentleman's name?"

"You will be the envy of all the mothers in town,"
continued Maria, "and deservedly so. Two such
children to fall to the lot of one mother!--Nay, do
not shake your head, Charlotte; it must and shall
be a match, I am determined."

"My friendship for you would deter me from the
measure, should nothing else interfere," said
Charlotte, good humouredly.

"Ah! I have already abandoned my pretensions--
twelve brothers and sisters, my dear, are a dreadful
addition to bring into a family at once!"

"I am sure I do not think so," returned Charlotte,
timidly glancing her eye at her mother; "besides, I
feel bound in honour to remember your original
intention."

"I tell you I have abandoned it, with all thoughts of
the youth."

"And who is the youth?" asked Mrs. Henly, affecting
an indifference that she did not feel.

"You will have the handsomest son in the city,
certainly," said Maria; "and, possibly, the richest--
and the most learned--and, undeniably, the most
admired!"

"You quite excite my curiosity to know who this
paragon can be," said the mother, looking at her
husband, who returned the glance with one of equal
solicitude.

"I do not think he is more than four and twenty,"
added Maria; "and his black eyes would form a
charming contrast to your blue ones."

"To whom does Miss Osgood allude?" asked Mrs.
Henly, yielding to a solicitude that she could no
longer controul.

"To Mr. Seymour Delafield," said Charlotte, raising
her mild eyes to the face of her mother, and
smiling, as she delicately pared her apple, with a
simple ingenuousness that banished uneasiness
from the breast of her parent in an instant.

"I know him," said Mr. Henly; "but I did not think
you had ever seen him, Charlotte."

"We met him in our morning walk, sir, and Maria
introduced him."

"He is thought to be very handsome," continued her
father, helping himself to a glass of wine while
speaking.

"And very justly," returned the daughter; "I think
him the handsomest man that I have ever seen."

"Have I your permission for telling him so?" cried
Maria, with a laugh.

"I have not the least objection to his knowing it, on
my own account, except from the indelicacy of
complimenting a gentleman," said Charlotte, with
perfect simplicity; "but whether it would be
beneficial to himself or not, you can best judge."

"You think him vain, then?" observed her mother.

"Not in the least; or, rather, he did not exhibit it to
me"--was the answer, with the same open air as
before.

"He has also a great reputation for good sense,"
continued her father, avoiding the face of his child.

"I thought he had wit, sir."

"And not good sense?"

"Am I a judge?" asked Charlotte, rising, and holding
a lighted paper to her father, while he took a new
segar.

Her clear blue eyes resting on him in the fulness of
filial affection, as she performed this office, and the
open air with which she bent forward to receive the
kiss he offered in thanks, removed any
apprehensions which the name of their morning's
companion might have excited.

Mr. Henly knew nothing concerning this young man
that would induce him at all to avoid the connexion,
but still he had not yet examined his character with
that searching vigilance that he thought due to the
innocence and merit of his child. Determining within
himself, however, that this was a task that should
no longer be neglected, he rose, and telling the
ladies that he left the bottle with them, withdrew
to his study.

The door had hardly closed behind Mr. Henly, when
George Morton entered the dining parlour, with the
freedom of an old and favourite friend, and telling
Mrs. Henly that, in consequence of his family's
dining out, and his own engagements, he was
fasting, and begged her charity for a meal. From
the instant that he appeared, Charlotte had risen
with alacrity, and was no sooner acquainted with
his wants, than she rung to order what he required.
She brought him a glass of sparkling wine with her
own hands, and pushing a chair nearer to the fire
than the one he occupied, she said--

"Sit here, George, you appear chilled--I thought you
would miss your coat."

"I thank you," returned the youth, turning on her an
eye of the most open affection; "I do feel unusually
cold, and begin to think, that with my weak lungs it
would have been more prudent to have taken a
surtout."

{surtout = overcoat}

"And how was the poor man when you left him?"

"Much better, and in extremely good quarters," said
George; but, turning quickly to Miss Osgood, he
added, "So, Miss Maria, your beau has
condescended to walk with you at last?"

"Yes, Mr. Impudence," said Maria, smiling; {"}but
come, fill your mouth with food, and be silent."

He did as requested, and the conversation changed.

CHAPTER II

NOTWITHSTANDING the plenteous gifts which
Providence had bestowed on the parents of Maria in
the way of descendants, Fortune had sufficiently
smiled on his labours to enable him to educate
them in what is called a genteel manner, and to
support them in a corresponding style. The family
of Mr. Osgood exhibited one of those pictures which
are so frequent in America, where no other artificial
distinctions exist in society than those which are
created by wealth, and where obscurity has no
other foe to contend with than the demon of
poverty. His children were indulged in luxuries that
his death was to dissipate, and enjoyed an
opulence that was only co-existent with the life of
their parent. Accordingly, the music party that
assembled on the following evening at the house of
Mr. Osgood, was brilliant, large, and fashionable.
Seven grown-up daughters was a melancholy sight
for the contemplation of the parents, and they both
felt like venders of goods who were exhibiting their
wares to the best advantage. The splendid
chandeliers and lustres of the drawing-room were
lighted for the same reason as the lamps in the
glittering retail stores of Broadway; and the
brilliant effect of the taste of the young ladies was
intended much like the nightly lustre of the lottery-
offices, to tempt adventurers to try their chances.
>From this premeditated scheme of conquest we
ought, in justice, however, to except Maria herself,
who, from constitutional gayety and
thoughtlessness, seldom planned for the morrow;
and who, perhaps, from her association with
Charlotte, had acquired a degree of
disinterestedness that certainly belonged to no
other member of her family.

Whatever were the views of the family in collecting
their friends and acquaintances on this important
evening, they were completely successful in one
point at least; for, before nine, half the dilettanti of
the city were assembled in Greenwich-street, in a
most elaborate state of musical excitement.
Charlotte Henly, of course, was of the party,
although she was absolutely ignorant of a single
note, nor knew how to praise a scientific execution,
or to manifest disgust at simple melody. But, her
importance in the world of fashion, and her friend
Maria, obtained her a place. There was a reason
that secretly influenced Charlotte in electing her
evening's amusement, that was not known,
however, even to her friend.--George Morton played
on the German flute in a manner that vibrated on
her nerves with an exquisite thrill that she often
strove to conquer, and yet ever loved to indulge.
His musical powers were far from being generally
applauded, as they were thought to be deficient in
compass and variety; but Charlotte never
descended to criticism in music. She conceived it to
be an enjoyment for the senses only, or, rather,
she thought nothing about it; and if the rounds
failed to delight her, she unhesitatingly attributed
the circumstance to an absence of melody. It was
to listen to the flute of George Morton, then, that
the drawing-room of Mrs. Osgood was adorned with
the speaking countenance of Miss Henly.

Among the guests who made an early appearance
in this "Temple of Apollo," was the youth who had
attended the ladies in their walk. Seymour Delafield
glanced his eye impatiently around the apartment,
as soon as he had paid the customary compliments
to the mistress of the mansion and her bevy of fair
daughters; but a look of disappointment betrayed
the search to be an unsuccessful one. Both the look
and the result were noticed by Maria; and, turning a
glance of rather saucy meaning on the gentleman,
she said--

"I apprehend your flute, which, by the by, I am glad
to see you have brought, will be rather in the
PENSEROSO style this evening, Mr. Delafield."

{penseroso = melancholy}

"Unless enlivened by the contagious gayety of your
smile," returned Delafield, endeavouring to look
excessively unconcerned; "but"--

"Oh! my very laugh is musical, I know," interrupted
Maria; "but then it is often shockingly out of time."

"It seldom fails to produce an accompaniment,"
said the gentleman, now smiling in reality; "but"--

"Where is Charlotte Henley?" said the young lady,
again interrupting him; "she has a perfect horror of
the tuning of fiddles and the preparatory
thrummings on the piano; so endeavour to preserve
the harmony of your temper for the second act."

"Well! it is some relief to know she is coming at
all," cried Seymour, quickly; and then, recovering
himself with perfect breeding, he added--"for one
would wish to see you as happy as all your friends
can make you, on such an occasion."

"I am extremely indebted to your unbounded
philanthropy," said Maria, rising and courtseying
with great gravity; "do not doubt of its being
honourably mentioned at"--

"Nay, nay," cried the youth, colouring and laughing,
"you would not think of mentioning my remarks to"-
-

"At the next meeting of the Dorcas Society, of
which I am an unworthy member," continued Maria,
without listening to his remonstrance.

{Dorcas Society = lady's group at a church, devoted
to making and providing clothes for the poor}

Seymour Delafield now laughed without any
affectation--and exchanging a look of perfect
consciousness of each other's meaning, they
separated, as the preparations for the business of
the evening were about to commence. For a short
time there was a confusion of sounds that perfectly
justified the absence of Miss Henly, when the music
began in earnest. Within half an hour, Mr. Delafield,
who had suffered himself to be drawn to the back
of the chair of a professed belle, turning his head
to conceal a yawn that neither the lady's skill nor
his good manners could repress, observed Charlotte
sitting quietly by the side of her friend. Her
entrance had been conducted with such tact, that
had she possessed the most musical ear
imaginable, it were impossible to disturb the party
less; a circumstance that did not fail to impress
Seymour agreeably, from its novelty. He moved to
the side of the fair vision that had engrossed all his
thoughts since the moment they had first met, and
took the chair that the good nature of Miss Osgood
offered to his acceptance between them.

"Thank fortune, Miss Henly," he said, the instant he
was seated, "that bravura has ceased, and I can
now inquire how you recovered from the fatigue of
your walk?"

"I suffered no fatigue to recover from," replied the
lady, raising her eyes to his with an expression that
told the youth he had better talk straight forward at
once; "I walk too much to be fatigued with so short
an excursion."

"You came here to favour us with your skill on the
harp, Miss Henly?"

"No."

"On the piano?"

"On neither--I play on nothing."

"You sing, then?"

"Not at all."

Book of the day: