PART I - CHAPTER I

Tales for Fifteen

by James F. Cooper

PART I - CHAPTER I, TALES FOR FIFTEEN by James F. Cooper
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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.