Julia (Chapter_1)

(9) At last the conflict ended & Peace & Liberty (freedom) crowned the Land & long protracted struggle. D'Aubigne's life indeed was saved, but his health was lost.

Of several children, Henry was the only one that remained--remained the only tie to a life of lingering paind & sorrow--All else, brothers, wife, children & fortune--all were swept away by the ravages of war or disease.

His constitution was so enfeebled, that on the approach of summer, his physicians ordered him to the north. D'Aubigne, would not leave his only child behind him, but hired a faithful nurse, who with the infant Henry accompanied him in his voyage. He passed the summer in Rhode-Island & in the autumn went to Philadelphia, intending as winter came on to continue his journey to the south. In that city, he met with Col. Stratton, with whom he had served during a campaign. The sufferings they had endured together became a bond of union & d'Aubigne was persauded by his friends to take up his abode beneath his roof. With winter, D'Aubigne's complaints returned, & with a violence that soon put an end to his life. Col. Stratton, unhesitatingly adopted the little orphan left to his charge. The first words the child learned to articulate were those of endearment for his mild protector.

It was not until Henry was five years old, that Julia was born, The affectionate boy attached himself to her with more than a brother's love. The greatest joy he knew was to play with her--to share with her all he possessed. He became as they grew up, her companion, gaurdian & instructor, & the first tears of real sorrow he shed, were when he parted from Julia to go to College. During the vacations, the charm that drew him home, was Julia.

He was taught to call her cousin & it was not until he returned to his native state, that he learned that no tie of consanguinity bound them to each other. After he left college, the desire of independance, conquered every other feeling & to obtain it, he felt willing to part even with Julia.--Had he contemplated their separation as eternal, that willingness would not have been felt, but in his own mind he planned, when he had gained a sufficient competence & a respectable standing in his profession, to return & offer his heart & hand to his companion of his childhood.

(10) But before that period arrived, he recieved a letter telling him that Julia was married to another.-

Ten years had now elapsed, since he had left her a blooming & lovely girl; he now found her one of the most captivating of women.

Soon after marriage, her father & mother had died & she became heiress to a large fortune. Her husband some years afterwars received an appointment under government, & their residence was consequently transferred to Washington; he had not resided there long before he was sent on a mission to Europe, where they remained several years.

Julia, had returned, & brought with her the polish & fashion of foreign courts, in addition to her native loveliness. But she had there lost a taste for that domestic happiness, she had previously enjoyed--Married to the man of her choice, with all the gifts of nature & fortune, all the virtues of innate benevolence, cultivated by the best of parents--She had been one of the happiest as well as loveliest of women.--[deleted text] In Julia's disposition there was such a fund of gaiety & sportiveness, in her manners such artlessness & youthful complicity, in her appearance such a freshness & unfaded bloom, every one felt persuaded that neither many years, or many cares had passed their wethering influence over her existence. Like the glossy plumage of a bird, which the rain drop cannot penetrate. Her bright exterior seemed impervious to sorrow. If sometimes that brightness was dimmed by a tear, that tear was as quickly evaporated, as the dewdrop from the rose. Not that she was devoid of sensibility, no,- she felt more keenly--more poignantly; but there was an elasticity in her nature that resisted permanent impressions; or rather the traces of sadness on her ductile mind. were as easily made but as quickly effaced by the passing hour, as those on the sand, are, by the washing of the waves.

(11) In the heart of Henry D'Aubigne, impression once made, could never be erazed. Time indeed might wear away their depth, but death alone could destroy them. His figure was rather tall & very thin. The colour, which youth & northern air had kindled in his naturaly fine & clear complexion, had faded under a southern sun, & left him not pale, but sallow: the black hair which curled profusely round his face, would have thrown too dark a shade on his countenance, had it not been relieved by the brilliancy of his eyes, the whiteness of his teeth & the benevolent smile which played round his mouth. Yet the brilliancy of that eye, was sometimes lost & replaced by an expression of tenderness, that often melted to sadness--But no care, no sadness, ever vanished that sweet smile of benevolence; like the rain-dew amid dark clouds, even in grief, that smile, would promise joy.-

There was a lassitude in his movements that seemed to indicate indolence in his soul. A softness & gentleness in his voice & manner in which seemed incompatible with firmness or activity of mind. But these were the effects of an enervating climate, & a tender heart. His mind loved to indulge in tranquility & repose, but when it was roused into activity, there was no deficiency of ardour or energy.

His imagination was rather warm, than lively & sought rather to luxuriate in the past, than to create the future. Such a character in general society made little impression; but when known, when felt, it excited the warmes, the tenderest interest--it seemed to ask for kindness--for sympathy, & to promise so much tenderness & gratitude in return, that it was impossible to withhold, what was so gently solicited.