THE story of Julia Forrester is but a revelation of what occurs
every day. I draw aside the veil for a moment, would that some one
might gaze with trembling on the picture, and be saved!
The father of Julia had served an apprenticeship to the tanning and
currying business. He had been taken when an orphan boy of twelve
years old, by a man in this trade, and raised by him, without any of
the benefits of education. At twenty-one he could read and write a
little, but had no taste for improving his mind. His master, being
well pleased with him for his industry and sobriety, offered him a
small interest in his business, shortly after he was free, which
soon enabled him to marry, and settle himself in life.
His new companion was the daughter of a reduced tradesman; she had
high notions of gentility, but possessed more vanity and love of
admiration than good sense. Neither of them could comprehend the
true relation of parents. If they fed their children well, clothed
them well, and sent them to the most reputable schools, they
imagined that they had, in part, discharged their duty; and, wholly,
when they had obtained good-looking and well-dressed husbands for
their daughters. This may be a little exaggerated; but such an
inference might readily have been drawn by one who attentively
considered their actions.
I shall not spend further time in considering their characters.
Their counterpart may be found in every street, and in every
neighbourhood. The curious student of human nature can study them at
will. Julia Forrester was the child of such parents. When she was
fifteen, they were in easy circumstances. But at that critical
period of their daughter's life, they were ignorant of human nature,
and entirely unskilled in the means of detecting false pretension,
or discovering true merit.
Indeed, they were much more ready to consider the former as true,
and the latter as false. The unpretending modesty of real worth they
generally mistook for imbecility, or a consciousness of questionable
points of character; while bold-faced assurance was thought to be an
open exhibition of manliness--the free, undisguised manner of those
who had nothing to conceal.
It is rarely that a girl of Julia's age, but little over fifteen,
possesses much insight into character. It was enough for her that
her parents invited young men to the house, or permitted them to
visit her. Her favour, or dislike, was founded upon mere impulse, or
the caprice of first impressions. Among her earliest visitors, was a
young man of twenty-two, clerk in a dry-goods' store. He had an
open, prepossessing manner, but had indulged in vicious habits for
many years, and was thoroughly unprincipled. His name I will call
Warburton. Another visitor was a modest, sensible young man, also
clerk in another dry-goods' store. He was correct in all his habits,
and inclined to be religious. He had no particular end in view in
visiting at Forrester's, more than to mingle in society. Still, as
he continued his visits, he began to grow fond of Julia,
notwithstanding her extreme youth. The fact was, she had shot up
suddenly into a graceful woman; and her manners were really
attractive. Little could be gleaned, however, in her society, or in
that of but few who visited her, from the current chit-chat. It was
all chaffy stuff,--mere small-talk. Let me introduce the reader to
their more particular acquaintance. There is assembled at Mr.
Forrester's a gay social party, such as met there almost every week.
It is in the summer time. The windows are thrown open, and the
passers-by can look in upon the light-hearted group, at will.
Warburton and Julia are trifling in conversation, and the others are
wasting. the moments as frivolously as possible. We will join them
without ceremony.
"A more beautiful ring than this on your finger, I have never seen.
Do you know why a ring is used in marriage?"
"La! no, Mr. Warburton. Do tell me."
"Why, because it is an emblem of love, which has neither beginning
nor end."
"And how will you make that out, Sir Oracle? ha! ha!"
"Why as plain as a pike-staff. True love has no beginning; for those
who are to be married love each other before they meet. And it
cannot have an end. So you see that a ring is the emblem of love."
"That's an odd notion; where did you pick it up?"
"I picked it up nowhere. It is a cherished opinion of my own, and I
believe in it as firmly as some of the Jews of old did in the
transmigration of souls."
"You are a queer body."
"Yes, I _have_ got some queer notions; so people say: but I think I
am right, and those who don't agree with me, wrong. A mere
difference of opinion, however. All things are matters of opinion.
Aint it so, Perkins?" addressing the young man before alluded to.
"What were you talking about?"
"Why, I was just saying to Julia that all different ideas
entertained by different persons, were differences of opinion
merely."
"Do you mean to say, that there is no such thing as truth, or
error?"
"I do--in the abstract."
"Then we differ, of course--and as it would be, according to your
estimation, a mere difference of opinion, no argument on the subject
would be in place here."
"Of course not," replied Warburton, rather coolly, and dropped the
subject. Julia _almost_ saw that Warburton had made himself appear
foolish in the eyes of the dull, insipid Perkins--but her mental
vision was closed up as firmly as ever, in a moment.
A loud burst of laughter from a group at the other end of the room,
drew the attention of the company, who flocked to the scene of
mirth, and soon all were chattering and laughing in a wild and
incoherent manner, so loud as to attract the notice of persons in
the street.
"Ha! he! he!" laughed a young lady, hysterically, sinking into a
chair, with her handkerchief to her mouth--"what a droll body!"
"He-a, he-a, he-o-o-o," more boisterously roared out a fun-loving
chap, who knew more about good living than good manners. And so the
laugh passed round. The cause of all this uproar, was a merry
fellow, who had made a rabbit out of one of the girl's
handkerchiefs, and was springing it from his hand against the wall.
He seemed to have a fair appreciation of the character of his
associates for the evening; and though himself perfectly competent
to behave well in the best society, chose to act the clown in this.
In due course, order was restored, more from the appearance of a
waiter with nuts and raisins, than from an natural reaction.
"Name my apple, Mr. Perkins,"--(don't smile, reader--it's a true
picture)--whispered a young lady to the young man sitting next her.
"It is named."
"Name my apple, Mr. Collins," said Julia, with a nod and a smile.
"It is named."
"And mine, Mr. Collins"--"And mine, Mr. Warburton"--"And mine, Mr.
Jones."
The apples being eaten, the important business of counting seed came
next in order.
"How many have you got, Julia?"
"Six."
"She loves!"
"Who is it, Mr. Collins?" asked two or three voices.
"Mr. Warburton," was the reply.
"I thought so, I thought so,--see how she blushes."
And in fact the red blood was mounting fast to Julia's face.
The incident escaped neither the eye of Warburton nor of Perkins. To
go through the whole insipid scene would not interest any reader,
and so we will omit it.
After the apples were eaten, "hull-gull,"--"nuts in my hand," &c.,
were played, and then music was called for
"Miss Simmons, give us an air, if you please."
"Indeed you must excuse me, I am out of practice."
"No excuse can be taken. We all know that you can play, and we must
hear you this evening."
"I would willingly oblige the company, but I have not touched the
piano for two months, and cannot play fit to be heard."
"O, never mind, we'll be the judges of that."
"Come, Miss Simmons, do play for us now, that's a good soul!"
"Indeed you must excuse me!"
But no excuse would be taken. And in spite of protestations, she was
forced to take a seat at the piano.
"Well, since I must, I suppose I must. What will you have."
"Give us 'Bonny Doon'--it is so sweet and melancholy," said an
interesting-looking young man.
"'Charlie over the Water,' is beautiful--I dote on that pong; do
sing it, Miss Simmons!"
"Give us Auld Lang Syne.'"
"Yes, or Burns's Farewell.'"
"'Oft in the Stilly Night,' Miss Simmons--you can sing that."
"Yes, 'Oft in the Stilly Night,'--Miss Simmons," said half-a-dozen
voices, and so that was finally chosen. After running her fingers
over the keys for a few moments, Miss Simmons started off.
Before she had half finished the first verse, the hum of voices,
which had commenced as soon as she began to sing, rose to such a
pitch as almost to drown the sound of the instrument. She laboured
on through about a verse and a half of the song, when she rose from
the piano, and was proceeding to her vacant seat.
"O no!--no!--no!" said half-a-dozen voices at once.
"That will never do-we must have another song."
"Indeed I can't sing to-night, and _must_ be excused," said the lady
warmly, and so she _was_ excused. But soon another was chosen to be
victimized at the piano, and "will-ye-nill-ye," sing she must.
Simultaneous with the sound of the instrument rose the hum of
voices, which grew louder and louder, until the performer stopped,
discouraged and chagrined.
"That's beautiful! How well you play, Miss Emma!" and Miss Emma was
forced to resume the seat she had left half in mortification. All
was again still for a moment.
"Can you play the 'Harp and Lute,' Miss Emma?"
"No sir."
"Yes you can, though, for I've heard you many a time," said a smart
young lady sitting on the opposite side of the room.
The blood mounted to the performer's cheeks. "Indeed you're mistaken
though," half pettishly replied Miss Emma.
"But you _can_ play 'Yankee Doodle,'" retorted the first speaker.
Miss Emma left the instrument in anger.
"I'll never speak to the pert minx again as long as I live,"
whispered Miss Emma in the ear of a friend.
Thus ended the musical exhibition for that evening. As the spirit of
wine grew more active, the men became less formal in their
attentions, and the young ladies less reserved. Before the company
broke up, I almost blush to say, that there was scarcely a lady
present who had not suffered her red-ripe lips to be touched by
those of every young man in the room. And on all these proceedings,
the parents of Julia looked on with keen satisfaction! They liked to
see the young people enjoying themselves!
Then there were rambles by moonlight, during which soft things were
whispered in the ears of the young ladies. These were the occasions
on which Warburton loved most to steal away the fond confidence of
Julia; and, by degrees, he succeeded in fixing her regard upon
himself. Consent was asked of the parents, and given; and soon Julia
Forrester was Mrs. Warburton. It was only six months after the
marriage that a commercial crisis arrived; one of those reactions
from prosperity which occur in this country with singular
regularity, every ten or fifteen years, and swept from Julia's
father the whole of his property. This sudden revulsion so preyed
upon his mind, that a serious illness came on, which hurried him in
a brief period to the grave. The mother of Julia soon followed him.
Warburton, ere this, had neglected his wife, and wrung from her many
a secret tear. He had married her for the prospect of worldly gain
which the connection held out, and not from any genuine regard. And
when all hope of a fortune was suddenly cut off, he as suddenly
appeared in his real character of a heartless and unprincipled man.
He held the situation of clerk, at the time, in the same store where
he had been for years. But immediately upon the death of his
father-in-law, a flood of demands for debts due here and there came
in upon him, and not having where with to meet them, he was thrown
into jail, and obtained his freedom only by availing himself of the
law made and provided for the benefit of Insolvent Debtors.
His poor wife knew nothing of the proceedings against him, until he
was lodged in the jail. Hour after hour had passed since the time
for his return to dinner, and yet she listened in vain for his
well-known footsteps. She felt strangely oppressed in feeling when
the dim twilight came stealing sadly on, and still he came not home.
But when the clock struck nine, ten, eleven,--her distress of mind
became heightened to agony. The question, so often asked of herself,
"Where _can_ he be?" could find no answer. All night long she sat
listening at the window, and sunk into a heavy slumber, just as the
grey light of morning stole into the window and paled the expiring
lamp. From this slumber, which had continued for nearly two hours,
she was aroused by the entrance of a servant, who handed her a note,
addressed in the well-known hand of her husband. Tremblingly she
tore open the seal; at the first words:
Jail.