seat by her side, begged to know whether he had said or done anything to distress her. "Not at all," replied Inez, making a sudden and successful effort at composure, and recalling the sweet smile to her changeful face. "My friend Miss Stanbrook sometimes makes remarks that bring back painful remembrances, though she may not have intended it. But her observation upon reading, reminds me of an incident which occurred last evening, and some inconsistencies which I desire to explain. You were speaking, Mr. Howard, of the impropriety of a lady's exhibiting her talents in public. You recollect my agreeing with you, and the sneers of Mr. Beaumont at the time. I had a dear friend whom circumstances, or rather misfortunes, had compelled to break through the rules, and throw aside the trammels of society, and a fine voice for elocution, tempted her to appear in public, although to the regret of all her real and sincere friends, who foresaw the consequences to one so lovely and so gifted. The event proved the truth of their forebodings. She was lauded to the skies in public, but in private invidious remarks and malicious innuendoes flew from lip to lip. Among the foremost to praise in public, and slander in private, was Mr. Beaumont. He came to me in triumph to repeat the pretty things he and his gay, unfeeling associates had heard and invented. Indignant at the baseness of his conduct, I resented it as it deserved, and from that moment he has taken every opportunity to sneer at my love for friends who have disgraced themselves, and my approval of actresses, as he is pleased to call a defense of one unjustly defamed. Do you blame me for this seeming inconsistency?" "Blame you!" exclaimed Howard, gazing upon her eloquent countenance with admiration. "If anything could have added to the respect the esteem-with which you inspire me, it would be this open and candid avowal of sentiments that do you honor. If I may judge from Miss Stanbrook's remark, you also are gifted with the same power for which you defended your friend.” "Miss Stanbrook flatters,” replied Inez, the smile again vanishing from her lively face; "I am gifted with no such charm. I sometimes wile away an hour in reading to the old Colonel, because I see that amuses him, but farther than that, I never venture." "And the allusion to the friend you charm so much, is a mistake also, I suppose," exclaimed Howard, with more interest than he had before manifested in the conversation. Inez looked down, and he thought she sighed. "She must mean a lady with whom I correspond, as we are in the habit of reading to each other when in New-York, as well as writing when absent." Howard would not for the world allow her to suppose that he was not deceived by this evasion; yet it did not satisfy him—and why? What did it matter to him that Inez had friends in New-York whose memory, suddenly recalled to her mind, covered her face with blushes, or called forth a sigh? He instantly changed the conversation, and taking up the book she had dropped, opened it at the following passage :— "Instruction and information are inexhaustible sources of happiness, and of the sweetest pleasures; and were it even true, which is far from being the case, that the world affords real enjoyments, the nature of those enjoyments is only adapted to youth; what then must become of us in the decline of life, when we become weary of the world, and disgusted with its pleasures? It is then too late to acquire a taste for rational employments. Habituated to a long course of trifling, the mind becomes absolutely incapable of rational application. To render study the delight of every future period, we should be devoted to it in youth. The earlier application is attempted, the more strong the habit will become in riper years." "Do you feel yourself growing so old, Miss Inez, that you use no delay in preparing for the change? Or do you agree with the author, that we cannot commence our self-improvement too early?" "I never find reading a task," replied Inez. "Observe the following remark by the same author: 'How happy are those whose cultivated minds can at all times draw resources from themselves! To such, solitude is never irksome, and amusement charms with double zest.' My heart responds to every word in that sentence. How often, when wearied with the senseless nothings of society at large, have I flown to some favorite author, and forgotten the idle hours I had spent. Pray what can enliven solitude, or make amends for the want of companionship, like an entertaining book?" "Were you always so fond of reading?" inquired Howard-curious to learn more of the mind of this lovely young creature, that 52 he might be assured she was the character de- little torment, hey! Come, she 's off to mope scribed by Augustus. "I have never known the time that reading "But I have was irksome to me," she replied. taken more pleasure in it since my intercourse with a very dear friend with whom I correspond." Howard longed to be satisfied about this "dear friend;" but fearing to give offense, he merely observed, "How I should like to know this valued correspondent of yours, Miss Inez. She must be very estimable." "She is, indeed, Mr. Howard;" and Inez went on to eulogize this absent friend with such warmth, that Howard told her he was in love with the very description. That little word "she," too, caused him to speak more freely about the image brought forward for his approval and admiration. Is there not in our minds often a presentiment that certain persons perhaps individuals whom we have never seen-are in some way to influence our future destiny? Who Thus was it with Howard's ideal picture of the friend of Inez, although he found it somewhat difficult in what light to represent her to his imagination, yet he felt a longing desire to make her acquaintance, as he was convinced that it was this unknown being that had formed the mind of the young, ardent enthusiast. "Is she," thought he, "a pedant, or"-as Inez rose and left him to his meditations-"is she a creature of life, and light, and beauty, and feeling, and witchery, like her pupil? should like to meet her". I "Fred, all alone, hey! What are you thinking about? Bored into the blue devils by that with the old man-and let us be off to flirt with the young ladies. Laura has inquired for you several times. We have only a week more to rusticate, and then back to dusty streets and heated theatres. The girls say that the Ex-President is coming here to-morrow, and they are all wild with delight. Jule has the room strewed with silks, and Maria Lindsay with artificial flowers. Mother has smashed her new gauze turban, and is fretting for a new one. Cornelia intends dashing down on horseback to meet him-conscious that she looks well in the character of Di Vernon. All the turkeys and chickens are quacking in the yard, conscious of their approaching doom. The whole Hotel is turned out of the window, and I out of my room. Can't even smoke a cigar in peace; disposed to cry out every minute, Down with the President-taxation-national banks annexation-nullification and veto-fication-I go for plenty of money, and an occasional jollification.-Fred, what on earth are you always thinking of now-adays?" CHAPTER III. A TALE OF THE SOUL'S PASSION. You say, my dear Inez, that I have promised you the history of my life. But, I repeat, of what service would it be to you? You are young and beautiful. You are just entering upon a world which has ceased to charm me. Your imagination is excited by the brilliant prospect before you; and shall I dim the lustre of your eye with the tear of sympathy for my sorrows? Yet, again, you wish that I may relate to you my past experience, that it may serve as a guide or warning to yourself. The interest I have always felt for you, would be sufficient inducement to comply with your wishes, even contrary to my own inclination. Hear me, then, and judge if there be not truth in the assertion, that we are the creatures of destiny. I will not weary your patience with describing all the scenes and occurrences of my childhood. I was not nursed in stately halls, nor did my infant feet first learn to tread upon marble floors, while from the pictured walls the eyes of my proud ancestry were bent upon No! my the favored daughter of a noble race. first impressions were made amid the scenes of nature. My childhood was passed in rambling over the verdant mead, and chasing the but- pine groves, the velvet turf, and the twilight terfly from flower to flower. Childhood is a happy season! and yet I was not happy. Young as I was-yes, even from the time when I first began to reason and reflect-I felt the influence of destiny. I had conceived the idea that no one loved me-that I was incapable of inspiring attachment in others. Strange to say, even when I wept that the bonds of affection that bound me to mankind were so slight, I loved my self-bound solitude. And my native village was well suited to nourish such feelings. Apart from the gay world, in one of the most retired villages of the wild, uncultivated scenes of nature were the limits of my world till the age of thirteen. From my earliest youth, I was passionately fond of reading. But I loved only those books that suited my peculiar temperament. I can well remember the delight with which I first perused that favorite with children, "The Arabian Nights." I hardly ate or slept till I finished it, and for a long time afterwards I was in an unconscious dream. It seemed as if everything around me had suffered a change. My fancy conjured up Genii, and fairies, and enchanted castles wherever I went. These volumes were soon succeeded by others, which left not so vivid, but a more lasting impression. But books never seemed to be like instructors to my untaught mind. They served rather as sources of communication with the world. They seemed like mirrors where I saw my own burning, intense thoughts pictured to my view in a substantial form. They seemed to portray nothing new, but rather to bring before my eyes the untold sensations of my own breast; to give regular form to what had heretofore been confused and unintelligible.And yet, although my mind was thus stored with all these living images, I had not power of clothing one in a definite shapeI communed only with myself. I found no being to whom I could communicate my own restless changes of thought. But I must pass over this period, and hasten to a change of scene. And what a change! Imagine one who has passed her early years in the solitude I have described, suddenly transplanted to the gay and intoxicating splendors of a city! At first, I shrank into myself. I wished myself back again. I longed to bathe my brow once more in the cooling stream which had so often reflected in all the innocence of childhood. I looked out upon the crowded streets, and my eye ached for the dashing waterfalls, the dark solitude of other days. Gradually these feelings wore away; and then commenced a new era in my existence. I felt as if awakening from a dream. I looked back to the volumes I had read in other days, and the great world which was then painted to my heated fancy as something bright, dazzling, but beyond my reach, seemed now unfolded; and link by link of that chain which had bound me to solitude and self, was gradually dissolving in the more engrossing trammels of society. Yet still there seemed something wanting! As in the fairy palace of Alladin, there was a charm wanting, even while the exhilarating cup was filled to overflowing. What was this charm? Alas! here would I draw a veil, and revealing only the sunny side of the picture, conceal as long as possible, the dark cloud rising to obscure its beauty. I entered at once into society, and mingled in all its amusements and its follies. I was admired, courted, flattered-but was I happy? No! I saw beneath the hollow surface. I enjoyed its fascinations, it is true, but I felt as if my heart were capable of something higher and nobler than the vain pursuits of fashionable life. I looked with a kind of scorn upon immortal beings giving up their whole hearts and souls to the enjoyment of the present moment. I danced, flirted, chatted, and coquetted with the rest, but it was more to amuse and while away a weary hour than because it afforded me any real happiness. I longed for some person with whom I could converse as with a rational being. My mind was athirst for something to satisfy its longings, and I felt that all that was offered besides, only disgusted me. When I read of heroes and lofty deedswhen I pored over the volumes of ancient lore the-when I became familiar with names that flourished in the olden time-I longed for some of the same celebrity with whom to hold communion with the present. My imagination grasped at subjects which I felt were above the capacity of those by whom I was surrounded. When I attempted to converse with my companions upon the subjects which interested me, they told me of some ball or party in anticipation, and of the conquests I was sure of making. They talked of the theatre, and endeavored to excite my interest in its fictitious scenes; and I was at length persuaded to join a party to witness a fine tragedy. I went merely to gratify my friends; for I felt that it was only one of the many means which the creatures of the world adopt to drive away ennui. I went; and never shall I forget that evening-it was an era in my existence. This was my first visit to the theatre, and of course I was charmed and bewildered at all I saw. All that I dreamed could be combined in nature or art to dazzle the imagination were there united. A scene of pleasure and enchantment to the spectator; of pain, fatigue, labor, and anxiety to the actor. How many cankering cares, thought I, may lie beneath the surface of those sunny smiles, perhaps called up for the effect of the moment, while the heart beneath them is bursting! Those wild strains of exquisite music, that seem to dare the utmost skill of scientific excellence to surpass them, may perhaps be wrung from a soul which is suffering with anguish. Those countenances which appear to preserve such perfect self-possession, as if nothing could ruffle or discompose them, may, in a few short hours, be distorted by the agony of grief, which has been so successfully concealed from the eyes of the world, and pent up within the tortured breast! On this particular night, there was a concentration of every talent. The inimitable actress, whose star was then in its zenith, entered into the character she had chosen, with such force and truth, that she seemed the very being she personified, and, scarcely noticing the thunders of applause which greeted her entrance, the deep, rich tones of her voice, betraying not the least tremulousness or agitation, rose with such effect that every sound besides, throughout that splendid and numerous audience, was instantly hushed. It was during a pause, after one of her most brilliant speeches, that, on turning round, I encounterered a glance which, were I to wander through the earth, and experience every variety of chance and change, will never be effaced from my remembrance. You may smile when I tell you that I had seen that face in my dreams-that it had haunted me night and day—that I had sought to banish this shadowy image by intercourse with societyand that, when my fancy continued to paint it clear as ever to my mind, I tried to find some one among my acquaintance whom it resembled. I sought in vain; but when 'mid that vast assembly, where hundreds might be pointed out more striking in appearance, I met that one look directed towards me with an intensity of gaze that implied he also had found the long-sought object of his thoughts, the gay scene before me-time-place-everything, vanished away, and but that one form seemed visible. Scarcely a moment elapsed, ere an introduction took place, and he was seated by my side. If I was at first attracted by a form which was the embodying of the vague dream of years, the powers of his conversation at once riveted and entranced me. Days, weeks, months passed, and I lived only in his presence. I still mingled in society, but it was he alone that rendered society delightful. He never addressed me in those light strains of flattery and adulation which he bestowed upon others. When he conversed with me, it was in a higher, loftier tone. O, how every word and look of his has been cherished in this heart! how did I recall them in solitude and silence! I missed not the most trifling change in his manner. His enthusiasm for all that was grand and beautiful, was equal to my own. We perused together those volumes which had lost half their charm for want of some congenial spirit to share the rapture with which they inspired me. Now, that pleasure was unalloyed and perfect. Having no one among my own sex with whom I could claim a kindred sympathy, is it strange that I soon loved him with all the ardor of which a heart like mine was susceptible? And yet I deceived myself; I called it only friendship. I felt that to deprive me of his society, would be robbing me of all that could render life desirable, and yet I deemed it sufficient happiness to see him every day-to hang upon his words-to read his thoughts, for I often imagined I could do so; to witness the display of those brilliant talents which seemed to place him as far above the thoughtless beings by whom he was surrounded, as I felt myself removed by the proud aspirations of my own soul fro the dissipation and frivolity around me. I soon ceased to be blinded by this effort at self-deception, and awoke to a miserable reality. The charm was broken by a simple incident. It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and with a large party of friends I had just returned from a walk. He, too, was with us, and I, unconscious of everything, save that I was leaning upon his arm, and that I was the sole object of his thoughts and attention, when his cousin, a gay, lively girl, turned to him and said, "Charles, I have a delightful letter at home from Mary; I suppose I need not tell you the contents, as you are no doubt favored with a much more interesting epistle from the same source," and with a light, reckless laugh, away she bounded, while I felt the arm upon which I leaned tremble violently. His conversation, which had been so animated, instantly ceased. I dared not speak, for I could not trust my own voice. A thousand wild conjectures rushed through my brain with the rapidity of lightning. Who was Mary? What was she to him? Why was he thus agitated at the announcement of a letter from her? Was she his sister his betrothed? I dared not ask; I scarcely wished to know. He walked on silently. Not another word passed between us until we reached home. He wished me good night-but in a tone of voice how unlike his usual parting!-pressed my hand and turned to go away. The light from the window glared upon his face as he did so; it was deadly pale. Inez, I never saw him but once again, and then under what different circumstances! his love if I might retain his friendship, and secure that of his bride. Yes. in the agony of my heart, I imagined that I could see him wedded to another, if assured that he would not quite forget me. Thus passed that long dreary night, and the next morning the lively Caroline came bounding into my room, exclaiming, "What do you think, Clara! Charles is going off to-day; I suppose we shall soon hear of a merry wedding, and a pretty new bride to be introduced to the world of fashion." "Married!" I exclaimed. "Yes, to my pretty cousin, Mary Stanbrook. They have been betrothed from childhood.Did you not know it ?” dragging-on of existence-without pleasure and without hope. You are many years younger than I, my sweet friend. Profit by my experience, and steel your heart to affection. Become cold, callous, heartless, like the rest of the world. I see you smile at my warning, and I know that my advice is useless; indeed had any one bestowed the same upon me, while I was indulging my brief dream of hope, I should have laughed at and rejected it. But I must hasten to close my narrative. I replied, I know not what, but, pleading indisposition, begged to be excused from breakfast; and, ere the dinner hour had arrived, preIn a few moments I was alone in my room, pared to meet the gay inquisitive world with and with my own fearful thoughts. The veil calmness and indifference. Since that hour had at length fallen from my eyes. I loved-life has been a blank to me- -a long, dull, heavy fondly, madly loved-and a dark presentiment came across my mind that I was destined to love in vain. There was a foreboding of evil in my heart that I could not banish, and I longed for, yet dreaded, the return of the next day. I sat down by the window and gazed upon the stars, but they seemed to mock me with their brightness; they had ceased to charm me as of yore, for my adoration had been transferred from them to a mortal, one who had not, like them, looked coldly and calmly upon me, but whose thoughts had answered to my thoughts. I had often longed for fame, but since I had known him, I felt that it could only charm when blended with affection. A new motive had been kindled within me—a wish to please him. Flattery had always been lost upon me. He never flattered, but there are looks which cannot be mistaken, and I often read in his the praise he never uttered. I had exchanged solitary communion with my own mind for converse with one higher, nobler, and of deeper, stronger energies. And now all was at an end. Inez was not what the world would have I laid my burning head upon my pillow, but called beautiful. Her eye neither imaged the not to sleep. I could not rest, for that haunt- violet nor the hue of the raven. It was, in its ing image pursued me still. It would not leave expression, brilliant. Her dark hair parted me. It had indeed become my destiny. The from a brow that a poet would never have cruel suspense under which I labored was worse likened to alabaster, nor a Lavater have given than the most terrible reality. Yet one convic- the impress of intellect from its height alone. tion came like an ice-bolt to my heart. He had But, awaken the dream-like repose of her feanever said he loved me. Yet I might be mis-tures-lead her to converse upon subjects which taken in my fears. He might yet be mine, or, if ordered otherwise-and he was destined for another-I felt that I could even bear to resign The next morning I received a letter-the first and last from the only object that ever awakened an interest in my heart. When we meet again, dear Inez, you shall see that letter. I could not transcribe it; but though, by its contents I was at length convinced that we were separated for ever, there was a balm mingled with their bitterness. Fate had torn us from each other, but in heart we were united. arouse the lightning of the soul, which, from the depth of thought, called up images of the good, the true, the beautiful-and the sparkle |