he might be assured she was the character described by Augustus. "I have never known the time that reading was irksome to me," she replied. "But I have 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 has not been struck with certain countenances, which have flashed upon them for a moment like sunbeams, and the remembrance of which always produces pleasurable feelings? And, again, are there not many faces which strike us disagreeably the first moment we look at them, and the impression never wears off? These likings and antipathies of our nature are unaccountable, but they exist in every individual-in some stronger than in others. Byron says, "Time may remove antipathies, but they will recur again ere long;" and the same may be said of the first favorable impressions produced by any object upon the mind. Circumstances may occur to change our opinions, but the effect produced at first is never entirely effaced. 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 little torment, hey! Come, she 's off to mope 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. Letter from Clara in New-York, to Inez at Saratoga. 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 the favored daughter of a noble race. No! my 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. 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. 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 delighting to obscure its beauty. 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 the power of clothing one in a definite shape I 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 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 ris 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 deeds→→→ when I pored over the volumes of ancient lore 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 sur rounded. 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! 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 It was during a pause, after one of her most seemed to place him as far above the thoughtbrilliant speeches, that, on turning round, I less beings by whom he was surrounded, as I encounterered a glance which, were I to wan- felt myself removed by the proud aspirations der through the earth, and experience every of my own soul fro the dissipation and frivovariety of chance and change, will never be lity around me. I soon ceased to be blinded effaced from my remembrance. You may by this effort at self-deception, and awoke to a smile when I tell you that I had seen that face miserable reality. The charm was broken by a in my dreams-that it had haunted me night simple incident. It was a beautiful moonlight and day-that I had sought to banish this evening, and with a large party of friends I had shadowy image by intercourse with society- just returned from a walk. He, too, was with and that, when my fancy continued to paint us, and I, unconscious of everything, save that it clear as ever to my mind, I tried to find I was leaning upon his arm, and that I was the some one among my acquaintance whom it re- sole object of his thoughts and attention, when sembled. I sought in vain; but when 'mid his cousin, a gay, lively girl, turned to him and that vast assembly, where hundreds might be said, "Charles, I have a delightful letter at pointed out more striking in appearance, I met home from Mary; I suppose I need not tell you that one look directed towards me with an in- the contents, as you are no doubt favored with tensity of gaze that implied he also had found a much more interesting epistle from the same the long-sought object of his thoughts, the gay | source," and with a light, reckless laugh, away 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. she bounded, while 1 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! In a few moments I was alone in my room, and with my own fearful thoughts. The veil had at length fallen from my eyes. I loved 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. I laid my burning head upon my pillow, but not to sleep. I could not rest, for that haunting image pursued me still. It would not leave me. It had indeed become my destiny. The cruel suspense under which I labored was worse than the most terrible reality. Yet one conviction came like an ice-bolt to my heart. He had never said he loved me. Yet I might be mistaken 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 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 ?" I replied, I know not what, but, pleading indisposition, begged to be excused from breakfast; and, ere the dinner hour had arrived, prepared to meet the gay inquisitive world with calmness and indifference. Since that hour life has been a blank to me—a long, dull, heavy 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. 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. Inez was not what the world would have called beautiful. Her eye neither imaged the violet nor the hue of the raven. It was, in its expression, brilliant. Her dark hair parted from a brow that a poet would never have likened to alabaster, nor a Lavater have given the impress of intellect from its height alone. But, awaken the dream-like repose of her features-lead her to converse upon subjects which 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 of the sunbeams upon the waters were not more dazzling. It was a magic, arising not from nature's lovely tints alone, but the promethean fire, giving a charm less striking at first than the delicate coloring of perfect beauty, but more enchanting to the senses, and possessing more lasting influence over the feelings. Inez lived in an ideal world of beautiful fancies, but she was not the less a very creature of earth; and the rainbows of hope and imagination which encircled her, were often shrouded by the storms of life. But hers was not a heart to be cowed or broken by trifles; and, in the wild haunts of nature, in her lonely solitudes, or in the fairy realms of poetry, she sought refuge from the harshness of the world. It was a nature thus artless and impassioned, yet gifted with high resolves and firm purposes, that was ealculated to chain in lasting fetters a mind and heart like Frederick Howard's. Her mind became the mirror of his own. But she seemed unconscious of her power over him, and he was in no haste to interrupt the sweet confidence at present existing between them. An indescribable magical attraction seemed to draw them toward each other. If they were in the same room, it was not long ere they stood or sat together. They inquired not into the cause; it was enough that the result was satisfactory. It seemed a gradual mingling of mind with mind, extending far beyond the stagnant atmosphere of society, and seeking refuge in those nobler resources fashion can neither understand nor appreciate. Dear, imaginative Inez! had not thy friend's letter warned thee? Ah! when did any one learn wisdom by the experience of another? The fair girl wept over the sorrowful history of her friend, but she saw not the charm stealing over herself. She wondered that another should fall so blindly into the snare, while the silken meshes were already winding around her own heart. Three weeks of uninterrupted pleasure had glided by, and the fashionable world were preparing for a return-warned by the chilling winds of September-wearied by the monotony of the scene, and eager to plunge again into the gayeties of the great metropolis. The belles counted over their conquests, and the beaux mourned over their disappointments, and groaned at sight of empty purses. Cornelia Stanbrook hid her vexations-if she had any-under a mask of cold indifference, or assumed hauteur. Her Chevalier, Beaumont, answered his father's interrogatories as to his expected success, with an assurance that all was going on well; but that the expense incurred for boquets and other presents for his intended, had drained his purse; and if his indulgent sire would only lend him a few dollars until his marriage, it would relieve him from anticipated mortifications. For the credit of the family, the old man re-filled the purse he had sworn never to replenish again; and the various characters we have introduced in our story, whirled off again to the emporium of fashion, to which we, as "lookers-on in Verona," will follow them. [To be continued.] SECOND LOVE. BY SIDNEY. You have touched a chord that has passive slept For years in its silent cell; While the stricken soul hath its vigil kept Where the fiat of sorrow fell; And my spirit now thrills with the music of old, From a seraph's touch on a harp of gold! You have wakened a voice that has long been still 'Neath the spell-fraught wand of woe, As the hushed song of a murmuring rill When frosts have stayed its flow; But e'en as the summer's ray melteth the band, So the light of thy love hath broken the wand. "Tis the voice of a soul! and its silvery tone Oh mingle its song with the song of thine own, And we'll pray that this harmony, blended on earth, |