(Continued from page 105.)

CHAPTER V.

BROADWAY.

BY

It was a clear, frosty morning in February. The refreshing and genial air cooled many a fevered brow, that had suffered from the dissipation of the previous evening. There is nothing which can restore the activity of the mind, invigorate its energies, and revive the happy volition of thought and feeling, rendered morbid by undue excitement-nothing so revivifying to the mind and heart, as the bracing air of a winter's morning. In this bustling city of industry and wealth, there are thousands of objects to attract the attention of the pedestrian. The startling changes so often to be met with in society; the contrasts presented to our view in the individuals who compose it-contrasts visible in their actions, manners, and even feelings, in the revolution of a few short hours afford food for the contemplation of every mind. The smile of hilarity which lit up the countenance of pleasure-seekers on the preceding evening, is now changed for the look of care, which speaks of a ruder contact with the world. Yet, the changing scenes of every-day life are of too frequent occurrence to arouse the curiosity of the indolent, or point the moral presented to the contemplative mind. We sometimes feel what we cannot exactly comprehend; and an image will often effect that conviction in our minds, which reason or argument could never have accomplished.

Broadway is the theatre of action to many diversified characters. Here we meet a person

of rather rough exterior and unprepossessing countenance, who, from a penniless boy, had become a millionaire-a fair example of what enterprise can accomplish, even in a new country. Yet were we to look into his heart, to ascertain if wealth had brought him happiness, we should not consider him a greater object of envy than yonder poor but contented man who is struggling with poverty, yet with a heart as full of generous impulses as the rich man's purse is full of gold. That mild, benevolentlooking old gentleman, with his chin half buried in the capacious fur collar of his coat, is Mr. If we wish to learn his true character, we must go into the abodes of poverty and misery-we must ask those whom he has fed, clothed, and saved from a life of wretchedness. He is honored by the great and wealthy, and beloved by the poor and lowly; and, though high his station in life, is as humble at heart as those less favored by fortune.

By his side is a different character-the close, calculating, hard-hearted money-broker, made wealthy by extortions from the poor and unsuspecting. His ledger is his god; his counting-house, his earthly paradise. His face is pale, not from high pursuits and lofty aims, but the whole multiplication table seems stamped upon his contracted forehead, sunken cheeks, and fleshless lips. Down, far down into the depths of his small, twinkling gray eyes, we may read the cool collectedness of his soul. He is never in a hurry; he never betrays agitation; he listens to his customer with imperturbable gravity, occasionally drawing down the corners of his

mouth, and elevating and depressing his eyebrows. He asks few questions, but those are to the point. He turns over and examines the deeds of trust, with the same coolness that a merchant would examine a bale of goods. He sees not the eager eye of his visitor; his thoughts are fixed upon the cent. per cent. to be obtained by the negotiation. Every article of furniture in his office seems to be a century old The desk has been cut in many places, by his saucy clerk, but the money drawer has remained undisturbed. He is as regular in his business as clock-work. The regular route between his lodgings and his counting-house is the only one he ever traverses, and with that he is so familiar, that he could proceed from one to the other with his eyes shut. All human affections are stifled in his breast; love would freeze at his very approach; friendship is only kept alive where the interests are involved.

But here comes one of those master-spirits which so few know how to appreciate, because so few can understand. There are men of intellect, whose course through life is more like meteors than fixed stars; their genius bursts at once upon the view, requiring no kindling influence save its own, to make it admired and felt. But not so with this individual. Possessing an innate love for all that is beautiful and sublime; having been blessed with every advantage which education can give, still his gifted and intelligent mind is suffered to remain inactive. How strange it is, that in this matter-of-fact world a mediocrity of talent is of more advantage than a superiority to the rest of our species! A person of a high order of talent, is placed out of the routine of ordinary society. The eagle-like ambition, which is equally his blessing and his bane, will not suffer him to stoop to amuse himself with the trifling straws which satisfy the common mind. He is the victim of his own stirring and restless energies; and in seeking to enliven the world by new discoveries, he becomes a martyr to the ignorance that cannot comprehend aught beyond its own sphere of established truths!

But away with philosophical reflections. Let us make room for these fine ladies. Mrs. Fortescue, the Misses Beaumont, and their attendants, are dashing by in their silks and laces. Foreign attachés and domestic dandies are by their sides, their gemmed canes lightly touching the pavement, or placed to their lips, as they listen to the trifling remarks of their companions.

"How very bracing the air is," said Miss Julia to Count Puffer.

'Vary," replied the count; who, feeling in every joint the change from the soft Italian climate to that of America, was shivering in every limb for want of a warm over-coat.

"We shall soon have sleighing, I think," said Mrs. Fortescue, burying her hands deep in her muff.

"My bays are at your service, in that case," said Beaumont.

"Please give me a penny," said a small, halffrozen child, holding out her emaciated hand. "Get out of the way, you little beggar!" said the beau, raising his cane. "Who is that crossing the street? anybody we know ?" asked Angelina.

"Who could mistake that figure? it is Cornelia Stanbrook," answered Julia, "and Mr. Graham, and behind them Laura, and, I do declare, that mad poet, Clarkson."

"So it is, 'pon my soul!" exclaimed Beaumont. "What on earth do they mean by parading about with that shabby fellow ?”

"Fitzallen says he is madly in love with one of the heiresses, and writes sonnets to her eyebrow," said Angelina, laughing.

Beaumont felt an uneasy sensation about his heart, or rather about the spot where his heart should have been, if he had one; but a glance at the haughty brow of Cornelia, reassured him.

"Oh, its Laura," said Angelina. "Only get Inez Laurence to tell you all about their first meeting at Hoboken, and how he stood still and stared at Laura, as if he thought she was an angel just dropped from the skies-and how frightened she was when he followed her all the way to the pavilion, and I believe all the way home, and when she was no longer in sight, drew a deep sigh and vanished."

and

"Oh, I have met him often in Broadway," said Beaumont, "with his head in the clouds and his feet in the mud, his face pale and careworn, and his clothes positively shabby. When he was in one of his sombre moods, Cmyself once brushed by him on each side, just for fun, you know, and nearly upset him or his gravity. He turned and gave me such a look! You have no idea! It almost annihilated me. I felt of a cold tremor all over, for five minutes after. But you should have seen C—; he laughed in his face, and then asked pardon for his rudeness with the greatest sang froid, and all the politeness of a Frenchman. But nothing disturbed the serenity of the poet. He passed

with youth and health, he often felt the need of relaxation from his daily toils. His ambition had received fresh impulse from the conversation of Miss Legard. To follow in the steps of the gifted statesmen she had eulogized, was the strongest desire of his soul; and added to this, was the ardent hope of winning some gentle heart to share his fortunes, and although somewhat piqued at the apparent caprices of Inez, yet to her, of all others, did his thoughts most frequently recur.

"You are like a 'will-o'-the-wisp,'" said he. "There is no possibility of following you from one place to another-now here, now there, as the whim seizes you. I should really like to know what you are employed about all the time. I seldom see you, in my morning calls at Colonel Stanbrook's."

"Why, to tell you the truth," replied Inez, laughing, "I am completely tired of these mere fashionable visits. The idea of sitting bolt upright for three or four long hours, listening to scandal and gossip with a set of people who do not care a farthing whether I am alive or dead, is too much for my patience. Besides, time with me is too precious. I have to read the morning paper to the good colonel, water my flowers, feed my pet birds, and, don't be shocked, as your friend Mr. Beaumont would be, at the confession, I have to wash up the breakfast cups and arrange the parlors. I then spend an hour or two with Clara-that is, Miss Legard at my French and Italian, drum away a short time at the piano, read a poem or two-my daily practice then make myself beautiful, and take a walk. Now you have all my sins and peccadilloes in full array. It may possibly be the case that some foolish man may one day take a fancy to ask me to tease his life and soul out, by becoming his wife. Should such a calamity ever occur, I shall have less time perhaps for my present avocations. Therefore

I ask absolution for all my crimes committed against you and society in general."

"Not granted," returned Howard, "except on one condition."

"Name it."

"That you will sometimes allow me admission to your sanctum sanctorum, where you shut yourself up, to study with you the French and Italian, besides reading with you the favorite poem."

"Oh!" replied Inez, looking up archly in his face, and then dropping her eyes, and blushing deeply at his ardent gaze. "I have no control over this secluded room. Miss Legard, my

friend and tutor, is the one to whom you must apply."

"Shall we have the pleasure of seeing her this morning?"

"I hope so. She promised to meet me at the picture gallery, for there are several portraits of persons we both know, and which we were anxious to see."

"And here we are at last upon the steps. How much it enhances the pleasure of visiting such places when one is favored with agreeable and intelligent companions."

"That Miss Laurence is very graceful,” said Count Puffer, after she had left them. "She would do honor even to Italie."

"But she's a mere nobody," replied Julia, piqued at a compliment not bestowed upon herself.

"She's a tantalizing vixen, and a confounded quiz," said Beaumont, biting his cane. "She's the essential spirit of poetry etherealized,” said Angelina.

"Come, come, no slander, especially in the street," exclaimed Mrs. Fortescue. "I like her, for she is always ready to lend a helpinghand when I am about to give a party. And then, she's so funny and so witty, and makes such odd remarks. She's the most entertaining little sylph I ever knew."

"But has she any fawtune?" asked a young sprig, half knave, half fool, who had come to this country for the express purpose of marrying an heiress.

"Not a cent."

"Ma foi! then what's the use of all her accomplishments? Her attractions will not go very far toward securing a husband."

"Oh, dear! all you men are after, is the money," said Mrs. Fostescue, sneeringly. "I only wish some of you would be taken in prodigiously one of these days."

"I'm too sharp for that," said Beaumont. "I'm not such a fool as not to discover where the land lies; and then I have some regard to my position. Who knows anything about the connections of this Miss Laurence? They may be shoemakers, or soap-boilers, or tailors, for aught that we know to the contrary. Think of marrying such an obscure personage, and having to ask such persons to dinner as your uncle the soap-boiler, or your aunt the dressmaker! Perhaps her grandfather or her grandmother once sat in the market, and made a fortune by the sale of their cabbage-garden, like those B- -s, who, laughable to think of, have actually put a coat of arms upon their car

riage! I suppose they trace their descent to William the Conqueror. It is bad enough for the aristocracy to stoop in marriage with the plebeians when there is money to be gained by it; but when there is none, either in hand or in reversion-bah! it's too great a sacrifice-absolute contamination !"

If Beaumont had formerly disliked Inez, he now almost hated her, since she had become such an object of interest to his friend Howard, whom he was anxious should marry his sister Julia; for Howard, although not rich, belonged to an ancient and highly respectable family, some of whom (a great merit in the eyes of Beaumont) were allied to the nobility of England—a circumstance considered of no sort of importance by Howard, but which renred him a great object of interest to others. Deaumont's scheming mind was now bent upon some scheme to change the current of his friend's thoughts, and make Inez appear worthless in his eyes. His settled aversion to this amiable girl, gave him a greater recommendation in the eyes of Cornelia Stanbrook than all his assiduous flatteries had done, and a circumstance that occurred about this time, aided him in his malicious purpose.

CHAPTER VI.

MORNING CALLS.

-"I've been just sending out

About five hundred cards for a snug little rout, But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather, I'm ever to bring my five hundred together!" "WE are first to call at the Astor House," said Mrs. Fortescue, withdrawing her muff from her face.

"And to see the houri you spoke of," said Mr. Granville, the young foreigner who was in search of an heiress.

"Of course. Is Mrs. Belmont at home this morning?" she asked of the man in attend

ance.

seeing you here. I thought you had left the Astor."

"Oh, no; my husband and I find the society so pleasant here, that we intend remaining some time longer. But do tell me, dear Mrs. Fortescue, when is that play to come off at Mrs. Bellendon's? I am dying to see it."

"Oh, Miss Mellen's tragedy; indeed, I don't know. There are five hundred invitations to be sent, and all sorts of preparations are making for the grand event. But, before they bring out Miss Mellen's production, 'The Mourning Bride' is to be performed, at the particular request of Cornelia Stanbrook, who rules everything now-a-days. She is to be Zara, and you, Beaumont, are Osmyn, I think."

"No," replied Beaumont, biting his cane. "I studied the part, but Cornelia declared she would not perform unless Graham was Osmyn so, if I play at all, I shall have to take up with an indifferent character." "Oh, I wish they'd give me the part of the Mourning Bride," said Mrs. Merton, in a sentimental tone of voice. "I do so dote upon anything pathetic. I like to faint away gracefully, and make a sensation among the audience. I could not hold a dagger for the world, and the very sight of blood completely overcomes me. Then one looks so pretty and interesting, lying pale and unconscious in the arms of the actor; and the tragic actress looks so terrible and forbidding with her hair streaming over her shoulders-her dress deranged-her arms bare-her eyes flashing, and grasping a bloody dagger."

"Oh yes," said Angelina, "I once saw Fanny Kemble in such a character,-two or three ladies fainted with actual terror; and when, after the play was over, she sent word up to mamma that she should give herself the pleasure of visiting our box before leaving the house, I was almost frightened to death. Oh, I wish I was an actress-it makes one so distinguished-and then one's name is in all the papers and one has such beautiful bouquets

The party ascended the stair-case, and were ushered into the splendid parlor, where sat several persons in conversation, most of them unknown to the visitors; but one lady, a pretty, little blue-eyed, golden-haired creature, sprang up from the ottoman on which she was seated at their entrance, and saluted them in the most affectionate manner.

sweet poetry written to them-and

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