“There was a sound of revelry by night”—music and the dance—the twin-born daughters of fashionable enjoyment presided o’er the scene. Amy Laverty shone like a blaze of beauty; it was almost impossible for a casual observer to decide in what particular grace or elegance she so excelled her compeers as to queen it over all. One admired the glossy ringlets, which fell in profusion over a brow and neck which would have defied the pencils of Inman or Sully, or the chisel of Powers; another, the intellectuality which beamed from her full eye, “soft as when the blue sky trembles through a cloud of purest white.” Each beauty of feature and of form had its admirer, and though all differed as to her style of charms, still opinion was unanimous as to her transcendant perfection.

Rich in all these profuse gifts of nature’s bestowing, the world had likewise been bountiful in its distribution of favors. Her parents were wealthy, and her life flowed on in one unbroken stream of careless, ceaseless pleasure. Scene after scene in the drama of life passed before her, heightened in its fairy, dream-like influence, by the continual good-humor and complacency of both the actors and auditors. The gilding and tinsel, which irised every view, and which that skillful artist, Fashion, presented with ever-varying hue, concealed the misshapen mass on which the coloring was laid. Art caused the plain canvas of life to glow with gaudy tints, and luxury, with unsparing hand, laid on her rainbow pigments.

All was gay and joyous in the mansion of Mr. Laverty, on the night when Amy entered her eighteenth year. A splendid ball, unrivaled in brilliancy even in that recherchÉ circle, had brought together the young and beautiful. The glare had attracted the fluttering insect and the ephemera of fashion, as well as those whose positions in society gave them the entrÉe where “exclusiveness” set her potent seal. Amid the wreath of loveliness which graced the apartments, the fairest flower was Amy; to the stately grandeur of the dahlia she added the softest delicacy of the rose—the air seemed redolent of gaiety where’er she moved, and the beaming joyousness of her smile won hearts in adoration.

And yet, was this bright, this gifted girl entirely happy? The world called her so, in its hollow acceptation of the term; she thought herself so. But there was a canker beneath all this brightness. An overbearing pride—a dependence on wealth and flattery for happiness, was all-essential to her existence. She was surrounded by all that fortune and its attendant luxuries could give, and yet something was wanting—it was a heart to love or contract a friendship—it was that sacred mellowing of our natures, which experience of salutary chastening alone can impart. The sunbeam of the world does not produce this ripeness of heart, clouds and gloom will best mature it; like the perfumed shrub, which is scentless until crushed, so from the soul most deeply wrung by wo, rises the incense most grateful to divinity. Though Amy dwelt in a paradise of the world’s planting—amid it a demon was stalking—an insatiate fiend, whose presence was death to true happiness—the same which tempted our first parents to transgress, and this was—pride!

“He really looks well to-night—a more manly form I never saw,” whispered a fair young friend to Amy.

“Yes, he is passable,” was her reply, “but, then, who is he? Nobody—his father I am told is a small farmer in the interior of Lancaster county, and a certain proportion of the yearly proceeds of the dairy and the stock is exclusively set apart, I suppose, to enable my young gentleman to pursue his studies at the University here.”

“Really—quite a pity!” was all the “exclusive” young lady could drawl out in reply.

“And would you believe it,” continued Amy, “he has had the assurance to interpret a little past politeness of mine into something more tender, and has actually dared to tell me that he loved me!”

“Really—how sentimental! He is quite romantic for a clodpole,” was again drawled out in response.

The hands of both the ladies were now claimed for quadrilles, and the conversation was interrupted. In the mean time the object of their remarks was leaning against the folding-door of the apartment, and contemplating with an abstracted air, the gay group around him. And yet Henry Stanton was not of a disposition to allow pleasure to fleet away without claiming his allotted share. But now thought was burning within him, and he felt that a decisive moment had arrived in his destiny. He loved Amy Laverty deeply and purely. Unaccustomed to the frivolities of the world of fashion, and judging only from his own ardent impulses, he fancied that he had discovered an answering chord in Amy’s heart which vibrated to the tone of his own. He knew not the difference between the conventional politeness of the ball-room, and those purer feelings which can be nurtured only by the fire-side. Stanton was skilled in the lore of books, but not in the inexplicable mysteries of the human heart. Being, however, of a decided disposition, and having resolved to woo, he determined without delay to make a more explicit declaration of his attachment to Amy.

He accordingly embraced the first opportunity which transpired, during the evening, to draw the fair girl into a favorable train of conversation, and reiterated his love in that style of mingled deference and fervor, which always gushes to the lips from the promptings of a manly heart. Amy listened in silence, and as he ceased, her clear, silvery laugh rang in his startled ear, as she exclaimed:?—

“Really, Mr. Stanton, the repetition of this honor is so unexpected, that I am at a loss how to reply, or how to thank you. What jointure, besides a green-vegetable stall in High Street Market, to retail your papa’s cabbages, and your mamma’s cream-cheeses, am I to expect with your hand and heart?”

Stanton, for a moment, felt a death-like chill curdle his blood; but reassuring himself, he replied calmly, and with the impressiveness of deep feeling: “I could bring you nothing, Miss Laverty, but an honest name; talents, which friends are partial enough to say I possess, and the ardent aspirations, which are the heritage of young manhood’s resolution to win its way to honorable distinction in a profession, which has been adorned by the proudest names in the world’s annals.”

“Well, sir,” said the proud beauty, with a toss of the head, “you offer lavishly of your abundance! In works of charity, I grant you, fair sir, your mite would be recorded with the millionaire’s ostentatious subscription, but Amy Laverty’s heart is not a ‘poor-box,’ to receive with equal gratitude either which may be offered. No, I prefer equipage, and an establishment which shall be the envy of all, in actual possession, to your slow accumulation of legal fees in abeyance—and so, Mr. Attorney, you are answered À la Blackstone! But don’t despond, Mr. Stanton, nor revolve over any of the dozen schemes of suicide which the alternate flush and pallor of your cheeks tell me you are meditating. I can be a generous friend, if not your devoted affianced, and my waist is yours for the next waltz, although I see one approaching to ask the favor, who thinks his money can buy a claim to it, as his father did military bounty-lands during the last war.”

They joined the whirl of dancers. Amy waltzed like a sylph. It does not require heart to waltz well. Stanton admired her graceful postures, and twined with her the mazes of the voluptuous dance; but the spell of the enchantress was broken—he was heart-whole and free. He could, as a young and ardent lover, have forgiven any personal slight; but the cold sneer upon the quiet and unostentatious occupation of his parents, wounded him to the quick. When they separated for the night he had taken his first lesson—read the first leaf in the mysterious volume of woman’s heart, and he gleaned wisdom from its perusal. The midnight lamps may assist lovers as well as law-students in the prosecution of their respective occult sciences. The chandelier irradiates the volume of human nature, as does the taper the intricacies of Coke upon Littleton.

——