It would not be easy to determine at what age love first manifests itself
in the human heart; but if the reader have a good memory (I now speak to
my own sex), he may remember when its tender light dawned upon his
soul,--he may recall the moment when the harmonious voice of woman first
tingled in his ears, and filled his bosom with unknown rapture,--he may
recollect how he used to forsake trap-ball and peg-top to follow the idol
he had created in her walks,--how he hoarded up the ripest oranges and
gathered the choicest flowers to present to her, and felt more than
recompensed by a word of thanks kindly spoken. Oh, youth--youth! pure and
happy age, when a smile, a look, a touch of the hand, makes all sunshine
and happiness in thy breast.
But the season of boyhood passes--the youth of sixteen becomes a young man
of twenty, and smiles at the innocent emotions of his uneducated heart. He
is no longer the mute adorer who worshipped in secrecy and in silence.
Each season produces its own flowers. At twenty, the time for mute
sympathy has passed away: it is one of the most eventful periods in the
life of a lover; for should he then chance to meet a heart free to respond
to his ardent passion, and that no cruel father, relentless guardian, or
richer lover interposes to overthrow his hopes, he may with the aid of a
licence, a parson, and a plain gold ring, be suddenly launched into the
calm felicity of married life.
I know not what mysterious chain unites the heart of a young lover to that
of the woman whom he loves. In the simplicity of their hearts they often
imagine it is but friendship that draws them towards each other, until
some unexpected circumstance removes the veil from their eyes, and they
discover the dangerous precipice upon whose brink they have been walking.
A journey, absence, or sickness, inevitably produce a discovery. If a
temporary separation be about to occur, the unconscious lovers feel, they
scarce know wherefore, a deep shade of sadness steal over them; their
adieux are mingled with a thousand protestations of regret, which sink
into the heart and bear a rich harvest by the time they meet again. Days
and months glide by, and the pains of separation still endure; for they
feel how necessary they have become to the happiness of each other, and
how cold and joyless existence seems when far from those we love.
That which may be anticipated, at length comes to pass; the lover
returns--he flies to his mistress--she receives him with blushing cheek
and palpitating heart. I shall not attempt to describe the scene, but
throughout the day and night that succeeds that interview the lover seems
like one distracted. In the city, in the fields--alone, or in company--he
hears nothing but the magic words, "I LOVE YOU!" ringing in his ears, and
feels that ecstatic delight which it is permitted mortals to taste but
once in their lives.
But what are the sensations which enter the heart of a young and innocent
girl when she first confesses the passion that fills her heart? A tender
sadness pervades her being--her soul, touched by the hand of Love,
delivers itself to the influence of all the nobler emotions of her nature;
and borne heavenward on the organ's solemn peal, pours forth its rich
treasures in silent and grateful adoration.
[Illustration]
At thirty, a man takes a more decided--I wish I could add a more
amiable--character than at twenty. At twenty he loves sincerely and
devotedly; he respects the woman who has inspired him with the noblest
sentiment of which his soul is capable. At thirty his heart, hardened by
deceit and ill-requited affection, and pre-occupied by projects of worldly
ambition, regards love only as an agreeable pastime, and woman's heart as
a toy, which he may fling aside the moment it ceases to amuse him. At
twenty he is ready to abandon everything for her whom he idolises--rank,
wealth, the future!--they weigh as nothing in the balance against the
fancied strength and constancy of his passion. At thirty he coldly
immolates the repose and happiness of the woman who loves him to the
slightest necessity. I must admit, however--in justice to our
sex--provided his love does not interfere with his interest, nor his
freedom, nor his club, nor his dogs and horses, nor his _petites liaisons
des coulisses_, nor his hour of dinner--the lover is always willing to
make the greatest sacrifices for her whom he has honoured with his
regards. The man of thirty is, moreover, a man of many loves; he carries
on half-a-dozen affairs of the heart at the same time--he has his
writing-desk filled with _billets-doux_, folded into a thousand fanciful
shapes, and smelling villanously of violets, roses, bergamot, and other
sentimental odours. He has a pocket-book full of little locks of hair, of
all colours, from the light golden to the raven black. In short, the man
of thirty is the most dangerous of lovers. Let my fair readers watch his
approaches with distrust, and place at every avenue of their innocent
hearts
[Illustration: A WATCHFUL SENTINEL.]
[Illustration: Alph. Lecourt]
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