Part 14

"Look where he comes. In this embowered alcove Stand close concealed and see a statue move; Lips busy and eyes fixed, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below! That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest or join the song-- Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Now neither healthy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves And waft it to the mourner, as he roves, Can call up life into his faded eye,-- That passes all he sees unheeded by."

This period of agony which I have just described has often infused the gall of bitterness into the cup of life, turned benevolence into misanthropy, soured the temper, and destroyed the tranquillity of existence. When the shock has come after matrimonial engagement, which has been ended by woman's caprice, or the wily artifices of the mischief-making meddler, then the stroke is still more dreadful, and productive of effects still more marked in the character of the man; and oftentimes is the conduct of that being, who stands an anomaly in the eyes of the world, to be traced back to this cause. We have seen an individual mysteriously settle down in our vicinage, immure himself in his solitary mansion, shrink from the gaze of the world as from the dragon's visage, and live as though life were a burden which was to him insupportable. Pry into his history, and you will find, when you have traced it out, that it was the treachery of her upon whom he had lavished all the affections of his soul, which separated him from his original home and happiness. Look again--there is another being whose brilliant, but meteor like career, alarms the selfish statesman and puzzles the philosopher. To-day, listening senates are hanging on his words, and electrified by the magic of his soul-stirring eloquence. To-morrow, in the social circle, he displays those powers of fascination and attraction which fix the gaze of all on the play of his features, while the brilliancy of his fancy and the vivid corruscations of his wit and intellect, are delighting all around with his wonder-working speech.

At times he realizes the fable of Orpheus; he draws the very trees after him, melts the hearts of stone that are around him, and makes them forgive the wrongs which he has done--then his reason seems to be dethroned, the very demon of malice enters his heart; his shafts of calumny transfix alike friend and foe, and he traverses seas and continents almost like the deluded victim of knight errantry, impelled by a spirit which urges forward with irresistible impetuosity, whilst it seems to have lost its destination. The world stands amazed whilst this brilliant meteor is playing above the horizon. One ascribes his course to the waywardness of nature, and calls him a _lusus naturæ_; another traces his character to the diseases of the body; another tells you he was ambitious, and that all his schemes of promotion and self-aggrandizement were wrecked.

But go to him who has shared his confidence, and nursed him in the hours of his misfortune--to him who can best tell you his history, and he will tell you his was a heart with feelings as intense and pure, as ever were given to the heart of man; he will tell you that that heart poured forth the mighty stream of its affections upon another, and that his love, great as it was, was returned by that being,--when the spoiler came, and then came mystery, converting the very affections of the heart into the scorpions of the furies, and the garden of Eden into a place of torment, which deranged his faculties and destroyed the equilibrium of his mind; and that thus all those fitful moods which puzzle the world, may be traced back to disappointed love.

The effects which I have been describing as flowing from disappointed love, are certainly of an extreme character, happening only in the case of ardent temperaments, combined with a concurrence of circumstances which generate intense and all absorbing affection for the beloved object. In these cases, when all hope is entirely eradicated, there is certainly a tendency to peevishness, fretfulness, whim, suspicion and misanthropy; and against these consequences the individual ought always to be on his guard. He should not charge to the human race, or even to the whole sex, the vices which he thinks he sees in a single individual. This is a case in which kind friends, especially females, may do much to soothe and tranquillize the mind. Women alone seem to have enough of that deep discernment, nice tact, and generous sympathy, which can administer consolation to a wounded heart and calm the irritated feelings of blasted hope. In the great majority of cases however, the disappointed lover plunges into the business and scenes of active life, forms new associations and attachments, and quickly forgets his former love, without any permanent effect being produced on the character by mere disappointment. Man (says Dr. Cogan on the passions) rarely runs any serious risk from disappointment in love. "If he have not speedy recourse to the pistol or the rope, he will probably survive the agonies under which the softer sex will gradually pine and die."

I will now examine briefly, a few of the effects produced on the character of the male, during the period of courtship in society, organized as it is in this country and Europe,--and certainly one of the most marked effects, is the strengthening of vanity and the weakening of pride. As it is the province of man to woo and to win, his constant aim must be to render himself agreeable to the object of his affections. To gain her esteem, her approbation, _her love_, is the object of all his efforts. Now this is vanity. The proudest heart, the soul of sternest stuff, by the operation of this all subduing passion of love, is made to yield--to become a candidate for the praise of her whose affections he so much covets. In this condition we are all more or less like Petrarch, who declared that "she (Laura) was the motive and object of all his studies--that he coveted glory only as it might secure _her esteem_--that she alone had taught him to desire life, and to lift his thoughts towards heaven." In his "Conversations with St. Augustin," he even confesses that he was more ardent in his desire for the _Laurel Crown_, on account of its affinity to the name of Laura. Now, although this vanity seeks the approbation directly of but one, yet as she is regulated by the opinion of the world, we quickly find it necessary to gain the good opinion and esteem of those around us, in order, by their means, to win the approbation of the object of our affections. Hence, however proud the man, love and courtship will in the civilized countries of our globe soon infuse a degree of vanity, which will temper his overweening pride and make him more social, more loquacious, more attentive to all the little courtesies of life, and much more cheerful than he was before. In all the Mahommedan countries, where woman is bought and locked up, and the alternately sweet and painful solicitudes of love and courtship are never known--how proud, how taciturn, how forbidding, unsocial and grave, is the character of man! In France, where the influence of women is very great, how entirely opposite is his character; there, vanity is his predominant trait. Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persannes," makes Usbeck say to Ibben, in a letter from Paris, on the characters of the French and Persians, "It must be allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than for pleasure. It is a dull uniform kind of life, where every thing turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave, and their pastimes solemn; and they seldom taste them but as so many tokens of authority and dependence. The men in Persia are not so gay as the French; there is not that freedom of mind and that appearance of content which I meet with here in persons of all ranks and estates. It is still worse in Turkey, where there are families, in which from father to son, not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the monarchy." Now these proud, taciturn, grave beings would at once be changed, by giving full freedom to the females, and rendering it necessary for each one to woo, to interest and to delight her whom he would make his wife.

In fact, we have never learned so well to know the unappreciable, the priceless value of a woman's heart, as when we have experienced the pains and the pleasures, the doubts and hopes, pertaining to the period of courtship. There have been instances of husbands losing all affection for their wives in the quietude of their possession, but who were suddenly roused to the most tormenting love, as soon as they saw that their cold and brutal indifference had destroyed that affection which they once possessed. Mrs. Jameson, in her very interesting description of the beauties of Charles 2d, tells us that Lady Chesterfield, the daughter of the Duke of Ormond, when first married to Lord Chesterfield, received from him in return for her own pure, warm and innocent affection, a negligent and frigid indifference, which astonished, pained and humiliated her. Finding however that all her tenderness was lavished in vain, mingled pique and disgust succeeded to her first affection and admiration: and in this condition she was suddenly taken by her husband to the Court of Charles the 2d, where, from a neglected wife, living in privacy and even in poverty, she suddenly became a reigning beauty. Lord Chesterfield, when he found his charming wife universally admired, was one of the first to sigh for her; and his passion rose to such a height, that casting aside the fear of ridicule, he endeavored to convince her by the most public attentions, that his feelings towards her were entirely changed. And let the result be a warning to all negligent husbands.--"Unfortunately," says Mrs. J., "it was now too late: the heart he had wounded, chilled and rejected, either could not, or would not be recalled; he found himself slighted in his turn, and treated with the most provoking and the most determined coldness."

The author of the "Journal of a Nobleman at the Congress of Vienna," has given us a still more interesting and striking illustration of the assertion which I have made, in the case of the Count and Countess of Pletenburg, whom he saw in the gay circles of Vienna during the period of the session of the Holy Alliance in that city. Pletenburg had married, without much courtship or difficulty, a young and beautiful woman, for the purpose of securing a fortune which had been left to him, on the condition that he married before he was twenty-five. He soon plunged into every kind of debauchery and dissipation, conceived the greatest disgust for his lovely and loving wife of sixteen--left her almost broken hearted, for the purpose of travelling in Europe, returned after some years, saw her, and saw that she had ceased to love him: then he loved in turn, and loved most violently and hopelessly. He is thus described by the author of the Journal just mentioned, who met with him at a party of the Countess Freck's in Vienna. "The poor man has become an object of ridicule by the servility of his devotion; always sighing, as at the age of eighteen, and, as jealous as a sexagenarian, he never moves from her side. He is ever taking up her gloves and her handkerchief, and pressing them to his bosom in public. But all this tends only to increase the aversion he has raised. Proscribed from the nuptial bed which he had so long disdained, he complains of this rigor in prose, and laments his fate in verse. In short, his enthusiasm has become so great, that if it continues for any length of time, his intellect must become affected by it." And thus is it that the disenthralment of woman will always cause her to be more respected and loved, and by her influence on man she will be sure to make him more agreeable, more social, less proud.

Besides this, virtuous love has a tendency to improve the morals of man, to increase his sympathies and call into play all his most tender feelings. This moral tendency of love in the male, arises partly from imitation of the virtues and character of her whom we love; but mostly from that exquisite, indescribable pleasure, which one in love feels, from the performance of those acts of kindness and virtue which excite the gratitude and esteem of the lady beloved. In this case his minute, tender and ever anticipating attentions to the female, have an effect on man similar to that which I have described as being produced on woman by the relation of mother and child.

"How oft the thrillings of transported joy Have stolen on the heart, with life's warm tide, When _she_ has deigned with approbating smile To pay the effort of the wish to please! How oft with sorrow's keen corroding pang We've seen displeasure cloud her beauteous face! As when the sun, obscured, would teach the world The value of his genial noontide smile."

I know of nothing so well calculated to soften the heart, to smooth down the asperities of character, to excite all the kindly, sympathetic and amiable feelings of our nature, as ardent affection for a virtuous and pious female. Mr. Randolph in his letters to a relation, has spoken with great force and propriety of this effect of virtuous love.

So far, I have been describing the nature of man's love, and the effects which it produces on his character. The love of woman however, is much more interesting, and if not more ardent, it is perhaps more devoted, more tender and more constant than that of man. "Man," says Irving, "is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the bustle and struggle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thoughts, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life is the history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire--it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless,--for it is a bankruptcy of the heart." Madame de Stael tells us that love is but an episode in the history of man's life, but it is the serious business of a woman's. And a _man_, says Thomas, is more to a woman than a whole nation. Under these circumstances, when a woman's affections have been won, when, casting aside all passions, feelings, joys of earth, save for one alone, she settles down,

"With wings all folded and with silent tongue"--

to brood over dreams of felicity to be enjoyed with _him_--how overwhelming, how crushing must his treachery be, to her all confiding heart. Her bygone dreams of deep enthralling bliss are all a mockery. Her pride is wounded, her modesty is shocked. For a time she may still affect gaiety; she may travel the routine of apparent pleasure; but the worm is at the heart, and she sinks at last a martyr to her affections. Where one man falls a victim to love, there are perhaps at least ten women. No wonder then she should be more inveterate in her antipathies and animosities when she has once been wronged--when once deceived she rarely forgives.

Taught to conceal, the bursting heart desponds Over its idol. And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet as real Torture is theirs--what they inflict they feel.

But if the affections of a woman are once fixed on a man,--so absorbing, so overwhelming do they become, that she will forgive the stain which his conduct has inflicted on his own honor; she will forgive him for her own ruin; she will pardon every thing in fine, save the _loss of his love for her_. For this wrong, and for this alone, will she conceive the most bitter and deadly hatred and revenge. How admirably did Sir Walter Scott understand this trait in woman's love. When in the heart of Mid Lothian, Effie Deans is visited in prison by her sister, who makes mention of the being who had disgraced and ruined her, but who nevertheless loved her and was anxious to save her life, he makes Effie exclaim, in the overflowing and forgiving fulness of her affection, "O Jeannie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor Effie or no." A woman in this situation is sometimes like Antigone in the Oedipus--she may become fond of the _very misery_ which she feels for his sake.

The constraint which is put upon the passion of love in woman, nurses and invigorates it. Fear and modesty mingle inquietude with her love, and double its force. The confession of her affection is of itself a mighty sacrifice; but a woman is then only the more tender for the great sacrifice which she has made. The more the confession has cost her, the more fondly does she love him to whom she has made it. "She attaches herself," says Thomas, "by her sacrifices. Virtuous, she enjoys her denials; guilty, she glories in the favors she bestows. Women therefore, when love is a passion, are more constant than men; but when it is only an appetite they are more libertine. For then they feel no more of those anxieties, those struggles, and that sweet shame which impressed the delicious sentiment so strongly on their hearts." With what facility a Ninon de l'Enclos and a Catherine of Russia would change their lovers, every body knows; theirs was more of an appetite than of an affection and sentiment, and where this is the case, woman's love is more fickle than man's; in every other instance it is more constant and faithful.

I have thought proper, in this dissertation, to speak of the effects produced upon the character of man during the period of courtship and love; and we have seen that the effects in his case are decidedly beneficial. I doubt whether the same may be asserted in all cases with regard to woman. The time which a woman passes between the period of her entrance into society and her marriage, is perhaps the most important and the most perilous of her career. Having led a previous life of retirement and comparative seclusion, unacquainted with the wiles and stratagems of the world--endowed almost always with a vivid imagination and warm feelings, she comes forth into society with buoyant hopes and an animating gaiety, which throw a charm over the whole face of nature, that conceals from view the snares and deceptions of the world. She may then fall a sacrifice to some artful deceiver, and suffer the pangs of disappointment, which I have just been describing.[8] Or she may acquire a love of conquest in the wars of Cupid--may become fascinated by the applauses and flattery of the world, until nothing but the incense of adulation can satisfy her perverted vanity. This period, is one, during which, a woman enjoys more fame, more worldly glory, than during any other of her life. It is not to be wondered at then, that she is so frequently seen suppressing her feelings and smothering her affections, in order that she may protract this period of her glory and reputation.[9] There is nothing more seducing, more captivating to the vanity and imagination of woman, than to see all hearts enchained, and rendering the willing homage of love and admiration to her graces and accomplishments. But she must beware, lest this delightful devotion implant in the heart a lust for applause and notoriety, at the sacrifice of all the more feminine and lovely virtues. And she must recollect too that the very pain of disappointment, which she is obliged to inflict and to witness from day to day, in her unfortunate lovers, is of itself calculated to weaken and obtund her feelings and sympathies, and to generate coldness and hardness of heart. Metaphysicians tell us that the active feelings are strengthened, but the passive are weakened by too frequent repetition--the frequent sight of beggary, of death, of pain and misery of every description, when it is beyond our power to administer relief, always tends to weaken our sympathy and harden the heart. Now there can be no pain,--no anguish more exquisite, than that which the disappointed lover feels in the melancholy hour of his rejection; and the woman, who witnesses such scenes too frequently, may at last lose the generous sympathies of her nature. Like the man of deep feelings and keen sensibility, who the historian informs us, was at first unwillingly dragged to the amphitheatre to witness the horrid, the revolting combats of the gladiators, she may at last by repetition so conquer the feelings of nature as even to experience a savage delight in the pain and suffering of human sacrifice and human woe.

[Footnote 8: "It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, (says Addison) to persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to succeed in his pursuit, than for one who loves with the greatest violence. True love has ten thousand griefs, impatiences and resentments, that render a man unamiable in the eyes of the person whose affection he solicits: besides that, it sinks his figure, gives him fears, apprehensions and poorness of spirit, and often makes him appear ridiculous, where he has a mind to recommend himself."]

[Footnote 9: A lively French writer, says Mary Wolstoncraft, asks what business women turned of forty can have in this world.]

Before leaving this topic, I beg leave to add one word of advice to the gay and fascinating belle, who is moving forward in her victorious career,--conquering all hearts before her,--until, like the Juan of Moliere, she may wish for other worlds, not for purposes of conquest, like Alexander, but to win the hearts of those that inhabit them. A lady in this situation ought always to be mindful of the great influence which she is exerting on those around her. Her lightest words are treasured up with the fondest zeal, her very defects are sometimes considered as surpassing beauties. A principle advocated by her, no matter how erroneous,--a doctrine advanced, no matter how false, is apt to make an impression, sometimes deep and indelible, on the susceptible hearts of her admirers. She should ever recollect that the cause of virtue and of piety is peculiarly hers; and when she is walking the golden round of her pleasures, shedding her influence on all who approach her, let her be conscious to herself of no word or deed which can injure the sacred cause of morality and religion. We all know the irresistible influence of association. A writer of antiquity said he would rather believe drunkenness no vice, than that Plato could have one. The stuttering of Aristotle and the wry neck of Alexander were admired on the same principle: and Des Cartes, the great philosopher, declared he had a partiality for persons who squinted; and he says that in his endeavor to trace the cause of a taste so whimsical, he at last recollected, that, when a boy, he had been fond of a girl who had that blemish. I have rarely known a very devoted lover who did not love all the peculiarities and even oddities of his mistress. We are all like the Frenchman, whose mistress had a _twisted nose_, of which the lover used to say, "C'est au moins la plus belle irregularité du monde." Hence, for the very same reason that Dr. Johnson remarks, "if there is any writer whose genius can embellish impropriety, or whose authority can make error venerable, _his_ works are the proper object of criticism,"--would I say, that if there be any being whose opinions and actions form the

"Glass Wherein the noble youths do dress themselves,"