THE CONFESSIONAL. NO. II.-LOVE. "I have done penance for contemning love; Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes, AND must I bring to an end the relation of this my first delightful excursion into the confines of Love's kingdom? I would fain have left it where it is. I might then have half-fancied, as I more than half wish, that it never had ended. They might then have written on my tomb, "He too was an Arcadian." But this was not to be. I was reserved to write these Confessions, which is a little hard upon me, considering that, however sanguine I may be as to the good effect they will produce, I cannot believe the world will gain by them what I have lost But it is worse than so that the sacrifice will not be an equitable one. useless to think of this now. This first-love ended, then, as all first-love should end, if at all,-namely, just where it began. These nightly meetings were repeated as often as I chose to seek them; that is to say, every night, night after night, for months and months. I used to go to the corner of the little court at dusk every evening, as regularly as the dusk came; and the stately daughter of the old fortune-teller used to look for the one as naturally as she did for the other. Spring, summer, or winter-hail, rain, or shine-there I was, as regular a watcher as the stars, and as happy a one. Whether the object for which I was watching came to me in person, or not, very soon became a matter almost of indifference to me. She always came to me in idea, and this was enough for me; for it was the idea of her that I had all along been loving. On fine warm moonlight nights in particular, this idea used to come to me of itself, and compass me all about, as the halo does the moon which it seems to love. And even on bitter cold or rainy nights, if the frost for a moment pinched this one self-existent idea out of me, or the rain washed it away, one glance at her window when a light was flitting by it, or one moment of anxious listening at the door as her footstep was heard on the stairs, brought it back to me in all its strength and beauty*. And when the time came for me to go home, I went contentedly, almost forgetting that I had not seen her. How long my love could have sustained itself on this last seemingly meagre diet, there is no telling. I doubt, not long; for they say it cannot even "live on flowers." How, then, must it have fared on the mere shadows of flowers? But about twice a week upon an average I was permitted to look on the fruit itself, in all its ripe fragrance; and one of these visitations was enough to feed even to fulness an imagination that has always had the power of sustaining itself for a long while * The reader will be good enough to bear in mind that these insights into love's mysteries have come to me since. Happily for me, I knew as little of the rationale of them then, as the stock-dove knows of the murmuring that it sends into the haunted air, after its absent mate. together, on "the cameleon's dish." And as to its hankering after any change of fare, what does the young unbacked colt seek for, but the green grass and the fresh spring? And do not these sustain his spirits and his strength, so that, naked as he is, he can hunt the wind for sport, and toss up his head and send forth his happy voice, to greet the descending rain-storm? But when he has been a little while in harness, alas! the case is altered. He finds grass and water but washy fare; and if you would keep up his courage and his beauty, and have him do his work without flogging, young as he is, you must pamper him with heating hay, stimulating corn, and warm mashes; and his body must be "clothed in purple and fine linen," even in the hot stable. Thus it was with me, and thus it is. But I am at present only to speak of what was. This thinking, and looking, and listening, varied as it now and then was by the sauce piquante of smilings and hand-pressings, -this toujours perdrix-was to me dainty fare; and I call love to witness that I could have been content with it all my days, without ever looking for better, or even fancying that there was better; which, indeed, I am far from being satisfied of to this day, unless the natural effect of better be to waste and wither one away to a mere anatomy, mind and body, leaving one no faith in goodness but as the absence of evil, no knowledge of joy but as the opposite of sorrow, no sense of life but that which consists in the fear of death. No; sans question, mind is a kind of cameleon, in more respects than that of changing its colour in compliment to that with which it is in contact. "Air, thin air," is its natural and favourite food; and without this it dies, or worse than dies-becoming absorbed and blended with its antagonist, body. True, it is a perfect epicure in this one dish, and loves to have it dressed in as many different fashions as the king's cook boasted that he could dress an old pair of boots; but air it must be still. For this it has a stronger affinity than for all other substances, and consequently attracts it from them all, as the metals attract oxygen. And truth to say, in virtue of this affinity, it not seldom (like them) forms somewhat unseemly and intractable calxes, not much available for the common purposes of life, until they are again purged and purified (as it is called) by passing them through the fire of custom and society. This purification, such as it is, brings all right again, as the abettors of it would have us believe: and perhaps they are not very far from the truth after all; for by this process the vital air becomes again liberated, to be again absorbed by fresh aspirants after it; and thus is fulfilled that perpetual change which seems to be the fiat of Nature-thus circles the wheel of human life-"thus runs the world away." But my spirit is getting into its laboratory again, and, with a "strange alchemy," is once more pursuing what it knows to be a fruitless search after the only elixir vitæ. And oh-to have been a real alchymist! In those days the hieroglyphical robe, and the velvet cap, were "your only wear." To have been a sincere and confirmed alchymist must have been even better than to be a lover, in the proportion of a whole long life to a triad of short years. But to have been a lover for the first three years of youth, and an alchymist all the rest of one's days, must doubtless have been the ne plus ultra of human existence: for I hold that to feel the indestructible hope of finding the philosopher's stone, and the elixir vitæ, was, in fact, already to possess them. Certes, an alchymist's laboratory was the only true Paradise of the mind, when science was young; and modern chemistry was the devil that tempted the innocent imagination to eat of the tree of knowledge-and die. Once more I call home my wandering thoughts to the task which they have imposed on themselves. The French Academicians kindly inform us that "il n'est pas impossible qu'il-y-ait un amour exempt de grossièreté."— Indeed, Messieurs les Academiciens! In return, I will inform them, that love not merely may exist exempt from "grossièreté,” but that these are absolutely incompatible with each other, and cannot exist together. Rousseau knew a little better than his old enemies, on this subject and, indeed, on most others. But luckily for a theory that I possess on this head, Rousseau was not a Frenchman. He probably knew more on the subject of love than any other man that ever lived, Shakspeare excepted. In his two great works, the Nouvelle Heloise and the Confessions, there is more actual knowledge on this subject than in any other works existing, or perhaps than all other works together-with the one exception I have named. I do not mean by this to state that Rousseau has not fallen into inconsistencies and contradictions; for several might be pointed out in each of the above works. If a man possess a large fund of knowledge on any given subject, it by no means follows that he shall be able to bring it all to a rational and consistent bearing on any one point. On the contrary, the very weight and multiplicity of his stores may hamper and confuse him; and thus in part neutralize the effect of their own power. But I do not mean, either, to say that this is frequently the case with Rousseau. It is, in fact, very seldom the case; and, on the whole, his writings may be regarded as containing a body of acquired, as well as intuitive knowledge on the subject of love, that will be looked for in vain elsewhere.-Now, as there is no denying that this my first youthful passion did, for some reason or other, come to an end in reality, and must therefore come to an end in this relation of it, I shall let Rousseau endeavour to account for its cessation; for I have been dwelling so long and so bitter-sweetly on the remembrance of its existence, that I can scarcely bring myself to think of it as at an end, even now-much less try to penetrate into the cause of its untimely death.— "On n'aime point si l'on n'est aimé; du moins on n'aime pas longtemps. Ces passions sans retour qui font, dit-on, tant de malheureux, ne sont fondées que sur les sens; si quelques-unes pénètrent jusqu'à l'âme, c'est par des rapports faux dont on est bientôt détrompé. L'amour sensuel ne peut se passer de la possession, et s'éteint par elle. Le véritable amour ne peut se passer du cœur."-Nouvelle Heloise.* * "Love cannot subsist unless it be mutual. At least, it cannot subsist for any great length of time. Those unrequited passions which are said to be the cause of such lasting misery, have their roots fixed in the senses: or if any of them penetrate into the soul, it is on false conclusions, in regard to which we are soon undeceived. Sensual love seeks for possession alone, and is extinguished by it; but that which truly merits the name of Love, craves the heart, and cannot subsist without it." In the above passage Rousseau has not been so clear and perspicuous in his mode That my Thus, then, I must be content to think it was with me. love was the "véritable," I will never cease to believe-that it was no more connected with, or dependant on, the senses, than if the senses did not exist. And yet it ceased. I feel too, now,-(though I did not feel it then) that my love was not returned,—at least in kind. It follows then, that as le véritable amour ne peut se passer du cœur, and as mine could not meet with this necessary of its life, it died a natural though an untimely death. 66 I have said that I did not perceive the want of this essential to my love's continuance at the time it did continue. And how should I?— I did not possess it; but it possessed me. That which it taught me, I knew; and I sought to know no more:-that which it bade me do, I did; and did not try to do more. But this was not enough to gain the indispensable condition of its existence. A woman's heart was never yet gained without being sought; and a lover of fifteen never seeks any thing. He takes what is given to him, and is content,-making out the rest from the yet unexhausted stores which he brought with him, "From that imperial palace whence he came." 66 I used to watch and wait upon my mistress with the constancy and regularity of a pilgrim at the shrine of his saint; and no doubt my saint was as pleased with this kind of homage as the pilgrim's is with that which he pays to her. It was so far so good, in both cases. But in neither case can this be expected to win the worshipped into the performance of miracles in favour of the votaries. Those who look for canonization must undergo penance and martyrdom; whereas my love, instead of being a penance, was a perpetual self-renewing of delightit was "its own exceeding great reward."-She, it is true, was content with the kind of homage I paid her, and I was more than content with the smiles and kind words that she gave me in return: but love is not so soon satisfied. He is, to say the truth, un peu exigeant," and is not to be put off with these idle toys on either side of the question. According to his notions of casuistry, "exchange" is not only no robbery," but every thing short of exchange is robbery. This lady-(for she was a lady, though she did live in a little courtt-a lady of Nature's own making)-this lady had received my heart into her keeping, without offering to give me her's in return; very naturally concluding, that a boy of fifteen would not know what to do with it. But love does not sanction this mode of dealing: so, after letting her keep it and play with it for a time-(perhaps in order to try if he could tempt her to part with her's in exchange, and thus make mischief, as is his wont,") he brought it back to me, and put it into its place again, without my ever having missed it. And how should I, when I was ten thousand times happier without it than I have ever been since with it? 66 Hastening at once to the end of this my first tale-(to others, I am almost afraid, it has been " a tedious brief history," but to me, long and sweet as a green lane in the country, "in the pleasant month of June")-I will only add, that in the midst of these nightly watchings of expression as he usually is. He evidently means to say, that merely sensual passion is likely to last till it gains the possession that it seeks-and then to be extinguished; but that mental love cannot long endure, without a return. and meetings, and just after I had received a special evidence of my mistress's favour, in her spontaneously offering to mark some handkerchiefs for me, and doing them with her own hair,-(the last of which, I grieve to say, has only within this year or two unaccountably disappeared,)-in the midst of all this, and without my knowing how or why, I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten the graceful and stately Nancy L, and was, 66 some how or other," as the phrase is, become a devoted worshipper at the shrine of another saint-and one as unlike to her from whom I had seceded as the small and delicatelyfashioned lily of the valley is to the majestic queen of the garden, whose family name it bears. From all this it follows, "as the day the night," that the first love of our youth was not intended to subsist for any great length of time;— that it is born but to die, and in dying fulfils the end of its existence, if it does but leave its features indelibly impressed on the memory,— as it has on mine,-and its image enshrined in the inmost sanctuary of the heart. What, then, is the purest love itself—" qu'est-ce que le véritable amour lui-même si ce n'est chimère, mensonge, illusion?”What indeed!-But are we to slight and disregard it on this account? Or, rather, is it not in this that its most touching beauty, as well as its chief majesty and power, consist? "Shadows," it will be remembered, were able to " strike more terror to the soul of Richard, than could the substance of ten thousand soldiers, &c." And thus it is with the phantoms of our youthful imagination; they give us more pure, real, and intense delight, than can the substance of all the ten thousand realities that we meet with in the whole course of our after-life. Z. SONNET. ISCHIA! lone lovely island of the deep, And, o'er their farthest verge, on the fair sweep Now choked with smothering ashes, and the sea Vesuvius, flow'd on their devoted head. Bright in night's gloom, still, ever and anon, And still may roll, a thousand ages fled, SONG. IN my heart Love has built him a bower, If he slumbers, squeeze gently his hand, |