Love and Love-making.
A chapter on Love! Can there be one so bold as to essay a description of love in prose? Nay, leave it to the poet, the painter; but common prose is surely all unfit for such a theme. So will the young say; but as we are now old, we may have the boldness to write of love in humble prose, and to look at it in that prosaic aspect in which prudence and the cooler blood of experience have brought us to regard it.
Love! what is it? It is as the perfume of the flower, the song of the bird, the dew of the morning, the glorious sun of the summer’s day—such is love to life. Fragile as a gossamer web—a vapor which a breath dispels; but withal as the sea, whose soundings cannot betaken for the depth thereof. It is difficult to say at what period of early life the gentle-winged god’s influence is most to be guarded against. The young and blooming girl, just budding into womanhood, feels his power, but does not to herself even acknowledge it; nay, she scarcely knows his presence. All unused as she is to the arts of Love, how can she readily recognize his secret magic? She is introduced to society; the novelty of her dress, the display of her charms, hitherto concealed, the care hermodistetakes with that dress, for the fuller development of each beauty, are all new to her. She goes forth to the world all bewilderment; the child of the school-room to-day, to-morrow arrays herself to conquer and be conquered. Thus far is simple; thus far is what many mothers consider it their duty to attend to, and leave the rest to fate. But love is a deep study to those who would read it well and understand it. The delicate-minded maiden blushes, even when alone, when first she confesses to herself she loves.
The truth has long before been known to those around, who are more skilled in the art. A particular dress is selected, which is worn because the loved one says it is becoming; the hair is arranged in accordance with the expression of his approbation. Polkas are only danced with him—songs are sung thatheadmires—the ball-room is dull, dark, empty, till he arrives—the fair one’s eyes, like Noah’s dove, wander without finding a resting place—thecheek is pale and anxious. He enters; for the first time she observes the room is in a blaze of light. They are dancing; the music is playing; his eye wanders; she is still anxious, pale; he recognizes her; the young heart’s-blood mantles her fair brow; her eyes glisten; her suddenly vermilion-tinted cheek and lip, as he approaches, proclaim silently but surely to the observer that Love has lost another shaft from his full quiver. And at this stage it is well for loving mothers to preserve their school-room power over their beautiful daughters. How much misery might be afterwards spared, if a mother’s advice were now well given and received. A daughter’s thoughts should be delicately anticipated. A mother’s province is to guard, by advice, the future conduct of her child; and of what avail will such advice be if the parent cannot read the state of that child’s heart. A mother should rather live over again her own sweet dream of love, while listening to the gentle hopes and fears of the daughter whose confidence she has for the wisest motives won, than by any expression repulse the young heart that is panting, but half ashamed, to hide her head in the bosom that nourished her, and pour forth her soul to almost the only earthly being whose every heartstring will truly vibrate with her own. Ashamed! we said; why should the young have this feeling with a mother? Is not love the sweetest, gentlest passion we are capable of—the great bond of life? For what is life without love? A desert, a wilderness.