[Illustration:  A]All lovers are absurd and ridiculous.  The passion which spiritualises woman makes man a fool.  Nothing can be more amusing than to observe a bashful lover in company where the object of his affections is present.  He is the very picture of confusion and distress, looking like a man who has lost something, and knows not where to seek for it.  His eyes wander from the carpet to the ceiling; at one moment he is engaged in counting the panes in the window, and the next in watching the discursive flights of a blue-bottle round the apartment.  But while he appears anxiously seeking for some object on which to fix his attention, he carefully avoids looking towards his innamorata; and should their eyes meet by chance, his cheeks assume the tint of the beet-root or the turnip, and his manifest embarrassment betrays his secret to the most inexperienced persons.  In order to recover his confidence, he shifts his seat, which seems suddenly to have shot forth as many pins as the back of a hedgehog; but in doing so he places the leg of his chair on the toe of a gouty, cross old uncle, or on the tail of a favourite lap-dog, and, besides creating an awful fracas, succeeds in making inveterate enemies of the two brutes for the remainder of their lives.

There are some lovers, who show their love by their affected indifference, and appear smitten by any woman except the one whom they are devoted to.  This is an ingenious stratagem; but in general it is so badly managed, that it is more easily seen through than a cobweb.  Lastly, there are a select few, who evince their tender regard by perpetual bickerings and quarrels.  This method will frequently mislead inquisitive aunts and guardians; but it should only be attempted by a man who has full confidence in his own powers.

Lovers, as I have observed, are invariably objects of ridicule; timid, jealous, and nervous, a frown throws them into a state of agony it would be difficult to describe, and a smile bestowed upon a rival breaks their rest for a week.  Only observe one of them engaged in a quiet, interesting tete-a-tete with the lady of his choice.  He has exerted all his powers of fascination, and he fancies he is beginning to make a favourable impression on his companion, when—­bang!—­a tall, whiskered fellow, who, rumour has whispered, is the lady’s intended, drops in upon them like a bomb-shell!  The detected lover sits confounded and abashed, wishing in the depths of his soul that he could transform himself into a gnat, and make his exit through the keyhole.  Meantime the new-comer seats himself in solemn silence, and for five minutes the conversation is only kept up by monosyllables, in spite of the incredible efforts of all parties to appear unconcerned.  The young man in his confusion plunges deeper into the mire;—­he twists and writhes in secret agony—­remarks on the sultriness of the weather, though the thermometer is below the freezing point; and commits a thousand gaucheries—­too happy if he can escape from a situation than which nothing can possibly be conceived more painful.