THE LOVER AT DIFFERENT AGES.

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.