University of Virginia Library

2. II.
With a Wisp of Paper.

THERE are those who throw away a cigar, when
once gone out; they must needs have plenty
more. But nobody that I ever heard of, keeps a cedar
box of hearts, labelled at Havanna. Alas, there is
but one to light!

But can a heart once lit, be lighted again? Authority
on this point is worth something; yet it should
be impartial authority. I should be loth to take in
evidence, for the fact,—however it might tally with
my hope, the affidavit of some rakish old widower,
who had cast his weeds, before the grass had started
on the mound of his affliction; and I should be as
slow to take, in way of rebutting testimony, the oath
of any sweet young girl, just becoming conscious of
her heart's existence—by its loss.

Very much, it seems to me, depends upon the
quality of the fire: and I can easily conceive of one
so pure, so constant, so exhausting, that if it were
once gone out, whether in the chills of death, or under
the blasts of pitiless fortune, there would be no re-kindling;—simply
because there would be nothing
left to kindle. And I can imagine too a fire so
earnest, and so true, that whatever malice might urge,
or a devilish ingenuity devise, there could no other
be found, high or low, far or near, which should not
so contrast with the first, as to make it seem cold as
ice.

I remember in an old play of Davenport's, the
hero is led to doubt his mistress; he is worked upon
by slanders, to quit her altogether,—though he has
loved, and does still love passionately. She bids him
adieu, with large tears dropping from her eyes, (and I
lay down my cigar, to recite it aloud, fancying all the
while, with a varlet impudence, that some Abstemia
is repeating it to me)—

—Poor Abstemia! Lorenzo never could find
such another,—there never could be such another, for
such Lorenzo.

To blaze anew, it is essential that the old fire be
utterly gone; and can any truly-lighted soul ever
grow cold, except the grave cover it? The poets all
say no: Othello, had he lived a thousand years
would not have loved again;—nor Desdemona,—nor
Andromache,—nor Medea,—nor Ulysses,—nor Hamlet.
But in the cool wreaths of the pleasant smoke,
let us see what truth is in the poets.

—What is love,—mused I,—at the first, but a
mere fancy? There is a prettiness, that your soul
cleaves to, as your eye to a pleasant flower, or your
ear to a soft melody. Presently, admiration comes
in, as a sort of balance-wheel for the eccentric revolutions
of your fancy; and your admiration is touched
off with such neat quality as respect. Too much of
this indeed, they say, deadens the fancy; and so retards
the action of the heart machinery. But with a
proper modicum to serve as a stock, devotion is
grafted in; and then, by an agreeable and confused

mingling, all these qualities, and affections of the
soul, become transfused into that vital feeling, called
Love.

Your heart seems to have gone over to another
and better counterpart of your humanity; what is
left of you, seems the mere husk of some kernel that
has been stolen. It is not an emotion of yours,
which is making very easy voyages towards another
soul,—that may be shortened, or lengthened, at will;
but it is a passion, that is only yours, because it is
there; the more it lodges there, the more keenly you
feel it to be yours.

The qualities that feed this passion, may indeed
belong to you; but they never gave birth to such an
one before, simply because there was no place in
which it could grow. Nature is very provident in
these matters. The chrysalis does not burst, until
there is a wing to help the gauze-fly upward. The
shell does not break, until the bird can breathe; nor
does the swallow quit its nest, until its wings are tipped
with the airy oars.

This passion of love is strong, just in proportion as
the atmosphere it finds, is tender of its life. Let that
atmosphere change into too great coldness, and the
passion becomes a wreck,—not yours, because it is
not worth your having;—nor vital, because it has lost
the soil where it grew. But is it not laying the reproach

in a high quarter, to say that those qualities
of the heart which begot this passion, are exhausted,
and will not thenceforth germinate through all of your
life time?

—Take away the worm-eaten frame from your
arbour plant, and the wrenched arms of the despoiled
climber will not at the first, touch any new trellis;
they cannot in a day, change the habit of a year.
But let the new support stand firmly, and the needy
tendrils will presently lay hold upon the stranger;
and your plant will regain its pride and pomp;—
cherishing perhaps in its bent figure, a memento of
the Old; but in its more earnest, and abounding life,
mindful only of its sweet dependance on the New.

Let the Poets say what they will, these affections
of ours are not blind, stupid creatures, to starve under
polar snows, when the very breezes of Heaven are
the appointed messengers to guide them toward
warmth and sunshine!

—And with a little suddenness of manner, I
tear off a wisp of paper, and holding it in the blaze
of my lamp, relight my cigar. It does not burn so
easily perhaps as at first:—it wants warming, before
it will catch; but presently, it is in a broad, full
glow, that throws light into the corners of my room.

—Just so,—thought I,—the love of youth,
which succeeds the crackling blaze of boyhood,

makes a broader flame, though it may not be so easily
kindled. A mere dainty step, or a curling lock, or a
soft blue eye are not enough; but in her, who has
quickened the new blaze, there is a blending of all
these, with a certain sweetness of soul, that finds
expression in whatever feature or motion you look
upon. Her charms steal over you gently, and almost
imperceptibly. You think that she is a pleasant
companion—nothing more: and you find the opinion
strongly confirmed day by day;—so well confirmed,
indeed, that you begin to wonder—why it is, that she
is such a delightful companion? It cannot be her
eye, for you have seen eyes almost as pretty as
Nelly's; nor can it be her mouth, though Nelly's
mouth is certainly very sweet. And you keep
studying what on earth it can be that makes you so
earnest to be near her, or to listen to her voice.
The study is pleasant. You do not know any study
that is more so; or which you accomplish with less
mental fatigue.

Upon a sudden, some fine day, when the air is
balmy, and the recollection of Nelly's voice and
manner, more balmy still, you wonder—if you are
in love? When a man has such a wonder, he is
either very near love, or he is very far away from it;
it is a wonder, that is either suggested by his hope,

or by that entanglement of feeling which blunts all
his perceptions.

But if not in love, you have at least a strong
fancy,—so strong, that you tell your friends carelessly,
that she is a nice girl,—nay, a beautiful girl;
and if your education has been bad, you strengthen
the epithet on your own tongue, with a very wicked
expletive:—of which the mildest form would be—
`deuced fine girl!' Presently, however, you get
beyond this; and your companionship, and your
wonder, relapse into a constant, quiet habit of unmistakeable
love:—not impulsive, quick, and fiery,
like the first; but mature and calm. It is as if it
were born with your soul, and the recognition of it
was rather an old remembrance, than a fresh passion.
It does not seek to gratify its exuberance, and force,
with such relief as night-serenades, or any Jacqueslike
meditations in the forest; but it is a quiet, still
joy, that floats on your hope, into the years to come,—
making the prospect all sunny and joyful.

It is a kind of oil and balm for whatever was
stormy, or harmful; it gives a permanence to the
smile of existence. It does not make the sea of your
life turbulent with high emotions, as if a strong wind
were blowing;—but it is as if an Aphrodite had
broken on the surface, and the ripples were spreading

with a sweet, low sound, and widening far out to the
very shores of time.

There is no need now, as with the boy, to bolster
up your feelings with extravagant vows: even should
yeu try this in her presence, the words are lacking to
put such vows in. So soon as you reach them, they
fail you: and the oath only quivers on the lip, or tells
its story by a pressure of the fingers. You wear a
brusque, pleasant air with your acquaintances, and
hint—with a sly look—at possible changes in your
circumstances. Of an evening, you are kind to the
most unattractive of the wall-flowers,—if only your
Nelly is away; and you have a sudden charity for
street beggars, with pale children. You catch yourself
taking a step in one of the new Polkas, upon a
country walk: and wonder immensely at the number
of bright days which succeed each other, without
leaving a single stormy gap, for your old melancholy
moods. Even the chambermaids at your hotel, never
did their duty one half so well; and as for your man
Tom, he is become a perfect pattern of a fellow.

My cigar is in a fine glow; but it has gone out
once, and it may go out again.

—You begin to talk of marriage; but some
obstinate Papa, or guardian uncle think that it will
never do;—that it is quite too soon, or that Nelly is
a mere girl. Or some of your wild oats,—quite

forgotten by yourself,—shoot up on the vision of a
staid Mamma, and throw a very damp shadow on
your character. Or the old lady has an ambition of
another sort, which you, a simple, earnest, plodding,
bachelor, can never gratify;—being of only passable
appearance, and unschooled in the fashions of the
world, you will be eternally rubbing the elbows of the
old lady's pride.

All this will be strangely afflictive to one who has
been living for quite a number of weeks, or months,
in a pleasant dream-land, where there were no five
per cents, or reputations, but only a very full, and
delirious flow of feeling. What care you for any
position, except a position near the being that you
love? What wealth do you prize, except a wealth of
heart, that shall never know diminution;—or for
reputation, except that of truth; and of honor? How
hard it would break upon these pleasant idealities, to
have a weazen-faced old guardian, set his arm in
yours, and tell you how tenderly he has at heart the
happiness of his niece;—and reason with you about
your very small, and sparse dividends, and your
limited business;—and caution you,—for he has a
lively regard for your interests,—about continuing
your addresses!

—The kind old eurmudgeon!

Your man Tom has grown suddenly a very stupid

fellow; and all your charity for withered wall-flowers,
is gone. Perhaps in your wrath the suspicion comes
over you, that she too wishes you were something
higher, or more famous, or richer, or anything but what
you are!—a very dangerous suspicion: for no man
with any true nobility of soul, can ever make his
heart the slave of another's condescension.

But no,—you will not, you cannot believe this of
Nelly;—that face of hers is too mild and gracious;
and her manner, as she takes your hand, after your
heart is made sad, and turns away those rich blue
eyes,—shadowed more deeply than ever by the long
and moistened fringe;—and the exquisite softness, and
meaning of the pressure of those little fingers;—and
the low, half sob; and the heaving of that bosom, in
its struggles between love, and duty,—all forbid.
Nelly, you could swear, is tenderly indulgent, like the
fond creature that she is, toward all your short-comings;
and would not barter your strong love, and
your honest heart, for the greatest magnate in the
land.

What a spur to effort is the confiding love of a true-hearted
woman! That last fond look of hers, hopeful,
and encouraging, has more power within it to
nerve your soul to high deeds, than all the admonitions
of all your tutors. Your heart, beating large
with hope, quickens the flow upon the brain; and

you make wild vows to win greatness. But alas, this
is a great world—very full, and very rough;

Hard, withering toil only can achieve a name; and
long days, and months, and years, must be passed in
the chase of that bubble—reputation; which when
once grasped, breaks in your eager clutch, into a
hundred lesser bubbles, that soar above you still!

A clandestine meeting from time to time, and a
note or two tenderly written, keep up the blaze in
your heart. But presently, the lynx-eyed old guardian—so
tender of your interests, and hers,—forbids
even this irregular and unsatisfying correspondence.
Now you can feed yourself only on stray glimpses of
her figure—as full of sprightliness and grace, as ever;
and that beaming face, you are half sorry to see from
time to time,—still beautiful. You struggle with your
moods of melancholy, and wear bright looks yourself—
bright to her, and very bright to the eye of the old
curmudgeon, who has snatched your heart away. It
will never do to show your weakness to a man.

At length, on some pleasant morning, you learn
that she is gone,—too far away to be seen, too

closely guarded to be reached. For a while you
throw down your books, and abandon your toil in
despair,—thinking very bitter thoughts, and making
very helpless resolves.

My cigar is still burning; but it will require constant
and strong respiration, to keep it in a glow.

A letter or two dispatched at random, relieve the
excess of your fever; until with practice, these random
letters have even less heat in them, than the
heat of your study, or of your business. Grief—
thank God!—is not so progressive, or so cumulative
as joy. For a time, there is a pleasure in the mood,
with which you recal your broken hopes; and with
which you selfishly link hers to the shattered wreck;
but absence, and ignorance tame the point of your
woe. You call up the image of Nelly, adorning other
and distant scenes. You see the tearful smile give
place to a blithesome cheer; and the thought of you
that shaded her fair face so long, fades under the sunshine
of gaiety; or at best, it only seems to cross
that white forehead, like a playful shadow, that a
fleecy cloud-remnant will fling upon a sunny lawn.

As for you, the world with its whirl and roar, is
deafening the sweet, distant notes, that come up
through old, choked channels of the affections. Life
is calling for earnestness, and not for regrets. So
the months, and the years slip by; your bachelor

habit grows easy and light with wearing; you have
mourned enough, to smile at the violent mourning of
others; and you have enjoyed enough, to sigh over
their little eddies of delight. Dark shades, and delicious
streaks of crimson and gold colour lie upon your
life. Your heart with all its weight of ashes, can yet
sparkle at the sound of a fairy step; and your face
can yet open into a round of joyous smiles,—that are
almost hopes,—in the presence of some bright-eyed
girl.

But amid this, there will float over you from time
to time, a midnight trance, in which you will hear
again with a thirsty ear, the witching melody of the
days that are gone; and you will wake from it with a
shudder into the cold resolves of your lonely, and
manly life. But the shudder passes as easy as night
from morning. Tearful regrets, and memories that
touch to the quick, are dull weapons to break through
the panoply of your seared, eager, and ambitious
manhood. They only venture out like timid, white-winged
flies, when night is come; and at the first
glimpse of the dawn, they shrivel up, and lie without a
flutter, in some corner of your soul.

And when, years after, you learn that she has returned—a
woman, there is a slight glow, but no
tumultuous bound of the heart. Life, and time
have worried you down like a spent hound. The

world has given you a habit of easy and unmeaning
smiles. You half accuse yourself of ingratitude and
forgetfulness; but the accusation does not oppress
you. It does not even distract your attention from
the morning journal. You cannot work yourself into
a respectable degree of indignation against the old
gentleman—her guardian.

You sigh—poor thing!—and in a very flashy
waistcoat, you venture a morning call.

She meets you kindly,—a comely, matronly dame
in gingham, with her curls all gathered under a high-topped
comb; and she presents to you two little boys
in smart crimson jackets, dressed up with braid. And
you dine with Madame—a family party; and the
weazen-faced old gentleman meets you with a most
pleasant shake of the hand,—hints that you were
among his niece's earliest friends, and hopes that you
are getting on well?

—Capitally well!

And the boys toddle in at dessert—Dick to get a
plum from your own dish; Tom to be kissed by his
rosy-faced papa. In short, you are made perfectly
at home; and you sit over your wine for an hour, in
a cozy smoke with the gentlemanly uncle, and with
the very courteous husband of your second flame.

It is all very jovial at the table; for good wine, is
I find, a great strengthener of the bachelor heart.

But afterward, when night has fairly set in, and the
blaze of your fire goes flickering over your lonely
quarters, you heave a deep sigh. And as your
thought runs back to the perfidious Louise, and calls
up the married, and matronly Nelly, you sob over
that poor dumb heart within you, which craves so
madly a free and joyous utterance! And as you lean
over with your forehead in your hands, and your eyes
fall upon the old hound slumbering on the rug,—the
tears start, and you wish,—that you had married
years ago;—and that you too had your pair of prattling
boys, to drive away the loneliness of your solitary
hearth stone.

—My cigar would not go; it was fairly out.
But with true bachelor obstinacy, I vowed that I
would light again.