"Love is like a dizziness," says the old song. Love is something

else--it is the most selfish feeling in existence. Of course, I don't

allude to the fraternal or the friendly, or any other such nonsensical

old-fashioned trash that artless people still believe in, but to the

real genuine article that Adam felt for Eve when he first saw her, and

which all who read this--above the innocent and unsusceptible age of

twelve--have experienced. And the fancy and the reality are so much

alike, that they amount to about the same thing. The former perhaps, may

be a little short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation

while it lasts as its more enduring sister. Love is said to be blind,

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and it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its

victims--an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid in the

slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or waking, but one

object, and that alone.

I don't know whether these were Mr. Malcolm or Ormiston's thoughts, as

he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms across his chest to

await the shining of his day-star. In fact, I am pretty sure they were

not: young gentlemen, as a general thing, not being any more given to

profound moralizing in the reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles

II., than they are at the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was

his bosom friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of eight, than he

forgot him as teetotally an if he had never known that distinguished

individual. His many and deep afflictions, his love, his anguish, and

his provocations; his beautiful, tantalizing, and mysterious lady-love;

his errand and its probable consequences, all were forgotten; and

Ormiston thought of nothing or nobody in the world but himself and La

Masque. La Masque! La Masque! that was the theme on which his thoughts

rang, with wild variations of alternate hope and fear, like every other

lover since the world began, and love was first an institution. "As it

was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be," truly, truly it is

an odd and wonderful thing. And you and I may thank our stars, dear

readers, that we are a great deal too sensible to wear our hearts in

our sleeves for such a bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was

longer-lived than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and

had it badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did

she conceal her face--would she ever disclose it--would she listen to

him--would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and Common Sense

(or what little of that useful commodity he had left) answered--probably

because she was eccentric--possibly she would disclose it for the same

reason; that he had only to try and make her listen; and as to her

loving him, why, Common Sense owned he had her there.




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