By Washington Irving
I never heard
Of any true affection， but ’twas nipt
with care， that， like the caterpillar， eats
The leaves of the spring’s sweetest book， the rose.
—MIDDLETON.
IT is a common practice with those who have outlived thesusceptibility of early feeling， or have been brought up in the gayheartlessness of dissipated life， to laugh at all love stories， and totreat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelistsand poets. My observations on human nature have induced meto think otherwise. They have convinced me that， however thesurface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the caresof the world， or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society，still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldestbosom， which， when once enkindled， become impetuous， and aresometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed， I am a true believerin the blind deity， and to go to the full extent of his doctrines.
Shall I confess it？—I believe in broken hearts， and the possibilityof dying of disappointed love！ I do not， however， consider it amalady often fatal to my own sex； but I firmly believe that itwithers down many a lovely woman into an early grave.
Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leadshim forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love isbut the embellishment of his early life， or a song piped in theintervals of the acts. He seeks for fame， for fortune for spacein the world’s thought， and dominion over his fellow-men. Buta woman’s whole life is a history of the affections. The heartis her world； it is there her ambition strives for empire—it isthere her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forthher sympathies on adventure； and then embarks her wholesoul in the traffic of affection； and if shipwrecked， her case ishopeless—for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.
To a man， the disappointment of love may occasion some bitterpangs； it wounds some feelings of tenderness—it blasts someprospects of felicity； but he is an active being—he may dissipatehis thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation， or may plunge intothe tide of pleasure； or， if the scene of disappointment be too fullof painful associations， he can shift his abode at will， and taking，as it were， the wings of the morning， can “fly to the uttermostparts of the earth， and be at rest.”
But woman’s is comparatively a fixed， a secluded， andmeditative life. She is more the companion of her ownthoughts and feelings； and if they are turned to ministers ofsorrow， where shall she look for consolation？ Her lot is tobe wooed and won； and if unhappy in her love， her heart islike some fortress that has been captured， and sacked， andabandoned， and left desolate.
How many bright eyes grow dim—how many soft cheeksgrow pale—how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb，and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness！ Asthe dove will clasp its wings to its side， and cover and concealthe arrow that is preying on its vitals—so is it the natureof woman， to hide from the world the pangs of woundedaffection. The love of a delicate female is always shy andsilent. Even when fortunate， she scarcely breathes it to herself；but when otherwise， she buries it in the recesses of her bosom，and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of herpeace. With her， the desire of her heart has failed—the greatcharm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerfulexercises which gladden the spirits， quicken the pulses， andsend the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins.
Her rest is broken—the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisonedby melancholy dreams—“dry sorrow drinks her blood，” untilher enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury.
Look for her， after a little while， and you will find friendshipweeping over her untimely grave， and wondering that one，who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health andbeauty， should so speedily be brought down to “darknessand the worm.” You will be told of some wintry chill， somecasual indisposition， that laid her low；—but no one knows ofthe mental malady which previously sapped her strength， andmade her so easy a prey to the spoiler.
She is like some tender tree， the pride and beauty of thegrove； graceful in its form， bright in its foliage， but with theworm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering， whenit should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping itsbranches to the earth， and shedding leaf by leaf， until， wastedand perished away， it falls even in the stillness of the forest；and as we muse over the beautiful ruin， we strive in vain torecollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten itwith decay.
I have seen many instances of women running to wasteand self-neglect， and disappearing gradually from the earth，almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven； and haverepeatedly fancied that I could trace their deaths through thevarious declensions of consumption， cold， debility， languor，melancholy， until I reached the first symptom of disappointedlove. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me； thecircumstances are well known in the country where theyhappened， and I shall but give them in the manner in whichthey were related.