Originally published in The Keepsake for 1828 (Hurst, Chance, and Co.; Nov 1827).
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: and there's pansies, that's for thought."
SHAKSPEARE.
No—we may strive to deceive ourselves as much as we please—we may endeavour to harden our hearts into profligacy, and pamper our senses into vice—but one touch of true Nature shivers the delusion into atoms in an instant; one flash of passionate recollection makes the soul writhe under its influence, and floods the eyes with gushing tears, from a spring which, do we what we may, will never become dry.
First love?—No. None but romantic boys and maudlin misses ever talk of such frippery. With a woman, it may perhaps be something; but what man ever had the fate of all his feelings strangled by his first love? Scarcely a man, indeed, can lay his finger upon what actually was his first love. He was in love at fifteen—at twelve—at ten—at eight: which merits the name of his first love? He has been in love with his sister's playfellow, and his schoolmaster's daughter, and his washerwoman's niece: were any of these his first love? Is it the precocious gallantry of the urchin in his mother's drawing-room; or the novel-reading, rhyming sentiment of the boy at his first school; or the dawning effect of physical development; that is to be called by that title, which is supposed to denominate all that is fervent, and fresh, and passionate, and pure—first love? It is sheer nonsense to talk of it; and where it is not nonsense it is something worse. No, it is not the first love, but the love—the great passion of our existence the one chapter of our heart's history—the date to which we refer every thing, from which we count every thing—which is never absent from our mind, and yet which we shrink from contemplating—it is this, which truly is what first love is vainly fabled—it is this, from which now we strive madly to escape, to which now we revert with enthralling fondness—it is this, which has burnt in upon our heart its brand, and which, be it for good or be it for evil, never can be effaced.
It is folly to say, we never can love but once; the truth is, we never can love but once thus. Like the rod of Aaron, it swallows all minor attachments; but they have existed nevertheless. And afterwards? Alas! we may rush into the thick of the world; we may seek women, and excite our senses, and inflame our imaginations, till we almost think we love again; but there are moments, when we are alone, when the thoughts of other days are revived by something which strikes upon the eye or the ear, by something we stumble upon in a book, or by the unaided and spontaneous act of memory itself, when we find how poor, how vapid, how false are all the factitious feelings we have been fostering within us: the sudden pang shoots across the breast; the choking sensation fixes on the throat; the ache which precedes tears is felt behind our eyes, and we grind our teeth in agony, as we "lift up our voice and weep aloud."
Oh! it is at such moments, that we feel the vanity, the folly, the wickedness of the excitements, we seek, at ordinary times, so ardently! What is the feverish heat produced by these mental dreams, in comparison with the fine, generous glow of early passion? what are these exotics, forced in the hotbed of society, when thus brought into contrast with the fresh and fragrant flowers of unassisted nature? We feel their worthlessness, their nothingness. Our hearts, for the time, are made purer by their suffering; for the time we are better men. Alas! can many say that the effect is lasting? The first sting of recollection passes away. We exclaim, "This is folly!" We dash the tears from our eyes, and we rush into the Charybdis of excitation and vice, to shun the Scylla of accusing conscience.
Bitter, bitter indeed, are such hours, when they recur. Yet who would resign the memory of that passion? who would resign that heart-throb, though it shakes the whole frame to agony? When a man lulls finally to rest, if any man ever can do so, the feelings springing from that love, he becomes at once callous, jaundiced—not misanthropic, but worse—indifferent to all mankind, inaccessible to all emotions. This is not the calm of peacefulness; it is the cold, frozen, stonelike sullenness of indifference. If the absence of sympathy, the want of fellow-feeling, as regards the participation of others in our sensations, be a curse the most dreadful that can be inflicted upon humanity—that absence, that want, as regards our participation in the sensations of others, are (if I may be allowed the expression) more dreadful still. For they are certain, and speedily, to produce the first; and they possess all their own gloomy, impassive, self-concentration besides. No! "give me the pleasure with the pain!" Rather would I have the keen heart-ache, and the flash of anguish, which such recollections shoot across the soul, than that such recollections should exist, and yet leave me without any emotion.
And there are few persons, in whom, after the first flush of youth is passed, some remembrance of this kind does not exist; differing, indeed, vastly, in point of intensity, as the countless varieties of circumstance and disposition may occasion: but still there is some one great chord, which, when touched, overpowers all other tones of feeling; some master-tint, whose hue is ever outbreaking through the whole picture of life. I have often thought, when in society, if I were furnished with a talisman by which to strike upon this chord, to call into view this colour in every bosom, what an infinite variety of human passion would be displayed! what a strong contrast, in many instances, between the outer husk and the kernel within! And, indeed, any one, whose eye has been alive, and perception keen, to the characteristics which occasionally break through the unity of even the smoothest demeanour, must have seen the flash of intense recollection called forth by circumstances, trivial perhaps in themselves, but sufficiently indicative of the nature of the feeling, to which they give rise. We see the calm, cold eye flash with burning light; we see the countenance, on which an habitual sneer has fixed itself, mantle, for a moment, with an expression of the softest tenderness; we see a deep shade cover the brightest countenance with gloom: the master-chord has been stricken-the one great feeling has been touched!
In all seasons, at all hours, under almost every possible variety of place and circumstance, have I felt my heart thus recoil upon itself, and the still, but not small, voice of memory sound solemnly in my ears. At sea, in the deep moonlight; in the hushed watches of the night, when the rippling and gurgling of the gentle waves seem to add to, rather than to break, the stillness of the scene; when the tall masts, relieved against the blue sky, increase, under that doubtful light, in apparent vastness, till the shadow of their sails almost strikes with awe upon the sense; at such times as these the past rises upon my mind—
"The thoughts of other days are rushing on me,
The lov'd, the lost, the distant, and the dead,
Are with me then—"
and my soul communes with them, but in sadness and in pain. Again: in lighted halls, where music peals and perfumes load the air; where beauty congregates in her joy and pride, and bright eyes flash, and white bosoms heave, and jewels glance through the tresses of braided hair, and fair forms move in grace through the dance, and young hearts quiver at the words which loved lips breathe softly into the ear; I have stood in a secluded nook, and gazed upon the scene before me, till my heart has swelled almost to choking, as I have thought upon days when I mingled in such groups with one whose surpassing loveliness would have engrossed the whole soul, were it not that the gifts of her mind threw even that into the shade, while they again were forgotten in the nobleness, the ardour, the generosity, and, above all, the tenderness of her unequalled heart. Memory, for a moment, has been almost able to make lost things real; I have felt her cling to my arms, and grow unto my side, as of yore; and her dear voice has sunk like balm upon my ear, and lapt my spirit in Elysium. It is in this—oh! it is in this—that the force of imagination is indeed great; the tones of the VOICE of one we have loved, and who has loved us, live deep in the well of the heart, and can be drawn forth at will. Even her personal aspect is less subject to this power. Many, indeed, do not possess the faculty usually designated "the mind's eye;" and in my own instance, although generally strong and vivid, it fails me with regard to those whom I have loved the most, and with every line, shade, and variation of whose countenance I have been the most intensely familiar. The very strength of my desire to call up their image interposes, as it were, a mist, if not of obscurity, at least of indistinctness, between me and those dear lineaments; and I strain my mental vision till the very mind aches, but in vain! But the voice of one who has been dear to us, which has given to us the deepest joy which the human heart can ever taste, the knowledge that we are beloved, this, at least, our memory can give to us again, the material sense feasts upon the unreal creations of the soul! Yes! I can hear it now, the soft breathing of that sound, which was dearer to me than all this earth has given! which alike lulled my wild passions to rest, and excited them beyond my mastery, and repaid me tenfold for all they caused me to suffer! Yes! I have, at times, almost deceived myself; as in the dreams of sleep my outward senses have been locked, and my fancy has supplied their place. There is one song, one swell of music, with its corresponding line of verse, which cheats mine ear even now; and, clothing itself in that voice, which I first heard give it breath, recalls into present and vivid existence that, which, excepting thus, I never shall hear more! But then, the waking from such dreams—the passing away of that enthralling delusion—the reappearance of the dreary present!—Alas! we then know what it is to feel DESPAIR!
Despair? Yes! is not grief without hope—is not regret for that which never can be restored—is not sorrow for what is irrevocable—are not these despair? "You shall listen to that voice, you shall behold that form, no more!" Is not this mandate in itself despair? A writer more skilled, perhaps, than any other in the anatomy of passion and sorrow[1], has somewhere said, that in our language these two words, No more! possess, in their very intonation, a greater power of mournfulness and gloom, than any other expression that was known to her. And so, indeed, it is. The sense and the sound mutually accord with, and react upon, each other; they form the knell of expiring hope, the befitting voice of despair.
Away! Freezing sadness shall not thus creep upon my heart and benumb its energies, as actual frost does those of the physical frame. I shake my senses free from its icy influence, and rush into the gaudy sunshine of the world.
WINE? None but the brute deserving the metamorphosis, and fit for the sty of Circe, can seek refuge in wine, or find it. If he have a mind, if he possess feelings, these he can never drown. He may steep his senses in a filthy forgetfulness; he may shatter his nerves and destroy his health by the gross poisons of debauchery; but his memory he can never annul, he will only debase it; his soul-but no man, whose soul merited the name, ever wallowed in a mire like this.
True. But it was not of wine as a mere animal stimulant that I spoke. I used it as the type, pars pro toto, of society animated by the flow of convivial intercourse; I spoke of its use, not abuse; as giving warmer circulation to the blood, and thence to the wit; as cheering the gloomy, not inebriating the cheerful; in short, as indicating those symposia in which our greatest and our gravest, our most brilliant, our most gifted, and our best, have loved to congregate. Well then, I seek this feast of reason and flow of soul. I admire the apophthegms of the wise, and laugh at the jests of the witty: the mind is brightened by the excitation of the body; and, under their conjoined influence, the hours, I confess, dance along on feathered feet, and on a path of showy flowers. But is there any thing in all this that can touch the feelings or satisfy the heart? To the otherwise happy, such enjoyment is probably unclouded and unalloyed; but will it fill the void of an aching bosom, or restore the youth and freshness of a shattered spirit? Alas, no!
"Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath[2]."
And when the circle is dispersed, when I return home, and, entering my solitary room, my mind recoils upon itself, is not the sigh, which heavily struggles from my lips, a silent confession, that this is all vanity; that the excitements of society (and for the moment I admit they are strong) exist only during their actual application, and, passing away, leave, like a lamp that is extinguished, the gloom as unbroken as before?
LOVE? Can I seek, by rousing the heart again, to make it forget the storms which have formerly passed over it? Can I hope that it can ever feel what it has felt, or be what it has been? The glow of the ardour of passion; the soft, delicious thrill of tenderness; the engrossing devotion of every word, action, feeling, thought, to one object; can I know these again? No! not as I have known them—that is impossible. But the charms of woman's society—the enjoyment of gazing on female loveliness—of listening to the female voice—the interest of associating with a fascinating object—the gratifications, if not of the heart, at least of a very dear vanity, in becoming the object of the gradually increasing attachment of a beautiful and gifted being—these, and they are much, you say I may still enjoy.
Ay! may I so? and at whose expense would it be? What right have I, to dress up the withered mummy of the heart in the colours and semblance of life, and warmth, and freshness, and barter it for one possessing them all? Is it fair dealing, to pass the echo of the voice of dead affection, for the real, burning, winged words, which passion sends instant to the lips from the heart's mintage? to represent that as living water, which I know to be only the mirage of a deceitful desert? Is it, to drop all figure, allowable or just, to tamper with the feelings of a young and sensitive creature; to excite attachment we never can repay, and call into life the affections the most exquisitively blissful to the human soul, only to render them productive of pain unalterable? No one, looking at the matter thus, could be so cruel: and yet how many are there, who, unwittingly, and drawn on by imperceptible degrees, are so in fact! Can this be? Ay, it is quite simple, and of daily occurrence. We are thrown by the circumstances of society into intercourse with a lovely woman; to gaze on female beauty, though no more, though we may have never interchanged words with its possessor, and be totally unknown to her, and likely, nay certain, to remain so; still to gaze on beauty is in itself a delight, which the soul thirsts for, and which none but the soul, that has at some time adored a beautiful woman, can fully enjoy. Well then, this beauty first attracts us: but we find, that the attraction does not end here; there are fine qualities of mind given by nature, and resulting from acquirement: we delight to draw them forth—we express our sense of their charm and value; and praise, though it may not be flattery, works the same effect; like the wild honey of ancient story, it is sweet to the taste, but it conceals an intoxicating poison beneath. The intercourse becomes more frequent; and next, as between persons of opposite sexes must happen, topics of the heart arise, we know not how. Truly did he speak who first said, that "talking of love is making it." Abstract propositions gain personal application; conversely to the circles created by a stone flung into water, the wide discussions gradually converge into the one point of individual avowal. But the difference between the parties is extreme. She in every step is true, single, and sincere. She abandons herself to the course of her heart's current, unknowing equally the perils and termination of the voyage: he knows them all full well. He equally, indeed, is led by the force of circumstance from one gradation to another; but, for the excitement and gratification of the moment, he wilfully shuts his eyes upon the iniquity; while his reflection, if he would hearken to it, would show him that he is guilty-guilty of blighting the bloom of a fond and trusting heart.
And does he derive from it that relief, which he has fled to the world to seek? Alas, no! his feelings, it is true, are for the time gently stirred—his eagerness is, in some degree, kindled in the pursuit (for the desire of success, and the dread of contempt from failure, enter largely into his actuating, if not his avowed, motives); the higher and better qualities of his self-love are gratified as well as those of more immediate vanity (for who can be loved by a superior woman, and not have his best energies called into action?); and above all, his mind is occupied—it has an object. But in the moments of revulsion, which I have stated to be the true touchstone of all such vamped up feelings as those I have detailed above, what are his sensations? Again he feels, that to him all is vanity—nay more, for his conscience upbraids him for even this inconstancy, and accuses him of having involved yet another in the miseries of misplaced love.
And what are, meanwhile, the phases of her feelings? Upon the full trusting fondness of a woman's affection comes first the startling doubt, driven back with mingled scorn and dread, but again and again recurring with increased force, till, after suspense, which gnaws into the heart, it settles down into the sick certainty of despair. And then her cheeks grow thin, and her lips pale, and the light of an ardent spirit fades from her eyes. The strength of her young affection is broken for ever: she loves one, and in cold resignation she marries another; and she looks on the present without joy, on the future without hope, on the past with anguish.
Still there is AMBITION. Ay, this indeed, if aught can, is calculated to give invigorating heat to a wasted heart; this, like the sound of a trumpet, stirs the male soul:—it cannot be heard without emotion; emotion that scarcely can be felt without bearing fruit in action. Well then, we rush into the stirring collisions of active life: we study, perhaps, deeply, to fit us for the race; but, in those moments, when the mind sickens under its own exertions, and the intoxicating stimulus of hope fades for the nonce, and the reaction following all stimulus supervenes—who is there to soothe us with her affection—to cheer us with the ardour of her wishes—to retune the jarred chords of our hearts with the noble spirit of woman's love? And supposing us to be fairly embarked in our career—to be struggling for preeminence in the path we have chosen, we have no one to whom to revert from the fierce and turbid contests of the world; no one to share in our hopes, fears, desires; to give us (the first want of humanity) sympathy and fellow-feeling. To the widowed heart HOME is no magic word. It is not, as to others, the soft green, for the sight to turn to from the harsh glare of the world. To those whose home is happy it is, what the earth was to Antæus, a restorer of the strength exhausted in the conflicts of society. But those who fly to ambition as a means, not as an end, know not these blessings. To the spirit which still rankles with early wounds home is solitary and sad. It shuns repose so accompanied, and rushes again to the vortex, in which its lot is thus for ever cast.
I will suppose, even, that the hopes of ambition are crowned with the fullest accomplishment. Fame, wealth, rank, honours—all have been sought, all have been won! Alas! where is she who should have shared them? Where is she whose smile of joy at our triumph would have been far more sweet than the triumph itself? whose gratified pride in our success would have been the highest pride with which the heart of man can swell? Again that spirit, outwardly so prosperous, exclaims, in the secrecy of its own communings—all, even this, is vanity! Again it feels, that there is nothing which can fill the place of engrossing love within the human soul.
Yes! it is this, which, as it is happy or unfortunate, gives the colour to our life. And easier would it be to wash the hue from the Ethiop's skin, than that complexion, be it brilliant, be it gloomy, from our hearts. It is the prevailing thread running through the whole woof of our existence; at every turn it reappears, and we carry it with us to the last. Some temperaments I believe there are, to which all this is unknown; their possessors will regard what I have said as the follies of a romantic mind, or the exaggerations of an inflamed one. But those whose blood runs through their veins with the warmth of humanity, not stagnating with the torpor of a reptile-those who do not affect to be too cold
— or good
For human nature's daily food,
will own, that, whether it come earlier or later; whether its issues tend to happiness or to misery; still the great affection of our life does give the tone to its whole future tenour; it becomes part of ourselves, and, come what may, so does it remain.
Time may soften its influence, and render its recurrence upon the mind less frequent; but there are moments, when it will be heard; there are seasons, when, like the mighty dream, it breaks down all the dikes and dams, that worldly intercourse has raised to keep it out; and it rushes at once into its ancient channel. The days of our early feelings do not indeed rise upon us unbroken and entire: we look through the mist of years, and it is only their more saliant and towering parts, that the eye of memory can reach. These are the landmarks of our way through life; they never sink beneath the horizon. And it is very much from this cause, that such recollections are always of an agitating nature. It is to those circumstances of delight and of pain, which have moved us the most strongly, that we look. The gentler feelings, which have existed during the course of our attachment, are now lost to view; or, at the most, are blended into one indistinct and shadowy mass. But the higher and fiercer emotions, those of depth and intensity, remain. Every accident of time, place, and circumstance, which relates to them, is garnered in the heart, or rather has nestled there of itself. How minutely, how vividly, do some passages of our existence, buried, as they are, beneath a heap of past years, dwell in our minds! They seem recent as yesterday; every whispered word, every tone, look, and gesture, are remembered with an accuracy, which is startlingly contrasted with the fading of more ordinary occurrences. Distance vanishes—time is as nothing—these things remain fresh and real as at the first moment—alas! it rives the heart, when the truth recurs, that they are only memory's illusion!
Who is there that has forgotten, who ever can forget, the first avowal of mutual passion between him and the woman of his chosen love? The place, the hour, every accessary circumstance, are they not before him now? The look of fond abandonment, at last unchecked; the tone of fondness no longer dissembled: do we not see those eyes beam, do we not hear that dear, dear voice, as it spoke to us modulated in the key of enthralling love? Does not our memory almost cheat our senses, and give to us its own creations as realities? Alas! 'tis but for a time! we start from that trance of sweet thought, and the desolate truth strikes upon our heart in agony! We turn to embrace a form of living warmth and beauty; and, like Ixion, we find it but a cloud. Oh! who would not give years of life for that image of the mind to be realized for one moment! who would not forfeit all for the joys of that hour to recur! No! we cannot restore it—we cannot replace it. Imagination has no force to make aught resemble it. Like the passage of Time itself, once gone, it is gone for ever!—
1. Madame de Stael.
2. Byron.