The Home Journal

Human nature has no sense more pure—the world knows nothing more chaste—heaven has endowed the mortal heart with none holier, than the nascent affection of a young virgin's soul.—The warmest language of the sunny South is too cold to shadow forth even a faint outline of the enthusiastic sentiment. And Providence has made the richest language poor in the same respect, because the depths of hearts that thrill with love's emotions are too sacred for the common contemplation. The musical voice of love stirs the source of the sweetest thoughts within the human breast, and steal into the profound recesses of the soul, touching cords that never vibrated before, and calling into gentle companionship delicious hopes until then unknown. Yes, the light of a young maiden's first love breaks dimly but beautifully upon her, as the silver lustre of a star glimmers through a thickly woven bower: and the first blush that mantles her cheek, as she feels the primal influence, is faint and pure as that which a rose leaf might cast upon marble. But how rapidly does that light grow stronger, and that flush deeper, until the powerful effulgence of the one radiates every corner of her heart, and the crimson glow of the other suffuses every feature of her countenance.