Yorkville Enquirer

Practical Love.

The subjoined communication emanates professedly from the pen of a plough-boy, and claims, barring quotation-marks, to be original. We confess that we are somewhat skeptical on this point; such an admirably-written article, it seems to us, could only come from a tutored hand. Burns, however, was a plough-boy, and our young friend may be entitled to a place in the catalogue with him. So we publish: and if he will write another like it, we shall publish again.

There are two species of affection prevalent in this world, each claiming admission under the name of love. One is that pure genuine emotion, arising from the congeniality of two kindred souls —which binds them heart to heart as with a band of gold -which beautifies and adorns every thought -which purifies every feeling and concentrates every thing that is good, beautiful or true in the image of the loved one. So powerful is this affection that pagan nations have deified it, and many a pensive maiden or disconsolate lover have poured out propitiatory libations to this Love-God.— Anacreon, who deserves to be called the poet of love—has made it the theme of a beautiful sonnet the opening lines of which, describing its anomalous and contradictory nature, have been thus translated by Cowley:

"Almighty pain to love it is.

And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;

But, of all pains, the greatest pain

It is to love, and love in vain."

But this only expresses the feeling when a cloud of doubt hangs over the lover. When this is removed and he feels conscious of, or hopes for reciprocity, the whole world seems bright and glorious, and he walks forth—a king among men. The magic lamp of Aladin could build up a magnificent palace in a single night; so the power of love can transform the realities of this world into a splendid vision, where everything is gorgeous and beautiful as a dream of heaven. This feeling has been beautifully expressed by Coleridge in his verses to Genevieve:

"All fears, all passions, all delights—

Whatever stirs this mortal frame—

All are but ministers of love:

And feed its sacred flame.'"

Although the whole world appears radiant, it is because the lover sees nothing. The image of the beloved one is the focus of every thought, and the beauty playing in her eye and the music flowing from her lips is ever waving before his sight or ringing in his ear" and thrilling his soul with ineffable joy. There is nothing selfish in the genuine lover—he lives only to make the one he loves happy. If there is a cloud on her brow, it gathers too on his—if her roseate cheeks are paled by disease, his too catches a sympathetic pallor if she is smiling and happy, his heart is as bright as the radiant sky of heaven.

"O happy love! where love like this is found!

O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare!

I've paced much this weary mortal round.

And sage experience bids me this declare—

If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,

One cordial in this melancholy vale,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In other's arms breath out the tender tale

Beneath the milkwhite thorn that scents the evening gale."

But, as we have said, there is another species of affection which skulks under the name of love.— As it savors rather of worldly prudence or selfishness than genuine affection, we term it—practical love. Sometimes it is so covertly concealed that it can scarcely be distinguished from the pure elevated feelings of the heart. But when put to the test, the mask is quickly removed and the selfishness and worldly emotions which had usurped the sacred name of love, stand out in repulsive attitude. Let one whose affection is permeated by this selfish element, be required to make a few sacrifices—let her be compelled to choose between poverty with love, and wealth without it— let her be importuned by friends to forget the one she has vowed to love forever—let her be tempted to this course by the alluring promises of wealth, or let malice and slander be called in to traduce his once fair name and alienate her affections— and if her love falters and fails. it is but a base counterfeit affection, and if it must be called love, let it be termed practical love. Let it not skulk under a word so sacred to the human soul—which has so often made glad the city of the heart—without a qualifying epithet, expressive of its mongrel character. We know that those who profess such affection attempt to justify their course by specious and plausible arguments. They are continually canting about tempting Providence—as if Providence would not rather shower its blessings upon the generous and open-hearted than the cold-blooded and hypocritical. Have they forgotten the curse that fell upon Ananias and Sapphira, when they were afraid to tempt Providence? Thus these hypocrites in love are struck with a moral blindness, and vainly imagine that by concealing their genuine feelings and professing an attachment they do not feel, they are acquiring the favor or over-reaching the wisdom of Providence.

But it is seldom that we find the young advocating a practical love, until they have been schooled by others in the ways of selfishness, and had the clear bright fountains of the heart polluted by the unfeeling philosophy of Age. The time is past when mankind seemed to acquiesce in the belief, that there was no such thing as affection or choice in selecting a partner for life; and that parents or friends were the proper persons to select husbands and wives. The custom originated in a barbarous age and under an oppressive feudal system, when families were divided into petty clans, and sought by strong and wealthy alliances to increase their power and influence. It makes the generous blood boil with indignation, to read of the tyranny in the baronial halls of old; when some fairy maiden was affianced against her will to a brutish dotard or wealthy booby, and languished in duress because she dared to love one God had made worthy of her affection and esteem. Think of it!—the rosy cheek of youth pressed by the icy lip of age—the warm and ardent heart chilled by contact with a cold and pulseless bosom—silken ringlets mingling with hoary locks—in a word, youth, beauty, sentiment, innocence and ardour joined to age, deformity, selfishness, debauchery and heartlessness! Does not Nature revolt from such a spectacle? And when we are told that this unnatural state is brought about for the sake of wealth—for "siller an land" -which can only be enjoyed for the brief and transient space of fifty or sixty years, do we not pity the short-sightedness of the policy, which would mar all true felicity, to acquire that which; while possessed, is but an encumbrance, and must be left behind at last? Poor self-deluding sophists.

Preparing to live forever on earth, when you must soon go hence to another scene, where wealth cannot purchase repose and the lip cannot cheat with a smile. And think you there is no moral turpitude in acting a lie—a life-long falsehood? Can there be a more approbrious sin than Practical Love? Is it not really more contemptible than filching a purse, to pretend what we do not feel to profess to be the wife of the bosom, when the heart's warm blood flows to another—to steal as a friend into the secret penetralia of the soul of one we despise -to tutor the face to smile on one in every way repulsive? Let us then call things strictly by their right name and ask what is practical love It is practical lying, practical deception, practical adultery, practical covetousness, practical roguery, practical folly,—in a word—it is—a practical perversion of the laws of Nature and the richest blessings of heaven! Start not at the catalogue! A tyro's logic could easily substantiate every item without the aid of a special pleader. It Is in this way we are often cheated by specious phrases. Many a fair lady, no doubt, has thought herself very wise and prudent and entirely guiltless in indulging in practical love. And many sage old aunt, uncle and papa, have imagined themselves great philosophers as they schooled the young heart in the first lessons of deception and hypocrisy. We are aware that such matches are sometimes apparently happy—that a few cold natures have lived together peaceably—without love—have plodded on through life without a noble thought or generous aspiration—as Byron says of two of the characters of Don Juan—

"Wishing each other not divorced but dead,

They lived respectably as man and wife."

But who would not rather choose an. exalted love, a pure disinterested devotion, than the sordid attractions and deceptive allurements of Mammon? Has earth a joy that shadows forth the perennial gladness of Paradise?

"There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When love unites two in one heavenly tie

Who with heart never changing, and brow never cold,

Love on through all ills and love on till they die.

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss,

And O! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this it is this.'"

Who would ask more than the realization of this picture of Tom Moore's? Let us then cherish as a priceless gem early love, for a life-time search cannot find its peer.

"O let us prize the first blown bud of love;

Let us love now in this our fairest youth,

When love can find a full and fond return."

The accumulation of wealth may beguile the tedium of age—the pursuits of ambition may give wings to the fleeting hours—the acquirement of knowledge and the investigations of science may occupy the mind for a season, but all in vain will they attempt to usurp the throne of love. Without the pure affection of a noble souled woman and consequently without domestic bliss and the joys of home; what is life but a fitful fever—a man but the foot-ball of circumstances In him love, and he has a. nucleus around which the hopes of life can cluster he has something to live for—something to bid him aspire something nerve his heart in every trial of life. Give him love, and he has a consolation in the hour of death

In the words of an old school-mate:

"Sweet it is..

To love, to feel our hearts together drawn

By nameless ties; and sweet to hope that love

By death blown out, will brightly beam again

When lighted at the Fountain of all Light."