In Love Affairs.
Stop!—That burning thought—that delirium in thy heart—as to the lovely being whose image is before thee night and day—is it such as her modesty and virtue, her seraphic guilelessness should inspire? if not, away with it—blot it out!
Stop! Was she rather plain than peerless, and is it the thought of her father’s bonds and shekels that now summons the enamored hectic to thy virile cheek? Away with it, likewise, and for shame! Shall blood with boodle blend—emotion cringe at Mammon’s beck—and Love be unavenged?
Stop! Stay yet again thy headlong plunge! Was she yet lovely, an houri of a dream, but still beneath thee in family, station, fortune, and didst therefore smile but to deceive? If so, hold hard, hug this sweet volume to thy heart of hearts, and sin no more!
Stop, and meditate upon the three foregoing paragraphs, for in them are embodied the cardinal principles in making love: Purity of purpose, Disinterestedness and Truth.
Stop for some encouragement before rendering your attentions universally conspicuous. A glance of the eye, a tremor of the lip, the merest shadow of a blush upon the seashell-tinted cheek, will suffice.
Stop, if such subtle signs are wanting or withheld, and plan some deep-laid scheme to unveil heart’s predilection, indifference, or dislike. Oysters and ice-cream are still available in their respective seasons.
Stop before mistaking a passing fancy for a wild, consuming maddening, over-mastering, star-jostling passion. This mistake has evoked more paternal walking-sticks and breach-of-promise suits than would keep a French novelist in subject-matter for a twelvemonth.
Stop, after falling head over ears in love, to collect your senses and formulate your plans. An inconsiderate, maniacal rush into a declaration is often repented at leisure.
Stop, if not certain of your ground, before wholly unmasking your batteries. Delicate attentions, even worshiping, awe-struck glances from afar, are time-old preliminaries, but none the less effective.
Stop, however, on the threshold of feverish demonstration at the outset. Furnace-like sighs, dazed, dumb-founded looks, like those of an expiring calf, and frenzied bodily contortions may be brought to bear in their own good time.
Stop short of opposing her tastes and convictions. To gently chime with them, whether you have any of your own or not, while preserving a vigorous masculinity in favor of quail-gorging, head-punching and kindred noble sports, is in the main commendable.
Stop before vaunting a wild, atheistical or Ingersollian contempt for all things sacred, if she should be of a deeply religious turn. However, this is not to prescribe a regular biblical course, a very little of which goes a great way in the wooing o’t.
Stop before disclaiming all love for music, or suggesting the banjo or bagpipe as your favorite instrument, should she dote on the opera, sing divinely and be a piano-pounder of no mean ability in her own person.
Stop before depreciating anything the dear creature does, or tries to do. Eagerly demand another song, even if the screech of her first has ruined your tympanum, call her verses divine, if they are no better than Tennyson’s latest senility, swear that her favorite scent is yours, even if ’tis musk or garlic, and build, build as with a wand, the shining edifice of love!
Stop right off at the idea that there may be anything hypocritical or insincere advised in the foregoing paragraph. If really in love, you will religiously believe everything you tell her, and more too.
Stop, first, however, and study the character of your enchantress. All women are no more to be wooed alike than are all fish to be tempted with the same kind of bait.
Stop before addressing a brainy, well-read penetrative divinity as you would a laughing elf, a careless, careless fay, a butterfly of mirth and joy. An Hypatia is not a Hebe, and reflect! Would you tempt an eagle with a moth-light, or a striped-bass with an eel-bob?
Stop, if she be intellectual, and study up to an equality with her tastes, should you be her inferior. Then scientific discussions, with poetry as a side-dish, may gradually lead up to the delicious desideratum of two hearts that beat as one.
Stop, however, at the error of preferring her intellectual to her physical charms. She is a lovely liar if she pretends to a desire for such preference, and your sin will be unpardonable, should you take her at her word.
Stop, in any case, before praising another woman’s good-looks in the adored one’s presence. In fact, you can afford her no pleasanter flattery than by a systematic depreciation of a prettier woman’s charms.
Stop, if she be a Hebe, we will say, and plunge recklessly amid her paucity of ideas. Flounder in folly, palpitate with persiflage, at her giggling beck; and here is ample opportunity for the silent eloquence of the nosegay, the oyster, or the iced refreshment, not less than for the princely prodigality of the opera, the midnight coupe and the church fair lottery.
Stop short of any display of fear in her presence, even if you are timorous to the core. Let her do the shrieking at the onset of a mouse, but stand you as the rugged rock, the beaten anvil, or the rooted oak! You might even trample out a croton-bug occasionally, with a cold, feelingless laugh. Imperturbability in peril was never yet a masculine fault in gentle woman’s eyes.
Stop before incurring the dislike of the fair one’s little brothers or sisters. The malapert maliciousness of l’enfant terrible may occasion mortifications without number.
Stop before losing your temper with a rival in your charmer’s presence. If you must come to blows, let it be in a retired spot, but it were far better to sit him out, beat him on bouquets, gum drops and theatre-tickets, or otherwise defeat him in the rosy lists.
Stop at the one thousandth kiss, after receiving the coveted “Yes” from the adored one’s lips. Byron, it is true, in one of his callow effusions, counsels a million, but, as a conscientious Mentor, we prefer to draw the line somewhere even in such an emotional proceeding.
Stop, discontinue the siege altogether, in case of a downright rejection, howsoever reluctant, howsoever tearful. Don’t put up with the sisterly substitute, either; but just float out grandly on the ebb-tide of broken hopes, until brighter eyes a welcome shine to solace and to cheer.
Stop before imagining, if accepted, that your ordeal is now nearly at an end. Why, gentle sir, it hath just begun. You are now owned.
Stop short at the idea that even your former devotion is still in order. If it was a bouquet or two per week before, it is now a cart-load per day; your male familiars must sigh for you in vain—your off-nights are things of the past; you are on exhibition, not only to your fiancée’s family, but to the world at large; you are an engaged man!
Stop on the verge of suicidal despair as a result of your first lovers’ quarrel. This is but the pepper-sauce of passion, the curry of courtship, the horse-radish of happiness, without which that crowning reflection, the kiss-gilt, teardrop-rainbowed making-up were banished forever from Love’s golden feast!
Stop, in a general way, before making love for the fun of the thing. There is no meaner, more reptilian creature in society than the professional male flirt.
Stop before yielding an iota to the allurements of a notorious coquette. Heartlessness is her dower, emotional misery her delight, falseness her stock in trade, and the ashen Dead Sea fruit the only reward in her power, even if she love at last.
Stop before permitting your admiration of an actress, or ballet dancer, to glide into a master passion. Disenchantment, if desired, is mostly within easy reach, and you can console yourself with the reflection that there is far more beauty off the stage than on it.
Stop short of making love at all, if you are not of an affectionate disposition; or, when too late—that is, when married, love will be likely to stop short of you.
