Miss Azile, the satirical young lady, was of opinion that all such things are highly ridiculous, and much to be regretted; in which opinion the fair portion of the company generally coincided. The reader who has read the anecdote of the Persian over whose head a sword was suspended by a thread, can imagine my anxiety to ascertain the opinion of the person in whom I was most interested. I did not long remain in suspense—“She considered it unnatural and improper for a young lady to love;” which assertion was accompanied by a very significant look at myself. The philosophy of indifference had ever been my most difficult study. I could not persuade myself that I was prepared for disappointment; and, in fact, my hopes were too sanguine to allow for many thoughts of a gloomy character. All was over now, however; and as I hurried away as miserable as Jacques, I thought there was a very pretty end to my day-dreams and night-visions. Byron’s reproach occurred to me with all its bitterness—
“Once I beheld a splendid dream—
A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth, wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?”
Thus ended my first misfortunes, which, being the most serious, I have dwelt upon at some length. I now turn with a lighter heart to my subsequent career. To avoid all such affairs in future, I resolved to visit Texas, where, I was informed, women were uncommonly scarce. This great inducement balanced all the disadvantages of climate and warfare. I never wished to look upon a bright eye or a dimpled cheek again. Texas, therefore, was my destination.
A few months calmed the turbulence of my mind; and I believed I was now forever qualified to withstand the charms of woman, and exempt from the troubles of the heart. Experience had taught me that everything is not gold which glitters. I had also learned to doubt the lauded constancy of the opposite sex, in that tender passion to which I was so susceptible. Indeed I had good reason to believe that caprice and fickleness of heart were their ruling traits; and I fully determined to avoid, in future, building my hopes of happiness on such baseless foundations. So far I acted with prudence; and I felt very well satisfied with my embryo philosophy. During my tour, however, an incident occurred that greatly altered my opinions on this subject. It effected a wonderful change, too, in my estimation of woman’s constancy.
I had stopped to spend a few days in the city of T——. There was nothing about this place, but its picturesque situation, worthy of a traveller’s attention. I soon became satiated with the beauties of the surrounding scenery; and as the accommodations of the hotel were very limited, I determined to pursue my journey by the first means of conveyance. To my chagrin I learned that several days would elapse before I could find a stage for my place of destination. What to do with myself in the meantime, I could scarcely divine. Society had lost its charm; public amusements had become nauseous and uninteresting; and I was heartily tired of rambling about, without a congenial friend to commune with, or admire what I admired. In this dilemma I chanced to find, on ransacking my apartment, a neatly bound novel—the “Pilgrims of the Rhine.” I had read this beautiful romance, with great delight, some years previously; but I discovered, on opening the present volume, that there were criticisms and observations on the margin, which offered some room for studying the mind and character of one of its readers; and I was induced to peruse it again. The pencilings were in the delicate hand of a female. Passages, which, for their beauty of diction and refined sentiment, I recollected having greatly admired, were carefully marked; and in many instances they elicited acute observations, and eloquent eulogies from the fair reader. As I progressed, I became as much interested in these comments, as I had formerly been in the work itself. They evinced at once a highly cultivated imagination—a depth and tenderness of feeling—and a visionary turn of mind, extremely captivating to a young reader. That sympathy, which the author of Hyperion so eloquently remarks is requisite for the appreciation of genius, seemed characteristic of the fair unknown. The gradual development of her history, as gleaned from these scattered thoughts and opinions, and the general tenor of her mind, interested me far more than I was disposed to admit, even to myself. That I may not be deemed unnaturally visionary, or sentimental, I shall quote a few passages, which, though taken at random, may serve to show the source from which I drew my deductions. The delicate hand of the commentator had slightly touched the following:
“Her youth was filled with hope, and many colored dreams; she loved, and the hues of morning slept upon the yet disenchanted earth. The heavens to her were not as the common sky; the wave had its peculiar music to her ear, and the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose heart is not bathed in the love and sense of beauty, could discern.”
From the remarks that were attached to this, I pictured the sympathising reader, who so feelingly dwelt upon it, as one, beautiful like Gertrude, and constituted to love with the same fervency and devotion. She was evidently young—her thoughts were tender—her sentiments lively and refined. That she was beautiful, my fancy did not permit me to doubt.