It is no uncommon matter, of course and alas! for a youth between
the ages of seventeen and nineteen to play the juggler at keeping three,
or even half-a-dozen, female correspondents going at once, each of whom
sleeps nightly with copious documentary evidence of her sole and
incontrovertible possession of the sacred heart. Nor has Narcissus been
the only lover, I suspect, who, in the season of the waning of the moon,
has sent such excuses for scrappy epistolary make-shifts as 'the
strident din of an office, an air so cruelly unsympathetic, as frost to
buds, to the blossoming of all those words of love that press for
birth,' when, as a matter of fact, he has been unblushingly eating the
lotus, in the laziest chair at home, in the quietest night of summer.
Such insincerity is a common besetting sin of the young male;
invariably, I almost think, if he has the artistic temperament. Yet I do
not think it presents itself to his mind in its nudity, but comes
clothed with that sophistry in which youth, the most thoroughgoing of
_philosophes_, is so ingenious. Consideration for the beloved object, it
is called--yes! beloved indeed, though, such is the paradox in the order
of things, but one of the several vestals of the sacred fire. One cannot
help occasional disinclination on a lazy evening, confound it! but it
makes one twinge to think of paining her with such a confession; and a
story of that sort--well, it's a lie, of course; but it's one without
any harm, any seed of potential ill, in it.
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