HELENA FIELDING.

“Woman wailing for her demon lover.”—Coleridge.

SECTION THE FIRST.

READER, Cond You know Great Ormond-street,

Lamb's Conduit-street? Or rather—as it might

be more correctly described (upon the back of a letter, or on the slip of paper of directions given to a messenger or a Commissionaire)-do you know Great Ormond-street, Queen-square? For to get to it from the West, you must go through Queen-square. Queensquare is so named from "Queen Anne," whose influence "political" (though she had not much of this) and "domestic" (of this she had more)—is seen displayed over all this neighbourhood. It is, however, now in a decayed, semi-magnificent, and wholly shabby-genteel state; now-a-days mouldy. For railroads and "Belgravia" do not altogether seem to agree with the failing "constitution" of the Foundling Hospital, or with Queen-square, or Guildford-street and their adjuncts. To all this-once very respectable, now somewhat queer and untidy-section of London the great enemy, or brick-and-mortar "Abaddon," is Gray's-inn-lane. This Gray's-inn-lane on its eastern, or vulgar, side has Coldbath-fields; giving respectability, indeed, not to say fashion (for that could not stand it) a very "cold bath" -a shuddering sort of cruel feeling. Gloveless, napless, dinnerless, purseless is "poor" Gray's-inn-lane. It is only a wonder that it has not utterly starved down into rafters, whistling keyholes, and brickbats long ago. For so poor is the place that the sun himself, in his July strength (that can effect it with the "stiff side" of a cloud), has nothing seemingly wherewith to make a shadow in or about Gray's-inn-lane. So attenuate is the place, so wretched with poverty and meagreness, so abounds it with shifts, shallowness, shams, and shames, that it impresses beholders as utterly done up; too dried-up even for mould, too feeble for fungi. It is

the very contemptuous associative "fluff" of our old friend the Latin grammar-“flocci, nauci, nihili, pili.” Poor Gray's-inn-lane is wholly dilapidated, yet defiant ; and yet with "something dangerous" in it. But we back gladly towards the sun (who is always respectable), westerly; and we come from Gray's-inn-lane to Great Ormond-street.

It was in the dining-room, or rather in the general "day-room" or "living-room" of a large old-fashioned,

Which is it to be?-"Dutch-Doll" or Woman? Woman or "Dutch-Doll?"

neglected, once grand old house in Great Ormondstreet, that the following passages of slipshod conversation occur. The house was a boarding-house, and the speaker was a young girl-now, although in déshabille, and with flowing, unrestrained golden hair, of surpassing beauty. She had dark wonderful eyes, in the depths of which you discerned-well, never mind what you discerned! You could, however, see-when you looked, but not otherwise, of course, and when you began to think about it-high peril to yourself, my friend, in those eyes, and to others too; but of this latter fact (jealous already, you mark) you already began to feel that you did not "want to think," simply

because you might be led on to "think too much," and to grow jealous of what other admirers thought.

You see by this, dear reader (who we are sure, being so respectable and prudent, have never been in love), that "boarding-houses" may be dangerous places for this affliction of love; for love is truly an affliction, be it fortunate or unfortunate love, smiled on or frowned at.

This will not be a "love story ;" and yet it is allowable and beneficial, to old as well as to young, to dilate a little upon that beautiful passion. You might have known this girl (whom we have just introduced) and talked to her, and felt, and even have run, no unconscious risk. But there are a thousand inlets at which love steals in, and some gates are the most unlikely. For when we least look for such an unwelcome catastrophe, sometimes down falls the house. So in love, we must be always concerned in propping up the house of "man's honour" and of "woman's virtue;" two most precious "constructions," both in the sight of men and in the estimation of the angels. Your notice of her might have been indifferent. There might have been no seductive touching of the heart for this young woman to effect, unless the devil lay in wait for you. At sly, unconcerned moments of observation (when you had examined that face critically and noticed her charming demeanour), you might have felt the indifferent inner persuasion that there was something about her even that you “did not like”—that you thought commonplace, or common, or affected, or cheating, or untrue. We have indeed a theory that seems positively unaccountable in the ideas of love; and yet we entertain a firm conviction that it is well-grounded and true. Some calculation and observation in a busy life, concerned with a multitude of men, and of women too, as being "with them and yet not of them”—these experiences have led us to conclude contradictory as it may seem-that some of the most tremendous subsequent passions (of love) spring from dislike at first. It may be Nature's distrust, and her fear of a great risk and danger, or of total disaster impending; as which disaster total all true violent love may be considered.

Thus some men tremble all over and turn pale in their fits of love; and these are the "great men at love," as well as at various other things. As the "moral" is the copy of the "actual," perhaps it is that the ignition, or lighting up, of the passion of love, is greatly similar to that of the inflammation-shall we say?-of gunpowder. The flame may pass innocently many times to and fro over the powder without its catching, although this is a dangerous game at which to play; for Beauty, like gunpowder, is to be run from, not courted or dallied with, or passed to and fro over, or we are lost; and it is children only who try these mad hazards or handle guns, or touch women, fondling. So beware!

The cause of this lazy reluctance of the powder, even under provocation of the flame, to "go off" may be resisting, repellant disinclination, knowing the consequences, to "kiss the fire," so to say, and to "embrace" in that mad, fatal whirl which is destructive both to the fire and to the powder.

This is, doubtless, the vis inertice—a laziness-grand, Turkish, and luxurious-a toying and yet lured evasion of the challenge; the jeer, as it were, at the proffered "match." Thus the sleeping explosion hugs itself in its "dreams" of slumbrous, tremendous quiet, and refuses to leap forth; simply because, if it did, it would clasp and tightly grasp fixed to its heart, till destruction overwhelmed, as love gratified-fiery love satisfied— will destroy, burning itself through, looking up (shattered and a ruin), when it has had its chance of enjoyment.

We would warn prudent, wandering, circumspect Trojans" from this "Circe passion." What man ever was or is but a fool in love? Their great mother Venus (or Aphrodite) gave women ten thousand wiles and charms that they should win at will the very heart out of men's bosoms, and, as it were, place their white feet upon their slave's neck, plucking out, and reading off like A B C, "the heart of his mystery" almost, although not quite, let us hope, from the wisest Grant, young man, that your feelings in love are as heaven; still love is a disease, though from

man.

heaven, which we, in this mortal state, would be much the better without; for love is inconvenient and tantalising, very humiliating, spoiling our business, perpetually tripping us up, costing us money (sometimes much money), making us ill, causing us to languish, and to look far-off for we know not what, letting music play our souls foolishly up as into sweet sentimental perdition, forcing us to wish to be somewhere else; and when we are at that somewhere else, inducing us to long to be back again in "No-Man's Land"-anywhere-somewhere. But with HER, the loved one, who is country, friends, home, hope, Life and Death itself-nay, Time, and the Longing Personally to Fill that Time. We would put it to any sensible man (but no man in love is ever sensible) whether all this is not true, although intolerable. Rather-oh, stricken man!-than this poor cooing, languishing, pitiful, silly "bird". -as which we will figure this conquered creature-" pigeon-livered, lacking gall"-dare thou to be an "eagle." Fix thine eye to the peak-the mount! Try the (at first) faint beat of thy strong masculine wings; and then these enchantments, these tinkling, silver childish chains of love shall snap and drop from thy nervous volves (now sails, as it were, in the whish of the wind), gathering thunder as they urge or mount -higher-higher! till thou seest "Sun" for Cupid's false, feeble light. Unworthy men! scorned of heroes; of which number try to be one somehow.

Two words of expostulation. What is in that mortal languor induced in love ?-most overpoweringly in uncertain love? We will tell you what. There is in this latter dismay, terror, pain, and wounds to the heart, which we must hide under penalties; both in this world-man's world-and out of this world, which is God's own true world. To confess our suffering in love is our undoing. Beauty occupied with itself, and marching Venus-armed on to new triumphs, laughs at men's sufferings. Woman's prizes are broken and crushed hearts. Are not the agonies that escape and the aching of men's hearts the attestation and glory and her power? That is the spoil that she mentally parades in her cunning re