Lamartine says, somewhere, very prettily, that there is more of quick running sap, and floating shade in a young tree; but more of fire in the heart of a sturdy oak—_Il y a plus de sève folle et d’ombre flottante dans les jeunes plants de la forêt; il y a plus de feu dans le vieux cœur du chêne_. Is Lamartine playing off his prettiness of expression, dressing up with his poetry—making a good conscience against the ghost of some accusing Graziella, or is there truth in the matter? A man who has seen sixty years, whether widower or bachelor, may well put such sentiment into words: it feeds his wasted heart with hope; it renews the exultation of youth by the pleasantest of equivocation, and the most charming of self-confidence. But after all, is it not true? Is not the heart like new blossoming field-plants, whose first flowers are half-formed, one-sided perhaps, but by and by, in maturity of season, putting out wholesome, well-formed blossoms that will hold their leaves long and bravely? Bulwer in his story of _The Caxtons_, has counted first heart-flights mere fancy-passages—a dalliance with the breezes of love, which pass, and leave healthful heart appetite. Half the reading world has read the story of Trevanion and Pisistratus. But Bulwer is—past; his heart-life is used up—_épuisé_. Such a man can very safely rant about the cool judgment of after years. Where does Shakespeare put the unripe heart-age? All of it before the ambition, that alone makes the hero-soul. The Shakespeare man “sighs like a furnace,” before he stretches his arm to achieve the “bauble, reputation.” Yet Shakespeare has meted a soul-love, mature and ripe, without any young furnace sighs to Desdemona and Othello. Cordelia, the sweetest of his play creations, loves without any of the mawkish matter, which makes the whining love of a Juliet. And Florizel in the _Winter’s Tale_, says to Perdita in the true spirit of a most sound heart: My desires Run not before mine honor, nor my wishes Burn hotter than my faith. How is it with Hector and Andromache? no sea-coal blaze, but one that is constant, enduring, pervading: a pair of hearts full of esteem, and best love—good, honest, and sound. Look now at Adam and Eve, in God’s presence, with Milton for showman. Shall we quote by this sparkling blaze, a gem from the _Paradise Lost_? We will hum it to ourselves—what Raphael sings to Adam—a classic song. ——Him, serve and fear! Of other creatures, as Him pleases best Wherever placed, let Him dispose; joy thou In what he gives to thee, this Paradise And thy fair Eve! And again: ——Love refines The thoughts, and heart enlarges; hath his seat In reason, and is judicious: is the scale By which to Heavenly love thou may’st ascend!