n the hands of others!
Most of the friends I have seen have turned out the bitterest enemies,
or cold, uncomfortable acquaintance. Old companions are like meats
served up too often, that lose their relish and their wholesomeness. He
who looks at beauty to admire, to adore it, who reads of its wondrous
power in novels, in poems, or in plays, is not unwise; but let no man
fall in love, for from that moment he is 'the baby of a girl.' I like
very well to repeat such lines as these in the play of _Mirandola_--

With what a waving air she goes
Along the corridor! How like a fawn!
Yet statelier. Hark! No sound, however soft,
Nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads,
But every motion of her shape doth seem
Hallowed by silence.

But however beautiful the description, defend me from meeting with the
original!

The fly that sips treacle
Is lost in the sweets;
So he that tastes woman
Ruin meets.

The song is Gay's, not mine, and a bitter-sweet it is. How few out of
the infinite number of those that marry and are given in marriage wed
with those they would prefer to all the world! nay, how far the greater
proportion are joined together by mere motives of convenience, accident,
recommendation of friends, or indeed not unfrequently by the very fear
of the event, by repugnance and a sort of fatal fascination! yet the tie
is for life, not to be shaken off but with disgrace or death: a man
no longer lives to himself, but is a body (as well as mind) chained to
another, in spite of himself--

Like life and death in disproportion met.

So Milton (perhaps from his own experience) makes Adam exclaim in the
vehemence of his despair,

For either
He never shall find out fit mate, but such
As some misfortune brings him or mistake
Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain
Through her perverseness, but shall sea her gain'd
By a far worse; or it she love, withheld
By parents; or his happiest choice too late
Shall meet, already link'd and wedlock-bound
To a fell adversary, his hate and shame;
Which infinite calamity shall cause
To human life, and household peace confound.

If love at first sight were mutual, or to be conciliated by kind
offices; if the fondest affection were not so often repaid and chilled
by indifference and scorn; if so many lovers both before and since the
madman in Don Quixote had not 'worshipped a statue, hunted the wind,
cried aloud to the desert'; if friendship were lasting; if