All excitements run to love in women of a certain--let us not say age, but youth.

An electrical current passing through a coil of wire makes a magnet of a bar of iron lying within it, but not touching it.

So a woman is turned into a love-magnet by a tingling current of life running round her.

I should like to see one of them balanced on a pivot properly adjusted, and watch if she did not turn so as to point north and south,--as she would, if the love-currents are like those of the earth our mother.
Pray, do you happen to remember Wordsworth's "Boy of Windermere"?
This boy used to put his hands to his mouth, and shout aloud, mimicking the hooting of the owls, who would answer him "with quivering peals, And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled." When they failed to answer him, and he hung listening intently for their voices, he would sometimes catch the faint sound of far distant waterfalls, or the whole scene around him would imprint itself with new force upon his perceptions .-- Read the sonnet, if you please;--it is Wordsworth all over,--trivial in subject, solemn in style, vivid in description, prolix in detail, true metaphysically, but immensely suggestive of "imagination," to use a mild term, when related as an actual fact of a sprightly youngster.

All I want of it is to enforce the principle, that, when the door of the soul is once opened to a guest, there is no knowing who will come in next.
-- Our young girl keeps up her early habit of sketching heads and characters.