The former perhaps, may be a little short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation while it lasts as its more enduring sister.

Love is said to be blind, and it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its victims--an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid in the slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or waking, but one object, and that alone.
I don't know whether these were Mr.Malcolm or Ormiston's thoughts, as he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms across his chest to await the shining of his day-star.

In fact, I am pretty sure they were not: young gentlemen, as a general thing, not being any more given to profound moralizing in the reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles II., than they are at the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was his bosom friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of sight, than he forgot him as totally as if he had never known that distinguished individual.

His many and deep afflictions, his love, his anguish, and his provocations; his beautiful, tantalizing, and mysterious lady-love; his errand and its probable consequences, all were forgotten; and Ormiston thought of nothing or nobody in the world but himself and La Masque.

La Masque! La Masque! that was the theme on which his thoughts rang, with wild variations of alternate hope and fear, like every other lover since the world began, and love was first an institution.