The Bandits of the Osage by Emerson Bennett

Author:Emerson Bennett [Bennett, Emerson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Cowboy
ISBN: 9781425064860
Google: TgGolRhaJBYC
Amazon: 1427011575
Publisher: ReadHowYouWant
Published: 2007-01-02T11:00:00+00:00

PART IV.

CHAPTER I.

LOVE—THE INVALID—THE CONVERSATION—THE PRESENTIMENT—THE WARNING—THE DEPARTURE.

Love—mighty love—deep, pure, inward, soul-stirring love! Who in journeying through life has not at sometime felt its rapturous pleasures— its mental torturing pains?—for love has pleasures, and love has pains:—pleasures the most deeply thrilling—pains of the deepest anguish. What a powerful thing is love! How it stirs up all the secret springs of our being—rouses into action energies and passions that we knew not were in us—neutralizing, at the same time, and sometimes almost completely destroying, others that we deemed were all powerful. All potent love! Monarch of the mental realm; to which all—high or low, rich or poor,—are forced to bow! Confined to no grade or clime, it sweeps through the universe, and is felt in the soft airs of Italy—in the frozen regions of Lapland. It stalks through the palaces of the mighty ones of earth— it lingers in the hovel of the peasant and the outcast. It softens the hearts of emperors and kings, and bends them to its will—it elevates, tranquilizes, and makes contentment often in the souls of the lowly born. It abounds in savage, as in civilized life; and the untutored outpourings of the artless Indian of the forest are as sweet to the ear of the savage maiden, as the most refined and flowery phrases of the courtly lover to her who is polished by the arts of civilization. All conquering love! Who can withstand it? It warms into new life the heart of the stoic—it destroys the seeming eternal reason raised fallacies of the great philosopher; and as one by one his self-conquering theories melt away before him, he sighs to own that love is his master, and thus prove himself a frail piece of mortality. All pervading love! Who has not felt its presence?

O, it is sweet to love—to gaze upon some gentle or noble being, and feel all the deep emotions, all the secret sympathies of our nature centered there, as it were a nucleus to our own vitality.— And then to feel that that love is returned; to know, to realize there is a spontaneous unity, a sympathetic yearning of soul for soul; that there is in this cold and selfish world at least one heart in which we may place confidence—one being on whom we can rely, to stand by us, let good or ill betide—one kindred soul that will ever smile when we rejoice, weep when we do mourn--O, this, this is sweet—ay, sweet indeed! And who hath not at some time of his or her life felt this? and who that hath felt, hath not sighed a rejoicing sigh that there was such a thing as love?

But love without hope—love without a reciprocity of feeling—to love one that you know can never be yours; one that you know loves another; as Shakspeare says:

"Ay, there's the rub."

Oh, love without hope is terrible—terrible! To feel your whole life and soul centred in a being— a being every way worthy, but one

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