their separation.  We may utter a remark, however, which the particular instance before us occasions, in relation to the singular influence of love upon the mental and moral character of the man.  There is no influence in the world’s circumstance so truly purifying, elevating, and refining.  It instils high and generous sentiments; it ennobles human endeavor; it sanctifies defeat and denial; it polishes manners; it gives to morals a tincture of devotion; and, as with the spell of magic, such as Milton describes in “Comus,” it dissipates with a glance the wild rout of low desires and insane follies which so much blur and blot up the otherwise fair face of human society.  It permits of no meanness in its train; it expels vulgarity, and, with a high stretch toward perfected humanity, it unearths the grovelling nature, and gives it aspirations of sand and sunshine.

Its effect upon Forrester had been of this description.  It had been his only tutor, and had taught him nobly in numberless respects.  In every association with the maiden of his affections, his tone, his language, his temper, and his thoughts, seemed to undergo improvement and purification.  He seemed quite another man whenever he came into her presence, and whenever the thought of her was in his heart.  Indeed, such was the effect of this passion upon both of them; though this may have been partially the result of other circumstances, arising from their particular situation.  For a long time they had known few enjoyments that were not intimately connected with the image of one another; and thus, from having few objects besides of contemplation or concern, they refined upon each other.  As the minute survey in the forest of the single leaf, which, for years, may not have attracted the eye, unfolds the fine veins, the fanciful outline, the clear, green, and transparent texture, and the delicate shadowings of innumerable hues won from the skies and the sunshine—­so, day by day, surveying the single object, they had become familiar with attractions in one another which the passing world would never have supposed either of them to possess.  In such a region, where there are few competitors for human love and regard, the heart clings with hungering tenacity to the few stray affections that spring up, here and there, like flowers dropped by some kindly, careless hand, making a bloom and a blessing for the untrodden wilderness.  Nor do they blossom there in vain, since, as the sage has told us, there is no breeze that wafts not life, no sun that brings not smiles, no water that bears not refreshment, no flower that has not charms and a solace, for some heart that could not well hope to be happy without them.