These early marriages are usual in France. Here,
      however, are Moissart, Voissart, Croissart, and Froissart, all in
      the direct line of descent. My own name, though, as I say, became
      Simpson, by act of Legislature, and with so much repugnance on my
      part, that, at one period, I actually hesitated about accepting
      the legacy with the useless and annoying proviso attached. As to personal endowments, I am by no means deficient. On the
      contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess what nine
      tenths of the world would call a handsome face. In height I am
      five feet eleven. My hair is black and curling. My nose is
      sufficiently good. My eyes are large and gray; and although, in
      fact they are weak to a very inconvenient degree, still no defect
      in this regard would be suspected from their appearance. The
      weakness itself, however, has always much annoyed me, and I have
      resorted to every remedy—short of wearing glasses. Being youthful
      and good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have resolutely
      refused to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which so
      disfigures the countenance of a young person, or so impresses
      every feature with an air of demureness, if not altogether of
      sanctimoniousness and of age. An eyeglass, on the other hand, has
      a savor of downright foppery and affectation. I have hitherto
      managed as well as I could without either. But something too much
      of these merely personal details, which, after all, are of little
      importance. I will content myself with saying, in addition, that
      my temperament is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic—and that
      all my life I have been a devoted admirer of the women. One night last winter I entered a box at the P—— Theatre, in
      company with a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an opera night, and the
      bills presented a very rare attraction, so that the house was
      excessively crowded. We were in time, however, to obtain the
      front seats which had been reserved for us, and into which, with
      some little difficulty, we elbowed our way. For two hours my companion, who was a musical fanatico, gave his
      undivided attention to the stage; and, in the meantime, I amused
      myself by observing the audience, which consisted, in chief part,
      of the very elite of the city. Having satisfied myself upon this
      point, I was about turning my eyes to the prima donna, when they
      were arrested and riveted by a figure in one of the private boxes
      which had escaped my observation. If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense
      emotion with which I regarded this figure. It was that of a
      female, the most exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was so far
      turned toward the stage that, for some minutes, I could not
      obtain a view of it—but the form was divine; no other word can
      sufficiently express its magnificent proportion—and even the term
      “divine” seems ridiculously feeble as I write it. The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female
      gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible
      to resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau
      ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions. The figure,
      almost all of which the construction of the box permitted to be
      seen, was somewhat above the medium height, and nearly
      approached, without positively reaching, the majestic. Its
      perfect fullness and tournure were delicious. The head, of which
      only the back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek
      Psyche, and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap
      of _gaze äérienne_, which put me in mind of the _ventum textilem_
      of Apuleius. The right arm hung over the balustrade of the box,
      and thrilled every nerve of my frame with its exquisite symmetry. Its upper portion was draperied by one of the loose open sleeves
      now in fashion. This extended but little below the elbow. Beneath
      it was worn an under one of some frail material, close-fitting,
      and terminated by a cuff of rich lace, which fell gracefully over
      the top of the hand, revealing only the delicate fingers, upon
      one of which sparkled a diamond ring, which I at once saw was of
      extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist was
      well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and which also was
      ornamented and clasped by a magnificent aigrette of
      jewels—telling, in words that could not be mistaken, at once of
      the wealth and fastidious taste of the wearer. I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour, as
      if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during this
      period, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been said
      or sung concerning “love at first sight.” My feelings were
      totally different from any which I had hitherto experienced, in
      the presence of even the most celebrated specimens of female
      loveliness. An unaccountable, and what I am compelled to consider
      a magnetic, sympathy of soul for soul, seemed to rivet, not only
      my vision, but my whole powers of thought and feeling, upon the
      admirable object before me. I saw—I felt—I knew that I was
      deeply, madly, irrevocably in love—and this even before seeing
      the face of the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the
      passion that consumed me, that I really believe it would have
      received little if any abatement had the features, yet unseen,
      proved of merely ordinary character; so anomalous is the nature
      of the only true love—of the love at first sight—and so little
      really dependent is it upon the external conditions which only
      seem to create and control it. While I was thus wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a
      sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn her head
      partially toward me, so that I beheld the entire profile of the
      face. Its beauty even exceeded my anticipations—and yet there was
      something about it which disappointed me without my being able to
      tell exactly what it was. I said “disappointed,” but this is not
      altogether the word. My sentiments were at once quieted and
      exalted. They partook less of transport and more of calm
      enthusiasm—of enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling arose,
      perhaps, from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the face; and
      yet I at once understood that it could not have arisen entirely
      from this. There was something else—some mystery which I could
      not develope—some expression about the countenance which slightly
      disturbed me while it greatly heightened my interest.