Love

Every promise of the soul has innumerable fulfilments; each of its joys ripens into a new want. Nature, uncontainable, flowing, forelooking, in the first sentiment of kindness anticipates already a benevolence which shall lose all particular regards in its general light. The introduction to this felicity is in a private and tender relation of one to one, which is the enchantment of human life; which, like a certain divine rage and enthusiasm, seizes on man at one period and works a revolution in his mind and body; unites him to his race, pledges him to the domestic and civic relations, carries him with new sympathy into nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character heroic and sacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanence to human society.

Every promise of the soul has countless fulfillments. Each of its joys grows into a new longing. Nature is boundless, always flowing and looking ahead. In the first feeling of kindness, it already anticipates a love for all that will shine beyond every particular attachment. This happiness begins in a private, tender relationship between two people, the enchantment of human life. Like a divine passion and enthusiasm, it takes hold of a person at a certain time and transforms mind and body. It unites that person with the human race and commits them to family and civic life. It brings them into a new sympathy with nature, sharpens the senses, and opens the imagination. It adds heroic and sacred qualities to their character, establishes marriage, and gives human society lasting stability.

The natural association of the sentiment of love with the heyday of the blood seems to require that in order to portray it in vivid tints, which every youth and maid should confess to be true to their throbbing experience, one must not be too old. The delicious fancies of youth reject the least savor of a mature philosophy, as chilling with age and pedantry their purple bloom. And therefore I know I incur the imputation of unnecessary hardness and stoicism from those who compose the Court and Parliament of Love. But from these formidable censors I shall appeal to my seniors. For it is to be considered that this passion of which we speak, though it begin with the young, yet forsakes not the old, or rather suffers no one who is truly its servant to grow old, but makes the aged participators of it not less than the tender maiden, though in a different and nobler sort. For it is a fire that kindling its first embers in the narrow nook of a private bosom, caught from a wandering spark out of another private heart, glows and enlarges until it warms and beams upon multitudes of men and women, upon the universal heart of all, and so lights up the whole world and all nature with its generous flames. It matters not therefore whether we attempt to describe the passion at twenty, at thirty, or at eighty years. He who paints it at the first period will lose some of its later, he who paints it at the last, some of its earlier traits. Only it is to be hoped that by patience and the Muses’ aid we may attain to that inward view of the law which shall describe a truth ever young and beautiful, so central that it shall commend itself to the eye, at whatever angle beholden.

Love is naturally associated with the height of youthful vigor. So it seems that one must not be too old to portray it vividly enough for every young man and woman to recognize their own thrilling experience. The delightful fancies of youth reject even the slightest hint of mature philosophy. It chills their purple bloom with age and pedantry. I know, therefore, that those who make up the Court and Parliament of Love may accuse me of unnecessary hardness and stoicism. But I will appeal from these formidable judges to my elders. For we must remember that this passion, though it begins with the young, does not abandon the old. Rather, it lets no one who truly serves it grow old. It allows the aged to share in it no less than the tender maiden, though in a different and nobler way. Love is a fire whose first embers are kindled in the small, private space of one heart by a stray spark from another. It glows and spreads until it warms and shines on multitudes of men and women, on the universal heart of all. In this way, its generous flames light up the whole world and all of nature. It does not matter, therefore, whether we try to describe this passion at twenty, thirty, or eighty. Whoever portrays it at the first age will miss some of its later traits. Whoever portrays it at the last will miss some of its earlier ones. We can only hope that patience and the Muses’ help will give us an inward view of the law. Then we may describe a truth that is always young and beautiful, so central that it appeals to the eye from whatever angle it is seen.

And the first condition is, that we must leave a too close and lingering adherence to facts, and study the sentiment as it appeared in hope and not in history. For each man sees his own life defaced and disfigured, as the life of man is not, to his imagination. Each man sees over his own experience a certain stain of error, whilst that of other men looks fair and ideal. Let any man go back to those delicious relations which make the beauty of his life, which have given him sincerest instruction and nourishment, he will shrink and moan. Alas! I know not why, but infinite compunctions embitter in mature life the remembrances of budding joy and cover every beloved name. Every thing is beautiful seen from the point of the intellect, or as truth. But all is sour, if seen as experience. Details are melancholy; the plan is seemly and noble. In the actual world—the painful kingdom of time and place—dwell care, and canker, and fear. With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy. Round it all the Muses sing. But grief cleaves to names, and persons, and the partial interests of to-day and yesterday.

The first condition is that we must stop clinging too closely and too long to facts. We must study the feeling as it appeared in hope, not in history. Each person sees their own life as marred and disfigured, unlike human life as they imagine it. Each sees a stain of error on their own experience, while other people's experiences look beautiful and ideal. Let anyone look back on the cherished relationships that make their life beautiful and have taught and nourished them most deeply. They will shrink and groan. Alas, I do not know why, but countless regrets embitter our mature memories of emerging joy and surround every beloved name. Everything is beautiful when seen through the intellect, or as truth. But everything is sour when seen as experience. The details are sad, but the design is fitting and noble. In the actual world, the painful kingdom of time and place, there is worry, decay, and fear. With thought and the ideal comes undying delight, the rose of joy. Around that rose, all the Muses sing. But grief clings to names and people, and to the limited concerns of today and yesterday.

The strong bent of nature is seen in the proportion which this topic of personal relations usurps in the conversation of society. What do we wish to know of any worthy person so much, as how he has sped in the history of this sentiment? What books in the circulating libraries circulate? How we glow over these novels of passion, when the story is told with any spark of truth and nature! And what fastens attention, in the intercourse of life, like any passage betraying affection between two parties? Perhaps we never saw them before, and never shall meet them again. But we see them exchange a glance, or betray a deep emotion, and we are no longer strangers. We understand them, and take the warmest interest in the development of the romance. All mankind love a lover. The earliest demonstrations of complacency and kindness are nature’s most winning pictures. It is the dawn of civility and grace in the coarse and rustic. The rude village boy teases the girls about the school-house door;—but to-day he comes running into the entry, and meets one fair child disposing her satchel; he holds her books to help her, and instantly it seems to him as if she removed herself from him infinitely, and was a sacred precinct. Among the throng of girls he runs rudely enough, but one alone distances him; and these two little neighbors, that were so close just now, have learned to respect each other’s personality. Or who can avert his eyes from the engaging, half-artful, half-artless ways of school-girls who go into the country shops to buy a skein of silk or a sheet of paper, and talk half an hour about nothing with the broad-faced, good-natured shop-boy. In the village they are on a perfect equality, which love delights in, and without any coquetry the happy, affectionate nature of woman flows out in this pretty gossip. The girls may have little beauty, yet plainly do they establish between them and the good boy the most agreeable, confiding relations, what with their fun and their earnest, about Edgar and Jonas and Almira, and who was invited to the party, and who danced at the dancing-school, and when the singing-school would begin, and other nothings concerning which the parties cooed. By and by that boy wants a wife, and very truly and heartily will he know where to find a sincere and sweet mate, without any risk such as Milton deplores as incident to scholars and great men.

The strong pull of nature is clear from how much of society’s conversation is taken up by personal relationships. What do we want to know more about any worthy person than how they have fared in love? What books are borrowed from lending libraries? How passionately we read these novels of love, when the story is told with any spark of truth and natural feeling! And what holds our attention in everyday life like a moment that reveals affection between two people? Perhaps we have never seen them before and never will again. But we see them exchange a glance or reveal a deep emotion, and we are no longer strangers. We understand them and take the warmest interest in how their romance develops. All mankind love a lover. The first signs of tenderness and kindness are among nature’s most appealing sights. They are the beginnings of courtesy and grace in people who are rough and unsophisticated. A rough village boy teases the girls at the schoolhouse door. But today he comes running into the entryway and meets one pretty child putting away her satchel. He holds her books to help her. Instantly, she seems infinitely distant from him, as if she were sacred ground. He runs roughly enough among the crowd of girls, but one girl alone keeps him at a distance. These two young neighbors, who were so close just now, have learned to respect each other as individuals. Or who can look away from the charming ways of schoolgirls, half deliberate and half innocent, in country shops? They go in to buy a skein of silk or a sheet of paper. Then they talk about nothing for half an hour with the broad-faced, good-natured shop boy. In the village they are perfectly equal, as love delights in seeing them. Without any flirting, the happy, affectionate nature of women flows out in this pleasant chatter. The girls may have little beauty. Yet they clearly establish the most agreeable, trusting relationships with the good boy. They joke and speak seriously about Edgar and Jonas and Almira. They talk about who was invited to the party, who danced at dancing school, and when singing school would begin. They coo over these and other trifles. Before long, the boy wants a wife. He will know, truly and wholeheartedly, where to find a sincere and sweet partner. He will face none of the risk that Milton laments as part of the lot of scholars and great men.

I have been told that in some public discourses of mine my reverence for the intellect has made me unjustly cold to the personal relations. But now I almost shrink at the remembrance of such disparaging words. For persons are love’s world, and the coldest philosopher cannot recount the debt of the young soul wandering here in nature to the power of love, without being tempted to unsay, as treasonable to nature, aught derogatory to the social instincts. For though the celestial rapture falling out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age, and although a beauty overpowering all analysis or comparison and putting us quite beside ourselves we can seldom see after thirty years, yet the remembrance of these visions outlasts all other remembrances, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. But here is a strange fact; it may seem to many men, in revising their experience, that they have no fairer page in their life’s book than the delicious memory of some passages wherein affection contrived to give a witchcraft, surpassing the deep attraction of its own truth, to a parcel of accidental and trivial circumstances. In looking backward they may find that several things which were not the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the charm itself which embalmed them. But be our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things anew; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youth becomes a watcher of windows and studious of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place is too solitary and none too silent, for him who has richer company and sweeter conversation in his new thoughts than any old friends, though best and purest, can give him; for the figures, the motions, the words of the beloved object are not like other images written in water, but, as Plutarch said, “enamelled in fire,” and make the study of midnight:—

I have been told that, in some of my public lectures, my respect for the intellect has made me unfairly cold toward personal relationships. But now I almost shrink from remembering such dismissive words. People are the world of love. Even the coldest philosopher cannot describe how much a young soul wandering through nature owes to the power of love without wanting to take back any slight against our social instincts, as a betrayal of nature. Heavenly rapture falls only upon the young. After thirty, we seldom see a beauty that overwhelms all analysis and comparison and carries us completely away. Yet the memory of these visions lasts longer than all other memories. It is a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows. Here is a strange fact. Looking back over their lives, many men may feel that no page is more beautiful than the sweet memory of certain moments. In those moments, affection managed to cast a spell over a set of accidental, trivial details. The spell surpassed even the deep attraction of affection’s own truth. Looking back, they may find that several things that were not the source of the enchantment feel more real to their searching memory than the enchantment that preserved them. But whatever the details of our experience, no man has ever forgotten the visits of that power to his heart and mind. It made all things new and awakened music, poetry, and art in him. It made the face of nature radiant with purple light, and morning and night became different kinds of enchantment. A single tone of one voice could make his heart leap. The most trivial detail associated with one person was preserved in the amber of memory. He became all eyes when that person was present, and all memory when that person was gone. The young man watched windows and studied a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage. No place was too lonely or too quiet for him. His new thoughts gave him richer company and sweeter conversation than any old friends, however good and pure, could offer. For the beloved person’s appearance, movements, and words were not like other images written in water. As Plutarch said, they were “enamelled in fire,” and he studied them at midnight:

In the noon and the afternoon of life we still throb at the recollection of days when happiness was not happy enough, but must be drugged with the relish of pain and fear; for he touched the secret of the matter who said of love,—

In the middle and later years of life, we still feel a thrill when we remember those days. Happiness alone was not enough then. It had to be heightened by a taste of pain and fear. For the person who said this about love understood its secret:

and when the day was not long enough, but the night too must be consumed in keen recollections; when the head boiled all night on the pillow with the generous deed it resolved on; when the moonlight was a pleasing fever and the stars were letters and the flowers ciphers and the air was coined into song; when all business seemed an impertinence, and all the men and women running to and fro in the streets, mere pictures.

And when the day was not long enough, the night too had to be spent in vivid memories. The mind raced all night on the pillow, thinking of the generous deed it had resolved to do. Moonlight was a pleasant fever, the stars were letters, and the flowers were secret signs. The air was turned into song. All business seemed an intrusion, and all the men and women rushing through the streets seemed like mere pictures.

The passion rebuilds the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and significant. Nature grows conscious. Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul. The notes are almost articulate. The clouds have faces as he looks on them. The trees of the forest, the waving grass and the peeping flowers have grown intelligent; and he almost fears to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men:—

Passion rebuilds the world for the young man. It makes all things alive and meaningful. Nature becomes aware. Every bird in the branches now sings to his heart and soul. The notes almost form words. As he looks at the clouds, they have faces. The forest trees, the waving grass, and the emerging flowers have become intelligent. He almost fears to trust them with the secret they seem to invite him to share. Yet nature comforts him and shares his feelings. In the green solitude, he finds a more cherished home than among people:

Behold there in the wood the fine madman! He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; he dilates; he is twice a man; he walks with arms akimbo; he soliloquizes; he accosts the grass and the trees; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover and the lily in his veins; and he talks with the brook that wets his foot.

Look at that wonderful madman in the woods! He is a palace of beautiful sounds and sights. He expands. He is twice the man he was. He walks with his hands on his hips. He talks to himself. He speaks to the grass and the trees. He feels the blood of the violet, the clover, and the lily in his veins. He talks with the brook that wets his foot.

The heats that have opened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music and verse. It is a fact often observed, that men have written good verses under the inspiration of passion, who cannot write well under any other circumstances.

The passions that have opened his eyes to natural beauty have also made him love music and poetry. People have often observed that men inspired by passion have written good poems, though they cannot write well under any other circumstances.

The like force has the passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown gentle and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him to another it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain to his family and society; he is somewhat; he is a person; he is a soul.

The passion has the same power over his whole nature. It deepens his feelings. It makes a crude man gentle and gives a coward courage. It can fill even the most pitiful and wretched person with the heart and courage to defy the world, as long as he has the support of his beloved. By giving him to another, love gives him even more fully to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and sharper purposes, and a religious seriousness in his character and aims. He no longer belongs to his family and society. He matters. He is a person. He is a soul.

And here let us examine a little nearer the nature of that influence which is thus potent over the human youth. Beauty, whose revelation to man we now celebrate, welcome as the sun wherever it pleases to shine, which pleases everybody with it and with themselves, seems sufficient to itself. The lover cannot paint his maiden to his fancy poor and solitary. Like a tree in flower, so much soft, budding, informing loveliness is society for itself; and she teaches his eye why Beauty was pictured with Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her existence makes the world rich. Though she extrudes all other persons from his attention as cheap and unworthy, she indemnifies him by carrying out her own being into somewhat impersonal, large, mundane, so that the maiden stands to him for a representative of all select things and virtues. For that reason the lover never sees personal resemblances in his mistress to her kindred or to others. His friends find in her a likeness to her mother, or her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The lover sees no resemblance except to summer evenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows and the song of birds.

Let us look more closely at the nature of this influence, which has such power over young people. We now celebrate the revelation of Beauty to humanity. Beauty is welcome wherever it chooses to shine, like the sun. It makes everyone pleased with Beauty and with themselves, and it seems complete in itself. The lover cannot imagine his beloved poor and alone. Like a tree in flower, her soft, budding, shaping loveliness is company enough for itself. She shows him why Beauty was pictured with Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her existence makes the world rich. She draws his attention away from all other people, who seem cheap and unworthy by comparison. Yet she makes up for this by extending her own being into something impersonal, vast, and worldly. In this way, his beloved comes to represent all the finest things and virtues. That is why the lover never sees any resemblance between his beloved and her relatives or anyone else. His friends find a likeness to her mother, her sisters, or people unrelated to her. The lover sees no resemblance except to summer evenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows and the song of birds.

The ancients called beauty the flowering of virtue. Who can analyze the nameless charm which glances from one and another face and form? We are touched with emotions of tenderness and complacency, but we cannot find whereat this dainty emotion, this wandering gleam, points. It is destroyed for the imagination by any attempt to refer it to organization. Nor does it point to any relations of friendship or love known and described in society, but, as it seems to me, to a quite other and unattainable sphere, to relations of transcendent delicacy and sweetness, to what roses and violets hint and foreshow. We cannot approach beauty. Its nature is like opaline doves’-neck lustres, hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most excellent things, which all have this rainbow character, defying all attempts at appropriation and use. What else did Jean Paul Richter signify, when he said to music, “Away! away! thou speakest to me of things which in all my endless life I have not found, and shall not find.” The same fluency may be observed in every work of the plastic arts. The statue is then beautiful when it begins to be incomprehensible, when it is passing out of criticism and can no longer be defined by compass and measuring-wand, but demands an active imagination to go with it and to say what it is in the act of doing. The god or hero of the sculptor is always represented in a transition from that which is representable to the senses, to that which is not. Then first it ceases to be a stone. The same remark holds of painting. And of poetry the success is not attained when it lulls and satisfies, but when it astonishes and fires us with new endeavors after the unattainable. Concerning it Landor inquires “whether it is not to be referred to some purer state of sensation and existence.”

The ancients called beauty the flowering of virtue. Who can explain the nameless charm that flashes from one face or figure and then another? We feel tenderness and pleasure, but we cannot tell what this delicate feeling, this fleeting gleam, points to. Any attempt to trace it to physical structure destroys it for the imagination. Nor does it point to any relationship of friendship or love known and described in society. Rather, it seems to me to point to a completely different and unattainable sphere. It points to relationships of transcendent delicacy and sweetness, to what roses and violets hint at and foreshadow. We cannot approach beauty. Its nature is like the iridescent sheen on a dove’s neck, shifting and fleeting. In this, beauty resembles the finest things. All of them have this rainbow quality, resisting every attempt to possess or use them. What else did Jean Paul Richter mean when he said to music, “Away! Away! You speak to me of things that, in all my endless life, I have not found and shall not find”? The same fleeting quality can be seen in every work of visual art. A statue becomes beautiful when it begins to be beyond understanding. It passes beyond criticism and can no longer be defined by compass and measuring stick. Instead, it calls for an active imagination to follow it and say what it is in the act of doing. The sculptor’s god or hero is always shown moving from what the senses can perceive to what they cannot. Only then does the statue cease to be stone. The same is true of painting. And poetry succeeds not when it soothes and satisfies us, but when it astonishes us. It inspires us to make new efforts to reach the unattainable. Of poetry, Landor asks “whether it should not be traced to some purer state of sensation and existence.”

In like manner, personal beauty is then first charming and itself when it dissatisfies us with any end; when it becomes a story without an end; when it suggests gleams and visions and not earthly satisfactions; when it makes the beholder feel his unworthiness; when he cannot feel his right to it, though he were Cæsar; he cannot feel more right to it than to the firmament and the splendors of a sunset.

In the same way, personal beauty becomes truly charming and fully itself only when it leaves us dissatisfied with any ending. It becomes a story without an end, suggesting glimpses and visions rather than earthly satisfactions. It makes the person who sees it feel unworthy. Even if he were Cæsar, he could not feel entitled to it. He could feel no more entitled to it than to the sky and the splendors of a sunset.

Hence arose the saying, “If I love you, what is that to you?” We say so because we feel that what we love is not in your will, but above it. It is not you, but your radiance. It is that which you know not in yourself and can never know.

This is where the saying comes from: “If I love you, what is that to you?” We say this because we feel that what we love is beyond your will, above it. It is not you, but your radiance. It is what you do not know in yourself and can never know.

This agrees well with that high philosophy of Beauty which the ancient writers delighted in; for they said that the soul of man, embodied here on earth, went roaming up and down in quest of that other world of its own out of which it came into this, but was soon stupefied by the light of the natural sun, and unable to see any other objects than those of this world, which are but shadows of real things. Therefore the Deity sends the glory of youth before the soul, that it may avail itself of beautiful bodies as aids to its recollection of the celestial good and fair; and the man beholding such a person in the female sex runs to her and finds the highest joy in contemplating the form, movement, and intelligence of this person, because it suggests to him the presence of that which indeed is within the beauty, and the cause of the beauty.

This agrees well with the ancient writers’ lofty philosophy of Beauty, which they delighted in. They said that the human soul, once embodied on earth, wandered in search of its own world, from which it had come. But the light of the earthly sun soon dazed the soul. It could see only the things of this world, which are merely shadows of real things. Therefore, the Deity sends the glory of youth before the soul. Beautiful bodies can help the soul remember the heavenly goodness and beauty it once knew. When a man sees such beauty in a woman, he runs to her. He finds the greatest joy in contemplating her form, movement, and intelligence. For these suggest to him the presence of something that truly lies within her beauty and is its cause.

If however, from too much conversing with material objects, the soul was gross, and misplaced its satisfaction in the body, it reaped nothing but sorrow; body being unable to fulfil the promise which beauty holds out; but if, accepting the hint of these visions and suggestions which beauty makes to his mind, the soul passes through the body and falls to admire strokes of character, and the lovers contemplate one another in their discourses and their actions, then they pass to the true palace of beauty, more and more inflame their love of it, and by this love extinguishing the base affection, as the sun puts out the fire by shining on the hearth, they become pure and hallowed. By conversation with that which is in itself excellent, magnanimous, lowly, and just, the lover comes to a warmer love of these nobilities, and a quicker apprehension of them. Then he passes from loving them in one to loving them in all, and so is the one beautiful soul only the door through which he enters to the society of all true and pure souls. In the particular society of his mate he attains a clearer sight of any spot, any taint which her beauty has contracted from this world, and is able to point it out, and this with mutual joy that they are now able, without offence, to indicate blemishes and hindrances in each other, and give to each all help and comfort in curing the same. And beholding in many souls the traits of the divine beauty, and separating in each soul that which is divine from the taint which it has contracted in the world, the lover ascends to the highest beauty, to the love and knowledge of the Divinity, by steps on this ladder of created souls.

If, however, the soul becomes coarse through too much contact with material things, it may seek satisfaction in the body. In that case, it gains nothing but sorrow, because the body cannot fulfill the promise of beauty. But the soul may instead accept the hints that beauty gives the mind through its visions and suggestions. It may look beyond the body and come to admire qualities of character. If the lovers see these qualities in each other's words and actions, they enter the true palace of beauty. Their love of beauty grows ever stronger. Through that love, they put out their lower desire, just as the sun puts out a fire by shining on the hearth. They become pure and sacred. By keeping company with what is excellent, generous, humble, and just in itself, the lover comes to love these noble qualities more deeply. He also recognizes them more readily. Then he passes from loving these qualities in one person to loving them in all. So the one beautiful soul becomes only the door through which he enters the company of all true and pure souls. In the company of his beloved, he sees more clearly any flaw or stain her beauty has acquired from the world. He can point it out, and both rejoice that they can now point out each other's flaws and obstacles without causing offense. They can give each other every help and comfort in overcoming them. The lover sees traits of divine beauty in many souls. In each soul, he separates what is divine from the stain it has acquired in the world. By these steps on the ladder of created souls, he rises to the highest beauty, to the love and knowledge of the Divinity.

Somewhat like this have the truly wise told us of love in all ages. The doctrine is not old, nor is it new. If Plato, Plutarch and Apuleius taught it, so have Petrarch, Angelo and Milton. It awaits a truer unfolding in opposition and rebuke to that subterranean prudence which presides at marriages with words that take hold of the upper world, whilst one eye is prowling in the cellar; so that its gravest discourse has a savor of hams and powdering-tubs. Worst, when this sensualism intrudes into the education of young women, and withers the hope and affection of human nature by teaching that marriage signifies nothing but a housewife’s thrift, and that woman’s life has no other aim.

Truly wise people in every age have said much the same about love. The teaching is neither old nor new. If Plato, Plutarch and Apuleius taught it, so did Petrarch, Angelo and Milton. This teaching still awaits a truer expression, one that opposes and rebukes the low, calculating prudence that presides over marriages. Such prudence speaks of lofty things while keeping one eye on the cellar. Even its most serious talk has a flavor of hams and meat-curing tubs. Worst of all, this sensualism enters the education of young women. It withers the hope and affection of human nature by teaching that marriage means nothing but a housewife’s thrift. It teaches that a woman’s life has no other aim.

But this dream of love, though beautiful, is only one scene in our play. In the procession of the soul from within outward, it enlarges its circles ever, like the pebble thrown into the pond, or the light proceeding from an orb. The rays of the soul alight first on things nearest, on every utensil and toy, on nurses and domestics, on the house and yard and passengers, on the circle of household acquaintance, on politics and geography and history. But things are ever grouping themselves according to higher or more interior laws. Neighborhood, size, numbers, habits, persons, lose by degrees their power over us. Cause and effect, real affinities, the longing for harmony between the soul and the circumstance, the progressive, idealizing instinct, predominate later, and the step backward from the higher to the lower relations is impossible. Thus even love, which is the deification of persons, must become more impersonal every day. Of this at first it gives no hint. Little think the youth and maiden who are glancing at each other across crowded rooms with eyes so full of mutual intelligence, of the precious fruit long hereafter to proceed from this new, quite external stimulus. The work of vegetation begins first in the irritability of the bark and leaf-buds. From exchanging glances, they advance to acts of courtesy, of gallantry, then to fiery passion, to plighting troth and marriage. Passion beholds its object as a perfect unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled:—

But this dream of love, though beautiful, is only one scene in our play. As the soul moves outward from within, its circles keep widening. They spread like ripples from a pebble thrown into a pond, or like light from a glowing sphere. The soul’s rays fall first on the nearest things: every tool and toy, nurses and servants, the house and yard, and passersby. They fall on the circle of family acquaintances, on politics, geography, and history. But things are always grouping themselves according to higher or more inward laws. Nearness, size, numbers, habits, and people gradually lose their power over us. Later, other forces take over: cause and effect, genuine affinities, and the longing for harmony between the soul and its circumstances. So does the instinct to progress and seek ideals. Once we have reached these higher relationships, we cannot step back to the lower ones. Thus even love, which makes gods of people, must become more impersonal every day. At first, love gives no hint of this change. A young man and woman exchange knowing glances across crowded rooms. Little do they think of the precious fruit that will grow, long afterward, from this new and entirely external stimulus. Plant growth begins with the sensitivity of the bark and leaf buds. The young man and woman move from exchanging glances to acts of courtesy and courtship. Then come fiery passion, promises of faithfulness, and marriage. Passion sees its beloved as a perfect whole. The soul is wholly present in the body, and the body is wholly filled with soul:

Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make the heavens fine. Life, with this pair, has no other aim, asks no more, than Juliet,—than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms, religion, are all contained in this form full of soul, in this soul which is all form. The lovers delight in endearments, in avowals of love, in comparisons of their regards. When alone, they solace themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does that other see the same star, the same melting cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, that now delight me? They try and weigh their affection, and adding up costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discovering that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head, not one hair of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow, and pain arrive to them, as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power in behalf of this dear mate. The union which is thus effected and which adds a new value to every atom in nature—for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a new and sweeter element—is yet a temporary state. Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness and aspires to vast and universal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each, craving a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, defects and disproportion in the behavior of the other. Hence arise surprise, expostulation and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of virtue; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and reappear and continue to attract; but the regard changes, quits the sign and attaches to the substance. This repairs the wounded affection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of permutation and combination of all possible positions of the parties, to employ all the resources of each and acquaint each with the strength and weakness of the other. For it is the nature and end of this relation, that they should represent the human race to each other. All that is in the world, which is or ought to be known, is cunningly wrought into the texture of man, of woman:—

If Romeo dies, he should be cut into little stars to make the heavens beautiful. For these two, life has no other aim and asks for nothing more than Juliet, or Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms, and religion are all contained in this body full of soul, in this soul that is all body. The lovers delight in tender words, declarations of love, and comparisons of their feelings. When alone, they comfort themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does my beloved see the same star or the same melting cloud? Does my beloved read the same book or feel the same emotion that delights me now? They test and measure their love. They add up precious advantages, friends, opportunities, and possessions. Then they rejoice to find that they would willingly, joyfully give all of them to save the beloved’s beautiful head. Not one hair of it shall be harmed. But these children share the fate of humanity. Danger, sorrow, and pain come to them, as they do to everyone. Love prays. It makes agreements with Eternal Power on behalf of this dear partner. The union that results gives every atom in nature a new value. It turns every thread in the whole web of relationships into a golden ray. It bathes the soul in a new and sweeter element. Yet this union is a temporary state. Flowers, pearls, poetry, declarations of love, and even a home in another heart cannot always satisfy the awe inspiring soul that lives in a body. At last, the soul wakes from these tender pleasures as if they were toys. It puts on its harness and strives toward vast, universal aims. The soul within the soul of each lover longs for perfect happiness. It detects things that do not fit, flaws, and imbalances in the other’s behavior. These bring surprise, protest, and pain. Yet what drew the lovers together was signs of beauty and virtue. Those virtues are still there, however hidden they may be. They appear and reappear and continue to attract. But the lovers’ regard changes. It leaves the sign and attaches itself to the substance. This heals their wounded love. Meanwhile, as life goes on, it proves to be a game of changing and combining every possible position the two can occupy. It calls on all the resources of each and lets each learn the other’s strengths and weaknesses. For it is the nature and purpose of this relationship that they should represent the human race to each other. All that is in the world, all that is known or ought to be known, is skillfully woven into the fabric of man and woman:

The world rolls; the circumstances vary every hour. The angels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at the windows, and the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known as such; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard is sobered by time in either breast, and losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding. They resign each other without complaint to the good offices which man and woman are severally appointed to discharge in time, and exchange the passion which once could not lose sight of its object, for a cheerful, disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other’s designs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together,—those once sacred features, that magical play of charms,—was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by which the house was built; and the purification of the intellect and the heart from year to year is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness. Looking at these aims with which two persons, a man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up in one house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the emphasis with which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature and intellect and art emulate each other in the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium.

The world keeps turning, and circumstances change every hour. The angels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at its windows, and so do the gnomes and vices. The two are united by all the virtues. If virtue is present, all the vices are recognized as vices. They confess and flee. Time tempers the once fiery affection in both hearts. As their affection grows broader and less intense, it becomes a deep mutual understanding. Without complaint, they leave each other free to carry out the good work that man and woman are each appointed to do in time. Their passion once could not bear to lose sight of its object. Now they replace it with cheerful, unpossessive support for each other’s plans, whether they are together or apart. At last they discover that everything that first drew them together was bound to fall away. Those once sacred features and that magical play of charms were destined to pass, like the scaffolding used to build a house. The real marriage is the purification of the mind and heart, year after year. It was foreseen and prepared from the first, entirely beyond their awareness. A man and a woman are brought together in one house to spend forty or fifty years in marriage. They have different but complementary gifts, and I consider the aims their marriage serves. In light of these aims, I do not wonder that the heart so strongly foretells this turning point from early childhood. Nor do I wonder at the lavish beauty with which the instincts adorn the bridal chamber. Nature, intellect, and art compete to bring gifts and music to the wedding song.

Thus are we put in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which seeks virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with pain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects of thought do. There are moments when the affections rule and absorb the man and make his happiness dependent on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen again,—its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and fears that swept over us as clouds must lose their finite character and blend with God, to attain their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose any thing by the progress of the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive as these relations, must be succeeded and supplanted only by what is more beautiful, and so on for ever.

In this way, we are trained for a love that knows no sex, person, or preference. This love seeks virtue and wisdom everywhere, so that virtue and wisdom may grow. We are observers by nature, and so we are learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our affections are only tents for a night. Though slowly and painfully, the objects of our affections change, just as the objects of our thoughts do. At times, our affections rule and absorb us, making our happiness depend on one person or several people. But when we are healthy, the mind soon comes into view again. Its vast dome shines with galaxies of unchanging lights. The warm loves and fears that swept over us like clouds must lose their limited nature. They must merge with God to reach their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose anything as the soul progresses. We can trust the soul to the end. Relationships as beautiful and attractive as these must be followed and replaced only by what is more beautiful. And this must continue forever.