All this goes upon the presumption
that romantic love is really the only important interest in life.
This train of thought was illuminated, the other night, by an
incident which befell me at a party. It was an assembly of men,
drawn together by their common devotion to the sport of canoeing.
There were only three or four of the gentler sex present (as
honorary members), and only one of whom it could be suspected that
she was at that time a victim or an object of the tender passion.
In the course of the evening, by way of diversion to our
disputations on keels and centreboards, canvas and birch-bark,
cedar-wood and bass-wood, paddles and steering-gear, a fine young
Apollo, with a big, manly voice, sang us a few songs. But he did
not chant the joys of weathering a sudden squall, or running a rapid
feather-white with foam, or floating down a long, quiet, elm-bowered
river. Not all. His songs were full of sighs and yearnings,
languid lips and sheep's-eyes. His powerful voice informed us that
crowns of thorns seemed like garlands of roses, and kisses were as
sweet as samples of heaven, and various other curious sensations
were experienced; and at the end of every stanza the reason was
stated, in tones of thunder--
"Because I love you, dear."
Even if true, it seemed inappropriate.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100