There are good stories of our own day--pathetic, humourous,
entertaining, powerful--in which the element of romantic love is
altogether subordinate, or even imperceptible. THE RISE OF SILAS
LAPHAM does not owe its deep interest to the engagement of the very
charming young people who enliven it. MADAME DELPHINE and OLE
'STRACTED are perfect stories of their kind. I would not barter THE
JUNGLE BOOKS for a hundred of THE BRUSHWOOD BOY.
The truth is that love, considered merely as the preference of one
person for another of the opposite sex, is not "the greatest thing
in the world." It becomes great only when it leads on, as it often
does, to heroism and self-sacrifice and fidelity. Its chief value
for art (the interpreter) lies not in itself, but in its quickening
relation to the other elements of life. It must be seen and shown
in its due proportion, and in harmony with the broader landscape.
Do you believe that in all the world there is only one woman
specially created for each man, and that the order of the universe
will be hopelessly askew unless these two needles find each other in
the haystack? You believe it for yourself, perhaps; but do you
believe it for Tom Johnson? You remember what a terrific
disturbance he made in the summer of 189-, at Bar Harbor, about
Ellinor Brown, and how he ran away with her in September.
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