You've been in love, of course! If not you've got it to come. Loveis like the measles; we all have to go through it. Also like themeasles, we take it only once. One never need be afraid of catchingit a second time. The man who has had it can go into the mostdangerous places and play the most foolhardy tricks with perfectsafety. He can picnic in shady woods, ramble through leafy aisles,and linger on mossy seats to watch the sunset. He fears a quietcountry-house no more than he would his own club. He can join afamily party to go down the Rhine. He can, to see the last of afriend, venture into the very jaws of the marriage ceremony itself.

He can keep his head through the whirl of a ravishing waltz, and restafterward in a dark conservatory, catching nothing more lasting than acold. He can brave a moonlight walk adown sweet-scented lanes or atwilight pull among the somber rushes. He can get over a stilewithout danger, scramble through a tangled hedge without being caught,come down a slippery path without falling. He can look into sunnyeyes and not be dazzled. He listens to the siren voices, yet sails onwith unveered helm. He clasps white hands in his, but no electric"Lulu"-like force holds him bound in their dainty pressure.

No, we never sicken with love twice. Cupid spends no second arrow onthe same heart. Love's handmaids are our life-long friends. Respect,and admiration, and affection, our doors may always be left open for,but their great celestial master, in his royal progress, pays but onevisit and departs. We like, we cherish, we are very, very fondof--but we never love again. A man's heart is a firework that once inits time flashes heavenward. Meteor-like, it blazes for a moment andlights with its glory the whole world beneath. Then the night of oursordid commonplace life closes in around it, and the burned-out case,falling back to earth, lies useless and uncared for, slowly smolderinginto ashes. Once, breaking loose from our prison bonds, we dare, asmighty old Prometheus dared, to scale the Olympian mount and snatchfrom Phoebus' chariot the fire of the gods. Happy those who,hastening down again ere it dies out, can kindle their earthly altarsat its flame. Love is too pure a light to burn long among the noisomegases that we breathe, but before it is choked out we may use it as atorch to ignite the cozy fire of affection.

And, after all, that warming glow is more suited to our cold littleback parlor of a world than is the burning spirit love. Love shouldbe the vestal fire of some mighty temple--some vast dim fane whoseorgan music is the rolling of the spheres. Affection will burncheerily when the white flame of love is flickered out. Affection isa fire that can be fed from day to day and be piled up ever higher asthe wintry years draw nigh. Old men and women can sit by it withtheir thin hands clasped, the little children can nestle down infront, the friend and neighbor has his welcome corner by its side, andeven shaggy Fido and sleek Titty can toast their noses at the bars.

Let us heap the coals of kindness upon that fire. Throw on yourpleasant words, your gentle pressures of the hand, your thoughtful andunselfish deeds. Fan it with good-humor, patience, and forbearance.

You can let the wind blow and the rain fall unheeded then, for yourhearth will be warm and bright, and the faces round it will makesunshine in spite of the clouds without.

I am afraid, dear Edwin and Angelina, you expect too much from love.

You think there is enough of your little hearts to feed this fierce,devouring passion for all your long lives. Ah, young folk! don't relytoo much upon that unsteady flicker. It will dwindle and dwindle asthe months roll on, and there is no replenishing the fuel. You willwatch it die out in anger and disappointment. To each it will seemthat it is the other who is growing colder. Edwin sees withbitterness that Angelina no longer runs to the gate to meet him, allsmiles and blushes; and when he has a cough now she doesn't begin tocry and, putting her arms round his neck, say that she cannot livewithout him. The most she will probably do is to suggest a lozenge,and even that in a tone implying that it is the noise more thananything else she is anxious to get rid of.

Poor little Angelina, too, sheds silent tears, for Edwin has given upcarrying her old handkerchief in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

Both are astonished at the falling off in the other one, but neithersees their own change. If they did they would not suffer as they do.

They would look for the cause in the right quarter--in the littlenessof poor human nature--join hands over their common failing, and startbuilding their house anew on a more earthly and enduring foundation.

But we are so blind to our own shortcomings, so wide awake to those ofothers. Everything that happens to us is always the other person'sfault. Angelina would have gone on loving Edwin forever and ever andever if only Edwin had not grown so strange and different. Edwinwould have adored Angelina through eternity if Angelina had onlyremained the same as when he first adored her.

It is a cheerless hour for you both when the lamp of love has gone outand the fire of affection is not yet lit, and you have to grope aboutin the cold, raw dawn of life to kindle it. God grant it catcheslight before the day is too far spent. Many sit shivering by the deadcoals till night come.

But, there, of what use is it to preach? Who that feels the rush ofyoung love through his veins can think it will ever flow feeble andslow! To the boy of twenty it seems impossible that he will not loveas wildly at sixty as he does then. He cannot call to mind anymiddle-aged or elderly gentleman of his acquaintance who is known toexhibit symptoms of frantic attachment, but that does not interfere inhis belief in himself. His love will never fall, whoever else's may.

Nobody ever loved as he loves, and so, of course, the rest of theworld's experience can be no guide in his case. Alas! alas! erethirty he has joined the ranks of the sneerers. It is not his fault.

Our passions, both the good and bad, cease with our blushes. We donot hate, nor grieve, nor joy, nor despair in our thirties like we didin our teens. Disappointment does not suggest suicide, and we quaffsuccess without intoxication.

We take all things in a minor key as we grow older. There are fewmajestic passages in the later acts of life's opera. Ambition takes aless ambitious aim. Honor becomes more reasonable and convenientlyadapts itself to circumstances. And love--love dies. "Irreverencefor the dreams of youth" soon creeps like a killing frost upon ourhearts. The tender shoots and the expanding flowers are nipped andwithered, and of a vine that yearned to stretch its tendrils round theworld there is left but a sapless stump.

My fair friends will deem all this rank heresy, I know. So far from aman's not loving after he has passed boyhood, it is not till there isa good deal of gray in his hair that they think his protestations atall worthy of attention. Young ladies take their notions of our sexfrom the novels written by their own, and compared with themonstrosities that masquerade for men in the pages of that nightmareliterature, Pythagoras' plucked bird and Frankenstein's demon werefair average specimens of humanity.

In these so-called books, the chief lover, or Greek god, as he isadmiringly referred to--by the way, they do not say which "Greek god"it is that the gentleman bears such a striking likeness to; it mightbe hump-backed Vulcan, or double-faced Janus, or even drivelingSilenus, the god of abstruse mysteries. He resembles the whole familyof them, however, in being a blackguard, and perhaps this is what ismeant. To even the little manliness his classical prototypespossessed, though, he can lay no claim whatever, being a listlesseffeminate noodle, on the shady side of forty. But oh! the depth andstrength of this elderly party's emotion for some bread-and-butterschool-girl! Hide your heads, ye young Romeos and Leanders! this_blase_ old beau loves with an hysterical fervor that requires fouradjectives to every noun to properly describe.

It is well, dear ladies, for us old sinners that you study only books.

Did you read mankind, you would know that the lad's shy stammeringtells a truer tale than our bold eloquence. A boy's love comes from afull heart; a man's is more often the result of a full stomach.

Indeed, a man's sluggish current may not be called love, compared withthe rushing fountain that wells up when a boy's heart is struck withthe heavenly rod. If you would taste love, drink of the pure streamthat youth pours out at your feet. Do not wait till it has become amuddy river before you stoop to catch its waves.

Or is it that you like its bitter flavor--that the clear, limpid wateris insipid to your palate and that the pollution of its after-coursegives it a relish to your lips? Must we believe those who tell usthat a hand foul with the filth of a shameful life is the only one ayoung girl cares to be caressed by?

That is the teaching that is bawled out day by day from between thoseyellow covers. Do they ever pause to think, I wonder, those devil'sladyhelps, what mischief they are doing crawling about God's garden,and telling childish Eves and silly Adams that sin is sweet and thatdecency is ridiculous and vulgar? How many an innocent girl do theynot degrade into an evil-minded woman? To how many a weak lad do theynot point out the dirty by-path as the shortest cut to a maiden'sheart? It is not as if they wrote of life as it really is. Speaktruth, and right will take care of itself. But their pictures arecoarse daubs painted from the sickly fancies of their own diseasedimagination.

We want to think of women not--as their own sex would show them--asLorleis luring us to destruction, but as good angels beckoning usupward. They have more power for good or evil than they dream of. Itis just at the very age when a man's character is forming that hetumbles into love, and then the lass he loves has the making ormarring of him. Unconsciously he molds himself to what she would havehim, good or bad. I am sorry to have to be ungallant enough to saythat I do not think they always use their influence for the best. Toooften the female world is bounded hard and fast within the limits ofthe commonplace. Their ideal hero is a prince of littleness, and tobecome that many a powerful mind, enchanted by love, is "lost to lifeand use and name and fame."And yet, women, you could make us so much better if you only would.

It rests with you, more than with all the preachers, to roll thisworld a little nearer heaven. Chivalry is not dead: it only sleepsfor want of work to do. It is you who must wake it to noble deeds.

You must be worthy of knightly worship.

You must be higher than ourselves. It was for Una that the Red CrossKnight did war. For no painted, mincing court dame could the dragonhave been slain. Oh, ladies fair, be fair in mind and soul as well asface, so that brave knights may win glory in your service! Oh, woman,throw off your disguising cloaks of selfishness, effrontery, andaffectation! Stand forth once more a queen in your royal robe ofsimple purity. A thousand swords, now rusting in ignoble sloth, shallleap from their scabbards to do battle for your honor against wrong.

A thousand Sir Rolands shall lay lance in rest, and Fear, Avarice,Pleasure, and Ambition shall go down in the dust before your colors.

What noble deeds were we not ripe for in the days when we loved? Whatnoble lives could we not have lived for her sake? Our love was areligion we could have died for. It was no mere human creature likeourselves that we adored. It was a queen that we paid homage to, agoddess that we worshiped.

And how madly we did worship! And how sweet it was to worship! Ah,lad, cherish love's young dream while it lasts! You will know toosoon how truly little Tom Moore sang when he said that there wasnothing half so sweet in life. Even when it brings misery it is awild, romantic misery, all unlike the dull, worldly pain ofafter-sorrows. When you have lost her--when the light is gone outfrom your life and the world stretches before you a long, dark horror,even then a half-enchantment mingles with your despair.

And who would not risk its terrors to gain its raptures? Ah, whatraptures they were! The mere recollection thrills you. How deliciousit was to tell her that you loved her, that you lived for her, thatyou would die for her! How you did rave, to be sure, what floods ofextravagant nonsense you poured forth, and oh, how cruel it was of herto pretend not to believe you! In what awe you stood of her! Howmiserable you were when you had offended her! And yet, how pleasantto be bullied by her and to sue for pardon without having theslightest notion of what your fault was! How dark the world was whenshe snubbed you, as she often did, the little rogue, just to see youlook wretched; how sunny when she smiled! How jealous you were ofevery one about her! How you hated every man she shook hands with,every woman she kissed--the maid that did her hair, the boy thatcleaned her shoes, the dog she nursed--though you had to be respectfulto the last-named! How you looked forward to seeing her, how stupidyou were when you did see her, staring at her without saying a word!

How impossible it was for you to go out at any time of the day ornight without finding yourself eventually opposite her windows! Youhadn't pluck enough to go in, but you hung about the corner and gazedat the outside. Oh, if the house had only caught fire--it wasinsured, so it wouldn't have mattered--and you could have rushed inand saved her at the risk of your life, and have been terribly burnedand injured! Anything to serve her. Even in little things that wasso sweet. How you would watch her, spaniel-like, to anticipate herslightest wish! How proud you were to do her bidding! How delightfulit was to be ordered about by her! To devote your whole life to herand to never think of yourself seemed such a simple thing. You wouldgo without a holiday to lay a humble offering at her shrine, and feltmore than repaid if she only deigned to accept it. How precious toyou was everything that she had hallowed by her touch--her littleglove, the ribbon she had worn, the rose that had nestled in her hairand whose withered leaves still mark the poems you never care to lookat now.

And oh, how beautiful she was, how wondrous beautiful! It was as someangel entering the room, and all else became plain and earthly. Shewas too sacred to be touched. It seemed almost presumption to gaze ather. You would as soon have thought of kissing her as of singingcomic songs in a cathedral. It was desecration enough to kneel andtimidly raise the gracious little hand to your lips.

Ah, those foolish days, those foolish days when we were unselfish andpure-minded; those foolish days when our simple hearts were full oftruth, and faith, and reverence! Ah, those foolish days of noblelongings and of noble strivings! And oh, these wise, clever days whenwe know that money is the only prize worth striving for, when webelieve in nothing else but meanness and lies, when we care for noliving creature but ourselves!