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.  How foolish the average
audience in a drawing-room looks while it is listening to passionate
love-ditties!  And yet I suppose the singer chose these songs, not
from any malice aforethought, but simply because songs of this kind
are so abundant that it is next to impossible to find anything else
in the shops.

In regard to novels, the situation is almost as discouraging.  Ten
love-stories are printed to one of any other kind.  We have a
standing invitation to consider the tribulations and difficulties of
some young man or young woman in finding a mate.  It must be
admitted that the subject has its capabilities of interest.  Nature
has her uses for the lover, and she gives him an excellent part to
play in the drama of life.  But is this tantamount to saying that
his interest is perennial and all-absorbing, and that his role on
the stage is the only one that is significant and noteworthy?

Life is much too large to be expressed in the terms of a single
passion.  Friendship, patriotism, parental tenderness, filial
devotion, the ardour of adventure, the thirst for knowledge, the
ecstasy of religion,--these all have their dwelling in the heart of
man.  They mould character.  They control conduct.  They are stars
of destiny shining in the inner firmament.  And if art would truly
hold the mirror up to nature, it must reflect these greater and
lesser lights that rule the day and the night.