feeling is real, however fantastic and romantic it may seem.  He is so thoroughly convinced of the incomparable superiority of his chosen divinity that “it is marvellous to him that all the world does not want her too, and he is in a panic when he thinks of it,” as Charles Dudley Warner puts it.  Ouida speaks of “the graceful hypocrisies of courtship,” and no doubt there are many such; but in romantic love there is no hypocrisy; its devotion and adoration are absolutely sincere.

The romantic lover adores not only the girl herself but everything associated with her.  This phase of love is poetically delineated in Goethe’s Werther: 

“To-day,” Werther writes to his friend, “I could not go to see Lotta, being unavoidably detained by company.  What was there to do?  I sent my valet to her, merely in order to have someone about me who had been near her.  With what impatience I expected him, with what joy I saw him return!  I should have liked to seize him by the hand and kiss him, had I not been ashamed.

“There is a legend of a Bononian stone which being placed in the sun absorbs his rays and emits them at night.  In such a light I saw that valet.  The knowledge that her eyes had rested on his face, his cheeks, the buttons and the collar of his coat, made all these things valuable, sacred, in my eyes.  At that moment I would not have exchanged that fellow for a thousand dollars, so happy was I in his presence.  God forbid that you should laugh at this.  William, are these things phantasms if they make us happy?”

Fielding wrote a poem on a half-penny which a young lady had given to a beggar, and which the poet redeemed for a half-crown.  Sir Richard Steele wrote to Miss Scurlock: 

“You must give me either a fan, a mask, or a glove you have worn, or I cannot live; otherwise you must expect that I’ll kiss your hand, or, when I next sit by you, steal your handkerchief.”

Modern literature is full of such evidences of veneration for the fair sex.  The lover worships the very ground she trod on, and is enraptured at the thought of breathing the same atmosphere that surrounded her.  To express his adoration he thinks and talks, as we have seen, in perpetual hyperbole: 

It’s a year almost that I have not seen her;
Oh! last summer green things were greener,
Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.

          
                                                        —­C.G.  Rossetti.

PRIMITIVE CONTEMPT FOR WOMEN