In the introductory chapter of this book I alluded briefly to my reasons for calling pure prematrimonial infatuation romantic love, giving some historic precedents for such a use of the word.  We are now in a position to appreciate the peculiar appropriateness of the term.  What is the dictionary definition of “romantic”?

“Pertaining to or resembling romance, or an ideal state of things; partaking of the heroic, the marvellous, the supernatural, or the imaginative; chimerical, fanciful, extravagantly enthusiastic.”

Every one of these terms applies to love in the sense in which I use the word.  Love is ideal, heroic, marvellous, imaginative, chimerical, fanciful, extravagantly enthusiastic; its hyperbolic adoration even gives it a supernatural tinge, for the adored girl seems more like an angel or a fairy than a common mortal.  The lover’s heroine is as fictitious as any heroine of romance; he considers her the most beautiful and lovable person in the world, though to others she may seem ugly and ill-tempered.  Thus love is called romantic, because it is so great a romancer, attributing to the beloved all sorts of perfections which exist only in the lover’s fancy.  What could be more fantastic than a lover’s stubborn preference for a particular individual and his conviction that no one ever loved so frantically as he does?  What more extravagant and unreasonable than his imperious desire to completely monopolize her affection, sometimes guarding her jealously even from her girl friends or her nearest relatives?  What more romantic than the tortures and tragedies, the mixed emotions, that doubt or jealousy gives rise to?  Does not a willing but coyly reserved maiden romance about her feelings?  What could be more fanciful and romantic than her shy reserve and coldness when she is longing to throw herself into the lover’s arms?  Is not her proud belief that her lover—­probably as commonplace and foolish a fellow as ever lived—­is a hero or a genius a romantic exaggeration?  Is not the lover’s purity of imagination, though real as a feeling, a romantic illusion, since he craves ultimate possession of her and would be the unhappiest of mortals if she went to a nunnery, though she promised to love him always?  What could be more marvellous, more chimerical, than this temporary suppression of a strong appetite at the time when it would be supposed to manifest itself most irresistibly—­this distilling of the finer emotions, leaving all the gross, material elements behind?  Can you imagine anything more absurdly romantic than the gallant attentions of a man on his knees before a girl whom, with his stronger muscles, he could command as a slave?  Who but a romantic lover would obliterate his selfish ego in sympathetic devotion to another, trying to feel her feelings, forgetting his own?  Who but a romantic lover would sacrifice his life in the effort to save or please another?  A mother would indeed do the same for her child; but the child is of her own flesh and blood, whereas the beloved may have been a stranger until an hour ago.  How romantic!