neither could speak for joy; and because of the silence all the sounds of nature outside became almost painfully distinct.  Now he remembers how he heard in that room the sound of the wind in far-away trees, the singing of a bird—­he also remembers all the colours and the lights of the day.  But it was very, very long ago, and she is dead.  Still, the memory is so clear and bright in his heart that it is as if time had stood still, or as if she had come back from the grave.  Only one thing assures him that it is but a memory—­he is alone.

Returning now to the subject of love’s illusion in itself, let me remind you that the illusion does not always pass away—­not at all.  It passes away in every case of happy union, when it has become no longer necessary to the great purposes of nature.  But in case of disappointment, loss, failure to win the maiden desired, it often happens that the ideal image never fades away, but persistently haunts the mind through life, and is capable thus of making even the most successful life unhappy.  Sometimes the result of such disappointment may be to change all a man’s ideas about the world, about life, about religion; and everything remains darkened for him.  Many a young person disappointed in love begins to lose religious feeling from that moment, for it seems to him, simply because he happens to be unfortunate, that the universe is all wrong.  On the other hand the successful lover thinks that the universe is all right; he utters his thanks to the gods, and feels his faith in religion and human nature greater than before.  I do not at this moment remember any striking English poem illustrating this fact; but there is a pretty little poem in French by Victor Hugo showing well the relation between successful love and religious feeling in simple minds.  Here is an English translation of it.  The subject is simply a walk at night, the girl-bride leaning upon the arm of her husband; and his memory of the evening is thus expressed: 

  The trembling arm I pressed
  Fondly; our thoughts confessed
    Love’s conquest tender;
  God filled the vast sweet night,
  Love filled our hearts; the light
    Of stars made splendour.

  Even as we walked and dreamed,
  ’Twixt heaven and earth, it seemed
    Our souls were speaking;
  The stars looked on thy face;
  Thine eyes through violet space
    The stars were seeking.

  And from the astral light
  Feeling the soft sweet night
    Thrill to thy soul,
  Thou saidst:  “O God of Bliss,
  Lord of the Blue Abyss,
    Thou madest the whole!”

  And the stars whispered low
  To the God of Space, “We know,
    God of Eternity,
  Dear Lord, all Love is Thine,
  Even by Love’s Light we shine! 
    Thou madest Beauty!”

Of course here the religious feeling itself is part of the illusion, but it serves to give great depth and beauty to simple feeling.  Besides, the poem illustrates one truth very forcibly—­namely, that when we are perfectly happy all the universe appears to be divine and divinely beautiful; in other words, we are in heaven.  On the contrary, when we are very unhappy the universe appears to be a kind of hell, in which there is no hope, no joy, and no gods to pray to.