412 MORE POT-POURRI 



Mr. Austin has a pretty definition of love : 



'Tis a fifth season, a sixth sense, a light, 

 A warmth beyond the cunning of the nun. 



Another element ; fire, water, air, 

 Nor burn, nor quench, nor feed it, for it lives 



Steeped in its self -provided atmosphere. 



Doubt and fear were linked with it in very early days, 

 for Plotinus says of love : ' It is worth the labour to con- 

 sider well of Love, whether it be a god, or a devil, or a 

 passion of the mind, or partly god, partly devil, partly 

 passion.' Dr. South puts it : ' Love is the great instrument 

 and engine of Nature, the bond and cement of society, the 

 spring and spirit of the universe. It is of that active, restless 

 nature that it must of necessity exert itself ; and like the fire, 

 to which it is often compared, it is not a free agent to choose 

 whether it will heat or no, but it streams forth by natural 

 results and unavoidable emanations, so that it will fasten 

 upon an inferior, unsuitable object rather than none at all. 

 The soul may sooner leave off to subsist than to love ; and, 

 like the vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to 

 embrace.' Here are some lines by a Frenchwoman who 

 feels the sadness of love : 



Car la douleur, helas ! est 1'ombre de 1'amour 

 Et le suit, pas a pas, et la nuit et le jour ; 

 Elle est meme a tel point sa compagne fidele, 

 Que 1'amour a la fin ne peut vivre sans elle. 

 Or s'il en est ainsi, qui pourrait me blamer 

 Qu'ayant peur de souffrir je n'ose pas aimer ? 



This kind of cowardice, however, lasts a very short 

 time, and the father's advice to his child in George 

 Eliot's poem comes much nearer to what we most of us 

 practise : 



4 Where blooms, O my father, a thornless Rose ? ' 



' That can I not tell thee, my child ; 

 Not one on the bosom of earth e'er grows 

 But wounds whom its charms have beguiled.' 



