her"--there you have the philosophy of
preference so far as such love-affairs are concerned. How often do we
see a bright, lovely girl, with sweet voice and refined manners,
neglected by men who crowd around other women of their own rude and
vulgar caste! Most men still are savages so far as the ability to
appreciate the higher secondary sexual qualities in women is
concerned. But the exceptions are growing more numerous. Among savages
there are no exceptions. Romantic love does not exist among them, both
because the women have not the secondary sexual qualities, and
because, even if they had them, the men would not appreciate them or
be guided by them in their choice of mates.

II. MONOPOLISM

Whenever she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice but hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
--_Lyttleton_.

Every lover of nature must have noticed how the sun monopolizes the
attention of flowers and leaves. Twist and turn them whichever way you
please, on returning afterward you will find them all facing the
beloved sun again with their bright corollas and glossy surface.
Romantic love exacts a similar monopoly of its devotees. Be their
feelings as various, their thoughts as numerous, as the flowers in a
garden, the leaves in a forest, they will always be turned toward the
beloved one.

JULIET AND NOTHING BUT JULIET

A man may have several intimate friends, and a mother may dote on a
dozen or more children with equal affection; but romantic love is a
monopolist, absolutely exclusive of all participation and rivalry. A
genuine Romeo wants Juliet, the whole of Juliet, and nothing but
Juliet. She monopolizes his thoughts by day, his dreams at night; her
image blends with everything he sees, her voice with everything he
hears. His imagination is a lens which gathers together all the light
and heat of a giant world and focuses them on one brunette or blonde.
He is a miser, who begrudges every smile, every look she bestows on
others, and if he had his own way he would sail with her to-day to a
desert island and change their names to Mr. and Mrs. Robinson Crusoe.
This is not fanciful hyperbole, but a plain statement in prose of a
psychological truth. The poets did not exaggerate when they penned
such sentiments as these:

She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all.