But there is another and more dangerous working of the same thing; deep,
unsuspected, clothing itself with symptoms of the most defiant
genuineness, it lurks and does its business in every known field of
composition. Men and women are alike prone to it, though its shape is
somewhat affected by sex.
Among men it breaks out often, perhaps oftenest, in violent illusions on
the subject of love. They assert, declare, shout, sing, scream that they
love, have loved, are loved, do and for ever will love, after methods and
in manners which no decent love ever thought of mentioning. And yet, so
does their weak violence ape the bearing of strength, so much does their
cheat look like truth, that scores, nay, shoals of human beings go about
repeating and echoing their noise, and saying, gratefully, "Yes, this is
love; this is, indeed, what all true lovers must know."
These are they who proclaim names of beloved on house-tops; who strip off
veils from sacred secrets and secret sacrednesses, and set them up naked
for the multitude to weigh and compare.
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