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On Romance

There have been some in every century to say, "Romance is dead." So some are saying it to-day. Surely their eyes are shut, or their hearts are sleeping. I labelled as a cynic one who declared romance to be dead; but he was, I now think, worse. For a cynic plucks Some fruit, albeit bitter, from the tree of experience; but he who denies Romance must find experience a barren plant.

A dictionary described Romance as a vain dream, a foolish conceit, an invention or fiction, a lie. What an empty place the world would be without Romance in these guises! No castles in Spain to rest in—no quaint conceits to toy with—no novels to read—no lies to tell—where would conversation be?

Over a hundred years ago Edmund Burke cried with fine indignation, "The age of chivalry is dead!" Yet even now a hardened business man will give up his seat in a tram car to a woman (if she be sufficiently good-looking, or encumbered with weighty babies). So those who say Romance is dead have but to look round to see her smiling shyly. For though she is everywhere she is shy, and wants a little seeking. When everything is known she will die, but not before. When there are no mysteries, no shadows and half-lights, no softly-enveloping mists.

When the Earth, grey, quiet, expectant, lies waiting for the day, and the little breeze that comes with the dawn trembles by, then Romance is awake; so early, and waiting too. Waiting with dreams about the coming day! And when the sun is here, with its richness of gold, Romance smiles in the rippling waves of the sea, dancing away into the blue distance. Or she lies, half-dozing, on some warm, green upland, opening her eyes now and then to watch the floating clouds, while the brown earth and the green grass whisper their secrets to her. Or she speeds into the woodland and sighs with the wind in the branches. She flits, half seen in the twilight, along the narrow forest-paths, her cloak fluttering behind her as you haste to grasp it. And how Romance loves the shadows of a garden when the moon is just rising, and the flowers, grateful for the coolness, throw largess of their perfume to the air! She whispers softly with the summer rain; she veils herself and beckons in the mist; she dickers page 18 and dances with the firelight. Oh, she is everywhere, wonderful witch.

Romance is ever with mankind. When we deny her she slips away startled, but before we realise it we call her back, and she comes with a wise little smile.

When a great singer sings, Romance is heard. With the sobbing of a violin Romance is sad. She walks softly through the solemn aisles of churches. She speaks to the questioning child; she leans over the poet's shoulder when he writes his verse; she buckles on the soldier's sword. Many men have died for vain dreams. When we strive, when we invent, when we create Romance is near. For Romance lives in laughter and in tears, in your heart and my heart, in the very heart of things. Romance calls from the Unknown; from the Past we do not understand; from the Present where we are stumbling, and from the Future, where we shall some day grope.

—M.L.N.