Jane to knock at the door and call them, and Sarah Jane does knock at
the door and does call them, and they grunt back "awri" and then go

comfortably to sleep again. I knew one man who would actually get out
and have a cold bath; and even that was of no use, for afterward he

would jump into bed again to warm himself.
I think myself that I could keep out of bed all right if I once got

out. It is the wrenching away of the head from the pillow that I find
so hard, and no amount of over-night determination makes it easier. I

say to myself, after having wasted the whole evening, "Well, I won't
do any more work to-night; I'll get up early to-morrow morning;" and I

am thoroughlyresolved to do so--then. In the morning, however, I
feel less enthusiastic about the idea, and reflect that it would have

been much better if I had stopped up last night. And then there is
the trouble of dressing, and the more one thinks about that the more

one wants to put it off.
It is a strange thing this bed, this mimic grave, where we stretch our

tired limbs and sink away so quietly into the silence and rest. "0
bed, 0 bed, delicious bed, that heaven on earth to the weary head," as

sang poor Hood, you are a kind old nurse to us fretful boys and girls.
Clever and foolish, naughty and good, you take us all in your motherly

lap and hush our wayward crying. The strong man full of care--the
sick man full of pain--the little maiden sobbing for her faithless

lover--like children we lay our aching heads on your white bosom, and
you gentlysoothe us off to by-by.

Our trouble is sore indeed when you turn away and will not comfort us.
How long the dawn seems coming when we cannot sleep! Oh! those

hideous nights when we toss and turn in fever and pain, when we lie,
like living men among the dead, staring out into the dark hours that

drift so slowly between us and the light. And oh! those still more
hideous nights when we sit by another in pain, when the low fire

startles us every now and then with a falling cinder, and the tick of
the clock seems a hammerbeating out the life that we are watching.

But enough of beds and bedrooms. I have kept to them too long, even
for an idle fellow. Let us come out and have a smoke. That wastes

time just as well and does not look so bad. Tobacco has been a
blessing to us idlers. What the civil-service clerk before Sir

Walter's time found to occupy their minds with it is hard to imagine.
I attribute the quarrelsome nature of the Middle Ages young men

entirely to the want of the soothing weed. They had no work to do and
could not smoke, and the consequence was they were forever fighting

and rowing. If, by any extraordinary chance, there was no war going,
then they got up a deadly family feud with the next-door neighbor, and

if, in spite of this, they still had a few spare moments on their
hands, they occupied them with discussions as to whose sweetheart was

the best looking, the arguments employed on both sides being
battle-axes, clubs, etc. Questions of taste were soon decided in

those days. When a twelfth-century youth fell in love he did not take
three paces backward, gaze into her eyes, and tell her she was too

beautiful to live. He said he would step outside and see about it.
And if, when he got out, he met a man and broke his head--the other

man's head, I mean--then that proved that his--the first
fellow's--girl was a pretty girl. But if the other fellow broke _his_

head--not his own, you know, but the other fellow's--the other fellow
to the second fellow, that is, because of course the other fellow

would only be the other fellow to him, not the first fellow who--well,
if he broke his head, then _his_ girl--not the other fellow's, but the

fellow who _was_ the-- Look here, if A broke B's head, then A's girl
was a pretty girl; but if B broke A's head, then A's girl wasn't a

pretty girl, but B's girl was. That was their method of conducting
art criticism.

Nowadays we light a pipe and let the girls fight it out among
themselves.

They do it very well. They are getting to do all our work. They are
doctors, and barristers, and artists. They manage theaters, and

promote swindles, and edit newspapers. I am looking forward to the
time when we men shall have nothing to do but lie in bed till twelve,

read two novels a day, have nice little five-o'clock teas all to
ourselves, and tax our brains with nothing more trying than

discussions upon the latest patterns in trousers and arguments as to
what Mr. Jones' coat was made of and whether it fitted him. It is a

glorious prospect--for idle fellows.
ON BEING IN LOVE.

You've been in love, of course! If not you've got it to come. Love
is like the measles; we all have to go through it. Also like the

measles, we take it only once. One never need be afraid of catching
it a second time. The man who has had it can go into the most

dangerous places and play the most foolhardy tricks with perfect
safety. He can picnic in shady woods, ramble through leafy aisles,

and linger on mossy seats to watch the sunset. He fears a quiet
country-house no more than he would his own club. He can join a

family party to go down the Rhine. He can, to see the last of a
friend, venture into the very jaws of the marriage ceremony itself.

He can keep his head through the whirl of a ravishing waltz, and rest
afterward in a dark conservatory, catching nothing more lasting than a

cold. He can brave a moonlight walk adown sweet-scented lanes or a
twilight pull among the somber rushes. He can get over a stile

without danger, scramble through a tangled hedge without being caught,
come down a slippery path without falling. He can look into sunny

eyes and not be dazzled. He listens to the siren voices, yet sails on
with unveered helm. He clasps white hands in his, but no electric

"Lulu"-like force holds him bound in their dainty pressure.
No, we never sicken with love twice. Cupid spends no second arrow on

the same heart. Love's handmaids are our life-long friends. Respect,
and admiration, and affection, our doors may always be left open for,

but their great celestial master, in his royal progress, pays but one
visit and departs. We like, we cherish, we are very, very fond

of--but we never love again. A man's heart is a firework that once in
its time flashes heavenward. Meteor-like, it blazes for a moment and

lights with its glory the whole world beneath. Then the night of our
sordid commonplace life closes in around it, and the burned-out case,

falling back to earth, lies useless and uncared for, slowly smoldering
into ashes. Once, breaking loose from our prison bonds, we dare, as

mighty old Prometheus dared, to scale the Olympian mount and snatch
from Phoebus' chariot the fire of the gods. Happy those who,

hastening down again ere it dies out, can kindle their earthly altars
at its flame. Love is too pure a light to burn long among the noisome

gases that we breathe, but before it is choked out we may use it as a
torch to ignite the cozy fire of affection.

And, after all, that warming glow is more suited to our cold little
back parlor of a world than is the burning spirit love. Love should

be the vestal fire of some mighty temple--some vast dim fane whose
organ music is the rolling of the spheres. Affection will burn

cheerily when the white flame of love is flickered out. Affection is
a fire that can be fed from day to day and be piled up ever higher as

the wintry years draw nigh. Old men and women can sit by it with
their thin hands clasped, the little children can nestle down in

front, the friend and neighbor has his welcome corner by its side, and
even shaggy Fido and sleek Titty can toast their noses at the bars.

Let us heap the coals of kindness upon that fire. Throw on your
pleasant words, your gentle pressures of the hand, your thoughtful and

unselfish deeds. Fan it with good-humor, patience, and forbearance.
You can let the wind blow and the rain fall unheeded then, for your

hearth will be warm and bright, and the faces round it will make
sunshine in spite of the clouds without.

I am afraid, dear Edwin and Angelina, you expect too much from love.
You think there is enough of your little hearts to feed this fierce,

devouring passion for all your long lives. Ah, young folk! don't rely
too much upon that unsteady flicker. It will dwindle and dwindle as

the months roll on, and there is no replenishing the fuel. You will
watch it die out in anger and disappointment. To each it will seem

that it is the other who is growing colder. Edwin sees with
bitterness that Angelina no longer runs to the gate to meet him, all

smiles and blushes; and when he has a cough now she doesn't begin to
cry and, putting her arms round his neck, say that she cannot live