He tried hard to shake it off. Somebody says (but we do not believe him) that by a strong effort of will, a man can rid himself of hydrophobia, and even preach eloquent sermons whilst suffering from Asiatic cholera. It may be so. The martyrs have done more, if the Bollandists are to be credited. But putting all such exceptional cases on one side, there is no denying that this love business is a very subtle and insidious malady, with very pronounced and persistent symptoms. They say seeds found in ancient mummies have retained their vitality to the present day. Love germs are hard to kill also. You cannot detect them by the microscope, or destroy them by cold or heat. Cupid uses poisoned darts. Prophylaxis? There is none except, perhaps, books and hard study, though even these have been known to fail. Still, in the present state of medical science, we must be thankful for small mercies. Now, with all respect to Love “cultivations,” as Pasteur would call them, there is as much uncertainty about the business as in uglier maladies. For think what Love is—inoculation from a well-aimed bolt of Cupid. Now Cupid hits whom he wills, and you cannot hire the god by the day to go shooting with you; you cannot indicate his mark, direct his aim, or choose his weapon. He will not lend his bow and arrows, neither can he be wooed by cajolery nor coaxed by prayer. He is the most independent little deity, and cares for nothing but having his own sweet will upon us mortals. What he is chiefly to be praised for is the absence of favouritism and perfect impartiality which he always shows. None ever bribed him, none ever clad himself in panoply impervious to his darts. You may be hit before your beard has downed your chin with faintest bloom. You may go shot free till you are grey and bent, and then have to plaster up your hurt when you should be composing your epitaph, like the poor old queen in Browning’s play.