Strawman.
Behold these children;—see,—this little throng!
Io triumphe may for them be sung! How was it possible—how practicable—; The words of truth are strong, inexorable;— He has no hearing whom they cannot move. See,—every one of them's a child of Love—!
[Stops in confusion.
That is—you understand—I would have said—!
Miss Jay [fanning herself with her handkerchief].
This is a very mystical oration!
Falk.
There you yourself provide the demonstration,—
A good old Norse one, sound, true-born, home-*bred.
You draw distinction between wedded pledges
And those of Love: your Logic's without flaw.
They are distinguished just as roast from raw,
As hothouse bloom from wilding of the hedges!
Love is with us a science and an art;
It long since ceased to animate the heart.
Love is with us a trade, a special line
Of business, with its union, code and sign;
It is a guild of married folks and plighted,
Past-masters with apprentices united;
For they cohere compact as jelly-fishes,
A singing-club their single want and wish is—
