At eighteen we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness to-morrow, is implicitly believed; Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door, is at once admitted, welcomed, embraced. His quiver is not seen; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life. There are no fears of poison, none of the barb which no leech's hand can extract. That perilous passion--an agony ever in some of its phases; with many, an agony throughout--is believed to be an unqualified good. In short, at eighteen the school of experience is to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learned.

At eighteen we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness, is believed; Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door, is at once welcomed and embraced. If his arrows penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life. That perilous passion - even agony - is believed to be an unqualified good. In short, at eighteen the school of experience is yet to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but purifying lessons are yet to be learned.
