The molten gold, the fused iron hardens and chills in the forming mould.
Easy! "Oh yes," the critic says, "it is an easy thing to write; only follow nature, and you cannot err." But nature is as broad as the universe, as high as the heavens, and as deep as the seas.

It is but a small portion we can condense even on hundreds of pages of foolscap paper.

If that portion be of love, the cold philosopher turns away in disdain and talks of romantic maids and moonstruck boys, as if the subject were fit alone for them.

And yet love is the great motive principle of nature, the burning sun of the social system.

Blot it out, and every other feeling and passion would sink in the darkness of eternal night.