al tenderness, filial devotion, the ardour
of adventure, the thirst for knowledge, the ecstasy of religion,--these
all have their dwelling in the heart of man. They mould character.
They control conduct. They are stars of destiny shining in the inner
firmament. And if art would truly hold the mirror up to nature, it must
reflect these greater and lesser lights that rule the day and the night.

How many of the plays that divert and misinform the modern theatre-goer
turn on the pivot of a love-affair, not always pure, but generally
simple! And how many of those that are imported from France proceed
upon the theory that the Seventh is the only Commandment, and that the
principal attraction of life lies in the opportunity of breaking it! The
matinee-girl is not likely to have a very luminous or truthful idea of
existence floating around in her pretty little head.

But, after all, the great plays, those that take the deepest hold upon
the heart, like HAMLET and KING LEAR, MACBETH and OTHELLO, are not
love-plays. And the most charming comedies, like THE WINTER'S TALE, and
THE RIVALS, and RIP VAN WINKLE, are chiefly memorable for other things
than love-scenes.

Even in novels, love shows at its best when it does not absorb the whole
plot. LORNA DOONE is a lovers' story, but there is a blessed minimum of
spooning in it, and always enough of working and fighting to keep the
air clear and fresh. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN, and HYPATIA, and ROMOLA,
and THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH, and JOHN INGLESANT, and THE THREE
MUSKETEERS, and NOTRE DAME, and PEACE AND WAR, and QUO VADIS,--these are
great novels because they are much more than tales of romantic love. As
for HENRY ESMOND, (which seems to me the best of all,) certainly "love
at first sight" does not play the finest role in that book.

There are good stories of our own day--pathetic, humourous,
entertaining, powerful--in which the element of romantic love is
altogether subordinate, or even imperceptible. THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM
does not owe its deep interest to the engagement of the very charming
young people who enliven it. MADAME DELPHINE and OLE 'STRACTED are
perfect stories of their kind. I would not barter THE JUNGLE BOOKS for a
hundred of THE BRUSHWOOD BOY.

The truth is that love, considered merely as the preference of one
person for another of the opposite sex, is not "the greatest thing in
the world." It becomes great only when it leads on, as it often does,
to heroism