Writing Can Come Naturally To Some. Still,

What Other Dungeon Is So Dark As One's Own Heart! What Jailer So Inexorable As One's Self!

A Throng Of Bearded Men In Sad-colored Garments And Gray, Steeple-crowned Hats, Intermixed With Women, Some Wearing Hoods, And Other Bareheaded, Was Assembled In Front Of A Wooden Edifice, The Door Of Which Was Heavily Timbered With Oak, And Studded With Iron Spikes.

By The Sympathy Of Your Human Hearts For Sin Ye Shall Scent Out All The Places — Whether In Church, Bedchamber, Street, Field, Or Forest — Where Crime Has Been Committed, And Shall Exult To Behold The Whole Earth One Stain Of Guilt, One Mighty Blood Spot.

A High Truth, Indeed, Fairly, Finely, And Skilfully Wrought Out, Brightening At Every Step, And Crowning The Final Development Of A Work Of Fiction, May Add An Artistic Glory, But Is Never Any Truer, And Seldom Any More Evident, At The Last Page Than At The First.

Let The Attempt Be Made, At Whatever Risk.