I have been speaking very generally of the characteristics of Veal in composition.  It is difficult to give any accurate description of it that shall go into minuter details.  Of course it is easy to think of little external marks of the beast,—­that is, the calf.  It is Veal in style, when people, writing prose, think it a fine thing to write o’er instead of over, ne’er instead of never, poesie instead of poetry, and methinks under any circumstances whatsoever.  References to the heart are generally of the nature of Veal; also allusions to the mysterious throbbings and yearnings of our nature.  The word grand has of late come to excite a strong suspicion of Veal; and when I read the other day in a certain poem something about a great grand man, I concluded that the writer of that poem was meanwhile a great grand calf.  The only case in which the words may properly be used together is in speaking of your great-grandfather.  To talk about mine affections, meaning my affections, is Veal; and mine bonnie love was decided Veal, though it was written by Charlotte Bronte. Wife mine is Veal, though it stands in “The Caxtons.”  I should rather like to see the man who in actual life is accustomed to address his spouse in that fashion.  To say Not, oh, never shall we do so and so is outrageous Veal. Sylvan grove or sylvan vale in ordinary conversation is Veal.  The word glorious should be used with caution; when applied to trees, mountains, or the like, there is a strong suspicion of Veal about it.  But one feels that in saying these things we are not getting at the essence of Veal.  Veal in thought is essential Veal, and it is very hard to define.  Beyond extravagant language, beyond absurd fine things, it lies in a certain lack of reality and sobriety of sense and view,—­in a certain indefinable jejuneness in the mental fare provided, which makes mature men feel that somehow it does not satisfy their cravings.  You know what I mean better than I can express it.  You have seen and heard a young preacher, with a rosy face and an unlined brow, preaching about the cares and trials of life.  Well, you just feel at once he knows nothing about them.  You feel that all this is at second-hand.  He is saying all this because he supposes it is the right thing to say.  Give me the pilot to direct me who has sailed through the difficult channel many a time himself.  Give me the friend to sympathize with me in sorrow who has felt the like.  There is a hollowness, a certain want, in the talk about much tribulation of the very cleverest man who has never felt any great sorrow at all.  The great force and value of all teaching lie in the amount of personal experience which is embodied in it.  You feel the difference between the production of a wonderfully clever boy and of a mature man, when you read the first canto of “Childe Harold,” and then read “Philip van Artevelde.”