t license--that veil which has just been lifted to the brow, it
will never be dropt again--but we do not gaze with perfect impunity; we
turn from the lovely shadow with knees how prone to bend! And as to the
sculptor, on condition that he hold to the pure colourless marble, is he
not permitted to reveal the sacred charms of Venus herself? Every art is
hers. Go to the theatre, and whether it be tragedy, or comedy, or opera,
or dance, the attraction of woman is the very life of all that is
transacted there. Shut yourself up at home with the poem or the novel,
and lo! to love, and to be loved, by one fair creature, is all that the
world has to dignify with the name of happiness. It is too much. The
heart aches and sickens with an unclaimed affection, kindled to no
purpose. Every where the eye, the ear, the imagination, is provoked,
bewildered, haunted by the magic of this universal syren.

"And what is worse," continued our profound philosopher--and here he
rose from his elbow, and supported himself at arm's length from the
ground, one hand resting on the turf, the other at liberty, if required,
for oratorical action--"what is worse, this place which woman occupies
in _art_ is but a fair reflection of that which she fills in real life.
Just heavens! what a perpetual wonder it is, this living, breathing
beauty! Throw all your metaphors to the winds--your poetic
raptures--your ideals--your romance of position and of circumstance:
look at a fair, amiable, cultivated woman, as you meet her in the
actual, commonplace scenes of life: she is literally, prosaically
speaking, the last consummate result of the creative power of nature,
and the gathered refinements of centuries of human civilization. The
world can show nothing comparable to that light, graceful figure of the
girl just blooming into perfect womanhood. Imagination cannot go beyond
it. There is all the marvel, if you think of it, in that slight figure,
as she treads across the carpet of a modern drawing-room, that has ever
been expressed in, or given origin to, the nymphs, goddesses, and angels
that the fancy of man has teemed with. I declare that a pious heathen
would as soon insult the august statue of Minerva herself, as would any
civilized being treat that slender form with the least show of rudeness
and indignity. A Chartist, indeed, or a Leveller, would do it; but it
would pain him--he would be a martyr to his principles. Verily we are
slaves to the fair miracle!"