taress standeth without the vail of the temple, nor have its
mystic recesses ever disclosed to her scrutinizing vision actual 'Man.'
Let us not however harshly dispel such illusions, neither drench with
the cold flood of unnecessary ingenuousness the glowing embers of myrrh
and frankincense. Occasionally, perchance, some sinful human, conscious
within himself of no demerits beyond his fellows, may repine at passing
comparison with this shadowy conception. But as a general rule, it is
wise enough to tolerate such pleasant vagaries of worshipping woman. Of
this fair description are the proud statues which look out upon us in
Apollo-like majesty from the galleries in 'Guy Livingstone,' 'Sword and
Gown,' 'Barren Honors.' Guy, Royston Keene, and Alan Wyverne, are such
fanciful delineations, such marvels of bodily glory and chivalrous
spirit. They might be drawn by a woman. The accompaniments are in
admirable keeping; and the whole scenery is gotten up to match, and most
unexceptionally. Our characters are dissipated upon a scale suited to
the heroic age and the primeval constitution of the race. They gamble
quite _en prince_, and carouse most royally. They have a capacity for
terrible potations, should mischance or crossed affections so incline
them; yet they can seldom plead the latter excuse, for we are given to
understand that woman-kind are born to be their helpless slaves and
victims. They are perpetually doing deeds of terrible '_derring-do_;'
upon the backs of unmanageable steeds they leap limitless chasms and the
tallest of walls; they gallop to death in battle and dispel _ennui_ in
midnight conflicts with desperate poachers. Such scenes are quite within
the scope of some feminine imaginations, but scarcely such a power of
description as that wherewith we have them here set forth. Women thrill
sometimes at fierce tales of stalwart knock-down struggles, many of them
will back fearlessly the most mettlesome of thoroughbreds; but when it
comes to talk thereof, they strive in vain for adequate power of
language. The best words and the strongest sentences will not come.
These demand the clarion roundness and ring essentially masculine--very
_virile_ indeed. The muscular gripe of a man--not the white, tapering
fingers of any maiden--held the pen which wrote so gloriously of
Livingstone's terrible riding, of Royston Keene's bloody sabre charges.
We know it by unerring instinct, as we could tell a morsel of the smooth
cheek of