'Finis'--such would find little satisfaction in 'Barren Honor,'
almost none in 'Sword and Gown.' Reading these works is like passing
through a wondrously beautiful country. But it is not the indolent
beauty of southern climes, to lounge through sleepily in a slow-rolling
travelling carriage. You must ride through it on the proud back of a
blooded steed. Canter, run, if you like, when the ground is fit and the
spirit moves, as often enough it may; but do not fix your eyes upon any
distant gaol, and time your arrival thereat. Enjoy what is close at
hand. Admire now the blue glories of the proud hills, recumbent in
careless grace of majesty in the indolent sunlit atmosphere; gaze then
into the sombre depths of solemn retreating forest; tremble anon in the
black shadow of the fierce rock beetling over your bridle way; and fill
your rejoicing being with the fresh-distilled vigor of the springy step
of your charger on the turf. It will put bounding manliness into your
sluggish civilian blood. Read each page, each chapter for itself; or
regard it as one handsome marble square in the tesselated pavement of a
haughty palace, not as a useful brick in the domestic sidewalk, which is
to carry you straight to a homely destination. Observe the description
of scenes, how powerful! the delineation of character, how fascinating!
and be pleased with the luxuriance of the style and the gorgeous drapery
of language wherewith so royally the thoughts are robed.

Our author is not true to nature--he is extravagant, high-wrought.
Nobody ever met his heroes or his heroines in real life, nor lived the
scenes told of in his poetry. His men and women are the men and women of
an enthusiastic fancy; his scenes and incidents are the scenes and
incidents of our romantic dreams. We know none so lovely as ethereal
Constance Brandon; we never gazed into the violet-flashing eyes of a
Cecil Tresilyan; none of our friends are quite prototypes of the
omnipotent 'Cool Captain;' they betray neither the athletic chivalry of
Livingstone nor the winning beauty and high-souled nobility of generous
Alan Wyverne. We never saw such models, for such never quitted their
ideal essences to become incarnate in the flesh. But why need this be an
insuperable objection? We don't find Achilles any the less interesting
because we doubt the ability of any degenerate modern to calmly destroy
such outnumbering hosts of his fellow beings, and send such a throng of
warrior souls to