It is to assist in the rescue of a
struggling author from this yawning abyss that the present article is
sent forth, a plank in the shipwreck.
Who may be the object of our present criticism, we must confess we know
not. Whether it be a brother man, or whether our words of praise may win
us the kind regards of a 'gentle ladye,' we can only conjecture. Our
process must be _in rem_, not _in personam_. 'It'--for thus perforce we
must speak of our Unknown--weareth an iron mask of inscrutable mystery,
as complete as that of the all-baffling Junius. The field, however, of
speculation is open to our wandering reflection. Herein we guide
ourselves by natural signs, the configurations of the stars and the
marks of the soil. We judge from the mould in which the favorite male
characters are cast, and from the traits invariably bestowed upon the
heroines, also by the general choice of scenery, by the groupings, the
'properties.' Upon such authority of intrinsic evidence we have no
hesitation in pronouncing the writer to be a man. Certain novel-writing
ladies indeed are given to depicting most royal heroes, types of the
ideal man, glorified beings endowed with every charm of physique and of
spirit. Such find an irresistible fascination in allowing their fancy to
run wild riot and poetic revel in contemplation of a wonderful male
creature, so graceful, so beautiful, so strong, so brave, so masterly,
so bad or so good as the case may be--a spirit of chivalry incarnate in
the perfection of the flesh.
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