They cannot build a shrine too lofty, nor
burn too generous store of incense before this exalted one. The man, as
he reads, smiles. Such a brother has never been born to him of
woman--never since the days of Adam in paradise, neither ever shall be.
The fair votaress 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.
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