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 the damsel from the grizzled jowl of man.
But as usual, the crowning glory of most anxious labor is to be sought
in the female characters. These are nearly all of the majestic, haughty,
and queen-like caste--tall, imperious beauties, empresses of society, to
whom men are slaves, and life a triumphal march of unbroken conquests.
So it is at least until they meet some one terrible subduer of woman--a
Guy or a Keene--in whom they recognize masterhood, and the right and
power to reign.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94