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 hades without scath or scar to his invulnerable self.
Ivanhoe got out of some very awkward scrapes by the exertion of a
prowess quite exceptional in such a 'light-weight.' The extravagance is
not glaring enough to discompose us. Surely a tolerable proximate
approach to possible existence ought to satisfy a not viciously captious
critic. We are reading of shadowy beings: why should not the facile
mists be permeated with a somewhat subtler light, and melt into somewhat
airier forms of perfection than we have been accustomed to catch
imprisoned in the substantial dulness of the flesh? If we will only
choose, we may revel in the company of somewhat glorified mortals.
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