revealed in a condensed state to man through the blue eyes and
sumptuous linens of some Belinda Portman or Lord Mortimer. None
of your good-hearted, sorely-tempted villains then! It made your
hair stand on end only to read of them,--going about perpetually
seeking innocent maidens and unsophisticated old men to devour.
That was the time for holding up virtue and vice; no trouble then
in seeing which were sheep and which were goats! A person could
write a story with a moral to it, then, I should hope! People
that were born in those days had no fancy for going through the
world with half-and-half characters, such as we put up with; so
Nature turned out complete specimens of each class, with all the
appendages of dress, fortune, et cetera, chording decently. The
heroine glides into life full-charged with rank, virtues, a name
three-syllabled, and a white dress that never needs washing,
ready to sail through dangers dire into a triumphant haven of
matrimony;-- all the aristocrats have high foreheads and cold
blue eyes; all the peasants are old women, miraculously grateful,
in neat check aprons, or sullen-browed insurgents planning
revolts in caves.

Of course, I do not mean that these times are gone: they are
alive (in a modern fashion) in many places in the world; some of
my friends have described them in prose and verse. I only mean
to say that I never was there; I was born unlucky. I am willing
to do my best, but I live in the commonplace. Once or twice I
have rashly tried my hand at dark conspiracies, and women rare
and radiant in Italian bowers; but I have a friend who is sure to
say, "Try and tell us about the butcher next door, my dear." If
I look up from my paper now, I shall be just as apt to see our
dog and his kennel as the white sky stained with blood and Tyrian