attraction of one sex for the other be mutual, why should it enlighten the man and confuse the woman? Or is this enlightenment less penetrating than it appears? Perhaps a rare perfection in recognizing and reproducing detail may be mistaken for a firm grasp upon the whole.
Certain it is that if men have looked with skepticism at the types of manhood presented with so much ardour by female novelists,—if they have voted Rochester a brute, and Mr. Knightley a prig, and Robert Elsmere a bore, and Deronda "an intolerable kind of Grandison,"—women in their turn have evinced resentment, or at least impatience, at the attitude of heroines so sweetly glorified by men. Lady Castlewood is a notable example. How kindly Thackeray—who is not always kind—treats this "tender matron," this "fair mistress" of the admirable Esmond! What pleasant adjectives, "gentlest," "truest," "loveliest," he has ever ready at her service! How frankly he forgives faults more endearing than virtues to the masculine mind! "It takes a man," we are told, "to forgive Lady Castle-
