as the poet of the later nineteenth century sings. But Tennyson was anticipated in this discovery by Mr. Barrett: Yes, heaven a contrast not unmeet, designed Between the bearded and the blushing kind. Those who often see the bearded kind clad in overcoats, carrying umbrellas, and timorous of social greetings, may have some difficulty in recognizing the essential truth of the following lines, which describe man in his grandeur, as his blushing consort loves to think of him: Man, from those moments, when his infant age Cried for the moon, ambitious aims engage, One world subdued, more worlds he wishes given, He piles his impious tower to clamber heaven; Scoops cities under earth; erects his home On mountains of wild surges, vales of foam; Soars air, and high above the thunder runs, Now flaked with sleet, now reddened under suns. Even in his pastime man his soul reveals; Raised with carousing shout, his goblet reels. Now from his chase imperial lions fly, And now he stakes a princedom on a die. What would he more? The consecrated game Of murder must transmit his epic name, Some empire tempts him; at his stern command, An armed cloud hails iron o'er the land. Earth thunders underneath the pondrous tread, Son slaughters sire, the dying stab the dead. The vallies roar, that loved a warbling mood, Their mutilated lilies float on blood; And corpses sicken streams, and towns expire, And colour the nocturnal clouds with fire. Last, vultures pounce upon the finished strife, And dabble in the plash of human life. Such is man, all magnificence and terror. And now a softly trilling note ushers in the partner of his cares: But the meek female far from war removes, Girt with the Graces and endearing Loves. To rear the life we destine to destroy, To bind the wound we plant, is her employ. Her rapine is to press from healing bud, Or healthful herb, the vegetable blood; Her answer, at the martial blast abhorred, Harmonic noise along the warbling chord. To her belong light roundelay and reel, To her the crackling hearth and humming wheel; (Sounds of content!) to her the milky kine, And Peace, O Woman, gentle Peace is thine. Their studies are as dissimilar as their tastes. Nothing less than a comet will excite the curiosity of man; for woman the flower-garden is science enough: Prone o'er abstruse research, let man expound Dark causes; what abyss our planet drowned; And where the fiery star its hundred years Of absence travels, ere it re-appears. To Woman, whose best books are human hearts, Wise heaven a genius less profound imparts. His awful, her's is lovely; his should tell How thunderbolts, and her's how roses fell. Here is the genesis of the Early Victorian ideal of female beauty. The author describes, with heart-felt sentiment, its graces and charms,