reason, wisdom’s lightning; and no soul possessing and dispensing it can justly be a target for the world, however well armed the world confronting her.  Our temporary world, that Old Credulity and stone-hurling urchin in one, supposes it possible for a woman to be mentally active up to the point of spiritual clarity and also fleshly vile; a guide to life and a biter at the fruits of death; both open mind and hypocrite.  It has not yet been taught to appreciate a quality certifying to sound citizenship as authoritatively as acres of land in fee simple, or coffers of bonds, shares and stocks, and a more imperishable guarantee.  The multitudes of evil reports which it takes for proof, are marshalled against her without question of the nature of the victim, her temptress beauty being a sufficiently presumptive delinquent.  It does not pretend to know the whole, or naked body of the facts; it knows enough for its furry dubiousness; and excepting the sentimental of men, a rocket-headed horde, ever at the heels of fair faces for ignition, and up starring away at a hint of tearfulness; excepting further by chance a solid champion man, or some generous woman capable of faith in the pelted solitary of her sex, our temporary world blows direct East on her shivering person.  The scandal is warrant for that; the circumstances of the scandal emphasize the warrant.  And how clever she is!  Cleverness is an attribute of the selecter missionary lieutenants of Satan.  We pray to be defended from her cleverness:  she flashes bits of speech that catch men in their unguarded corner.  The wary stuff their ears, the stolid bid her best sayings rebound on her reputation.  Nevertheless the world, as Christian, remembers its professions, and a portion of it joins the burly in morals by extending to her a rough old charitable mercifulness; better than sentimental ointment, but the heaviest blow she has to bear, to a character swimming for life.

That the lady in question was much quoted, the Diaries and Memoirs testify.  Hearsay as well as hearing was at work to produce the abundance; and it was a novelty in England, where (in company) the men are the pointed talkers, and the women conversationally fair Circassians.  They are, or they know that they should be; it comes to the same.  Happily our civilization has not prescribed the veil to them.  The mutes have here and there a sketch or label attached to their names:  they are ’strikingly handsome’; they are ‘very good-looking’; occasionally they are noted as ‘extremely entertaining’:  in what manner, is inquired by a curious posterity, that in so many matters is left unendingly to jump the empty and gaping figure of interrogation over its own full stop.  Great ladies must they be, at the web of politics, for us to hear them cited discoursing.  Henry Wilmers is not content to quote the beautiful Mrs. Warwick, he attempts a portrait.  Mrs. Warwick is ‘quite Grecian.’  She might ‘pose for a statue.’  He presents her in carpenter’s lines, with a dab of school-box colours, effective to those whom the Keepsake fashion can stir.  She has a straight nose, red lips, raven hair, black eyes, rich complexion, a remarkably fine bust, and she walks well, and has an agreeable voice; likewise ‘delicate extremities.’  The writer was created for popularity, had he chosen to bring his art into our literary market.