HERIONES OF FICTION

Otago Witness, Issue 1813, 20 August 1886, Page 32

HERIONES OF FICTION

AND_FACT. By Alice.

The Laureate has sung to us in his " Dream of Fair Woman " of A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Nor has he sung alone of goddesses of beauty. Literature, from the ancient, downward, is studded with gems of female loveliness, as the night sky is with stars, to which we turn the mind's eye, and upon which we gaze with rapture mingled with reverence and delight, for " a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," and these dreams of fair women—though we know they are but dreams—the poet's creative fancy, called into being by that magical wand genius, born of poetic instinct which idealises and beautifies ever—still we fall down and worship. We do not stand before the perfect picture and ask where the canvas was manufactured, or what the colours are composed of, we do not cavil that the picture is only paint deep; we gaze on loveliness and are content. This admiration of the beautiful, springs from the best within vs—for to admire it thoroughly we must appreciate humbly, and sights and sounds and descriptions of beauty —of grandeur, of purity, of loftiness—exalt and purify and ennoble human nature. We owe a debt, then, of deep gratitude to those who have set bright stars of art in our sky, upon which we may gaze and learn deep lessons of intellectual and spiiitual meaning, but we must not always be star-gazing, or we shall tread on the daisies—the daisies and violets, of real life, growing round about our path, hiding in shady nooks and quiet corners. The star-like radiance of Venuses and Helens, like music, is for our intellectual and spiritual refreshment; the wants of our raaterial nature are not supplied by such. Venus won't'eook the dinner, nor will Helen darn the Bocks, or cut out suits for the boys. Could all the grace be let loose from the novels, seldom should we meet squinting eyes or crooked, noses. Tall, nymph-like

forms, fair complexions and waving hair would swarm in our streets. Leave them where they were in books, and in frames, and they haV§ their use, high use, they are gems oftentimes in a setting of precious golden thought. But down on life's way we want our lowly, growing heroines —quiet little women with patient hearts, that can make the gruel and mustard poultices for sick rooms; for out of stories we cannot choose our sicknesses —we cannot all suffer from consumption and lie upon a couch — the hectic flush deepening our roses to a crimson blush. Heroes of poems never take a cold, the toothache, or yellow jaundice, for where is the author so remorselessly cruel as to paint an Appolo or Hercules with his feet in a hot bath, sipping water gruel ? But such is fact, if there is a wife, a mother, a sister oi a daughter in the house, too good a nurse to think of pictures while Tom or Joe grows worse. We want in real life your cheerful, brave-hearted girls, who, for true love's gake, will give their hand to an honest man —notthejournalheroines who look a Venus in a cotton frock and stroll in a wood to sob out all distress, and some duke or lord happening to pass by, catches the flash of their glorious eyes, proposes next week, and — bliss for ever after. That's fiction! Fact teaches that poverty is not so easily got rid of —that men on the look-out for wives appreciate the girls who know the art of grilling a beef steak, and can order and appoint the house in comfoufc and refinement within th^.* income. It has always been a puzzle to me how book-heroines manage to cry so prettily —as a rule I mean. You will observe that the tears well up into their eyes, linger there awhile, like pearls or dew-drops, then roll down their cheeks in a manner that is perfectly bewitching. I never saw anyone cry like that to look charming. I have seen very sad, patient women sit quite silently, and by-and-bye the big tears roll down their face, without their uttering a sob or sound. But those are tears from some old sorrow, long repressed, long fought with, hidden away in patient endurance, but not overcome. There is nothing 'charming about such tears —they are infinitely sad. The tears of whole-hearted maidens that dukes might win, or soundhearted wives that lords have won, generally come on with spring, shower-like quicknesses heralded with sundry lightning flashes or low rumblings of thunder: in short, as Mr Micawber would say, with sniffing, and gasping, grief sobs. Far be it from me to smile at grief, but the ladies will allow, on the whole, we come out of a cry —not with a —well —yes —perhaps with a conquest, but not with good looks, for, as a whole, our face is swollen and our eyes are red. Never mind. We cannot be book heroines, but we can be heroines of flesh and blood. Life makes crosses for us to carry and floods for us to ford. Our woes may not be tragic, nor our glories brilliant, but we have our aims, hopes, joys, and sorrows, and we are rich if we have a heart or two that beats with ours in truth ; power here and there a loving smile to win; eyes that as we gaze therein grow brighter; and strength —if not above our fellows very far to soar —at least to keep us clear of the mud.