82
LESLIE FIEDLER
ers and sisters of its fans. Yet how different those descriptions, in
direct response to the differences of the fantasies which fed them, and
were in turn fed by them.
Here, for instance, are two contrasting passages, the first from
the
Family Herald
of 1850, the second from Reynolds'
Wagner: the
Were-Wolf.
They are quoted side by side in a study by Margaret
Dalziel called
Popular Fiction 100 Years Ago,
presumably to illus–
trate Reynolds' superior skill and candor as compared to other con–
temporary mass entertainers; but they illustrate rather the diversity
of the images of woman demanded, on the one hand, by the female
popular audience and, on the other, by the male.
Alice was one of those tall, aristocratic-looking creatures, who not–
withstanding a certain slimness, realise, perhaps, the highest ideal
of female beauty. Her figure was of the lordly Norman type, and
perfect in its proportions; while every movement was graceful, yet
dignified. Her face was of that almost divine beauty we see
in
the
Beatrice Cenci of Guido. The same dazzling complexion, the same
blue eyes, the same golden hair.... Her countenance, always lovely,
was now transcendently beautiful, for it glowed with enthusiasm.
She was attired in deep black; her luxuriant raven hair, no longer
depending
in
shining curls, was gathered up
in
massy bands at the
sides, and in a knot behind, whence hung a rich veil that
meandered
over her body's splendidly symmetrical length of limb in such a
manner as to aid her attire in shaping rather than hiding the con–
tours of that matchless form.
The voluptuous development of her
bust was shrouded, not concealed, by the stomacher of black velvet
which she wore, and which set off in strong relief the dazzling
whiteness of her neck.
And now Lippard in a similar vein:
Her head deep sunken in a downy pillow, a beautiful woman, lay
wrapt in slumber. By the manner in whioh the silken folds of the
coverlid were disposed, you might see that h«;r form was full, large
and voluptuous. Thick masses of jet-black hair fell, glossy and lux–
uriant, over her round neck and along her uncovered bosom, which
swelling with the full ripeness of womanhood, rose gently
in
the
light . . . And over that full bosom, which rose and fell with the
gentle impulse of slumber, over that womanly bosom, which should
have been the home of pure thoughts and wifely affections, was laid
a small and swarthy hand, whose fingers, heavy with
rings,
pressed
against the ivory skin, all streaked with veins of delicate azure, and
clung twiningly among the dark tresses that hung drooping over the
breast, as its globes rose heaving into view, like worlds of purity and
womanhood.
