Save in a sonnet to my lady's eye-brow,
And then, if that be flaxen, I avoid
Praise of the raven arch, and vice versa.
So, what our heroine was, in shape or air
And feature and complexion-whether pale
And interesting, of fragile, sylph-like form--
Or flush and fat-I beg a million pardons,
I mean-approaching to the embonpoint,
Haply the painter may divulge, not I.
She was a frank, kind-hearted, generous creature―
Had proved a most dear daughter; and, within
Her innocent heart had stores of precious love
To bless the happy husband, far beyond
His fondest hope, were he the veriest miser
In Hymen's wide domain. I can't aver
She was in love, for she had liv'd secluded,
Shut out from all society, to please
Her good old sire, who, since her mother's death,
Grew, to be plain, hypochondrical.
Yet so it was, she was betrothed, to one
She thought, at least, she loved. Ippolito
Was a fair youth of a right noble lineage,
Who came from Florence duly every summer,
To rusticate among his father's oaks.
Angelica and he had met--and so
Became of course, in the country, lovers-and
The match being eligible on either side,
The estates already wed, the parents smiled,
The notary chuckled, and the lovers blush'd
And were betrothed: how soon a contract's made
When all are to be gainers. Love, however,
Smiled not, it seems, on those solemnities.
Perhaps he did not like the notary,
Love does not write his billets doux on parchment.
The sequel will denote he was displeased,
Yet such a sequel to a tale of love
Perhaps was never read of. You shall hear.
'Twas near the day of marriage, when our bride
Stood at the casement, whence she'd often watch'd
The light step of her lover, as he came
Across the smiling meadow. 'Twas a day
The hottest of the hottest summer-one
Almost too hot for love, who's fire itself:
"Twas afternoon-Angelica, poor girl,
Had not, as usual, taken her siesta,
(Why, is unknown-young ladies, it is said,
Get fidgetty when near their wedding day.)
I would advise both old and young, who live
In melting latitudes, not to omit
Their little snug siesta after dinner,
It is refreshing, and prepares the mind
And body too, for evening business.
Angelica in vain look'd far and wide
For her Ippolito: the gentle youth
No doubt was fast asleep. She sat her down
And tried her lute-'twas out of tune, and harsh;
Her voice-'twas weak and husky. Then she look'd
Out on the sylvan scene- -all nature seem'd
Sunk in siesta; not a single bird
Was seen or heard; the very flowers gave forth
A sleepy kind of odour, like the breath
Of slumb'ring beauty. There was not abroad
A sound, nor scarce a motion. The dull breeze
No longer flapp'd its flagging wings-it slept.
The air seem'd powder'd fire-all-all was hot,
Hot, hot and hush-that e'en the waterfall
That glitter'd in the sun, look'd like the gush
Of boiling water from a copper kettle.
Angelica arose, and walk'd across
The apartment to her glass-how natural:
She did not like her looks; she did not like
The glass, nor e'en the harmless peacock's feather
That hung above; who can like any thing
In such hot weather? Then she sat again,
In a great chair, and look'd upon her flowers,
And took a volume up, and laid it down,
And then applied her compasses to the globe,
Haply to see how far it was from thence
To a cold country. Nothing would avail,
A charm was in the air, and every thing
Must sleep-books-compasses
Fell on the floor-and slept; Angelica
Lean'd back her head in her great chair-and slept.
I do not know how long the lady slumber'd,
These are particulars my manners will not
Permit me to pry into, but 'tis clear
'Twas a sound-nap she took. Ippolito
Had finished his some time, and made his toilet,
Which was no hasty matter. The fresh breeze,
(Refresh'd by sleep,) was springing up, in short,
'Twas almost evening, when the lover stept
Empassion'd and perfum'd into the room.
I never yet could fully comprehend
The doctrine of antipathies-nor pardon
The man who feared or hated what in nature,
Was innocent and harmless-yet there be
Such arrant fopperies-and of all fopperies
They are the worst-and of this worst the worst
Is, that a man shall hate to see a woman
Eat, and so forth-my lord Ippolito
Was no Lord Byron in the main, yet he
Was as ridiculous in this particular.
'Twas his aversion-what a pretty term-
To see or hear a woman sleep. Ye gods,
Aversion to a sleeping woman—well,
The histories do not say Angelica
Breathed louder than young ladies ought to breathe
When they're asleep no one has dared to say it,
Nor would I for ten thousand worlds presume it.
But 'twas enough-our fine Ippolito
Yielded to his aversion, and instead
Of gazing on the blessed sight before him,
Like the rapt votary at the holy shrine,
Or on his knees, stealing a sacred kiss
From the fair hand that hung so temptingly,
Or even from those rich and ruby lips
That seem'd to ask it-if those little freedoms
Were sanction'd by the manners of the age,
I know not, I, but think that kissing lips
Should ne'er go out of fashion. Our fine spark,
Instead of this, thrice twirl'd, with lordly finger,
His amiable whiskers, and, while she,
Perhaps, was dreaming of the senseless ingrate,
Took snuff, shrugg'd up his shoulders, turn'd his back, And gallop'd off to Florence.
'Tis not thought Angelica went mad-of all God's creatures, A coxcomb is the thing soonest forgotten.
How thrive the beauties of the graphic art?-Peter Pindar.
"MR. GUMMAGE," said Mrs. Atmore, as she entered a certain drawing school, at that time the most fashionable in Philadelphia, "I have brought you a new pupil, my daughter, Miss Marianne Atmore. Have you a vacancy." "Why, I can't say that I have," replied Mr. Gummage; "I never have vacancies."
"I am very sorry to hear it," said Mrs. Atmore; and Miss Marianne, a tall handsome girl of fifteen, looked disappointed.
"But perhaps I could strain a point, and find a place for her," resumed Mr. Gummage, who knew very well that he never had the smallest idea of limiting the number of his pupils, and that if twenty more were to apply, he would take them every one, however full his school might be.
"Do, pray, Mr. Gummage," said Mrs. Atmore; "do try and make an exertion to admit my daughter; I shall regard it as a particular favour."
"Well, I believe she may come," replied Gummage: I can take her. Has she any turn for draw
"I don't know," answered Mrs. Atmore, "she has never tried.'
"So much the better," said Gummage; "I like girls
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