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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


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



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

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."

6 Well, I believe she may come," replied Gummage: “ I suppose I can take her. Has she any turn for drawing?”

6 I don't know," answered Mrs. Atmore, 6 she has never tried.

6 So much the better," said Gummage; “I like girls

that have never tried; they are much more manageable than those that have been scratching and daubing at home all their lives."

Mr. Gummage was no gentleman, either in appearance or manner. But he passed for a genius among those who knew nothing of that ill-understood race. He had a hooked nose that turned to the right, and a crooked mouth that turned to the left-his face being very much out of drawing—and he had two round eyes that in colour and expression resembled two hazel-nuts. His lips were “pea-green and blue,” from the habit of putting the brushes into his mouth when they were overcharged with colour. He took snuff illimitably, and generally carried half a dozen handkerchiefs, some of which, however, were to wrap his dinner in, as he conveyed it from market in his capacious pockets; others, as he said, were “ to wipe the girl's saucers.”

His usual costume was an old dusty brown coat, corduroy pantaloons, and a waistcoat that had once been red, boots that had once been black, and a low crowned rusty hat—which was never off his head, even in the presence of the ladies and a bandanna cravat. The vulgarity of his habits, and rudeness of his deportment all passed off under the title of eccentricity. At the period when he flourished—it was long before the time of Sully-the beau ideal of an artist, at least among the multitude, was an ugly, ill-mannered, dirty fellow, that painted an inch thick in divers gaudy colours, equally irreconcilable to nature and art. And the chief attractions of a drawing master—for Mr. Gummage was nothing more-lay in doing almost every thing himself, and producing for his pupils, in their first quarter, pictures (so called) that were pronounced fit to frame.”

“Well, madam,” said Mr. Gummage, “what do you

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