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- and with a foot for which Cinderella’s slipper would be too large; a
countenance sweet and interesting, and in her manners eminently refined
and engaging. The cast of her physiognomy is singularly mild and
amiable, and her whole person is replete with every feminine grace. Her
eyes
‘Effuse the mildness of their azure beam;’
and to her, above all her sex, are applicable the lines of our gentle
Coleridge:--
‘Maid of my Love, sweet ⸻
In Beauty’s light you glide along:
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your Voice as Seraph’s song.
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a Voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
When sinking low the Sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretched to save,
Fair as the bosom of the Swan
That rises graceful o’er the wave,
I’ve seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet ⸻.’
Here, my dear M----, closes this catalogue of the Graces, this chapter
of Beauties, and I should implore your pardon for trespassing so long on
your attention. If you, yourself, in whose breast may possibly be
extinguished the amatory flame, should not feel an interest in these
three ‘counterfeit presentments,’ do not fail to show them to ⸻, and
solicit her opinion as to their respective merits.
Tender my best acknowledgments to the Major for his prompt attention to
my request, and, for yourself, accept the assurance of my undiminished
regard; and hoping that the smiles of heaven may continue to illuminate
your way,--I remain, ever yours,
L. A. V.
Written in long hand (by Melville) across the inner margin:--
‘When I woke up this morning, what the devil should I see but your cane
along in bed with me. I shall keep it for you when you come up here
again.’
FRAGMENTS FROM A WRITING-DESK
No. 2
LANSINGBURGH, N.Y.,
_Saturday, May 18, 1839_.
‘Confusion seize the Greek!’ exclaimed I, as wrathfully rising from my
chair, I flung my ancient lexicon across the room, and seizing my hat
and cane, and throwing on my cloak, I sallied out into the clear air of
heaven. The bracing coolness of an April evening calmed my aching
temples, and I slowly wended my way to the river-side. I had promenaded
the bank for about half an hour, when flinging myself upon the grassy
turf, I was soon lost in revery, and up to the lips in sentiment.
I had not lain more than five minutes, when a figure, effectually
concealed in the ample folds of a cloak, glided past me, and hastily
dropping something at my feet, disappeared behind the angle of an
adjoining house, ere I could recover from my astonishment at so singular
an occurrence.
‘Cerbes!’ cried I, springing up, ‘here is a spice of the marvellous!’
and stooping down, I picked up an elegant little rose-coloured,
lavender-scented _billet-doux_, and hurriedly breaking the seal (a
heart, transfixed with an arrow) I read by the light of the moon the
following:--
‘GENTLE SIR,--If my fancy has painted you in genuine colours, you
will on the receipt of this, incontinently follow the bearer where
she will lead you.
‘INAMORATA.’
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