- end_line
- 12527
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:26.988Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 12453
- text
- could the Promethean spark throw life and animation into the Venus de’
Medici, it would but present the counterpart of ⸻.
Her complexion has the delicate tinge of the brunette, with a little of
the roseate hue of the Circassian; and one would swear that none but the
sunny skies of Spain had shone upon the infancy of the being, who looks
so like her own ‘dark-glancing daughters.’
The outline of her head, together with the profile of her countenance,
are sketched in classic purity, and while the one indicates refined and
elegant sentiment, the other is not more chaste and regular than the
mind which beams from every feature of the face. Her hair is black as
the wing of the raven, and is parted _à la Madonna_ over a forehead
where sits, girt round with her sister graces, the very genius of poetic
beauty, hope, and love.
And then her eyes! They open their dark, rich orbs upon you like the
full noon of heaven, and blaze into your very soul the fires of day!
Like the offerings laid upon the sacrificial altars of the Hebrews, when
in an instant the divine spark falling from the propitiated God kindled
them in flames; so, a single glance from that Oriental eye as quickly
fires your soul, and leaves your bosom in a perfect conflagration! Odds
Cupids and Darts! with one broad sweep of vision in a crowded ballroom,
that splendid creature would lay around her like the two-handed sword of
Minotti, hearts on hearts, piled round in semicircles! But it is well
for the more rugged sex that this glorious being can vary her proud
dominion, and give to the expression of her eye a melting tenderness
which dissolves the most frigid heart, and heals the wounds she gave
before.
If the devout and exemplary Mussulman, who dying fast in the faith of
his Prophet, anticipates reclining on beds of roses, gloriously drunk
through all the ages of eternity, is to be waited on by Houris such as
these: waft me, ye gentle gales, beyond this lower world and,
‘Lap me in soft Lydian airs!’
But I am falling into I know not what extravagances, so I will briefly
give you a portrait of the last of these three divinities, and will then
terminate my tiresome lucubrations.
This last is a Lilliputian beauty; diminutive in stature, fair-haired,
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.
- title
- Chunk 4