But who can make th' expressive soul,
With lively sense inform the whole,
And light up every feature?"
"A bad rime 'teint', and a somewhat aristocratic allusion to 'common creatures,'" says the reader.
"Oh, it is beautiful!" says a pretty little damsel, enthusiastically.
"I am glad you like your portrait, my dear madam," says the gallant, "I assure you that Myrtilla was designed for you,"
"Oh!" murmurs Myrtilla, covering her face with her fan.…
Some more verses are read, and they are received with a variety of comment.
"Listen now, to the last," says the engaging reader.
"With pensive look and head reclined,
Sweet emblem of the purest mind,
Lo! where Cordelia sits!
On Dion's image dwells the fair—
Dion, the thunderbolt of war—
The prince of modern wits!
"At length fatigued with beauty's blaze,
The feeble muse no more essays,
Her picture to complete.
The promised charms of younger girls,
When nature the gay scene unfurls,
Some happier bard shall treat!"
There is a silence for some moments after these words—the manuscript having passed from the gallant's hands to another group.
"Who is Cordelia? let me think," says Laura, knitting her brows, and raising to her lips a fairy hand covered with diamonds, absently.
