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Maria Hargrave was the daughter of a clergy man : her teeth rivalled the ivory; her lips vied with the rose ; her breath emulated its odoriferousness ; her bosom palpitated with love ; her eye sparkled with voluptuousness ; she had wit and good nature ; confidence and modesty ; judgment and generosity : the graces danced in her train ; the loves smiled at her reproach. In honest truth, Maria as infinitely excelled the Sophias, Clarissas, Emilys, Stellas, Narcissas, and Sacharissas, as Eclipse did Rosinante.
But, alas! nothing is faultless.—Perfection is but a word. In Maria’s face stood a nose, modelled by envy ; in magnitude surpassing the invention of Slawkenbergius; in colour!—did but the tithe of it adorn the countenance of death, half his terrors would disappear, and we might press him to our breasts in mistake.
Our heroine was none of those self partial maidens who conceive themselves little short of excellence, whilst the world distinguishes nothing but imperfection ; no, she had accomplishments sufficient to have been proud, and beauties enough to have been vain ; nevertheless, she was sensible she had a red nose, and was humble. Would to heaven half tho ladies in the universe had red noses !
Possessed of such desirable qualifications, Maria danced away her eighteenth birth-night without a lover. She obtained indeed a transitory admirer ; but the moment her sister Charlotte appeared, the molles oculi were fixed upon her, leaving poor Maria to cogitate upon her nose in solitude. It was vexatious ; and had she conceived that tears would have quenched its rubicund glow, or diminished its longitude, she would have wept: but she expected not miracles in her favour ; and as, amidst all the panaccas she had heard of, she had met with every thing but a cure for copper noses, sho wisely
