the case) will not have the softened affection of to-day visited on his head in the double caprice of to morrow."
"'A Dutch Girl, by Newton.'*[1] Calumniated people!" exclaimed Lorraine; "and yet calumniated they deserve to be: instead of quarrelling among themselves, what patriotic phraseology is best suited to a newspaper, they ought to be voting the 'Golden Fleece' to Mr. Newton, for thus redeeming their share of female fascination."
The next was a "Florentine Girl, by Howard;"—a dark and passionate beauty of the South—large black eyes, that turned all they touched into poetry—flowing luxuriant ringlets, that were confined but with jewels, and knew no ruder air than that of palaces—with a lute, whose gentle science answered the chivalric songs of the brave and high-born.
"These two portraits seem to me," observed Lorraine, "to realise two sweet extremes of
- ↑ * I have here taken what, I trust, will not exceed an author's allowed poetical license. The British Gallery is only lighted up during the exhibition of the old masters. My excuse is, that I could think of something to say about the moderns, while I had nothing to remark touching the ancients.
