womanhood. Under the first I would write Wordsworth's lines—
'A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food—
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.'
Under the fair Florentine I would inscribe Byron's lines; hers being
'The high Dama's brow, more melancholy—
Soft as her climate, sunny as her skies,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes.'"
"Oh, do look at this picture!" exclaimed Emily.
The pretty moral of one of M. Bouilly's pretty tales—that "Ce qu'on possède double le prix quand on a le bonheur de le partager"—is especially true of delight. Both drew near to admire. It was a small, antique-looking room, such as is to be found in many an old English mansion—its Gothic architecture lightened by modern luxury. In a richly-carved arm chair, and as richly wrought in its brocade covering, sat a beautiful and evidently English girl: her aristocratic loveliness was of the most pure and lofty kind—her dress
"Such as bespoke a lady in the land,"
