old-fashioned astral lamp, a cracked porcelain vase of wax-flowers, a
yellow satin pincushion embroidered with tarnished gold-lace, and an
album of venerable hue filled with hyperbolic apostrophes to the charms
of some ancient beauty; which, with the dilapidated window-curtains, the
obsolete sideboard, the wooden effigy of a red-faced man with a spyglass
under his arm, and the cracked alabaster clock-case on the mantel, all
bespoke an impoverished establishment, so devoid of taste that the
beautiful and artistic portrait seemed to have found its way there by a
miracle. It represented a young and _spirituelle_ woman, in the
costume, so elegant in material and formal in mode, which Copley has
immortalized; in this instance, however, there was a French look about
the coiffure and robe. The eyes were bright with intelligence chastened
by sentiment, the features at once delicate and spirited, and altogether
the picture was one of those visions of blended youth, grace, sweetness,
and intellect, from which the fancy instinctively infers a tale of love,
genius, or sorrow, according to the mood of the spectator. Subdued by
his melancholy errand and discouraged by a long and vain search, my
friend, whose imagination was quite as excitable as his taste was
correct, soon wove a romance around the picture. It was evidently not
the work of a novice; it was as much out of place in this obscure
and inelegant domicil, as a diamond set in filigree, or a rose among
pigweed. How came it there? who was the original? what her history and
her fate? Her parentage and her nurture must have been refined; she must
have inspired love in the chivalric; perchance this was the last relic
of an illustrious exile, the last memorial of a princely house.

This reverie of conjecture was interrupted by the entrance of the
landlady. My friend had almost forgotten the object of his visit; and
when his anxious inquiries proved vain, he drew the loquacious hostess
into general conversation, in order to elicit the mystery of the