At this moment the speaker turned round, and shewed a face so beautiful, that had poetry never existed before, it must have been invented in describing such loveliness. The black hair was bound with classical simplicity round a small and finely-shaped head; the face was something between Grecian and Spanish—the intellect of the one, the passion of the other; the exquisite features were like those of a statue, but a statue like that which Pygmalion called by love into life; the brow was magnificent—fit for Madame de Stael, had her mind looked its power and its grace.
"That is our English Corinne," said Mr. Morland—"one to whom genius and beauty are birthrights. Poetry, prose, wit, pathos, are the gifted slaves of her lamp. You were reading one of her exquisite volumes this morning."
"I was," said Edward, "and dreaming of the author; and now I only say to her what Wordsworth said of Yarrow—
'And thou, who didst appear so fair
To young imagination,
Didst rival, in the sight of day,
Her delicate creation.'"
A throng of small "noticeables" now passed by—poets who have written two songs, and live
