I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Mrs. Divers plans and figures were chalked upon the walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for the year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be "The History of Chaste Susannah;" an old print of the Seven Golden Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of the interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the principal members of his flock. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. F. "I'll be back in a minute.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 18-09-2024 16:44:14
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