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
beautiful portrait. She was a robust, gray-haired woman, with whose
constitutional good-nature care had waged a long and partially
successful war. That indescribable air which speaks of better days was
visible at a glance; the remnants of bygone gentility were obvious in
her dress; she had the peculiar manner of one who had enjoyed social
consideration; and her language indicated familiarity with cultivated
society; yet the anxious expression habitual to her countenance, and
the bustling air of her vocation which quickly succeeded conversational
repose, hinted but too plainly straitened circumstances and daily toil.
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