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truly open and regal—those eyebrows, so regularly graceful, which yet were saved from the charge of regular insipidity, by the beautiful effect of the hazel eyes which they overarched, and which seemed to utter a thousand histories—the nose, with all its Grecian precision of outline—the mouth, so well proportioned, so sweetly formed, as if designed to speak nothing but what was delightful to hear—the dimpled chin—the stately swan-like neck, -form a countenance, the like of which we know not to have existed in any other character moving in that class of life, where the actresses as well as the actors command general and undivided attention. It is in vain to say that the portraits which exist of this remarkable woman are not like each other; for, amidst their discrepancy, each possesses general features, which the eye at once acknowledges as peculiar to the vision which our imagination has raised while we read her history for the first time, and which has been impressed upon it by the numerous prints and pictures which we have seen. Indeed, we cannot look on the worst of them, however deficient in point of execution, without saying that it is meant for Queen Mary; and no small instance it is of the power of beauty, that her charms should have remained the subject, not merely of admiration, but of warm and chivalrous interest, after the lapse of such a length of time. We know that by far the most acute of those who, in latter days, have adopted the unfavourable view of Mary's character, longed, like the executioner before his dreadful task was performed, to kiss the fair hand of her on whom he was about to perform so horrible a duty.

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T is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw

the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at

Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which P

she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just began to

move in, glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to that enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgráce concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.




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(Scott.) TILL on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,

For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. When sated with the martial show That peopled all the plain below, The wandering eye could o'er it go, And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud,

Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge castle holds its state,

And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town!

But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;

And broad between them roll'd
The gallant Firth the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,
The spur he to his charger lent,

And raised his bridle-hand,
And, making demi-volte in air,
Cried, "Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land !”

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