A man! Who said he was a man? No more men of that pattern to bear _his_
name!--Used to be a good-looking set enough.--Where's all the manhood
and womanhood gone to since his great-grand-father was the strongest
man that sailed out of the town of Boston, and poor Leah there the
handsomest woman in Essex, if she was a witch?
----Give me some light,--he said,--more light,--I want to see the
picture.
He had started either from a dream or a wandering reverie. I was not
unwilling to have more light in the apartment, and presently had
lighted an astral lamp that stood on a table.--He pointed to a portrait
hanging against the wall.--Look at her,--he said,--look, at her!
Wasn't that a pretty neck to slip a hangman's noose over?
The portrait was of a young woman, something more than twenty years
old, perhaps. There were few pictures of any merit painted in New
England before the time of Smibert, and I am at a loss to know what
artist--could have taken this half-length, which was evidently from
life. It was somewhat stiff and flat, but the grace of the figure and
the sweetness of the expression reminded me of the angels of the early
Florentine painters. She must have been of some consideration, for she
was dressed in paduasoy and lace with hanging sleeves, and the old
carved frame showed how the picture had been prized by its former
owners.
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