We have all heard a
great deal about "love at first sight;" but I contend that the man who
would not, at the very first glimpse of Emily Somerville, have fallen
desperately in love with her, could have had neither heart nor soul.
If I thought her lovely when she lay in a state of insensibility, what
did I think of her when her form had assumed its wonted animation, and
her cheeks their natural colour? To describe a perfect beauty never
was my forte. I can only say, that Miss Somerville, as far as I am
a judge, united in her person all the component parts of the finest
specimen of her sex in England; and these were joined in such harmony
by the skilful hand of Nature, that I was ready to kneel down and
adore her.
As she extended her white hand to me, and thanked me for my kindness,
I was so taken aback with the sudden appearance and address of this
beautiful vision, that I knew not what to say. I stammered out
something, but have no recollection whether it was French or English.
I lost my presence of mind, and the blushes of conscious guilt on
my face at that moment, might have been mistaken for those of
unsophisticated innocence. That these external demonstrations are
often confounded, and that such was the case on the present occasion,
there can be no doubt. My embarrassment was ascribed to that modesty
ever attendant on real worth.
It has been said that true merit blushes at being discovered; but I
have lived to see merit that could not blush, and the want of it that
could, while the latter has marched off with all the honours due to
the former.
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