She was rather fair,
with a fine, small, oval, well-proportioned face, sparkling black and
speaking eyes, good teeth, pretty red lips, very dark hair, and plenty
of it, hanging over her face and neck in curls of every size; her arms
and bust were such as Phidias and Praxiteles might have copied; her
waist was slender; her hands and feet small and beautiful. I used
often to think it was a great pity that such a love as she was should
not be matched with some equally good specimen of our sex; and I had
long fixed on my friend Talbot as the person best adapted to command
this pretty little, tight, fast-sailing, well-rigged smack.
Unluckily, Clara, with all her charms, had one fault, and that, in
my eyes, was a very serious one. Clara did not love a sailor. The
soldiers she doated on. But Clara's predilections were not easily
overcome, and that which had once taken root grew up and flourished.
She fancied sailors were not well bred; that they thought too much of
themselves or their ships; and, in short, that they were as rough and
unpolished as they were conceited.
With such obstinate and long-rooted prejudices against all of our
profession, it proved no small share of merit in Talbot to overcome
them. But as Clara's love for the army was more general than
particular, Talbot had a vacant theatre to fight in. He began by
handing her to dinner, and with modest assurance seated himself by
her side. But so well was he aware of her failing, that he never once
alluded to our unfortunate element; on the contrary, he led her away
with every variety of topic which he found best suited to her taste:
so that she was at last compelled to acknowledge that he might be one
exception to her rule, and I took the liberty of hoping that I might
be another.
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