in a manner which cannot be portrayed.

This picture

is no fancy sketch; it is drawn from the most vivid recollections of the person delineated.

Fayaway I must avow the fact- for the most part clung to the primitive and summer garb of Eden. But how becoming the costume! It showed her fine figure to the best possible advantage; and nothing could have been better adapted to her peculiar style of beauty. On ordinary occasions she was habited precisely as I have described the two youthful savages whom we had met on first entering the valley. At other times, when rambling among the groves, or visiting at the houses of her acquaintances, she wore a tunic of white tappa, reaching from her waist to a little below the knees; and when exposed for any length of time to the sun, she invariably protected herself from its rays by a floating mantle of the same material, loosely gathered about the person. Her gala dress will be described hereafter.

Though in my eyes, at least, Fayaway was indisputably the loveliest female I saw in Typee, yet the description I have given of her will in some measure apply to nearly all the youthful portion of her sex in the valley. Judge ye then, reader, what beautiful creatures they must have been.

Herman Melville

Phillis

IN petticoat of green

With hair about her een,

Phillis, beneath an oak,

Sat milking her fair flock :

'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture (rare delight)

Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white.

Drummond of Hawthornden

Molly Mog, or the Fair Maid of the Inn

66

SAYS my uncle, "I pray you discover

What hath been the cause of your woes,
Why you pine and you whine like a lover?"
“I have seen Molly Mog of the Rose.”

"O, nephew! your grief is but folly,
In town you may find better prog;
Half-a-crown there will get you a Molly,
A Molly much better than Mog."

"I know that by wits 'tis recited
That women at best are a clog;
But I am not so easily frighted

From loving of sweet Molly Mog.

"The school-boys' desire is a play-day,
The school-masters' joy is to flog;
The milk-maids' delight is on May-day,
But mine is on sweet Molly Mog.

"Will-a-wisp leads the trav❜ller a-gadding Thro' ditch, and thro' quagmire, and bog ; But no light can set me a-madding

Like the eyes of my sweet Molly Mog.

"For guineas in other men's breeches
Your gamesters will palm and will cog ;
But I envy them none of their riches,
So I may win sweet Molly Mog.

"The heart when half wounded is changing,
It here and there leaps like a frog;
But my heart can never be ranging,
'Tis so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog.

"I feel I'm in love to distraction,
My senses all lost in a fog;
And nothing can give satisfaction
But thinking of sweet Molly Mog.

"A letter when I am inditing,

Comes Cupid and gives me a jog,
And fills all the paper with writing
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog.

"If I would not give up the three Graces,
I wish I were hang'd like a dog,
And at Court all the drawing-room faces,
For a glance of my sweet Molly Mog.

"Were Virgil alive with his Phillis,
And writing another Eclogue ;
Both his Phillis and fair Amaryllis
He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog."

John Gay

The Romany Girl

HE sun goes down, and with him takes
The coarseness of my poor attire ;
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.

Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race;
You captives of your air-tight halls,
Wear out indoors your sickly days,
But leave us the horizon walls.

And if I take you, dames, to task,
And say it frankly without guile,
Then you are Gypsies in a mask,
And I the lady all the while.

If, on the heath, below the moon,
I court and play with paler blood,
Me false to mine dare whisper none,
One sallow horseman knows me good.

Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain,
For teeth and hair with shopmen deal;
My swarthy tint is in the grain,
The rocks and forest know it real.

The wild air bloweth in our lungs,
The keen stars twinkle in our eyes,
The birds gave us our wily tongues,
The panther in our dances flies.

You doubt we read the stars on high,
Nathless we read your fortunes true;
The stars may hide in the upper sky,
But without glass we fathom you.

R. W. Emerson

Ann

ANOTHER person there was, at that time, whom I

have since sought to trace, with far deeper earnestness, and with far deeper sorrow at my failure. This person was a young woman, and one of that unhappy class who belong to the outcasts and pariahs of our female population. I feel no shame, nor have any reason to feel it, in avowing that I was then on familiar and friendly terms with many women in that unfortunate condition. Smile not, reader too carelessly facile! Frown not, reader too unseasonably austere ! Little call was there here either for smiles or frowns.

For many weeks I had walked, at nights, with this poor friendless girl up and down Oxford Street, or had rested with her on steps and under the shelter of porticos. She could not be so old as myself: she told me, indeed, that she had not completed her sixteenth year.

One night, when we were pacing slowly along Oxford Street, and after a day when I had felt unusually ill and faint, I requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square. Thither we went; and we sat down on the steps of a house, which to this hour I never pass without a pang of grief, and an inner act of homage to the spirit of that unhappy girl, in memory of the noble act which she there performed. Suddenly, as we sat, I grew much worse. I had been leaning my head against her bosom, and all at arms, and fell backwards on sensations I then had, I felt an liveliest kind, that, without some powerful and reviving

once I sank from her the steps. From the inner conviction of the