She made a
water-color portrait of my father, which, as the young artist was then
but a girl, looked like a cherub of pug-nosed, pink good nature, with
its head loose. I can see that little sketch now, and I feel still a
wave of the dizziness of my indignation at its strange depiction of a
strong man reduced to dollhood. Miss Boott being a true artist in the
bud, there was, of course, the eerie likeness of some unlike
portraits. It became famous with us all as the most startling
semblance we had ever witnessed. I sincerely wish that the ardor with
which the young girl made her sketch could have been used later on a
portrait, which certainly would have been superbly honest and
vigorous, like all the work that has come from her wonderfully noble
nature and her skillful perception. Another young lady appeared
against the Raphaelesque landscape. She was very pretty in every way,
and my mother was delighted to have her present, and showered
endearing epithets upon her. Her large brown eyes were alluring beyond
words, and her features pathetically piquant and expressive. Her face
was rather round, pale, and emphatically saddened by the great
sculptor Regret. She sat in picturesque attitudes, her cheek leaning
against her hand, and her elbow somewhere on the back or arm of her
chair; yet her positions were never excessive, but eminently gentle.
She had been disappointed in love, and one was sure it was not in the
love of the young man. She was too pretty to die, but she could look
sad, and we all liked to have her with us, and preferred her charming
misery to any other mood.
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