Arrah Neil; or, Times of OldJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
History
Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
Out from the tapestry, however, after an old fashion, which certainly
showed pictures to much greater advantage than when plastered upon the
face of the wall, stood a great many portraits of different degrees of
art, supported at the lower part by a gilt iron bracket, and upheld in
a slightly sloping position by an iron bar at the top. From the cold,
severe Holbein to the rich and juicy Rubens and the poetical Vandyke,
all the famous artists of the last two centuries had exercised their
pencils in pourtraying the features of a race which had always been
fruitful in beauty; and the history of the changeful mind of those two
ages was shadowed forth in the varying costume in which the characters
appeared. Nor is it, let me say, dear reader, in passing, a alight
indication of the state of the popular mind that is afforded by the
dress of the day. Look at the Chevalier in his long floating locks,
his silks and velvets, and at the Roundhead, in his steeple hat, his
straight-cut suit and prim cloak, each with his heavy-hilted sword and
large flapping gloves, and say whether Naseby Field and Marsden Moor,
and all the deeds on either part, do not naturally, and not purely
historically, connect themselves with such apparel; and then turn to
ourselves, with our straight-cut frock-coats, neat, close-fitting
boots, and other mathematical habiliments, which seem to have been
fashioned by the rules and compasses of a Laputan sage, and tell
me whether they do not plainly speak of an age of railroads and
steam-boats.
There, however, stood the pictures of the brave and beautiful of other
times, bending down over their once-familiar halls and the doings of
their descendants, as the spirits of the dead may be supposed to gaze
upon the actions of the children they have left behind; and there in
the oriel window, just about the time of day at which we commenced
this tale, sat a creature whom those long-gone bold warriors and
lovely dames might look upon with pride, and own her of their blood.
It was a lady of some twenty years of age, not very tall, but yet, if
anything, above the middle height of women. She was very beautiful too
in feature, with a skin as white as alabaster, and as smooth, yet with
the rose glowing in her cheek, and her arched lips red and full of
health.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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