lity kneel in the accustomed place. As she drew back her veil she
displayed a remarkably pretty face, and there was something quite
enchanting in the coquetry with which she ignored the presence of a
stranger. Of course she could have had no idea that any person of the
opposite sex would dare to think of female loveliness in such a place,
and the charming unconsciousness of her manner, as she adjusted the
folds of her dress, and revealed the exquisitely rounded contour of
her form, was the very best proof of that fact. A perfect withdrawal
of self from the world and all its vanities was her ruling expression.
Thrice did this lovely creature gracefully incline her head and kiss
the blotched countenance of that inanimate saint. Ah me! what a luxury
it must be to be a saint! What a lucky fellow is St. Nicholas, to be
kissed by such honeyed and pouting lips as these! Chaste and pious
kisses they may be, but, notwithstanding that, it must be very hard to
keep cool, under the circumstances. Who would not suffer a life of
martyrdom, and be turned into a picture or an image on such terms?
Surely this bewitching damsel must have committed some dreadful sin to
be thus soliciting the saintly intercession of a little picture with a
dirty mouth! Perhaps she had recently suffered her own delectable lips
to be pressed by the bearded mouth-piece of some tender and persuasive
lover, and now sought to make atonement by kissing St. Nicholas! By
all the powers of beauty, I'll forswear sack, Dominico, and try--ha!
here comes a devotee of another sort. Let us wait a while. For, as I
live, it is a great puncheon of a woman, weighing over three hundred
pounds--puffing and steaming as she waddles toward the shrine--a
perfect Falstaff in petticoats. Shade of Venus! what a face and
figure! Carbuncled with wine, and bloated with quass and cabbage soup,
I'll bet my head, Dominico, she's a countess! How the juices of high
living roll from her brow as she stoops down, and gives the
unfortunate St. Nicholas a greasy dish-cloth of her fat lips! Faugh!
I'll consider about my course of life, Dominico. There are some
inconveniences in being a saint. Next comes an old and toothless
crone, all draggled with dirt, limping on crutches--a most pitiful
object to look upon. She hobbles slowly and painfully up to the place
just vacated--puts her crutches aside, kneels down, and, bowing low
her palsied head, presses a dry, shriveled, and leathery kiss upon the
grea