Sheathed
in his gay suit of red and green and yellow lozenges, he ambles
lightly over the gravel. At his feet lie a tambourine and a mask.
Brown ferns fringe his pathway. With one hand he clasps the baton to
his hip, with the other he points mischievously to his forehead. He
wears a flat, loose cap of yellow. There is a ruff about his neck, and
a pair of fine buckles to his shoes, and he always dances. He has his
back to the thunderclouds, but there is that in his eyes which tells
us that he has seen them, and that he knows their presage. He is
afraid. Yet he dances. Never, howsoever slightly, swerves he, see!
from his right posture, nor fail his feet in their pirouette. All a`
merveille! Nor fades the smile from his face, though he smiles through
the tarnished air of a sultry twilight, under the shadow of impending
storm.
`THE GARDEN OF LOVE'
A PAINTING BY RUBENS, IN THE PRADO
Here they are met.
Here, by the balustrade, these lords and lusty ladies are met to romp
and wanton in the fulness of love, under the solstice of a noon in
midsummer. Water gushes in fantastic arcs from the grotto, making a
cold music to the emblazoned air, while a breeze swells the sun-shot
satin of every lady's skirt, and tosses the ringlets that hang like
bunches of yellow grapes on either side of her brow, and stirs the
plumes of her gallant.
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