From which it would follow, that Spenser had seen somebody like Mrs. Conrady.

The spirit of this good lady—­her previous anima—­must have stumbled upon one of these untoward tabernacles which he speaks of.  A more rebellious commodity of clay for a ground, as the poet calls it, no gentle mind—­and sure hers is one of the gentlest—­ever had to deal with.

Pondering upon her inexplicable visage—­inexplicable, we mean, but by this modification of the theory—­we have come to a conclusion that, if one must be plain, it is better to be plain all over, than, amidst a tolerable residue of features, to hang out one that shall be exceptionable.  No one can say of Mrs. Conrady’s countenance, that it would be better if she had but a nose.  It is impossible to pull her to pieces in this manner.  We have seen the most malicious beauties of her own sex baffled in the attempt at a selection.  The tout ensemble defies particularising.  It is too complete—­too consistent, as we may say—­to admit of these invidious reservations.  It is not as if some Apelles had picked out here a lip—­and there a chin—­out of the collected ugliness of Greece, to frame a model by.  It is a symmetrical whole.  We challenge the minutest connoisseur to cavil at any part or parcel of the countenance in question; to say that this, or that, is improperly placed.  We are convinced that true ugliness, no less than is affirmed of true beauty, is the result of harmony.  Like that too it reigns without a competitor.  No one ever saw Mrs. Conrady, without pronouncing her to be the plainest woman that he ever met with in the course of his life.  The first time that you are indulged with a sight of her face, is an era in your existence ever after.  You are glad to have seen it—­like Stonehenge.  No one can pretend to forget it.  No one ever apologised to her for meeting her in the street on such a day and not knowing her:  the pretext would be too bare.  Nobody can mistake her for another.  Nobody can say of her, “I think I have seen that face somewhere, but I cannot call to mind where.”  You must remember that in such a parlour it first struck you—­like a bust.  You wondered where the owner of the house had picked it up.  You wondered more when it began to move its lips—­so mildly too!  No one ever thought of asking her to sit for her picture.  Lockets are for remembrance; and it would be clearly superfluous to hang an image at your heart, which, once seen, can never be out of it.  It is not a mean face either; its entire originality precludes that.  Neither is it of that order of plain faces which improve upon acquaintance.  Some very good but ordinary people, by an unwearied perseverance in good offices, put a cheat upon our eyes:  juggle our senses out of their natural impressions; and set us upon discovering good indications in a countenance, which at first sight promised nothing less.  We detect gentleness, which had escaped us, lurking about an under lip.  But when Mrs.