I struggling faintly, could not help feeling what I could not grasp, a column of the whitest ivory, beautifully streak’d with blue veins, and carrying, fully uncapt, a head of the liveliest vermillion: no horn could be harder, or stiffer; yet no velvet more smooth or delicious to the touch; presently he guided my hand lower, to that part, in which nature and pleasure keep their stores in concert, so aptly fasten’d and hung on to the root of their first instrument and minister, that not improperly he might be stil’d their purse-bearer too: there he made me feel, distinctly, through their soft cover, the contents, a pair of roundish balls, that seem’d to play within, and elude all pressure, but the tenderest, from without. Without those great or shining qualities that constitute a genius, or are fit to make a noise in the world, he had all those humble ones that compose the softer social merit: plain common sense, set off with every grace of modesty and good-nature, made him, if not admir’d, what is much
