If the Old Lady is a widow and lives alone, the manners of her
condition and time of life are so much the more apparent. She
generally dresses in plain silks, that make a gentle rustling as she
moves about the silence of her room; and she wears a nice cap with a
lace border, that comes under the chin. In a placket at her side is an
old enamelled watch, unless it is locked up in a drawer of her toilet,
for fear of accidents. Her waist is rather tight and trim than
otherwise, as she had a fine one when young; and she is not sorry if
you see a pair of her stockings on a table, that you may be aware of
the neatness of her leg and foot. Contented with these and other
evident indications of a good shape, and letting her young friends
understand that she can afford to obscure it a little, she wears
pockets, and uses them well too. In the one is her handkerchief, and
any heavier matter that is not likely to come out with it, such as the
change of a sixpence; in the other is a miscellaneous assortment,
consisting of a pocket-book, a bunch of keys, a needle-case, a
spectacle-case, crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and grater, a
smelling-bottle, and, according to the season, an orange or apple,
which after many days she draws out, warm and glossy, to give to some
little child that has well behaved itself. She generally occupies two
rooms, in the neatest condition possible. In the chamber is a bed with
a white coverlet, built up high and round, to look well, and with
curtains of a pastoral pattern, consisting alternately of large
plants, and shepherds and shepherdesses. On the mantelpiece are more
shepherds and shepherdesses, with dot-eyed sheep at their feet, all in
coloured ware: the man, perhaps, in a pink jacket and knots of ribbons
at his knees and shoes, holding his crook lightly in one hand, and
with the other at his breast, turning his toes out and looking
tenderly at the shepherdess: the woman holding a crook also, and
modestly returning his look, with a gipsy-hat jerked up behind, a very
slender waist, with petticoat and hips to _counteract_, and the
petticoat pulled up through the pocket-holes, in order to show the
trimness of her ankles. But these patterns, of course, are various.
The toilet is ancient, carved at the edges, and tied about with a
snow-white drapery of muslin. Beside it are various boxes, mostly
japan; and the set of drawers are exquisite things for a little girl
to rummage, if ever little girl be so bold,--containing ribbons and
laces of various kinds; linen smelling of lavender, of the flowers of
which there is always dust in the corners; a heap of pocket-books for
a series of years; and pieces of dress long gone by, such as
head-fronts, stomachers, and flowered satin shoes, with enormous
heels. The stock of _letters_ are under especial lock and key. So much
for the bedroom. In the sitting-room is rather a spare assortment of
shining old mahogany furniture, or carved arm-chairs equally old, with
chintz draperies down to the ground; a folding or other screen, with
Chinese figures, their round, little-eyed, meek faces perking
sideways; a stuffed bird, perhaps in a glass case (a living one is too
much for her); a portrait of her husband over the mantelpiece, in a
coat with frog-buttons, and a delicate frilled hand lightly inserted
in the waistcoat; and opposite him on the wall, is a piece of
embroidered literature, framed and glazed, containing some moral
distich or maxim, worked in angular capital letters, with two trees of
parrots below, in their proper colours; the whole concluding with an A
B C and numerals, and the name of the fair industrious, expressing it
to be "her work, Jan. 14, 1762." The rest of the furniture consists of
a looking-glass with carved edges, perhaps a settee, a hassock for the
feet, a mat for the little dog, and a small set of shelves, in which
are the "Spectator" and "Guardian," the "Turkish Spy," a Bible and
Prayer Book, Young's "Night Thoughts" with a piece of lace in it to
flatten, Mrs. Rowe's "Devout Exercises of the Heart," Mrs. Glasse's
"Cookery," and perhaps "Sir Charles Grandison," and "Clarissa." "John
Buncle" is in the closet among the pickles and preserves. The clock is
on the landing-place between the two room doors, where it ticks
audibly but quietly; and the landing-place, as well as the stairs, is
carpeted to a nicety. The house is most in character, and properly
coeval, if it is in a retired suburb, and strongly built, with
wainscot rather than paper inside, and lockers in the windows. Before
the windows should be some quivering poplars. Here the Old Lady
receives a few quiet visitors to tea, and perhaps an early game of
cards: or you may see her going out on the same kind of visit herself,
with a light umbrella running up into a stick and crooked ivory
handle, and her little dog, equally famous for his love to her and
captious antipathy to strangers. Her grandchildren dislike him on
holidays, and the boldest sometimes ventures to give him a sly kick
under the table. When she returns at night, she appears, if the
weather happens to be doubtful, in a calash; and her servant in
pattens, follows half behind and half at her side, with a lantern.
Her opinions are not many nor new. She thinks the clergyman a nice
man. The Duke of Wellington, in her opinion, is a very great man; but
she has a secret preference for the Marquis of Granby. She thinks the
young women of the present day too forward, and the men not respectful
enough; but hopes her grandchildren will be better; though she differs
with her daughter in several points respecting their management. She
sets little value on the new accomplishments; is a great though
delicate connoisseur in butcher's meat and all sorts of housewifery;
and if you mention waltzes, expatiates on the grace and fine breeding
of the minuet. She longs to have seen one danced by Sir Charles
Grandison, whom she almost considers as a real person. She likes a
walk of a summer's evening, but avoids the new streets, canals, etc.,
and sometimes goes through the churchyard, where her other children
and her husband lie buried, serious, but not melancholy. She has had
three great epochs in her life:--her marriage--her having been at
court, to see the King and Queen and Royal Family--and a compliment on
her figure she once received, in passing, from Mr. Wilkes, whom she
describes as a sad, loose man, but engaging. His plainness she thinks
much exaggerated. If anything takes her at a distance from home, it is
still the court; but she seldom stirs, even for that. The last time
but one that she went, was to see the Duke of Wirtemberg; and most
probably for the last time of all, to see the Princess Charlotte and
Prince Leopold. From this beatific vision she returned with the same
admiration as ever for the fine comely appearance of the Duke of York
and the rest of the family, and great delight at having had a near
view of the Princess, whom she speaks of with smiling pomp and lifted
mittens, clasping them as passionately as she can together, and
calling her, in a transport of mixed loyalty and self-love, a fine
royal young creature, and "Daughter of England."
_Leigh Hunt._