A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 4I She was renowned, traditions say, For June conserves, for curds and whey, For finest tea (she called it “tay"), And ratafia; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, Could tell the sovereign wash to use For freckles, and was learned in brews As erst Medea. Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed," Though, as I think, she could not heed His text profoundly; Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window-seat, Where, if you chanced to raise your feet You slumbered soundly. This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, In truth, was not so much to blame; The excellent divine I name Is scarcely stirring; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word Was for the erring. If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept Within her cuff-box, I know not. Only this I know, At sixty-five she'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, A Gentlewoman of the Old School. Younger than she, well-born and bred. She'd found him in St. Giles', half dead Of teaching French for nightly bed And daily dinners; Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride ; And so, henceforth, you always spied His rusty "pigeon-wings" beside Her Mechlin pinners. He worshipped her, you may suppose. She gained him pupils, gave him clothes, Delighted in his dry bon-mots And cackling laughter; And when, at last, the long duet Of conversation and picquet Ceased with her death, of sheer regret He died soon after. 43 |