A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. S HE lived in Georgian era too. Most women then, if bards be true, Devout and acid. But hers was neither fate. She came Patience or Prudence,-what you will, As those old musky scents that fill Our grandams' pillows; And for her youthful portrait take Some long-waist child of Hudson's make, Stiffly at ease beside a lake With swans and willows. I keep her later semblance placed In shadowy sanguine stipple traced By Bartolozzi; A placid face, in which surprise For her e'en Time grew debonair. Had spared to touch the fair old face, So left her beautiful. Her age Was comely as her youth was sage, And yet she once had been the rage;— Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) Which Urban printed. I know she thought; I know she felt; Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt, She knew as little of the Celt As of the Saxon; I know she played and sang, for yet Her tastes were not refined as ours; Her art was sampler-work design, Her luxury was elder-wine,— She loved that "purely." She was renowned, traditions say, For June conserves, for curds and whey, And ratafia; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, For freckles, and was learned in brews Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed," Though, as I think, she could not heed Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window-seat, This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, Is scarcely stirring; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept I know not. Within her cuff-box, Only this I know, At sixty-five she'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, Younger than she, well-born and bred. And daily dinners; C Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride; 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 Dear Madam Placid! Others knew Their loves are lost; but still we see Bloom yearly with the almond tree The Frenchman planted. |