The Widow - Page 2

coats and cocked hats, and the ladies in hoops,
and swept so proudly along the grassy avenues; and she thinks the ladies
let themselves sadly down in their dignity, when they gave up cushioned
head-dresses and high-heeled shoes. She has much to say too of the
officers who were in the train of her admirers; and speaks familiarly of
many wild young blades that are now, perhaps, hobbling about
watering-places with crutches and gouty shoes.

Whether the taste the good lady had of matrimony discouraged her or not,
I cannot say; but, though her merits and her riches have attracted many
suitors, she has never been tempted to venture again into the happy
state. This is singular too, for she seems of a most soft and
susceptible heart: is always talking of love and connubial felicity; and
is a great stickler for old-fashioned gallantry, devoted attentions, and
eternal constancy, on the part of the gentlemen. She lives, however,
after her own taste. Her house, I am told, must have been built and
furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison: everything about it
is somewhat formal and stately; but has been softened down into a degree
of voluptuousness, characteristic of an old lady very tender-hearted and
romantic, and that loves her ease. The cushions of the great arm-chairs,
and wide sofas, almost bury you when you sit down on them. Flowers of
the most rare and delicate kind are placed about the rooms and on little
japanned stands; and sweet bags lie about the tables and mantelpieces.
The house is full of pet dogs, Angola cats, and singing birds, who are
as carefully waited upon as she is herself.

She is dainty in her living, and a little of an epicure, living on
white meats, and little lady-like dishes, though her servants have
substantial old English fare, as their looks bear witness. Indeed, they
are so indulged, that they are all spoiled, and when they lose their
present place they will be fit for no other. Her ladyship is one of
those easy-tempered beings that are always doomed to be much liked, but
ill served, by their domestics, and cheated by all the world.

Much of her time is passed in reading novels, of which she has a most
extensive library, and has a constant supply from the publishers in
town. Her erudition in this line of literature is immense: she has kept
pace with the press for half a century. Her mind is stuffed with
love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours of the old books of
Chivalry, down to the last blue-covered romance, reeking from the press:
though she evidently gives the preference to those that came out in the
days of her youth, and when she was first in love. She maintains that
there are no novels written now-a-days equal to Pamela and Sir Charles
Grandison; and she