There cannot be much said for the taste of Queen Anne's time downwards—bagged, wigged, and hooped; there was not a picture of which the African's question might not have been asked, "Pray tell me, white woman, if this is all you?" The floors were dry-rubbed, and the mahogany tables shone as if in recollection of former festivities, when whole nights floated away like the
"Hydaspes, dark with billowy wine."
The chairs were high-backed and the seals covered with needle-work: there was also a buffet, through whose glass doors appeared some singularly small tea-cups, and some still more singularly small tea-pots—why, it would take a dozen to fill one of our modern breakfast cups. The third was Mrs. Burgoyne's own room—and here comfort had made some encroachment on precedent; indeed it was needed by her bodily weakness. The room was carpeted—books and various trifles were on the table, and in an arm-chair was seated the old lady herself: her tall figure was still unbent, and the aristocratic hand was still white: she had no peculiarity of costume, unless it was its extreme propriety—she was, indeed, the very beau-ideal of black satin and blonde. I think it cost her the bitterest pang of all to part with her train, it was like going a grade lower in society. Still, to use her own remark, "It is better to be anything rather than conspicuous: never meet the fashion, but always follow it." She had been a beauty and an heiress, and had gone through life on the sunny side. Tombstones had been her only monitors; but the deep sorrow of death brings with it deep sympathy. Opposite to her were hung the portraits of her husband and her only daughter, whom she had lost very young; but for such humanizing distress, her nature might have been hardened in its glittering course of worldly prosperity—but with her, the well of tears had opened too deeply ever to dry again. On a little ebony table at her elbow were placed her bible and prayer-book, in which she read the psalms and lessons every morning; a friend fancying it was bad for her eyes, somewhat foolishly remonstrated, and asked if she had always done so? "My dear," said the old lady, "youth forgets what age never does—its Maker."
Mrs. Burgoyne was cheerful, and fond of society; in the morning she had a levée of visiters, and twice a week at least, a little circle gathered round her of an evening. Then she was seen to advantage. Someone says of cleanliness, that it is next to godliness—the same might be said of politeness. Mrs. Burgoyne's good-breeding was the most perfect thing in the world—I cannot even imagine her saying or doing a rude thing; I do not believe that she ever even thought one. Her manner was as polished and as minutely finished as the carving on an ivory card case: a little stately it might be, and her curtsey belonged to the days of hoops and brocades—her curtsey was the only old fashion she could not give up—still it put you at your ease; she knew well how to encourage, and she had too much good taste, I might add good feeling, ever to patronize. There never was a more exquisite listener; with what graceful patience would she endure the most wearisome stories—with what quickness catch the least attempt at wit, often giving the said attempt some nice turn, of which the originator was quite guiltless—not that she was the least of a bel esprit. She spoke with admiring deference of Mrs. Montagu and Mrs. Carter's coteries, but she had never belonged to them; she had just the most delicate dread in the world of being called
