One represents her as a little girl, with a long waist and hoop,
holding a kitten in her arms, and ogling the spectator out of the
corners of her eyes, as if she could not turn her head. In another, we
find her in the freshness of youthful beauty, when she was a
celebrated belle, and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfortunate
gentlemen to run desperate and write bad poetry. In another, she is
depicted as a stately dame, in the maturity of her charms; next to the
portrait of her husband, a gallant colonel in full-bottomed wig and
gold-laced hat, who was killed abroad; and, finally, her monument is
in the church, the spire of which may be seen from the window, where
her effigy is carved in marble, and represents her as a venerable dame
of seventy-six.
In like manner, I have followed some of the family great men through a
series of pictures, from early boyhood to the robe of dignity, or
truncheon of command; and so on by degrees, until they were garnered
up in the common repository, the neighbouring church.
There is one group that particularly interested me. It consisted of
four sisters, of nearly the same age, who flourished about a century
since, and, if I may judge from their portraits, were extremely
beautiful.
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