with my early life; yet there was one, I feel sure, though my
recollections are confused and imperfect on that point; and one to whose
prayers, if not to her teaching, I surely owe something.

My father's mother was a fine, sprightly, robust old lady, rather small
in stature, and already bending a little under the burden of years at
the time when I first recollect her as mingling in the visions of my
childhood, though I know that even from infancy I was the delight of her
warm honest heart. She was simplicity itself in manners, her blunt
speeches sometimes clashing a little with her son's notions of polish
and refinement, as also did her inveterate antipathy to the reigning
fashion, whatever that might be. I remember her reading me a lecture
upon something novel in the cut of a sleeve, ending by this remark: "I
never wore a gown but of one shape; and because I don't follow the
fashion, the fashion is forced to come to me sometimes by way of a
change. I can't help that, you know, my dear; but I never was
fashionable on purpose." She added some pious remarks on vanity and
folly, which I soon forgot; but the other dwelt on my mind because it
chimed in with my own love of independence--a prominent characteristic
with me; too often carried to the excess of self-willed obstinacy.
However, I dearly loved and exceedingly respected my grand mother, and
used in my heart to glory in her smooth clean locks, half brown, half
grey, combed down from under a snowy cap of homely make, when she had
successfully resisted alike the entreaties and examples of contemporary
dames, who submitted their heads to the curling-irons and powder-puff of
a _frizeur_, preparatory to an evening party. I used to stand
proudly at her knee, admiring the high color of her cheek, and uncommon
brilliancy of her fine dark hazle eye, while her voice, remarkably rich
and clear, involuntarily swelled the chorus parts of our magnificent
music.