iled within the memory of those now
living. This style had been introduced by the ill-fated Marie
Antoinette, and Mme. de Peleve had come straight from the very
fountain-head of these absurdities. The hair was worn crisped or
violently frizzed about the face in the shape of a horse-shoe; long
stiff curls, fastened with pins, hung on the neck; and the whole was
well pomatumed and powdered with different coloured powders. A high
cushion was fastened at the top of the hair, and over that either a cap
adorned with artificial flowers and feathers to such a height as
sometimes rendered it somewhat difficult to preserve its equilibrium,
or a balloon hat, a fabric of wire and tiffany, of immense
circumference. The hat would require to be fixed on the head with long
pins, and standing, trencherwise, quite flat and unbending in its full
proportions. The crown was low, and, like the cap, richly set off with
feathers and flowers. The lower part of the dress consisted of a full
petticoat generally flounced, short sleeves, and a very long train; but
instead of a hoop there was a vast pad at the bottom of the waist
behind, and a frame of wire in front to throw out the neckerchief, so
as much as possible to resemble the craw of a pigeon.

"Such were the leading articles of this style of dress, and so arranged
was the figure which stepped forth from the chaise at the door of the
lovely and simple parsonage of Stanford. My father was ready to hand
her out, my mother to welcome her. The band-boxes were all conveyed
into our best bedroom, while Madame had her place allotted to her in
our drawing-room, where she sat like a queen, and really, by the
multitudes of anecdotes she had to tell, rendered herself very
agreeable. Whilst she was with us she never had concluded her toilet
before one or two in the day, and she always appeared either in new
dresses or new adjustments. I have often wished that I could recall
some of the anecdotes she used to tell of the Court of Versailles, but
one only can I remember; it referred to the then popular song of
'Marlbrook,' which she used to sing. 'When the Dauphin,' she said, 'was
born, a nurse was procured for him from the country, and there was no
song with which she could soothe the babe but 'Marlbrook,' an old
ballad, sung till then only in the provinces. The poor Queen heard the
air, admired, and brought it forward, making it the fashion.' This is
the only one of Mme. de Peleve's stories which I remem