She
seemed to think that the _real damsons_ went out with the _real
gentry_ of the olden time; and perhaps they did, _as_ damsons, though,
for aught I know, they may figure now in our fruit catalogues as "The
Duke of Argyle's New Seedling Acidulated Drop of Damascus,"--which
would be something like a translation of Damson into the modern
terminology.
But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly's "best room."
The walls she had papered herself, with curious stripes and odd
pieces, of various shapes and patterns, ornamented with a border of
figures of little men and women joining hands, cut from paper of all
colors; and they were adorned, besides, with several prints in shining
black frames. There was no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor,
but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into which ingenuity has
transformed woollen rags, were disposed about it. The bed was the
pride and glory of the room, however; for on it was spread a silk
patchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant
silks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families
had their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made. Aunt
Molly had been a mantuamaker to the old "quality," and she could show
us a piece of Madam Vassall's gown on that wonderful and brilliant
piece of work, the bed-quilt.
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