borough’s sister), will supply some choice and delicate chapters; not to omit Elizabeth Godolphin, made memorable by the good John Evelyn, and also by the Right Reverend Father in God Samuel Wilberforce, Lord Bishop of Oxford.
In this part of my prospectus I must not omit the correspondence I am promised for the life of that virgin daughter of the skies, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, “excellent,” as Dryden sings in imperishable verse, “in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting.” The pious and active life of this young lady will be found to rebuke the sneer of Horace Walpole, who in his account of Sir Peter Lely has censured the “sleepy eye”—and “melting soul”—female portraits of that master. “His nymphs,” says the old bachelor of Strawberry Hill, “generally reposed on the turf, are too wanton and too magnificent to be taken for anything but—Maids of Honour.” Surely old Queen Charlotte’s Maids could never have read this passage, or they would not have chosen “Strawberry Hill” as their usual and convenient carriage-airing distance from Kew.
My readers will naturally expect some account of the Maids of Honour, and the Maids of Taunton, referred to by Mr. Penn and Lord Macaulay. My work, under all these heads, will be found more than apologetical.
My limits will, I fear, restrict me to the lives of only three of the Maids to King William’s Consort Mary, viz,, Ann Granville, aunt of Lady Llanover’s Mrs. Delany; Anne Villiers, the first wife of King William’s Earl of Portland, and mother of the first Duke of Portland; and Elizabeth Villiers, afterwards Countess of Orkney, called by Swift “the wisest woman he ever knew.”
The Maids of Honour to Queen Anne I shall include under one life, that of Jenny Kingdom, of whom Duke Disney said, that since she could not get a husband, the Queen should give her brevet to act as a married woman. Here will be found “a full, true, and particular account” of Swift’s vindication of “Gulliver’s Travels” from the criticisms and complaints circulated freely by the Maids of Honour, and communicated to Swift by King George the Second’s all-enduring Mrs. Howard. My friend, Mr. John Forster is keeping back his edition of Swift for this very curious vindication.
I purpose being full in what I have to say touching ennobled Maids, such as Mary Berkeley, who became Viscountess Chetwynd; Mary Howard, afterwards Lady Deloraine; Mrs. Collier, the future Duchess of Dorset; Mrs. Warburton, afterwards Duchess of Argyll and Greenwich. I trust to be found ample and accurate in my descriptions of bridal dresses, bridal presents, christenings, caudle-cups, &c.
The public may foresee the treat that is in store for them, by reading over the mere list of names of the fair and young personages who waited on George II.’s Queen Caroline, when princess and when queen. What pleasant reminiscences must I awaken when I name Madge Bellenden, Molly Lepel, Mary Meadows, Dolly Dyves, Nan Pitt (the great Lord Chatham’s sister), Bess Pitt (the fair Circassian), Elizabeth Lucy Mordaunt, a Countess of Deloraine, and two Countesses of Pembroke—Mary Howe and Mary Fitzwilliam. Some of the “playfulnesses” of Swift, and Pope, and of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu about the Maids will be found discreetly used in this and the following chapters of my work.
A pleasant memorial of the “Maids” to Augusta, Princess of Wales, mother of King George III., will be found related under my narrative of one of the Maids,—the famous Miss Chudleigh, afterwards Duchess of Kingston.
As we approach our own time I shall be treading on ashes that are hardly cold, and parties interested may rest assured that I shall tread tenderly.
Bon mots of the Maids will be scattered thickly through my volume. I conclude with one as a sample of my stores:—
“I fear,” said the polite Lord Chesterfield to Lord Chatham’s unmarried sister, Miss Maid-of-Honour Pitt,—“I fear that I am growing an old woman.” “I am glad of it,” was Miss Pitt’s reply; “I was afraid you were growing an old man, which you know is a much worse thing.”
THE SATURNALIA.
Through our great gate at Pompeii, at the third hour of the day,
The slaves run, leaping, dancing, in frolicsome array,
Some playing flutes, some shaking wands, or clicking horny thumbs,
Because at last the winter feast, the reign of Saturn comes.
Sole relic of that golden age when Saturn had the sway,
And children by the wild wolf’s den lay down to bask and play,
When acorns were the royal food, and wine was all unknown,
And without sword or golden crown the king sat on his throne.
The tavern slave to-day will scorn the amphora to brim,
Even the butcher’s Spartan boy to-day will have his whim;
The baker’s corn will lie unground,—no boat will out to sea,—
At Saturnalia time all slaves are for a few hours free.
The whip is still, the cell is bare, the chains hang on the wall,
No masters shout, or storm, or curse, in bath-room or in hall;
This day the tables are unspread, the fires are smouldering low,
The curtain o’er the inner court is flapping to and fro.
Labrax a costly myrrhine vase has brimm’d with wrestler’s oil.
And chafes his brawny sable limbs with a luxurious toil,
Then throws the purple o’er his back with an imperial air,
Binding a gilded myrtle wreath around his woolly hair.
And in the atrium Geta sits and plays at tossing wine,
Calling for golden drinking-cups; making the pavement shine,
Long before dusk, with rows of lamps; while the flute-players sit,
Piping their Lydian measures, only for such slaves fit.
