“Herald, wherefore thus proclaim
  Nought of women but the shame? 
  Quit, oh, quit, at least awhile,
  Perdita’s too luscious smile;
  Wanton Worsley, stilted Daly,
  Heroines of each blackguard alley;
  Better sure record in story
  Such as shine their sex’s glory! 
  Herald! haste, with me proclaim
  Those of literary fame. 
  Hannah More’s pathetic pen,
  Painting high th’ impassion’d scene;
  Carter’s piety and learning,
  Little Burney’s quick discerning;
  Cowley’s neatly pointed wit,
  Healing those her satires hit;
  Smiling Streatfield’s iv’ry neck,
  Nose, and notions—­a la Grecque!
  Let Chapone retain a place,
  And the mother of her Grace[1],
  Each art of conversation knowing,
  High-bred, elegant Boscawen;
  Thrale, in whose expressive eyes
  Sits a soul above disguise,
  Skill’d with-wit and sense t’impart
  Feelings of a generous heart. 
  Lucan, Leveson, Greville, Crewe;
  Fertile-minded Montagu,
  Who makes each rising art her care,
  ‘And brings her knowledge from afar!’
  Whilst her tuneful tongue defends
  Authors dead, and absent friends;
  Bright in genius, pure in fame:—­
  Herald, haste, and these proclaim!”

[Footnote 1:  Mrs. Boscawen was the mother of the Duchess of Beaufort and Mrs. Leveson Gower: 

  “All Leveson’s sweetness, and all Beaufort’s grace.”]

These lines merit attention for the sake of the comparison they invite.  An outcry has recently been raised against the laxity of modern fashion, in permitting venal beauty to receive open homage in our parks and theatres, and to be made the subject of prurient gossip by maids and matrons who should ignore its existence.  But we need not look far beneath the surface of social history to discover that the irregularity in question is only a partial revival of the practice of our grandfathers and grandmothers, much as a crinoline may be regarded as a modified reproduction of the hoop.  Junius thus denounces the Duke of Grafton’s indecorous devotion to Nancy Parsons:  “It is not the private indulgence, but the public insult, of which I complain.  The name of Miss Parsons would hardly have been known, if the First Lord of the Treasury had not led her in triumph through the Opera House, even in the presence of the Queen.”  Lord March (afterwards Duke of Queensberry) was a lord of the bedchamber in the decorous court of George the Third, when he wrote thus to Selwyn:  “I was prevented from writing to you last Friday, by being at Newmarket with my little girl (Signora Zamperini, a noted dancer and singer).  I had the whole family and Cocchi.  The beauty went with me in my chaise, and the rest in the old landau.”

We have had Boswell’s impression of his first visit to Streatham; and Madame D’Arblay’s account of hers confirms the notion that My Mistress, not My Master, was the presiding genius of the place.