A Running Footman.
The running footman knocks on a certain door, and delivers to the pretty maid a note for her ladyship from a handsome, well-shaped youth who frequents the coffee-houses about Charing Cross. There is no answer to the note: her ladyship is too disturbed with household affairs. Her Welsh maid has left her under suspicious circumstances, and has carried off some articles. The lady is even now writing to Mr. Bickerstaff of the Tatler to implore his aid.
This is the list of the things she has missed—at least, as much of the list as my mind remembers as it travels back over the years:
A thick wadded Calico Wrapper.
A Musk-coloured Velvet Mantle lined with Squirrels’ Skins.
Eight night shifts, four pairs of stockings curiously darned.
Six pairs of laced Shoes, new and old, with the heels of half 2 inches higher than their fellows.
A quilted Petticoat of the largest size, and one of Canvas, with whalebone hoops.
Three pairs of Stays boulstered below the left shoulder. Two pairs of Hips of the newest fashion.