On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. Rich folks, once. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world.
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