To Her Grace, the duchess of Ormond, etc.

Madam,

Where the porticoes of palaces stand like those of temples and the great and the fair leave their accesses unbarred, exalted honour in that condescending goodness is so far from lessening its grandeur that it rather heightens its state, when true magnificence must certainly consist in the numbers of wondering eyes around it and crowds of bending knees before it. This argument, which I hope I have not mistaken, is my best warrant for this confidence.

I confess, indeed, in my approach to Your Grace, I ought to consider how I find your court filled with quality, whilst that nobler train throngs up your presence, that my poor intrusion is a little too presumptuous. This truly I ought to consider, did I not at the same time reflect that on the very scaffolds at coronations, there are some remoter benches, (or to speak in my own province) some upper gallery seats, even for poorer homagers, the voice of adoration and echoes of triumph being not only loudest but sweetest where all tongues unite in the choir, whilst the lowest humility may make up as hearty, though not so gay, a part of the ceremony.

From that distant bench, I beseech Your Grace to believe that this addressing paper is handed down over the heads of honour to Your Grace's feet. It is true, I have dared to dedicate this trifle to Your Grace and in it publish that piece of boldness to the world, which how far they may forgive me, I am not so much concerned, provided your own descending mercy vouchsafe my pardon.

And thus, entered under Your Grace's glittering roof, my dazzled veneration presents me so large and so hallowed a prospect, the concentrating worth of two illustrious families that in a long long line from their renowned originals, number their fair devolving honours by centuries. The Great Ormond and your bright self, a fair last branch of the royal Plantagenets, so noble a union in that successive roll of fame bring up the splendid rear to so distant a front, your remoter leading ancestors, as requires a travel into annals for a full survey; so ample your hereditary glories that it is a voyage but to coast them.

But whither am I rapt! I am wandering into so spacious a field, a speculation so far above me that the theme is too sacred for the trembling pen of so poor a mushroom scribbler to venture at, Your Grace’s herald and your panegyrist being both an attempt beyond my humble talent. Besides, there's object enough for my adoration in a nearer view of Your Grace's radiant virtues, an influence so powerful, greatness so prideless, wit so elevated, piety so exemplary, and to crown all these your nuptial glory, a conjugal affection, so inimitable, that a ministering Cornelia might be proud to hold up your train, and all these lodged in so beautiful a personage, so sacred the divinity and so bright the shrine. The prospect, I say, of these sublime perfections entirely takes up my humble devotion, without looking back into urns and monuments, records and chronicles, for their glorious derivation. But my contemplation of those adorable virtues is not alone sufficient; give me leave to congratulate their felicities too, the attending smiles of Providence, virtue's divine reward; when, as an earnest blessing, the Great Ormond, under the victorious royal standard, has made his first entry into a grove of laurels, by hewing out the possession of his recovered patrimony, by a sword and an arm worthy the inheriting son of so heroic a father. The continuance of whose fortunate successes, the rich, fair harvest of a field of honour abroad and Your Grace's no less trophies, the pride and ornament of a court at home (a fair divided triumph between you) shall ever be the prayers of,

Madam,

Your Grace's most obedient and most devoted servant,

George Powell.