From internal evidence we can gauge her social position, while her views of caste appear in these radical days a trifle demode.  Her metaphors of sin are all derived from the life of paupers:—­

   Paupers through their sinful folly
   Are workers of iniquity,
   Living on Jehovah’s bounty,
   Wasting in abject poverty.

   A pauper’s funeral their end,
   No angels waft their souls on high;
   Rich they were thought on earth, perhaps,
   Yet far from wealth accursed they lie.

   Who are the rich?  God’s Word declares,
   The men whose treasure is above—­
   Those humble working gentlefolk
   Whose life flows on in deeds of love.

   Despised in life I may remain,
   Misunderstood by rich and poor;
   An entrance yet I hope to gain
   To wealthy plains on endless shore.

   No paupers in that heavenly land,
   The sons of God are rich indeed;
   His daughters all His treasures share;
   It will their highest hopes exceed.

Those paupers who are ‘saved’ are rewarded by material comforts such as graced the earthly home of Georgiana herself, one of the ’humble working gentlefolk.’  She enjoys her own fireside with an almost Pecksniffian relish, and she profoundly observes, as she sits beside her hearth:—­

   Like forest trees men rise and grow: 
   Good timber some will prove,
   Others decayed as fuel piled,
   Prepared are for that stove

   That burns for ever, Tophet called,
   Heated by jealous heat,
   Adapted to destroy all chaff,
   And leaves unscorched the wheat.

Excellent Georgiana!  She could not stand very much chaff of any kind, I suspect.

The alarming progress of ritualism in the ’eighties disturbed her considerably, though it inspired some of her more weighty verses.  They should be favourites with Dr. Clifford and Canon Hensley Henson:—­

   Some men in our days cover over
      A body deformed with their sin: 
   A cross worked in various colours,
      Forgetting that God looks within.

   Alas! in our churches at present
      Simplicity seems quite despised;
   To represent things far above us
      Are heathenish customs revived.

   This evil is spreading among us,
      And where will it end, can you tell? 
   Join not with the misled around us,
      Take warning, my readers . . .

The veneration of the Blessed Virgin goaded her into composition of stanzas unparalleled in the whole literature of Protestantism:—­

   My readers, can you nowhere see
      A parallel to Israel’s sin? 
   The House of God, at home, abroad: 
      Idols are there—­that house within.

   Who incense burns? are strange cakes made? 
      What woman’s chapel, decked with gold,
   Stands full of unchecked worshippers
      Like those idolaters of old?