andmother, though the
difference of our time of life was much greater, she being past
forty-five when she married my grandfather. She died at ninety-six,
retaining, to the last, the vivacity and clearness of her understanding,
which was very uncommon. You cannot remember her, being then in your
nurse's arms. I conclude with repeating to you, I only recommend, but am
far from commanding, which I think I have no right to do. I tell you my
sentiments, because you desired to know them, and hope you will receive
them with some partiality, as coming from

"Your most affectionate mother."

One of Lady Mary's friends was Cardinal Gerolamo Guerini, a distinguished
scholar as well as a great churchman. One day, in October, 1753, he sent
a request, by one of his chief chaplains, that Lady Mary would send him
her printed works for the shelves that he was dedicating to English
literature in the library attached to the college at Brescia that he had
founded.

"I was struck dumb for some time with this astonishing request; when I
recovered my vexatious surprise (foreseeing the consequence), I made
answer, I was highly sensible of the honour designed me, but, upon my
word, I had never printed a single line in my life. I was answered in a
cold tone, his Eminence could send for them to England, but they would
be a long time coming, and with some hazard; and that he had flattered
himself I would not refuse him such a favour, and I need not be ashamed
of seeing my name in a collection where he admitted none but the most
eminent authors. It was to no purpose to endeavour to convince him. He
would not stay to dinner, though earnestly invited; and went away with
the air of one that thought he had reason to be offended. I know his
master will have the same sentiments, and I shall pass in his opinion
for a monster of ingratitude, while it is the blackest of vices in my
opinion, and of which I am utterly incapable--I really could cry for
vexation.

"Sure nobody ever had such various provocations to print as myself. I
have seen things I have wrote, so mangled and falsified, I have scarce
known them. I have seen poems I never read, published with my name at
length; and others, that were truly and singly wrote by me, printed
under the names of others. I have made myself easy under all these
mortifications, by the reflection I did not deserve them, having never
aimed at the vanity of popular applause; but I own my philosophy is not
proof ag