55 
Lady Mary ranks among the finest exponents of the lost art of 
letter-writing. Hers was an age of letter-writing. The Kighteenth 
Century was the first age for centuries that left inimitable pictures 
of its own daily home existence. The foremost letter-writers of 
the sex in that century contrived to combine both set form and 
personal distinction. Lady Mary’s letters abound in aphorisms 
and pungent remarks. They exhibit modest and womanly 
sentiment. Her descriptions of scenery, of the habits and manners 
of the peoples among whom she sojourned, are vivid, vigorous, 
frank, and faithful. 
More than a century before any Englishman gained access to 
a Turkish harem, Lady Mary was privileged to enter the for- 
bidden ground. Her accounts of her visits to the Sultanas are 
still referred to as authentic descriptions of the most characteristic 
features of Turkish life. 
During all her travels—in parts of Asia and Africa, in Turkey, 
in Germany, in France, in Italy, and other countries—she never 
forgot the Yorkshire home where she had spent some of her 
younger days. Once and again we find certain scenery spoken of 
as ‘‘ perhaps the most beautiful prospect in the world,” and in 
each case she adds, ‘‘ except Wharncliffe.”’ 
The record of Lady Mary’s quarrel with the poet Pope, would 
form an interesting chapter in a book on literary amenities. In 
the prolonged warfare, during which the playful pleasantry of old 
time degenerated into painful personalities, Lady Mary did not 
come off second best. 
For the last eleven years of her life she never once looked at 
her face in a mirror; probably the fell disease from which she 
suffered during that period had left its mark on her features, and 
she steeled herself to avoid seeing the ravages of the terrible 
scourge. Her last letter was written to do a service to a friend. 
We note her abiding affection for her daughter—a light always 
burning bright and clear amid much that was dark and painful. 
We almost shudder to think of all the mental and physical 
suffering she must have endured by reason of the cancer which 
undermined her health—loveliness and anguish walking hand in 
hand the downward way to where ‘“‘ Death keeps her pale court 
in beauty and decay.” Yet not a solitary expression of repining 
or complaint escapes her. In August, 1762, passed from the 
scene this remarkable lady—so volatile, so various, as to be not 
one but all womankind’s epitome. 
GEER 
