who have thrown away so many millions, without any
prospect of advantage to themselves, purely to succour a distressed
princess. I never could hear these praises without some impatience; they
sounded to me like panegyrics made by the dependents on the Duke of
Newcastle and poor Lord Oxford, bubbled when they were commended, and
laughed at when undone. Some late events will, I hope, open our eyes: we
shall see we are an island, and endeavour to extend our commerce rather
than the Quixote reputation of redressing wrongs and placing diadems on
heads that should be equally indifferent to us. When time has ripened
mankind into common sense, the name of conqueror will be an odious title.
I could easily prove that, had the Spaniards established a trade with the
Americans, they would have enriched their country more than by the
addition of twenty-two kingdoms, and all the mines they now work--I do
not say possess; since, though they are the proprietors, others enjoy the
profit."

Mary's letters at this period of her life are so entertaining that a few
may well be inserted here for the sheer pleasure of reading them.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BUTE

"Padua, September 30, 1757.

"Lord Bute has been so obliging as to let me know your safe delivery,
and the birth of another daughter; may she be as meritorious in your
eyes as you are in mine! I can wish nothing better to you both, though I
have some reproaches to make you. Daughter! daughter! don't call names;
you are always abusing my pleasures, which is what no mortal will bear.
Trash, lumber, sad stuff, are the titles you give to my favourite
amusement. If I called a white staff a stick of wood, a gold key gilded
brass, and the ensigns of illustrious orders coloured strings, this may
be philosophically true, but would be very ill received. We have all our
playthings: happy are they that can be contented with those they can
obtain: those hours are spent in the wisest manner, that can easiest
shade the ills of life, and are lest productive of ill consequences. I
think my time better employed in reading the adventures of imaginary
people, than the Duchess of Marlborough's, who passed the latter years
of her life in paddling with her will, and contriving schemes of
plaguing some, and extracting praise from others, to no purpose;
eternally disappointed, and eternally fretting. The active scenes are
over at my age. I indulge, with all the art I can, my taste for reading.
If I would c