“Next to the great ball, what makes the most noise is the marriage of an old maid, who lives in this street, without a portion, to a man of L7,000 per annum, and they say L40,000 in ready money,” she wrote to Mrs. Hewet about the beginning of 1709.  “Her equipage and liveries outshine anybody’s in town.  He has presented her with L3,000 in jewels; and never was man more smitten with these charms that had lain invisible for these forty years; but, with all his glory, never bride had fewer enviers, the dear beast of a man is so filthy, frightful, odious, and detestable.  I would turn away such a footman, for fear of spoiling my dinner, while he waited at table.  They were married on Friday, and came to church en parade on Sunday.  I happened to sit in the pew with them, and had the honour of seeing Mrs. Bride fall fast asleep in the middle of the sermon, and snore very comfortably; which made several women in the church think the bridegroom not quite so ugly as they did before.  Envious people say ’twas all counterfeited to please him, but I believe that to be scandal; for I dare swear, nothing but downright necessity could make her miss one word of the sermon.  He professes to have married her for her devotion, patience, meekness, and other Christian virtues he observed in her; his first wife (who has left no children) being very handsome, and so good natured as to have ventured her own salvation to secure his.  He has married this lady to have a companion in that paradise where his first has given him a title.  I believe I have given you too much of this couple; but they are not to be comprehended in few words.”

Here is another malicious story that appealed to Lady Mary’s wayward fancy,

“Mrs. Braithwayte, a Yorkshire beauty,” she wrote to the same correspondent in March, 1712, “who had been but two days married to a Mr. Coleman, ran out of bed en chemise, and her husband followed her in his, in which pleasant dress they ran as far as St. James’s Street, where they met with a chair, and prudently crammed themselves both into it, observing the rule of dividing the good and bad fortune of this life, resolved to run all hazards together, and ordered the chairmen to carry them both away, perfectly representing, both in love and nakedness, and want of eyes to see that they were naked, our first happy parents.  Sunday last I had the pleasure of hearing the whole history from the lady’s own mouth.”

Love-affairs, other people’s love-affairs anyhow, had an attraction for Lady Mary.  “You talk of the Duke of Leeds,” she wrote.  “I hear that he has placed his heroic love upon the bright charms of a pewterer’s wife; and, after a long amour, and many perilous adventures, has stolen the fair lady, which, in spite of his wrinkles and grandchild, persuade people of his youth and gallantry.”  The nobleman in question, Peregrine Osborne, second Duke of Leeds, was then fifty-six—­which, after all, regarded from the standpoint of to-day, is not such a great age as is suggested by the story.