SANDLEFORD
Writing to Mrs. Boscawen from Sandleford, June 19, Mrs. Montagu begins—
“‘When the Mower whets his scythe,
And the Milk-maid singeth blythe,
And every Shepherd in the dale
Under the Hawthorn tells his tale,’
there am I, and no longer in the sinfull and smoaking City of London; this happy change was brought about on Tuesday, by very easy and speedy measures. We got into our post-chaise between 10 and 11, arrived at Maidenhead Bridge about one; were refreshed by a good dinner, and amused by good company. Mr. Hooke[85] meeting us at our inn, we staid with him till after 5, and about ten arrived at Sandleford.... I have not for these ten years been so early in the Season at Sandleford, and it appears therefore with greater charms. It cannot afford to lose any of its natural beauties, as it owns none to Art, it is merely a pretty shepherdess, who has no graces but those of youth and simplicity; but my dear Mrs. Boscawen may turn it into a paradise when she pleases. When may I hope to see her here.... I spent two days at Wickham last week; our good friends had left the Archbishop of Canterbury only a few days before I went to them. Mr. West seemed a good deal affected by this return to Wickham, as to Mrs. West I cannot so well judge, the cheerfulness she puts on is outré.... Mr. West told me he would alter the room where poor Dick dyed, for he did not like to go into it, and then a soft tender shower fell down his cheeks, he added he had lost much of his relish for Wickham; however on the whole I found them better than I could have expected!”
[85] He was then living at Cookham.
Directly after this, West was ordered to Tunbridge Wells, where he was accompanied by Lady Cobham, Miss Speed, and his wife. He writes to Mrs. Montagu that he hopes she will like a long stay in the country, as its tranquillity will not
“produce the same effect which an Admiral of my acquaintance found from the tranquillity of his friend’s house in the country, to which coming directly from his ship, where he had been so long accustomed to noise and bustle as to be grown fond of it, said, after having passed a restless night, ‘Pox on this house, ’tis so quiet there is no sleeping in it.’”