“Mrs. Cotes’ man called very civilly, and brought me your last letter. ‘Pray, Mr. Thomas,’ says I, ‘did you leave the ladies well?’ ‘Yes, and very merry, Madam.’ ‘They had a good journey, I hope?’ ‘Yes, a very merry, Madam.’ ‘They were not at all afraid?’ ‘No, nothing but very merry, Madam.’ ‘Were they not tired when they came to their inns?’ ‘No, always very merry, Madam!’ At last Thomas’s account made me ‘so merry, Madam,’ I was forced to retire to laugh.
“Your nephew gets his share of sunshine every day, his teeth tease him and produce the dew of sorrow on his little cheeks sometimes, but in a moment it is forgotten, and he is always lively, and in continual health: he is thought to grow like his mother, so I think I may cease to be handsome with a good grace, as I have transferred it to my offspring.... Your nephew is in his birthday suit, laughing so I can hear him through the doors; the usurpation and authority of those bandages called garments he is too full of Whig principles to approve of!”
“PUNCH’S” CHARIOT
There were no babies’ carriages in those days, so little Punch drove out daily in the chariot, not to be confounded with the coach, a much larger vehicle.
In the same letter it appears that the good old Yorkshire steward, Mr. Carter, had had a bad fall, and the house in Dover Street not being large enough, Morris Robinson was trying to secure them one in Bruton Street. Mrs. Montagu, having suffered from weakness and hysterical fits, was recommended to ride daily—a pastime which was agreeably varied by the cutting of new walks through the Sandleford woods, and the continual amusement afforded to her and Mr. Montagu by the contemplation of their child’s too precocious ways.
A few details of life at Bath may prove amusing. Sarah writes to her sister that the waters agree very well with her, but that people are amazed at her walking between each glass. She had found a companion in Mrs. Wadman, Lord Windsor’s sister, whom she had met at the pump-room, as they drank the waters about the same time, and both were fond of walking.
The Rev. W. Freind and his wife were at Bath, and Sarah goes to hear him preach a charity sermon,
“the best I ever heard. I am going to dress to the best of my skill and power for the sake of his Majesty, this is kept as his birthday, and there is to be a ball and supper to-night, the men have subscribed on purpose. Mr. Simon Adolphus Sloper[297] is to be my partner, and has sent me his tickets, which will carry in Mrs. Freind also. Mrs. Cotes’ cold is too bad to go.... The Archbishop[298] is much censured for going away so soon, he has not tried the waters long enough to know whether they would be of any use to such an extream case as his.... Mrs. Potter would let her husband see nobody but herself, and took his duty of preaching upon herself; she tempered it with a comfortable compliance, and when he used to say ‘I am sure I shall dye, I wish it might be at home,’ ‘To be sure, my dear,’ answers the good wife, ‘it is proper you should dye where you like, if you chuse it you shall go and dye at Lambeth.’ ...”
[297] Mr. Sloper lived at West Woodhay, near Newbury.
[298] John Potter, born 1674, died 1747. Archbishop of Canterbury.