Early in October, Mr. Montagu left his wife, parliamentary business calling him to town. She dreaded the invasion of condoling neighbours, and not without reason. “We have not been troubled with any visitors since Mr. Montagu went away; and could you see how ignorant, how awkward, how absurd, and how uncouth the generality of people are in this country, you would look upon this as no small piece of good fortune. For the most part, they are drunken and vicious, and worse than hypocrites—profligates. I am very happy that drinking is not within our walls. We have not had one person disordered by liquor since we came down, though most of the poor ladies in the neighbourhood have had more hogs in their drawing-room than ever they had in their hog-sty.” One visitor was unwelcomely assiduous. She thus hits him off to the duchess, as a portrait of a country beau and wit: “Had you seen the pains this animal has been taking to imitate the cringe of a beau, you would have pitied him. He walks like a tortoise and chatters like a magpie.... He was first a clown, then he was sent to the Inns of Court, where first he fell into a red waistcoat and velvet breeches, then into vanity. His light companions led him to the playhouse, where he ostentatiously coquetted with the orange wenches, who cured him of the bad air of taking snuff.... He then fell into the company of the jovial, till want of money and want of taste led this prodigal son, if not to eat, to drink with swine.... At last ... he returned to the country, where ... people treat him civilly ... and one gentleman in the neighbourhood is so fond of him as, I believe, to spend a great deal of money and most of his time upon him.” There are parts in the letter, from which the above is an extract, which show a knowledge of London life, and of the consequences of leading it, which is marvellous. In more lively strain, this Lady of the Last Century moralised on marriage, under all its aspects, to the duchess; and she joked upon and handled the same subject, in her letters to Mrs. Donellan, with an astounding audacity, which was, however, not unnatural, in the days when mothers read Aphra Behn aloud, and sons and daughters listened to that arch-hussy’s highly flavoured comedies. Mrs. Montagu alludes to similar reading when drawing an “interior” for the duchess’s good pleasure, while Mr. Montagu was away. “I cannot boast of the numbers that adorn our fireside. My sister and I are the principal figures; besides, there is a round table, a square skreen, some books, and a work-basket, with a smelling-bottle, when morality grows musty, or a maxim smells too strong, as sometimes they will in ancient books.” She loved such books, nevertheless, much better than she did the neighbours that would be friendly.