Mrs. Boscawen and Miss Pitt came from Hatchlands to London to spend two days with me; we went to Vauxhall each night, and Mrs. Anstey and I went with them as far as Epsom: we saw Lord Baltimore’s house, [_sic_] which speaks bad french, so I will not rehearse what I saw there. Why should I teize your imagination with strawberry colour’d wainscotts, doors of looking-glass, fine landskips on gilt leather, and painted pastorals with huge headed Chloes and gouty legg’d Strephons, with french mottoes to explain those tender glances. We were glad to quit this palace of bad taste for a little arbor in the garden of the inn at Epsom. The Sunday following Mr. Montagu and I went to dine with Mr. Bower at Sidcop, his little habitation has the proper perfections of a cottage, neatness, chearfulness, and an air of tranquillity, a pretty grove with woodbines twining round every Elm, a neat kitchen garden, with an Arbor from whence you look on a fine prospect. Here he may write of heresies and schisms, of spiritual pride and papal usurpations, while peaceful retirement and the amenity of the scene about him, rob controversy of its acrimony, and allay the bitterness of censure by a mixture of gentle pity.” [Page heading: 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.