CHAPTER II

The Piozzis in Hanover Square--Scotch tour, 1789--Visit

to Wales--Return to Streatham Park, 1790--Harriet

Lee's romance--Nuneham and Mrs. Siddons, 1791--French

Revolution--Cecilia's admirers--Apprehensions for Cecilia--The

September massacres--Miss Weston's engagement.

In July 1788 the Piozzis took rooms at Exmouth, from which they had

views "of sea and land, Lord Courtney's fine seat and Lord Lisburne's

pretty grounds all facing us." But though there was "a very pretty

little snug society" there, Mrs. Piozzi votes it "a dull place,"

where "if one is idle, one is lost." Idleness, however, was not one

of her failings. Early in the year she had published her _Letters to

and from the late Samuel Johnson, LL.D._, which made £500, and had

a large sale. Some allusions in the correspondence, more truthful

than complimentary, to Joseph Baretti, who had at one time acted as

tutor to Miss Thrale at Streatham, roused him to make a coarse and

violent attack upon her in the _European Magazine_, which caused her

much pain. He also satirised her in a farce entitled _The Sentimental

Mother_, in which she figures as Lady Fantasma Tunskull, and her

husband as Signor Squalici. Yet she forgave him, and when he died in

the following year, sent a kindly notice of him to the _World_. This

year too, as she records in her Commonplace Book, she wrote a dramatic

masque called _The Fountains_, which was much admired by Miss Farren,

and which Sheridan and Kemble "pretended to like exceedingly," but

contrived to lose the copy. She adds: "It has often been in my head

to publish it with other poems--but 'tis better let that alone."

About this time she must have been engaged on a more ambitious task,

the record of her continental tour, which appeared in 1789 under the

title of _A Journey through France, Italy, and Germany_. This was well

received by the general public, though some of the Blue-Stockings

objected to its colloquial style. Anna Seward, for instance, gently

reproved "the pupil of Dr. Johnson" for "polluting with the vulgarisms

of unpolished conversation her animated pages," and wrote as follows

to Miss Weston, who defended her: "You say Mrs. Piozzi's style, in

conversation, is exactly that of her travels. Our interviews were

only two; no vulgarness of idiom or phrase, no ungrammatic inelegance

struck me then as escaping, amidst the fascination of her wit, and

the gaiety of her spirit; but inaccuracies and ungraceful expressions

often pass unnoticed in the quick commerce of verbal society, that

are very disgusting after their deliberate passage through the pen."

The critics found fault with her matter as well as her manner, as did

Gifford in the often quoted lines:

"See Thrale's grey widow with a satchel roam,

And bring in pomp laborious nothings home."

But she bore him no malice, and took her revenge by obtaining

an invitation to a house where he was dining, to his obvious

embarrassment, from which she relieved him by proposing "a glass of

wine to their future good-fellowship."

As long as the Piozzis and Westons were living close together in town,

there was naturally little occasion for letters, but they recommence

in 1789 when Sophia had gone to Bath after an illness. On 13th April

Mrs. Piozzi writes from Hanover Square, after a visit to Drury Lane:

"I have scarcely slept since for the strong agitation into which

Sothern and Siddons threw me last night in Isabella"; while her

husband adds a P.S.: "I assure you I cried oll (_sic_) the Tragedy."

This was no doubt Sothern's _Fatal Marriage_, in which Mrs. Siddons

took the part of the heroine Isabella, a character in which she was

painted by William Hamilton. Mrs. Piozzi was much interested in the

thanksgiving for the King's recovery after his first illness, "the

most joyful occasion ever known in England"; for which she wrote an

Ode, which was printed (with emendations that greatly annoyed her) in

the _Public Advertiser_. For the State procession to St. Paul's on

23rd April, Miss Weston had secured them places in a balcony, "which,

if it tumbles down with our weight, why we fall in a good cause, but I

wish the day were over."

This summer the Piozzis went northwards, intending, as it would

seem, to emulate Johnson's Highland tour. On 11th July she writes

from Scarborough: "We like our journey so far exceeding well, but

'tis as cold as October, and just that wintry feel upon the air;

a Northern Summer is cold sport to be sure, but Castle Howard is

a fine place, and the sea bathing at this town particularly good.

What difference between Scarbro' and Exmouth! yet is this bay by no

means without its beauties, but they are more of _Features_ than

_Complexion_." They made their way north as far as Edinburgh, but the

projected Highland tour was given up; the biographers say on account

of Cecilia's delicacy, but in a letter in Mr. Broadley's collection,

written from Glasgow, 26th July, she says: "Our weather has been so

very unfavourable here, and my own health so whimsical, I fear Mr.

Piozzi will not venture far into the Highlands." The first letter of

sufficient interest to be quoted at length is written from the Capital.

EDINBURGH, _10 Jul. 1789_.

And so you will not write again--no, _that_ you will not, Dear

Miss Weston,--with all your mock Humility!--till Mrs. Piozzi

answers the last letter, and begs another. Well! so she does

then: I never was good at _pouting_ when a Miss; and after

fifteen years are gone, one should know the value of Life

better than to _pout_ any part of it away. Write me a pretty

Letter then directly, like a good girl, and tell me all the

News. The emptier London is, the more figure a little News

will make, as a short Woman shows best at Ranelagh when there

is not much company. Echoes are best heard too when there are

few People to break the sound, you know, so let the Travelling

Trunks, Hat Boxes, and Imperials that pass over Westminster

Bridge every Day at this time of the Year, be no excuse for

your not writing. We have had a good Journey, and the Weather

cannot be finer; a Northern Latitude is charming in July, and

the long Days here at Edinburgh delightful--but no Days are long

enough to admire its Situation or new Buildings, the symmetrical

beauties of which last quite exceed my expectations, while the

Romantic Magnificence of the first is such as gives no notion

at all of the other. So I like Scotland vastly; and as we have

Engagements for every Day, one should be ungrateful not to

like the Scotch too. But for that my heart was always equally

disposed.... I am much flattered with finding my Book read here,

and everybody talks about _Zeluco_, but I hope no one more than

myself, or with more true esteem of its Author....

The full title of the work just mentioned was _Zeluco, various views

of Human Nature, taken from Life and Manners, Foreign and Domestic_,

its object being "to trace the windings of vice, and delineate the

disgusting features of villany." Its author, John Moore, M.D., an army

physician, tutor to Douglas, eighth Duke of Hamilton, and father of

General Sir John Moore, is frequently mentioned in the letters. He was

in Paris during the massacres of the Revolution, and published the

Journal kept during his residence there in 1793.

The Piozzis returned southward by Glasgow and the Lake District to

Liverpool.

LIVERPOOL, _Sat. 22d Aug._

So dear Miss Weston, and her Hanover Square friends, have shared

all the delights that _Water_ can give this hot weather, while

"A River or a Sea

Was to us a Dish of Tea," &c.

Meantime I do not tell you 'twas judiciously managed to run from

Lago Maggiore to Loch Lomond, and finish with the Cumberland

Meres, any more than it would be wisely done to put Milton into

the hands of a young beginner; and when good taste was obtained,

lay Thomson's charming _Seasons_ on the desk; then make your

Pupil close his studies with Waller's poem on the Summer Islands.

Beg of Major Barry to make my peace with his countrymen; some

one told me the other day they were offended at a passage in

y^e _Journey through Italy_, and I should be very sorry on one

side my head, and much flattered on the other, _that they should

think it worth their while_....

We spent a sweet day at Drumphillin, near Glasgow, in

consequence of Dr. Moore's attentive kindness, and even from

that charming spot continued to see the majestic mountain which

attracted all my admiration, and which still keeps possession

of my heart. I took _my_ last leave of it from the Duke of

Hamilton's Summer House, but at a distance of seventy or eighty

miles it may be discerned. If you ask me what single object has

most impressed my mind in this journey of 800 miles round the

Island, I shall reply BEN LOMOND....

If I promised you an account of Glasgow, I did a foolish thing;

what account can one give of a very fine, old-fashioned,

regularly-built, continental-looking town?--full as Naples, yet

solemn as Ferrara: after Glasgow too, everything looks so little.

I think Mr. Piozzi must write the account of _this_ town, he

is all day upon the Docks, and all night at the Theatre; both

are crowded, yet both are _clean_: the streets embellished

with showy shops all day, and lighted up like Oxford Road all

night; a Harbour full of ships, a chearful, opulent, commodious

city. Have you had enough for a dose? and will you give all our

compliments to all our friends, and will you love my husband and

Cecilia?

The Major Barry above mentioned, apparently a member of an Irish

family, is frequently referred to in the letters. He became a Colonel

in 1790, and acted as A.D.C. to Lord Rawdon (afterwards Marquess of

Hastings) in the American War, in which capacity he sent home "the

best despatches ever written." Retiring from the Army in 1794, he

settled in Bath, where he was a prominent figure in literary and

scientific circles till his death, which occurred shortly after that

of Mrs. Piozzi.

From Liverpool they went to inspect Mrs. Piozzi's Welsh property, and

the next letter gives the first hint of the idea of building a house

on it, which was carried out later on. Perhaps the postscript was

hardly meant seriously, as no steps were taken in the matter for some

years, and Mrs. Piozzi herself states that the suggestion was made by

the Marquis Trotti, who does not appear upon the scene till 1791.

DENBIGH, _Tuesday 1 Sep._

DEAR MISS WESTON,--I thank you for your invitation

to pretty Ludlow, and shall let you know when we are likely

to arrive there, that all possible advantage may be taken of

your friendly hints. Mr. Knight is an old acquaintance of my

Husband by the description you give of his taste and elegant

conversation; at least it would be strange should there be _two_

such men of any _English_ name. Scotch and Welsh families are

disposed in a different manner: _we_ have but so many names, and

all who bear those names are related to each other. I find a

great resemblance between the two nations, in a hundred little

peculiarities, and the Erse sounded so like my own native tongue

that I wished for erudition to prove the original affinity

between them.

The French nation was never a favourite of mine, and I see

little done to encrease one's esteem of them _as_ a nation.

Their low people are very ignorant, their high ones very

self-sufficient: you now read in every Paper the effects of

that self-sufficiency acting upon that ignorance. Fermentation

however will, after much turbulence, at length produce a _clear_

spirit, though probably 'twill be a _coarse_ one. They will know

in a dozen years what they would have, and I fancy _that_ will

be once more an Absolute Monarchy....

Mr. Piozzi adds a _P.S._ "In a few days I intend go to see

our little estate, and choose the place to building a little

Cottage, and a little room for our dear friend Miss Weston....

G. P."

In her remarks on surnames Mrs. Piozzi does not display her usual

acumen. There is hardly any English name of which it can safely be

predicated that all the individuals who bear it are related to each

other, and assuredly this is not the case with a name like Knight.

She shows more penetration in her estimate of the trend of events in

France, where the mutterings of the coming storm were already making

themselves heard. The States-General had assembled in May, in June the

Commons had constituted themselves the National Assembly, the Bastille

had fallen on 14th July, and on 4th August the nobles had relinquished

their hereditary privileges. Well within the twelve years which she

postulates, the Revolution of Brumaire (1799) had practically put the

supreme power in the hands of Bonaparte as First Consul, though he was

not proclaimed Emperor till 1804.

From North Wales they went, by way of Ludlow, to Bath, probably for

the benefit of Piozzi, who was already beginning to suffer from the

attacks of gout which finally proved fatal.

BATH, _2 Nov. 1789_.

DEAR MISS WESTON,--Not _one_ letter do I owe you, nor

_three_ nor _four_, but forty if they would make compensation

for your kind ones to Ludlow, where Miss Powell's politeness

made the time pass very agreeably indeed, spight of rain, which,

however provoking, could not conceal the beauty of its elegant

environs, even from an eye made fastidious by the recent sight

of richer and more splendid scenery.

Mrs. Byron read me the kind words for which Mr. Piozzi and I

owe you so many thanks: she gains strength daily, and will be

quite restored if kept clear from vexation, and indulged in her

favourite exercises of riding and the Cold Bath. My husband and

she have many an amicable spar about _Bell's Oracle_, on account

of his savage treatment of dear Siddons, whose present state of

health demands tenderness, while her general merit must enforce

respect. I wonder, for my own part, what rage possesses the

people who wish to see, or delight in seeing, virtue insulted.

Let us not learn to tear characters in England, as persons

are torne in France, and drink the _intellectual life_ of our

neighbours warm in our Lemonade.

Major Barry has written me a charming letter, Do tell him that

he shall find my acknowledgements at Lichfield; I mean to write

a reference to Miss Seward, about a critical dispute we had here

at Bath some evenings ago, concerning the two new novels, which

I find are set up in opposition to each other, and people take

sides. You will easily imagine that _Zeluco_ and Hayley's _Young

Widow_ are the competitors.

Give my kind love to Miss Williams when you see her, and tell

her that she is one of the persons I please myself with hoping

to see a great deal of this winter.

We are all going to the Milkwoman's Tragedy to-morrow; I fear

with much ill will towards its success. Her ingratitude to Miss

More deserves rough censure, but hissing the play will not mend

her morals.

Miss Wallis is to play Belvidera next Saturday. She is scarcely

more of a woman than Cecilia Thrale, and quite as young looking;

very ladylike though, and a pretty behaved girl in a room. I

advised Dimond in sport to act Douglas to her Lady Randolph,

as a still more suitable part than Belvidera. Here's nonsense

enough for one pacquet. 'Tis time to say how much I am dear Miss

Weston's affect^e servant

H. L. P.

Mrs. Byron, whose name frequently recurs in the letters, was a

daughter of John Trevannion, who married, "pour ses péchés," as Mrs.

Piozzi elsewhere remarks, Admiral the Hon. John Byron, known in the

Service as Foulweather Jack, the grandfather of the poet.

The attack on Mrs. Siddons in _Bell's Oracle_ was one of the rare

exceptions to the general chorus of praise she commonly evoked from

the Press; it seems to have been quite undeserved, and her reputation

was far too firmly established to be shaken by it.

_Zeluco_ has already been referred to. Its competitor, _The Young

Widow, or a History of Cornelia Sudley_, was the work of William

Hayley, the poet, of whom Southey said: "Everything about that man is

good, except his poetry." Yet it hit the popular taste, and he was

even offered the Laureateship in succession to Warton.

The Milkwoman, Anna Maria Yearsley, otherwise "Lactilla," was a rustic

genius discovered by Hannah More, who brought out a volume of her

poems, for which she wrote a preface. But her action in investing the

proceeds for the benefit of the authoress, without giving the latter

any control of the money, produced a rupture between them, and the

quarrel was carried on in the Press "to a disgusting excess," as their

contemporaries thought. Besides her play of _Earl Godwin_, she wrote

a novel called _The Royal Captives_, which met with some success, so

that she was enabled to set up a Circulating Library at the Hot Wells,

Clifton.

Miss Wallis, whose career began in the Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin,

had just made her first appearance in England at Covent Garden, where

she played Belvidera (in Otway's _Venice Preserved_) and other leading

parts, with some success. But she seems to have found provincial

audiences more appreciative, and played regularly at Bath and Bristol

for five years.

In 1814, several years after his death, Mrs. Piozzi writes in her

Commonplace Book: "Dimond the Bath Actor was, of all _common mortals_

I have known, completely the best. So honourable that he left no debts

unpaid, so prudent that he never overran his Income, Pious in his

family, pleasant among his friends. Temperate in his appetites, and

courageous to conquer the passion which no man could have felt more

strongly."

With the return of the Piozzis to Town the letters cease until the

summer of 1790, when the tenant vacated Streatham Park, and Mrs.

Piozzi found herself again established there, but under happier

auspices. In May and June she scribbles hasty notes of invitation

to Miss Weston, explaining that "the Hay is carrying, the Weather

changing, and even the Master of the House going to Town on horseback,

because Jacob must not be disturbed." The special attraction held

out was the presence of Mrs. Siddons, but illness prevented Miss

Weston from coming till it was too late to meet her. Mrs. Siddons was

herself suffering from some trouble, apparently rather mental than

physical, for she adds at the end of one of Mrs. Piozzi's notes: "I

fear my heart will fail _me_ when _I_ fail to receive the comfort and

consolation of our dear Mrs. P. There are many disposed to comfort

one, but no one knows so rationally or effectually how to do it as

that unwearied spirit of kindness."

STREATHAM, _12 Oct. 1790_.

I am watching the Moon's increase with more attentive and more

interested care than ever I recollect to have watched it since

your project of coming hither with the Colonel has depended on

her getting fat. I am glad he is much at Lord Sydney's, and

hope it bodes well for us all, and that he will soon have his

orders to fight these hateful French, whose pretended love of

England and English Liberty--in good time!--ends at last in

real attachment to Spain, and to the ratification of old Family

Compacts. I never expected better for my own part, and long for

you to come and tell me all the harm of them you know. My Master

looks better, and gains strength every day....

The Colonel here referred to was Colonel Barry, who had recently

obtained promotion, and was hoping for active service. His patron was

Thomas Townshend, second Viscount Sydney, who was Paymaster-General

1767, and Secretary for War 1782.

STREATHAM, _10 Nov. 1790_.

Dear Miss Weston is always partial to _me_, but I think she

now extends her kind thoughts, very charitably indeed, to the

whole race of Authors, when a finely written book so convinces

her of his virtue who wrote it. I do believe however that Mr.

Burke has, in the glorious Pamphlet you so justly admire, given

us _his own true and genuine_ sentiments; and 'tis on such

occasions that a writer shines, like the Sun, with his own

native and unborrowed fire. This book will be a most extensively

useful production at such a moment! and from such a man! Tell me

what charming Miss Seward thinks of it....

[Illustration: STREATHAM PARK

_By J. Landseer after S. Prout. From the Collection of A. M. Broadley,

Esq._]

The Pamphlet was, of course, Edmund Burke's _Reflections on the

Revolution in France_, published this year, which ran through many

editions, and was translated into several foreign languages.

Anna Seward, though a constant correspondent of Miss Weston's, was

never very intimate with Mrs. Piozzi, whose literary style, as

previously mentioned, she detested, though she admired her wit. This

year she lost her father, the Canon of Lichfield, who had long been

an invalid, but she continued to live at the Palace, which he had for

many years occupied.

For the first half of 1791 only two letters are preserved, the first

being written just as the Piozzis had decided to set out on a visit to

Bath.

_Tuesday, 11 Jan. 1791._

My dear Miss Weston did not use to be so silent, I hope it is

not illness or ill-humour keeps her from writing. Here have

been more storms, and very rough ones, since you left us; Lady

Deerhurst apprehends the end of the World, but I think her own

dissolution, poor dear, is likeliest to happen, for she is

neither old nor tough like that, but very slight and feeble....

Peggy, Lady Deerhurst, was the daughter of a neighbour of the Piozzis

at Streatham, Sir Abraham Pitches, Kt., and became the second wife

of George William, then Lord Deerhurst, and afterwards seventh Earl

Coventry. In spite of her feeble health she outlived her husband, and

the dissolution which Mrs. Piozzi anticipates did not happen for near

half a century.

Early in February the Piozzis went to Bath, from which place the next

letter is written.

_11 Feb. 1791, Fryday._

My dear Miss Weston must be among the very first to whom I give

an Acct. of our safe arrival at a comfortable House, corner of

Saville Row, Alfred Street. We ... ran hither in one day from

Reading, but I found a strange Giddiness in my Head that was

not allay'd by the noisy concourse of young Gamesters, Rakes,

&c., at York House, where we staid till this Lodging was empty:

and here I have good Air and good Water, and good Company--and

at last--_good Nights_; so that I mean to be among the merriest

immediately. The Place is full, and the pretty girls kind, as my

Master says, so you must write pretty eloquent letters to hold

his heart fast....

Miss Hotham's accounts of our sweet Siddons are better than

common, so when things are at worst they mend, you see. Mr.

Kemble's illness, gain'd only by shining too brightly, and

wasting the Oyl in the Lamp, while here at Bath, is recovered by

now I hope, and his spirits properly recruited....

Cecilia was fourteen years old three days ago, and all the

ffolks say how she is grown, &c....

The letters cease after their return to Streatham, until Miss Weston

in her turn went to stay with friends at Bath. Those which follow are

full of an incipient romance which appealed strongly to Mrs. Piozzi,

inasmuch as it bore a strong resemblance to her own. An acquaintance

of her husband's, a certain Lorenzini, Marquis Trotti, their guest at

Streatham, had been struck by the charms of Harriet Lee (afterwards

joint authoress of the _Canterbury Tales_), who was now helping her

sister Sophia in the school at Belvidere House. But considerations

of worldly prudence, which had so far held him back from an actual

declaration, seem finally to have prevailed, in spite of Mrs. Piozzi's

well-meant encouragement. The final act of the drama is somewhat

obscure, but from hints let fall in subsequent letters Harriet Lee

would appear to have had rather a fortunate escape.

STREATHAM PARK, _Thursday, 28 Jul._

MY DEAR MISS WESTON,--I was happy to find the

Prescription, which, after all, I did not find, but made little

Kitchen copy. Do not forget Streatham, nor remit of your

kindness towards me, or towards those I love, dear Harriet in

particular: I hope you will contrive to see her very often.

Marquis Trotti is sensible of your partiality, and deserves all

your esteem. His behaviour is such that were he my son I should

kiss him, were he my brother I should be proud of him, and as

he is only my good friend, I pity and respect him. There is

much tenderness, joined with due manliness, in his character;

he is a very fine young fellow.... But as Hermione says in the

_Midsummer Night's Dream_:

"I never read in Tale or History

That course of true Love ever did run smooth,

But either it was crossed in _Degree_," &c.[3]

[3] _Midsummer Night's Dream_, I. i, 134.

Well! if 'tis of the right sort, opposition will but encrease

it, and as Marquis Trotti said to Buchetti in my company

yesterday, "The time is approaching when aristocratic notions

about marriage will fall to ground, and then those who have

sacrifized their happiness to such folly will look but like

Fools themselves."

Show this letter to our lovely and much beloved Harriet; she

is, I think, the object of a very honourable and a very tender

passion, and to a mind like hers that ought to be a very great

comfort....

Write to me only in general, not _particular_ terms. Write very

soon tho', or I shall be gone to Mrs. Siddons's.

The great actress was seeking retirement and country air at Nuneham

Courtney, on the banks of the Thames below Oxford, and thither all

the Streatham household shortly betook themselves.

Buchetti, whom Mrs. Piozzi had known for some years, was evidently

a friend of Trotti, but seems, in spite of his Italian name, to

have been a Frenchman. There is a letter from him in Mr. Broadley's

collection, dated Paris, 11th June 1789, written in English, and

signed Abbé de Buchetti, telling Mrs. Piozzi that he had written to

her from Cadiz in October 1788, giving an account of his travels in

Andalusia, &c. He goes on to mention the forthcoming meeting of the

French Estates to debate on the new Constitution, which he expects

will be very interesting, and at which he hopes to be present. He adds

compliments from Trotti.

The following lines by Mrs. Piozzi, dated Streatham, 6th July 1791,

occur on a loose sheet among the letters:

"By Friend Howard instructed our Virtue t' advance,

The difference is found 'twixt Great Britain and France;

Old England her Pris'ners to Palaces brings,

While the Palace in France makes a Prison for Kings."

RECTORY HOUSE, NUNEHAM,

_6 Aug. Saturday_.

I promised my dear Miss Weston a long Letter from sweet

Siddons's fairy Habitation, but had not an Idea of finding

as elegant a Thing as it is. England can boast no happier

Situation; a Hill scattered over with fragrance makes the

Stand for our lovely little Cottage, while Isis rolls at his

foot, and Oxford terminates our view. Ld. Harcourt's rich Wood

covers a rising Ground that conceals the flat Country on the

Left, and leaves no Spot unoccupied by cultivated, and I may

say peculiar Beauty. How I should love to range these Walks

with my own dear Streatham Coterie!--but now it is all broken

up. The Marquis and my Master with M. Buchetti left us this

Morning in search of Sublimer Scenes: I have given them a Tour

into Wales--Cecilia and myself sit and look here for their

Return--_that is for my Husband's_--unless Miss Owen's summons

or Signal of distress lures me to Shrewsbury, where I could wait

for _him_ and be nearer. They will reach Worcester to-night, and

visit Hagley to-morrow I trow. Never did mortal Nymph speed her

_polish'd_ Arrow more _surely_ than has our Harriet done: never

did stricken Deer struggle more ineffectually against the Shaft

which has fix'd itself firm in his Heart than does her noble

Lover. He has however no Mind, I fancy, to give up without an

Effort--but no one better knows than I do the difficulty, up to

impossibility, of such an Operation. _She_ too feels, and feels

sincerely, I'm sure; these are the true lasting Passions; when a

serpentine Walk leads they _know not whither_: for in Love, as

in Taste, I see

"He best succeeds who pleasingly _confounds_;

Surprizes, varies, and _conceals_ the _Bounds_."

Console and sooth her, _do_, my charming Friend, she will find

these five or six Weeks as many Years--but by then she will have

her Admirer at the Hot Wells, where he may drink the Water to

advantage. He is already much altered in countenance, but _so_

interesting!...

There is nothing like living near a Nobleman's house for making

a _Democrate_ of one: here has been such a deal of Ceremony

and Diddle Daddle to get these Letters frank'd as would make a

plain Body mad--and I see not that you or Harriet will get them

either quicker or cheaper for all the Ado we have made at last,

but now I am out of Parliament myself I will beg no more Free

Cost directions. Oh! would you believe the Gypsies have told

Truth to Marquis Trotti? They said he would have a great Influx

of Money soon--_Yellow Boys_ you know they called them: and he

said what stuff that was, because his Fortune could not easily

admit of Increase, as it was already an entail'd Estate--and

all his expectations well known to himself. But a few days ago a

Letter from Italy informed him of unclaimed Dividends found in

the Bank of Genoa, which might be his for asking. _He will not

go over_ to ask for them however; but sent his Father word he

was indifferent about the Matter--he had enough &c.--he is of

Aspasia's mind entirely--

"Love be our Wealth, and our Distinction Virtue."

His Income can be in no Danger though, do what he will: at

least a very considerable one, of which I am glad: he is a

deserving Character indeed, and will, I hope, lose very little

by his Sentiments of Dignity and Sensibility of Heart. Let our

Harriet read all this, I had no room for another Word in that

I sent _her_. How beautiful a bit of writing did she send me

upon leaving Streatham! I wish, when her Hand's _in_, some

clever verses would but drop from it: tell her I say so: this

is Inspiration's favourite Hour. How pleased it would make me

if I were but addressed in them! Her Talents have really made a

glorious Conquest, and she ought to cherish them. I long for the

sight of her dear pale Ink, that I do....

It appears so strange and so shocking to put up my Letter

without speaking of Miss Seward, that I can't bear it; nobody

has such a notion of her Talents as I have, though all the world

has talked so loudly about them. Her Mental and indeed her

Personal Charms, when I last saw them, united the three grand

Characteristics of Female Excellence to very great Perfection: I

mean Majesty, Vivacity, and Sweetness.

Well! you may speak as ill of Bath as you please, but I wish

I was there, and never look at old White Horse Hill, which

one sees from the Terrace, without sighing to pass it on the

Road--but Fate calls to Shrewsbury--and thither I shall hie me

on the 20 of this Month. And now remember Missey, that to kindle

and keep up a Man's Love so as to make him ardent enough

for the _overleaping_ Objections, is the true duty of prudent

Friendship; not to make him _talk_ of those _very Objections_

which we know already, and which will only strengthen by talking

of. So God bless you all, and love your

H. L. P.

The Aspasia here quoted appears to be the heroine of Beaumont and

Fletcher's _Maid's Tragedy_.

[Illustration: ANNA SEWARD

_By W. Ridley after Romney, 1797. From a print in the British

Museum_]

Harriet Lee, as desired by Mrs. Piozzi, wrote the verses on Streatham

Park which are given below.

VERSES TO MRS. PIOZZI,

_10 Aug. 1791._

(BY HARRIET LEE)

From the bright West the orb of Day

Far hence his dazzling fires removes;

While Twilight brings, in sober grey,

The pensive hour that Sorrow loves.

Tho' the dim Landscape mock my Eye,

Mine Eye its fading charm pursues:

Ah! tell me, busy Fancy, why

Thro' the lone Eve thou still would'st muse?

More rich perfume does Flora yield?

Blows the light breeze a softer Gale?

Do fresher dews revive the Field?

Does sweeter music fill the Vale?

No, idle Wand'rer, no!--in vain

For thee they blend their sweetest Powers;

Thine ear persues a _distant_ Strain,

Thy gaze still courts far distant Bowers.

To that loved Roof where Friendship's fires

With pure and generous ardor burn,

Lost to whate'er this Scene inspires,

Thy fond affections still return.

E'en now I tread the velvet plain

That spreads its graceful curve around;

Where Pleasure bade her fairy train

With magic influence bless the ground.

Now, on that more than Syren song,

Where Nature lends her grace to Art,

My Sense delighted hovers long,

And hails the language of my Heart.

And thou, much loved, whose cultured mind

Each Muse and every Virtue crown,

If aught to charm in mine thou find,

Ah, justly deem that charm thine own!

From thee I learnt that grace to seize

Whose varying tints can gild each hour;

From thee that warm _desire_ to please,

Which only could bestow the _power_.

Then let me court pale Fancy still,

Still bid her bright delusions last,

The present hour she best can fill

That kindly can recall the past.

And oh! that past!--fond heart forbear!

Nor dim the Vision with a Tear!

Having successfully invoked her friend's muse, Mrs. Piozzi herself

felt inspired to pay a poetical tribute to the absent Piozzi and

Trotti; both poems, as it happened, being composed on the same day.

It will be noticed that her fourth stanza contains a pretty pointed

allusion to the marriage she hoped to bring about between the Marquis

and Harriet Lee.

STANZAS TO THE TRAVELLERS

(Marquis Trotti and Mr. Piozzi)

_Written at the Rectory, Nuneham, 10 Aug. 1791_

1

While you your wandering footsteps bear

To harsher climes and colder air,

Nor once our absence feel;

Here still beneath the shady tree

We sip our solitary Tea,

Or turn the pensive Wheel.

2

Yet oft our thoughts recur to you

As the rich landscape lies in view,

And spreads its beauties wide;

Such beauties once were found, we cry,

In our loved Friends' society,

By us 'ere while enjoyed.

3

In the pure current as we gaze,

Where Isis through the valley strays,

Far from her silvery source;

From Pride and Prejudice as clear,

We read our _noble Traveller_,

Refining in his course.

4

Like him she haunts the rural shade,

Nor loves the clam'rous, proud Cascade,

Loudest in stormy weather:

Nor scorns to mix her _ancient Name_

With honest, artless, _British Thame_,

And seek the Seas together.

5

But if around we turn our eyes

Where Learning's lofty turrets rise,

Dropping their classick Manna;

How swift does fancy back reflect

The hours devoted to collect

Our fav'rite Buchettiana!

6

When Cynthia swells with silver light,

Lending new lustre to the night,

If Philomel we hear,

Pouring her wood-notes o'er the plain,

How does our Piozzi's sweeter strain

Still vibrate in our ear.

7

Too empty then your projects prove,

To run from Friendship and from Love,

And call it Separation;

Reason admits of many a cheat,

But never yet was found deceit

Cou'd trick the Imagination.

With regard to her own compositions she writes in her Commonplace

Book: "Grave verses have seldom, I think, dropt from my pen. Poor

dear Jane Hamilton, afterwards Holman, used to say she was at a loss

to decide whether the ground work of my character was seriousness

embellished with gaiety; or a blythe, pleasant temper, shaded with

very serious, and not seldom melancholy, reflexions."

The next letter, though undated, was evidently written before that

dated 18th August, and within a few days of receiving Harriet Lee's

verses.

I know not, my dear Girl, whether the great Dictionary is a

good incentive to Love or no, but if agreable letters produce

it the Gypsie prophecy towards _you_ will not surely be

long in completing. I never read any Book so interesting or

entertaining, therefore recommend no Novels, but write again,

and that directly....

Dear, lovely, sweet Siddons is better; and at last tolerably

reconciled to parting with me for the relief of those whose

anguish is of the soul, while hers, I thank God, is confined

wholly to the beautiful clay that fits it so neatly with its

truly well suited inclosure....

And now my beloved friends do not think me wanting in my duty

about our Lorenzini; I never was remiss in bringing the subject

forward, never lost sight on't but from thinking it prudent so

to do; as Adriana says,

"It was a Copy of our Conference,

Alone it was the subject of our Theme,

In company I often glanc'd at it,

Still did I place it in his constant view."[4]

[4] _Comedy of Errors_, V. i, 62.

The _verses_ I dispatched after them to Denbigh, which they

cannot yet have reached, a proof I never shrunk one instant from

the cause, and as this moment has brought me a _cold, stiff_

letter from him, dated Shrewsbury,--this moment shall carry one

back from me to tell him _I think it such_. Meantime you know

I never said that it was likely he should marry in this manner

unless from irresistible impulse; the obstacles I _know_ to be

_all but_, if not _wholly_ insurmountable. Only my notion of his

_Love_ is stronger than yours can be, who have seen so little of

him; and proportionable power will vanquish proportionable, or

rather disproportionable resistance. If Gunpowder _enough_ is

put under Mont Blanc--_it must give way_. Such was my reasoning

always, and I still think it just. The last evening he spent

here, crying over Piozzi's Song, and applying every word on't,

as I could see, mentally to his own situation; looking all

the while like _very Death_, and never sleeping in the night,

but employing himself in penning his Journal forsooth, which

consisted only of tender sallies at the sight of the Bath Road;

at thoughts of leaving Streatham; &c., till his very heart

was breaking with passion, apparently increased instead of

diminished by absence. Vindicate my hopes and even _belief_ that

he will relieve his anguish, when become totally insupportable,

by a union which every _natural_ friend he has in the world will

certainly disapprove. As to the letters which he brought down to

the Library in his hand the morning we left Streatham, they were

letters he had himself _written_, not _received_: I suppose to

say that he was resolved on remaining another year in England.

They had, as he confes't, cost him even _tortures_ to write

them. O my sweet Sophy! I know most fatally from experience

every pang that poor young man is feeling; yet I was an

_Englishwoman_! of a country where no such aristocratic notions

are acknowledged as taint his hotter soil; and yet three years

did I languish in agony, absence, and lingering expectation.

"If fortune," said he to me one day, (dancing to the tune in

his own head, for I had not mentioned fortune,) "If fortune

were the only obstacle, I hate it, I despise it; I have been

offered fortunes enough, the first in Lombardy I may say; but I

abhor them all." "One may see," was the reply, "you have no such

mean notions." "My Father pleased himself," said he, "I made no

objections. If _people were generous_! but----" "But what, my

Lord?" quoth I. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and changed

the conversation. Who would have pressed him further to tell

that which I know already, and which no power on earth can cure;

the difference of Birth, Religion, and Country? If however he

has but _love enough_, all those three things which would drown

him if he tried to swim across, may be _leaped_ over; and I, who

have taken the jump before him, never cease to show him how well

I feel myself after it. For the rest, he is now in bad company

for our cause to be sure; but I shall have another sight of him

at Shrewsbury, before he gets to Bath, and will send thither all

the particulars....

NUNEHAM, _Thurs. 18 Aug. 1791_.

One more long letter, dearest Miss Weston, and then away to

Shrewsbury, whither direct your next. This last has been just

as long reaching Oxford, whence I almost see myself within

five hours of you, as a letter yesterday received from Marquis

Trotti at Wrexham, a place not less, surely, than 140 miles

off. They make a mighty slow progress, which tires my spirits

to follow; and seem exceedingly well amused, a thing I was not

absolutely dying to hear. Meantime, what he has written, tho'

cold, has pensive passages in it which keep my hopes alive; and

'tis not cold neither, but _guarded_. Now I tho't it my duty to

keep Harriet ignorant of nothing I knew, and as I have told her

every good and desirable symptom, so have I left in no doubt his

present disposition, for the first letter I _copied_ for her,

and this last I _enclosed_.

Was there ever such a storm seen in England as this last

dreadful one of the 15th? Our December lightning that frighted

you so was nothing to it. Where was my poor Husband _then_, I

wonder? Perhaps on Snowdon, incumber'd with a horse no less

confounded than himself. We were all here much alarm'd indeed,

though Mrs. Siddons has mended ever since, I think....

Now for more public concerns, of which your last letter but one

gives me the best information. It does really appear, contrary

to my predictions, that all Europe will joyn to re-instate a

descendant of that House of Bourbon, which, when represented by

his ancestor _Louis Quatorze_, all Europe united to humble: but

this should be considered as justice, not caprice. That last

mentioned Prince sought openly to seize the rights of others,

while his wretched successor has been cruelly deprived of his

own; and the world will not look on, it seems, while the Crown

of France is trampled on, though none stir'd a step even when

the Sacred head of an _English_ monarch was sever'd from his

body by the _Democrats_ of that day.

Helena Williams is a courageous damsel, and will, I hope, never

be a distressed one in consequence of that conduct, which, if

anything happens but good to her, will be condemned as rashness;

and if she returns safe will be applauded as curiosity after

the great objects in life, while we are listening only to hear

how go the small ones. I find that fierce doings are expected,

and I am much delighted with your _nine thousand_ men: 'tis an

admirable anecdote of old Marshal Saxe, and to me a new one. It

will, may be, divert you to hear that he married a Lady he did

not much like, merely because her name was _Victoria_, and that

when he died, one of the female French wits said, what a pity

it was that no _De Profundis_ should be said for him who had so

often made France sing _Te Deum_. He was a Lutheran, you know.

You never sent me word you liked my Verses, and they were

really ingenious ones too; did Harriet ever shew them to you?

If much applause ensues, I shall be tempted to copy over some

stanzas made for pretty Siddons's little red book, where she

keeps everything y^t has been ever said or sung in her praise,

_unprinted_....

I expect a letter from my Travellers before I send this:

meantime Heaven forefend that I should meet the Marquis at

Shrewsbury. He will quit my Master at Denbigh, _sure_, and

go thro' S. Wales to Bristol. Say everything that expresses

esteem, love, and gratitude, to Mr. and Mrs. Whalley, and tell

Miss Seward how valuable her health is even to _me_, who see so

little of her: if she neglects it, she is doing public injury,

and is worse than a Democrate....

French affairs, as reported in England at this juncture, were no doubt

very confusing. The King's attempt to leave Paris in July had been

frustrated, but he had been making overtures to most of the crowned

heads in Europe, and intervention on the part of some of them must

have appeared imminent.

It seems likely that Mrs. Piozzi made the acquaintance of Helen Maria

Williams through their common friend, Dr. Moore. She was a girl of

great natural ability, but of scanty education; for though born in

London, she was brought up at Berwick-on-Tweed. She returned to

town with her mother in 1781, being then about twenty years of age,

bringing with her a romantic poem, "Edwin and Eltruda," which, like

several subsequent works, met with considerable success. In 1788 she

went with her mother to France, on a visit to a sister who had married

a Swiss Protestant minister; and having enthusiastically adopted

the principles of the Revolution, she made that country her home,

and wrote a good deal on French politics, as will be noticed later.

These proceedings, and her intimacy with J. H. Stone, who had been

separated from his wife, provoked a good deal of hostile comment, both

among her acquaintances, and in the papers like the _Anti-Jacobin_,

of which she was not aware till much later. It was currently reported

that she was living under Stone's protection, a view accepted in the

_Dictionary of National Biography_. But it is not quite fair to judge

her conduct solely on such _ex-parte_ evidence, though perhaps it was

all her biographer had to go upon. Her own letters, written to Mrs.

Pennington, put a somewhat different complexion on the case. In the

first of these, dated 2nd July 1803, she mentions that she is taking

charge of the orphan children of her sister, who had died suddenly.

She lives with her mother and another relative, Mrs. Persis Williams,

whom she has never quitted for three days together since she left

England, except for her journey to Switzerland, which was undertaken

to save her neck. Stone procured her passport, but she travelled,

not with him alone, as had been represented, but with three other

gentlemen, one of whom was an English M.P., and on her arrival was

placed under the charge of her brother-in-law's relatives. In 1811 she

writes that her mother is dead, but that she is still living with Mrs.

Persis Williams and her nephew. In another letter, dated 26th January

1819, after Stone's death, she mentions that his matrimonial troubles

had begun before she knew him, and that it was his wife, "an odious

woman," who provided herself with gallants in Paris, and then, seizing

on the new Law of Divorce, "in spite of all our counsels," separated

herself from her husband, who had by this time lost his fortune. After

this they took Stone in, and he lived for twenty-five years as a

member of the household.

Mrs. Piozzi, who abhorred her books, though she never quite lost her

affection for their author, writes in her Commonplace Book: "I think

Helen Williams turned wholly foreigner, and considered England only

a place to get money from." Though her poems, novels, and politics

may alike be forgotten, she has a certain claim on the gratitude

of generations of play-goers, for it was her tale of _Perourou the

Bellows Mender_ that the first Lord Lytton adapted for the Stage as

the _Lady of Lyons_.

SHREWSBURY, _29 Aug. Monday_.

You are a noble girl yourself, dearest Miss Weston, and a true

friend; if to be an elegant letter writer was praise fit to

mix with this, I think you the best in England. _Both_ the sweet

Epistles came safe; the _first_ pleases me best tho', because

most natural. But if the thing is _credible_, believe it, they

have been come a little bit, and no enquiries has he made; but

he treats me with a haughty reserve, in consequence perhaps of

my verses, or I dream so: for when Buchetti praised 'em, he said

nothing. We are _none_ of us going through S. Wales to Bath and

Bristol. He has _business in London_, he says, and God knows we

have little pleasure here; so we all set out on Thursday morning

together. You will be sadly hurt at all this, but 'tis true.

No more does he follow me fondly about, as at Streatham or the

Rectory, but I think apparently avoids me. Bad symptoms these;

while poor Miss Owen, polite by habit, and desirous of keeping

her own anguish down by hospitable attentions in which _the

mind_ has no share, though the kind heart wishes it had, leaves

me not an instant to myself or to him.

Oh! but I have caught my Spark at last. He began talking to

me of the Assizes, "Where," said I, "Marquis Trotti shall

be indicted on a new Statute, for Heart-stealing without

intentions of payment." He coloured, laughed, and stared,--well

he might,--but asked my proofs, and I produced _your letter_.

We should have made a good picture enough. "And what," says

I, "is to be the end of all this?" "A ride to Bath," replied

he. "I have begged Jacob to buy me a horse, and I will go, and

_go alone_; and I will see S. Wales and all. As to the letter,

Miss Weston is charming, but, I hope, has embellished a good

deal. And who is going to sea-bathe?" "Only her sister-in-law,"

answered I. "Oh! that sea-bathing frighted me!"--We were

interrupted, but I find by Mr. Piozzi that this matter has been

discussed among them, and my husband _thinks now_ that there is

_somewhat in it_. But he is always right friendly and charming,

and says just what he ought, but wishes our Harriet well too,

and is reading your letter _now_.

No description can tell what I have suffered in another friend's

cause since I came here; but my death is not catched, and my leg

is not broken, so I'll say as little as possible on a subject

of more horror than one can express in words, though dear Miss

Weston chose them....

[Illustration: HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS

_From an engraving by J. Singleton in the British Museum_]

From the next letter it appears that all the party had returned to

Streatham Park.

_Monday 5 Sep._

Kind! charming Miss Weston! your letter was a sweet cordial

after the journey, for I did get home very tired and fatigued

and latish on Saturday evening, after suffering something, sure

enough, in the cause of friendship....

The Marquis is making Jacob buy him a horse, to ride over _South

Wales_, and Mr. Davies tells him that Bath and Bristol is the

nearest way thither; sure he will never _ride_ that way, however

earnest to rid himself of his companion's good advice, which his

head probably applauded while his heart resists it. There is a

cold reserve about the man, mixed with fine qualities too, but

he has only a half confidence in me certainly; and seems, odd

enough! to like teizing my curiosity with conjecture about his

intentions towards Harriet, which I have not yet penetrated.

He waits in this neighbourhood for his servant from Paris,

whither he has sent him to fetch all his goods away. So far

looks well, and runs as he told me long ago, when he said "I

can at least give you _that_ satisfaction, that I do not leave

England this year." For my own part he puzzles me completely,

and _so_ confounds my conjectures, that were I to hear within a

month that Harriet was Marchioness Trotti, or were I to hear he

had informed her that such an event was impossible, I should in

neither case be surprised. He is gone to London this morning,

under promise to return o' Thursday, and says his servant will

not be here before the end of the week. So much for Lorenzo.

My own health has been shaken, but will tie up again with use

of the tub, or perhaps we may try the Sea too. But I feel so

glad to get home that scarcely will pleasure or profit tempt

me out again in a hurry. Harriet talks of going to Weymouth or

Southampton: if he should go to find Belvidere House without

his favourite Bird, how would he feel? Yet will I not tell him

the project, lest he should make that an excuse for not going:

let him go, and hear, perhaps see that she is ill, from those

whom he will believe. Better so; she may change her mind too,

and I hope she will; but I only give her information always,

not advice. I have this day acquainted her with all he says and

does, 'tis she must act accordingly. My dear Master is pleased

to find me at Streatham Park once more in a whole skin; the

danger will be better to talk than write about, and we shall

meet again some time, I trust, and exchange minds....

Dear, charming Siddons is better; we stopt at her _village_, not

at her _house_, returning, and heard y^t Sheridan and Kemble

were with her; on _business_ no doubt, so we would not go in,

but sent com^ts. They may see I do not want any favours they

have to bestow.

Adieu! my charming friend! Poor Harriet laments your loss most

pathetically, and I am very, very sorry for her: yet let us

remember 'tis not now above six or seven weeks suspense. I

should, from the first, have thought it very fortunate if she

had not to count by _months_ at least, if not _years_. Adieu and

love your

H. L. P.

John Kemble, Mrs. Siddons's brother, became manager for Sheridan

at Drury Lane in 1788. His sister's retirement during the season

of 1788-9, though mainly due to ill-health, was not altogether

unconnected with the difficulty of extracting her salary from the

brilliant but unbusinesslike Sheridan.

At this date Miss Weston was staying at Corston, near Bath, with the

Rev. F. Randolph, D.D., Canon of Bristol, who afterwards acted as

Domestic Chaplain and English Instructor to the Duchess of Kent in the

little Court at Amorbach, shortly before the birth of the Princess

Victoria.

The Rev. Reynold Davies, M.A., of Streatham, who is frequently

referred to in the later letters, was much esteemed by Mrs. Piozzi,

who entrusted him with the education of John Salusbury Piozzi for some

years after he was brought to England. In the Oxford Matriculation

Registers he is described in the usual way as Reynold Davies, son

of David, &c.; but on the monument he erected to his parents it is

stated that he was the son of David Powell of Bodwiggied in Penderyn,

co. Brecknock, an unusually late instance of the old Welsh system of

nomenclature, by which the father's Christian name was taken as a

surname by the son.

_Tues. 28 Sep. '91._

Your letters, my lovely friend, are like the places they

describe, cultivated, rich, and various: the prominent feature

elegance, but always some sublimity in hope and prospect....

Our Italian Friends are still with us; the Marquis talks

seldomer than ever of his intended tour through S. Wales to

Bath, yet may mean it ne'er the less; and I dare say he will go

and refresh his passion. Make Harriet Lee tell you Cecilia's

saucy trick; it will divert her to tell it, and I won't take the

tale out of her hands: her spirits mend, I see, as to her heart,

it scarce _can_ receive improvement; and the strong sense she

posesses, with such variety of resources too, will guard those

passes where tenderness prevails over prudent apathy....

My Master went last night to Town with good old Mr. Jones, to

see what sport the transmigration of Old Drury can afford. We

hear that all goes well, and that the Town accepts Kemble's new

terms willingly and generously....

During 1791-2 Drury Lane Theatre was rebuilding, and Kemble and his

company were acting at the Haymarket until the new house was ready for

occupation.

"Good old Mr. Jones" was a connection by marriage of Mrs. Piozzi's,

having married a daughter of Sir William Fowler, her mother's cousin.

He was instrumental in bringing about the public reconciliation

between Mrs. Piozzi and her daughters, as narrated later on.

STREATHAM PARK, _Sat. 15 Oct._

My dear Miss Weston's letter contain'd more agreeable

descriptions of the places I love, than of the people. I must

hear better accounts of our sweet Harriet before my heart is

easy, yet I doubt not her command over a passion which no longer

appears to disturb the tranquility of her once half-frantic

Admirer; who told my Master, in confidence _no_,--was his

expression to me,--but in common discourse, that if he married a

woman of inferior birth, such were his _peculiar_ circumstances,

that exactly one half of his estates would be forfeited. He

remains constantly with us, but the world seems a blank to

him: he takes no pleasure, as I can observe, and either feels

no pain, or pretends to feel none. If he ever does marry an

Italian lady he will be a very miserable man however, from

being haunted by our Harriet's form, adorned with talents, and

radiant with excellence. Should he renew his attachment to her,

and sacrifice half his fortune to his love, every child she

brings will seemingly reproach him for lessening an ancient

patrimony.--_Such is life._

Mrs. Siddons is at Harrogate, and, we hope, mending. Poor Sir

Charles Hotham is going to change the _Scene_, I hear: his state

of existence, so far as relates to this world, draws to an end.

Yet though the Physicians send him to Bath, he and Lady Dorothy

resolve, it seems, to see the _new_ Drury Lane Hay Market before

their curtain falls. Who says there is no ruling passion? It

appears to me that _any_ passion, or even inclination, nursed

up carefully, will rule the rest, tho' naturally larger and

stronger; as our little Flo lords it over the out-door dogs,

merely on the strength of being his Mistress' _favourite_.

Chevalier Pindemonte has written me a long letter. He sends

particular compliments to all our Friends and Coterie almost,

and says a vast deal about dear Siddons. "What," cries Mr.

Buchetti, "does he say of Helena Williams?" "Oh! not a word,"

replied I, "men never speak at all of the woman whom they really

like." A painter would have enjoyed Marquis Trotti's countenance

at this conversation. Meantime our little democratic friend

is not doing a foolish thing at last by leaving England, I do

believe. Such is the advantage of exchange between London and

Orleans, that they say the very difference may make it worth her

while; nor is that position a weak one, if it be true that a

British Guinea is worth thirty-two French Shillings; and it was

a man just arrived who told it me for a fact....

Della Crusca has married a Woman of elegant person and address,

and who will bring him perhaps £500 o' year, with an unblemished

character, as people tell me: the husband meantime will

congratulate himself charmingly on his own _superiority_, no

small pleasure to some minds; and the world will always be on

his side in every dispute, tho' he had neither character _nor_

fortune when they met. His family, I hear, are very angry.

The Kembles get money apace. Mr. Chappelow says he is sure

that the Pit _alone_ pays every night's expence, and people in

general seem highly satisfied. _Here's_ a long letter from your

ever affectionate

H. L. P.

Sir Charles Hotham lived long enough to see the new theatre after all:

his curtain did not actually fall till 1794.

It was during her Italian tour that Mrs. Piozzi had met Mr. Chappelow,

who remained her firm friend till his death. Her connection with

Robert Merry ("Della Crusca") at Florence has been mentioned in the

Introduction. He returned to England in 1787, and published some

rather turgid poems of a sentimental character, which were satirised

by Gifford in the _Baviad_. At some time in the course of this year he

was in Paris, being, like Helena Williams, an ardent sympathiser with

the Revolution.

STREATHAM PARK, _Tues. 8 Nov._

My dearest Miss Weston would readily forgive my long silence,

if she knew how heavily my hours are passing, and how happy a

moment I think even this that I have stolen to write at last.

Poor Mr. Piozzi has been, and _is_ as ill with the Gout as I do

believe a man can possibly be. Knees, hands, feet,--crippled in

all, and unable even at this hour to turn in the bed....

Marquis Trotti and Mr. Buchetti have both been excessively kind

indeed, and I shall feel eternally obliged by their attentive

friendship. The Marquis has delayed his journey till he sees our

Master on his legs again, and Mr. Buchetti keeps his courage up,

as nobody but a countryman _can_ do in a strange land....

I rejoice in our dear Harriet's recovery, which _you_ say

proceeds from her fate's being decided, a position I never

believed, yet cannot contradict, for to me he never names her;

notwithstanding I am confident he thinks of her still, nor would

I bet a large wager he does not yet marry her; but it was not an

event ever likely to happen in three months, and in three years

she may, for aught I see, still be his, tho' I never more will

tell her so.

Agitation of spirits is the worst illness, of which my present

situation is a proof, and too much love is good for nothing, as

I see, except to make one wretched. Mr. Piozzi has had Gout upon

his throat, his voice, all that could agitate and terrifie me,

but now _Safe's_ the word, and I care little for his _pain_,

poor soul, if we can but keep away danger....

STREATHAM PARK, _Sat. 20 Nov._

My dear Miss Weston deserves twenty letters, yet can I scarce

write her _one_ somehow. That all have their vexations is

very true, and perhaps my share has been hitherto not quite

equal to my neighbours'. Notwithstanding they would make no

inconsiderable figure if prettily dressed up,--I mean _my

own_. Poor Piozzi gets on as the Crabs do, he says, backward.

Yesterday no creature could bear to see his agony, and tho' we

all dined in the Library, we wished ourselves back a'bed....

I have had a letter from sweet Helena [Williams] this very post,

telling how she is got safe to Orleans; 'tis however written in

a strain less triumphant than tender, I think; and if as she

purposes, we may hope to see her next Summer, I shall have few

fears of her return to France.

As to our dear Harriet, you know how much I love her, but old

Barba Jove and I have a vile trick of laughing at Lovers'

resolutions. No matter, my heart wishes her sincerely well, and

I have too many obligations to Marquis Trotti's politeness and

attention while Mr. Piozzi was ill, not to wish and desire all

good for him which he can desire for himself....

Owing, no doubt, to Miss Weston's return from Bath to Westminster,

there are no letters for the next three months; the next, though as

usual, undated, is shown by the postmark to have been written from

Bath in 1792.

_Monday 5 Mar. No. 15 Milsom Street._

My dearest Miss Weston will not wonder I write so little while

my hands are full of engagements, my heart with anxiety, and my

head,--as old Cymbeline says,--amazed with too much matter.[5]

Harriet will have let you into a great deal of my story, and you

will be surprised less at the behaviour of a man who, it seems,

had no birth nor education to found good manners upon. The only

difficulty is whether we shall tell the lady what we know, or

suppress it. I am for the latter, because like Zara she may care

little whether he is Osmyn or Alphonzo, for aught I know. But my

Master, ever steady to the care of _his own honour_, says she

shall be told _that which we have heard_, because 'tis our duty

to speak as much as hers to listen. Send me some good counsel,

and continue to love your

H. L. P.

[5] _Cymbeline_, IV. iii. 28.

So ends Harriet Lee's romance. No clue is given as to what had been

heard to Trotti's prejudice, but it must have been something serious,

and as Harriet had met him, as a friend of the family, at Mr. Piozzi's

house, the latter felt bound to clear himself of any suspicion of

collusion. The Marquis, if not altogether an impostor, was clearly

not what he seemed; the curious thing is that the Piozzis had not had

their suspicions aroused sooner.

The characters alluded to by Mrs. Piozzi occur in Congreve's _Mourning

Bride_, in which Osmyn, otherwise Alphonzo, son of the King of

Valentia, is wrecked on the coast of Africa, where Queen Zara falls in

love with him.

The next letter, undated, but bearing the postmark of July '92,

alludes to a pecuniary loss Mrs. Weston had sustained, apparently

through the fault of her son. Perhaps as the result of this they left

the house in Queen Square, and till September the Westons took up

their abode at Lewisham.

I would not, dearest Miss Weston, for the World, add to your

torments. Comfort your poor Mother, and present her my cordial

good wishes and compliments. Tell her that I say one good child

out of only two is a good proportion, and I am sure God Almighty

will not forsake her if the World does. While I have a house

you command an apartment; consider it as your own, and come

when it suits you. Cecilia will get her arm again, but 'twas

a dreadful accident; that Girl is always saved from the brink

of a precipice somehow: nothing could be more painful or more

dangerous, she must wear it in a sling for a week at least....

Could not Mr. Vandercorn be useful? he would make a point of

serving you, I'm sure; but I fear, I fear the poor £1000 is

irretrievably gone. Despair not of Fortune however, she is never

long in a mind, and will not be always so cross, I am _sure_ she

will not....

Marquis Trotti was here yesterday, to _my_ amazement, who

concluded him gone abroad; he brought Zenobio, Merlini, and

Buchetti with him, and we had no manner of talk: he looks very

well, says he leaves London for Paris next Wednesday,--I will

not tell Harriet for fear of keeping her away. Would he had

never come! We wanted him not, Heaven knows....

No sooner is one romance ended than another begins, destined, like the

last, to give Mrs. Piozzi a good deal of anxiety to equally little

purpose. Cecilia's first admirer appears upon the scene, in the person

of a Mr. Drummond, and prosecutes his suit with an ardour which for a

time carries all before him.

Whatever faults the Marquis may have committed, he did not consider

himself in any way cut off from intercourse with the Piozzis, or

feel any difficulty about keeping up a correspondence after he left

England, which he did just in time to be present at Paris during the

September massacres.

STREATHAM PARK, _Tues. 17 Jul._

Mr. Piozzi has so many things to call and to hurry him--he can

only come on _Monday_ next to fetch his dear Miss Weston and

mine. Be ready then kind creature and come away....

I am wholly of your Mother's opinion, that 'tis best be _near

the spot_: and if _she_ is contented with her situation, what

need you care to change it?... My vote is for doing nothing, it

commonly is you know, if one stirs, 'tis always to hurt oneself,

I think, literally and figuratively and all....

No news has been heard of the Federation, but all is supposed to

be quiet in France, as an effect of the late coalition between

the King and Jacobins. We shall see how matters end; I wonder

one has no letter from Marquis Trotti.

Mr. James Drummond has pranced over the Common now with comical

effect enough; for he half frighted a quiet old Gentleman of

our Village here by stopping him on his ride, and telling his

tender tale to most unwilling ears, as no man could like a love

story less: and he had no claim to his confidence, for he could

not guess who he might be. Mr. Thomas--a man you have heard Mr.

Davies call his Oracle--was the person so unwillingly trusted,

and while they were together, Drummond called to Miss Lees, who

were walking on the lawn, and renewed his acquaintance with

them: he likewise halload to Jacob in a gay tone. Such Geniuses

are entertaining and comical as Larks, but I like them not about

my house, and shall feel uneasy on the 25th lest some frisk may

be performed.

The elder daughter of Mrs. Siddons, Sarah Martha, known among her

friends as Sally, was just now staying with the Piozzis, as a

companion for Cecilia, who was her junior by about two years.

STREATHAM PARK, _Sun. 9 Sep. 1792_.

My dearest Miss Weston, this is my last letter from home; we go

to morrow, and I am now so glad we are going, because Kitchen

looks and talks as if Cecilia's cold had fastened seriously

upon her breast and lungs. She certainly does breathe with less

freedom, and the cough, though the slightest possible, is not

removed. Lord! Lord! what an agony does it give me to think

on possibilities! But change of air is the first thing in the

world for such disorders, and _she_ must have Asses' milk now,

instead of Sally Siddons, who grows fat and merry. Be happy

if you can, sweet friend, 'tis a hard task, even with all _I_

have to make me so: but let us never provoke God's judgements

by repining even at his _mercies_. Accept the present offer as

such, if you _do_ accept it; and carry this kind hearted man a

chearful countenance, for that he has deserved. What does Mrs.

Weston say? Write me all, and write me soon, remembering how

truly I am yours

H. L. P.

This letter gives the first hint of Miss Weston's approaching change

of condition. That it had not occurred before was not due to any lack

of admirers. In 1779 she was indulging in a semi-Platonic friendship

for the half-genius, half-charlatan, and wholly egotist, long

patronised by the Whalleys, who signed himself Courtney Melmoth; who

wrote to her from Longford Court letters of seven foolscap sheets,

filled with rhapsodies about his charmer, or rather about his own

feelings for her, in which he seems to have been much more interested.

This extraordinary being, who in real life was named Samuel Jackson

Pratt, was a man of good family and education, being a graduate

of Cambridge, and son of a High Sheriff of Huntingdon, had in his

life already played many parts, having been by turns priest, actor,

fortune-teller, bookseller, playwright, poet, and essayist. He was a

thoroughly untrustworthy person, as Sophia seems to have discovered

in time, though he was the only one of her admirers whose letters

she was at pains to preserve. William Siddons had reason to believe

that he was the original author of the anonymous attacks on his wife,

previously alluded to, and the Swan of Lichfield was convinced of

similar duplicity on his part towards herself. It is from her letters

to Sophia that we get some information as to the latter's more serious

admirers.

Of these the first was Major Cathcart Taylor, who evidently made some

impression on her heart, but proved himself "unworthy," and was

dismissed before 1784. Later on a strong mutual attachment grew up

between her and Mr. W. Davenport; but the engagement was broken off

by what Anna Seward terms "the rascality of a parent." The last of

the series, who made the Swan his confidante, and whom she calls "the

gentle Wickens," had a "little temple of the Arts" at Lichfield. But

"prudence laid a cold hand upon his hopes"; the lady was far above

him, and he gave her up for her own sake. "He admires the brightness

of the Star, but will not draw it from its habitual sphere."

The match she was now contemplating was not brilliant, or even

romantic, and probably her head was much more concerned in the

decision than her heart. But the suitor, in spite of a somewhat

scandalous story retailed to Sophia by her cousin Mrs. Whalley, was

evidently an honourable man, and certainly his suit was not prompted

by mercenary motives. William Pennington probably belonged to a

Bristol family, for a merchant of these names was living there earlier

in the century; but he himself, according to the editor of Whalley's

correspondence, was a loyal colonist ruined by the American War of

Independence. This account goes on to relate how, on the way home, he

made the acquaintance of another colonist returning to find relations

in the Old Country with whom he had long lost touch. The latter fell

ill on the voyage, and, in spite of all Pennington's care, died before

they reached England; but not before he had made a will leaving

everything to his new friend. Pennington's first care on landing was

to seek out the dead man's relations, and then, having torn up the

will, to put them in the way of obtaining the property.

This must have been before 1783, as in January of that year Sophia,

writing to Whalley, incidentally mentions that Mr. Pennington is

sharing a house with "cousin Somers." In 1785 we find him acting as

Master of the Ceremonies at the Clifton Hot Wells. A contemporary

Guide Book informs us that he was "inducted" to this important

office "under the patronage of the Archbishop of Tuam, and the

Bishop of Cloyne, and with the unanimous voice of a numerous circle

of nobility and gentry." Here, "distinguished by a medallion and

ribbon," he presided over the Assemblies, and legislated for the

better preservation of their dignity, ordaining, _inter alia_: "That

no Gentleman appear with a sword or with spurs in these rooms, or, on

a ball night, in boots. That the Subscription Balls will begin as soon

as possible after seven o'clock, and conclude at eleven, on account

of the health of the Company." He continued to officiate as M.C. for

twenty-eight years.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MRS. THRALE AT THE AGE OF 40

_From the original picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds about 1781, in

possession of Mrs. Hugh Perkins of Fulwood Park, Liverpool This

was just about the time of her first meeting with Piozzi_]

CROWN INN, DENBIGH, _15 Sep. Sat._

I make haste to assure my kind friend that all apprehensions for

Cecilia are at an end. The change of air relieved her oppression

the first day, and carried off what remained of cold, or cough,

or whatever it was, the _second_. But soon as arrived here,

after the rainyest journey ever seen, I suppose, poor Sally

Siddons was taken ill of an excessive sickness and pain, and

our whole night has been spent as yours was, when I was just

as ill at Streatham Park.... She is now risen and better, and

eating Chicken Broth. I am very sorry to think you have been

suffering the same torture, but do make haste and get well, and

take Bark; it is the best thing after all for _you_ who have,

I think, few complaints except what proceed from irritated

nerves and perpetual anxiety of heart. A decided situation

will tranquillize every sensation, and calm the tossing of the

waves, which keep on their turbulent motion very often long

after the storm is over. Yours is surely past, and so Dear Coz,

(as Cecilia says to Rosalind,) Sweet Coz, be merry.[6] Your

Mother is right, I daresay, about going to London, Lewisham

is a dull place, it were better live here at Denbigh. We have

Coals at 10_d._ per C.--and they say how _dear_ it all is!

and Chickens 1_s._ a couple,--and _such_ a prospect! Well! I

do think my own poor Country a very pretty one, that I do: and

cheap, for though we are called the Squire and his Lady, who

live upon _the best_, and pay _for the best_, they cannot for

shame ask more than seven Guineas o' week for our lodging and

boarding and linnen and china and all included;--four people and

three servants, and we have one very long _staring_ room and

clean beds.

[6] "Sweet my Coz, be merry."--_As You Like It_, I. ii. 1.

So much for Wales, meantime our letters from France will come

slowly, for though they boast their brisk intelligence, I

believe the Duke of Brunswick may be in quiet possession of

Paris, or beaten back to Coblentz, before we shall hear a bit

about the matter, as this town lies in the high road to no

town, and smaller events than the deposition or restoration of

Sovereigns make much ado here. We shall be quiet to morrow, and

go to Funnen Vaino on Monday, if Sally recovers quite well, and

I doubt not her doing so; our Medical Man here is very kind and

comfortable.

Helena Williams should mind who she keeps company with; so

indeed should Hester Piozzi: that fine man she brought to our

house lives in _no_ Emigrants' Hotel at Paris, but a common

Lodging, in a place where numbers lodge. He carried _no_ wife

over with him, nor _no_ children; they are left at Hackney I am

told. Her mother and sister are at Montreuil....

_P.S._--(by Mr. Piozzi.)

Dear friend, we are arrived at Denbigh very safe; the Crown

Inn is prety comfortable, and I've got a very fine room for

Company; next Monday morning we'll go all togheter to see our

place for the new House, and I hope in two years she should be

finisd to receive our selves, and our dear friend; be merry and

comfortable if you can, and believe me for alway your

G. P.

If letters from France came slowly, yet they did arrive. Mr.

Broadley's collection contains two written from Paris by the Marquis

Trotti, who found himself in the thick of the September massacres, of

which he speaks in guarded terms. In the first, dated 3rd September,

he says: "I did not run any risk in the terrible bloodshed of

yesterday. It was an horrid havock: but I forbear to come into any

detail, as it would very likely prevent your receiving this letter.

The King and Queen are still living.... I am a Traveller, and

never meddled in anything, and as such I trust to come out safe."

He writes again on 13th September: "So it is, Madam, I long to be

in some peaceful, retired place, where people are happy and free

without such violent exertions to be so. What I saw lately in Paris

is quite enough for me, and I would hate myself if I was to grow

familiar to such horrid scenes. Slaughter in cold blood, and murder

without provocation, bring us straight back to the state of a brute,

which would be ten thousand times worse, living as we do now in

populous cities, than as we did formerly in forests.... O how often

shall I remember the sweet tranquillity of Streatham Park, and the

circumstances which will always endear it to me."

He goes on to allude to the project of building a house in Wales, and

assuming the rôle of Prophet, foretells the founding and growth of a

"New Salisbury" around Brynbella, greater and more imposing than the

old one, with a monument to the "Illustrious Lady" erected in its

great square.

The constituent Assembly, having framed the new Constitution, had

dissolved itself, and left Louis to work it with the aid of the

Girondins, who declared war on Austria in April, but were soon

dismissed by the King. A threatening manifesto by the Duke of

Brunswick helped to bring the Jacobins into power, who deprived the

King of what little authority he possessed, while the new Assembly

was succeeded by the Convention. These changes were speedily followed

by the imprisonment of the Royal family, and the massacres by the

Paris Commune in August and September; but of these Mrs. Piozzi had

evidently not yet heard.

Helena Williams' friend was evidently John Hurford Stone, whose name

occurs several times in the succeeding letters. He was a Unitarian,

and originally a coal-merchant in London, and a prominent member

of the Society of Friends of the Revolution. He had thus brought

himself to the notice of Fox and Sheridan in England, and had made the

acquaintance of Talleyrand and Madame de Genlis in France. He was now

paying a visit to Paris from which he returned early in 1793, but soon

took up his permanent abode in France, where, on the outbreak of the

war, he was imprisoned as an Englishman. In 1794 he was divorced from

his wife, and thereafter lived with Helena Williams. His tombstone

in Père Lachaise styles him an "enlightened champion of Religion and

Liberty."

The idea of building a residence on Mrs. Piozzi's Welsh property,

first mooted in 1789, was now taking shape. The old mansion of

Bach-y-graig, besides being inconvenient and ruinous, occupied a low

and rather damp situation on the banks of the Clwyd, so a higher and

drier site was chosen for the new house.

Sally Siddons soon recovered, but in a few days Cecilia had a serious

relapse.

_Sat. 29 Sep._ [1792].

My head full of opium, my heart of anguish, I will write to

my valuable friend about _her_ affairs, my own I cannot trust

the pen with; dear Sally must write _them_ for me. Mr. Whalley

is angelick, you should be happy to call _him_ cousin, sure;

and the sweet, artless, _hoping_ man's letter enclosed, that

quotes my verses--in good Time!--and gives the lye to all old

maxims which say that we lose our Lovers when we lose our

fortune. How can you be so cold to him? But 'tis illness makes

you so; be well, sweet friend, and reject not Heaven's offer

of temporal happiness in its _natural form_: that of a good

husband. Every hour shows me there is no other comfort in this

world but what we receive from indissoluble union with a soul

somewhat like one's own. Even in my case I feel consolation in

my Husband's disinterested goodness. Your Husband, I am sure,

has a heart in which meanness will not make its abode. Then why

should you scruple to honour or obey him? _I_ honour him from

my heart. Have him! Have him! and try not to disappoint his

romantic expectations of felicity never to be found. Cecilia

mends hourly, or I could not write thus much; yes, hourly!--and

yet,--Sally takes the pen. Show Sir Lucas Pepys this letter; if

mortal pow'rs can save her, _his_ will; he saved her once, why

was he out of Town?

Ah! dear Miss Weston, what affliction have we all been in! what

anxious days and sleepless nights has poor Mrs. Piozzi pass'd!

Cecilia has been ill, _very_ ill, a Physician from Chester

has been call'd; we now hope to God she will recover, sure,

almost, that there is no immediate danger. _Not immediate_, but

dearest Miss Weston, how afflicted will you be to hear that

Dr. Hagarth indicated but too plainly that Cecilia, whom we

thought so strong, so free from every complaint, will fall into

a consumption. Dear Mrs. Piozzi has fear'd this since the first

day Cecilia ail'd any thing, which was last Sunday, when she

directly sent for Mr. Moore the Apothecary of Denbigh. He said

nothing was the matter but cold; she cough'd and complain'd of

a pain in her shoulder and side, Monday she was worse, Tuesday

and Wednesday she still got worse, Thursday she kept her bed,

and Dr. H. was sent for. That day she spit a good deal of blood

and was bled. Dr. Hagarth and Mr. Moore differ'd in opinion

concerning what part the blood came from. Dr. Hagarth feared it

was from the lungs, and that was a bad symptom,--they let her

blood again at night. Yesterday Dr. Hagarth left us, and Cecy,

after a good night was surprisingly better; she was in better

spirits, sat up some time, and was very well disposed to talk

and laugh, but she is ordered not to do either. To-day she is

still much better, and we hope soon to see her well. In the

meantime dear Mrs. Piozzi through anxiety and grief has caught

a violent cold, to-day she seems better. Oh, my kind friend,

how would your tender heart have bled for her! Mine was ready

to burst, in the midst of her affliction on Cecilia's account,

to see her compose herself, and assure Mr. Piozzi that for his

sake she would bear all patiently, and take care of her own

health: indeed, indeed, it was a heart breaking sight. Cecilia

does not in the least suspect her complaint, she was only

frighten'd when she spit the blood. Tho' to be a spectator of

such affliction is a sad thing, yet am I happy in being here.

Cecilia is pleas'd to have me near her; she turned everyone but

me out of the room when she was bled, and me she held fast and

close to her. I think I am a small comfort to poor Mrs. Piozzi

too,--at least she told me so. What melancholy reflections does

Cecy's illness bring into one's mind; that one who yesterday was

young, healthy, strong, prosperous in her fortunes, belov'd by

her Parent and friends, in short, with every thing conspiring

to render her happy, should to-day be within an inch of death,

and quitting for ever all these blessings, is a sad and striking

lesson. To make things still more vexatious, poor Jacob has had

a terrible fever and sore throat; he is to-day mending. Mr.

Piozzi is all tenderness; he is, you may easily conceive, low

spirited enough. Let us pray to God that Dr. Hagarth has been

deceiv'd, or at least, if he has not, that the complaint may be

got the better of. I am sorry indeed to hear how ill you have

been, do, dear Creature, get well, and accept of the comfortable

independence which is offer'd you by so amiable a person. Will

it not in some measure soften the affliction the former part

of my letter must have given you, to tell you that my belov'd

Mother is at length cur'd of her complaint, and quite an alter'd

woman? What a happy being was I when I received this charming

news from herself, in her own handwriting! The intended journey

to Guy's Cliff must, I fear, be given up, I will hope that when

dear Cecy is recover'd, we shall yet pass some happy days there

together. The weather has prevented our enjoying this lovely

country sufficiently; I have seen enough to make me never forget

the beautiful Vale of Clwydd. The new house is to be call'd the

Belvedere. Yours sincerely,

S. SIDDONS.

This letter is addressed to 14 James Street, Westminster, where Mrs.

Weston had taken rooms, and where she remained at any rate till her

daughter's marriage. Sir Lucas Pepys, in whom Mrs. Piozzi reposed so

much confidence, was the leading physician of the day. He had been

created a Baronet in 1784, was President of the Royal College of

Physicians, and attended the King in several of his illnesses.

The suggested name of Belvedere for the new house was not adhered to.

The one finally chosen was a hybrid Cambro-Italian form, Brynbella,

meaning the Beautiful Bank, or Brink.

CROWN INN, DENBIGH, _1st Oct. Monday_.

I write myself now, kindest Miss Weston, and I write with

steadier fingers. The cough has yielded to repeated bleedings,

and she mends as rapidly as she grew ill. Dr. Haygarth it was

who threw me in that agony, by pronouncing Cecilia in serious

danger from the blood spit up, which _he_ said came from the

lungs; and never did twenty Guineas purchase as much affliction

at one dose, I do believe, as those we gave to him. Dear Mr.

Moore, an agreeable Practitioner settled here as Accoucheur,

Surgeon, &c., who cured Sally Siddons, had repeatedly assured me

that it was _not_ from the lungs.... Her quick recovery gives

great reason to think _him_ right; and he _so_ smiles, and _so_

rejoyces, yet insists on my telling nobody that he differs from

Dr. Haygarth, who is a man of very high reputation, and in

earnest a very pleasing Physician--skilful too I dare say--and

fully perswaded of his own opinion, which is supported by

Science, as the other's by Experience.

Dear Cecy's recovery will, if complete, prove the old adage that

an Ounce of Mother is worth a Pound of Clergy; meaning that good

Common Sense, or _Mother Wit_ as we call it, beats learning out

of doors.

So may it prove! I will now pluck up courage and write to Sir

Lucas myself. Doctor Haygarth recommended us to take Cecilia

to a warmer climate, and that _instantly_: at the same time

he said she must not be _hurried_, or even suffered to _talk_

much, or move. _Naples_ was the first place that occurred: but

how should we get to _Naples_? Thro' France? They would refuse

Passports, perhaps _hurry_ her into _worse apartments_ than

these we are in: a prison, and present her with the sight of

heads streaming with blood. Thro' Germany? Through marching

armies into miserable towns, where want of horses to get forward

would detain us in a climate worse than that of Great Britain; a

German inn to escape catching cold at is a good joke to be sure.

'Tis a residence for Pigs only, not delicate Damsels, sure.

Let it be _Lisbon_ then! Very well, Lisbon be it; but now do

not you open your lips, or black one bit of paper with this

intelligence, for if she really ails nothing--which Mr. Moore

says will very soon appear to be the case--all these phantoms

vanish, and poor Mr. Piozzi and I are _not_ to be driven

forcibly, expensively, dangerously, and suddenly from all our

comforts, all our friends, present enjoyments, and future

projects. The little _Belvedere_ may yet go forward at Funnen

Vaino, and we may yet be merry with _you_ in many a beautiful

spot, but none like the _Vale of Llwydd_. My health, tho'

horribly shaken, _may_ tye up again, and I may kiss my pretty

black Cock and Hen (that I forgot to thank you for,) at poor old

Streatham Park. They are of the Polish breed; we will call them

the King and Queen of Poland, there will never be any other, I

fancy....

Jacob's dangerous sore throat and fever has been a great

addition to my agony, but he will live, poor fellow, I thank

God; and so the favourite horses got lamed with neglect

while he was sick, and Phillis came to evil, and all went

_consistently_. I expect my poor Husband to get a fit of the

gout every day, and that would _do_ for me. I should remind

myself of the Welch Parson's letter saying

"Dear Sir, as I was passing the heights of Snowdon last week,

with Mrs. Jones behind me, I got in much distress, for night

came on, my horse tired, and my Wife fell in labour...."

Of Sally Siddons I say, like as Imogen says of Pisanio, "thou

art all the comfort the gods will diet me with."[7] Her mother's

recovery is however one solid and certain felicity to us all. I

do thank God for that: she is an invaluable Creature.

[7] _Cymbeline_, III. iv. 183.

_Thursday 4 Oct._ DENBIGH.

Well! My dearest Miss Weston, you are a _true_ friend if ever

any one had a true friend, and you will think of nobody but me,

and of nothing but my miseries; from some part of which however

charming Sir Lucas's letter and yours together have relieved me.

I write to him to-day, and I beg'd Dr. Haygarth to write. _His_

will doubtless be a _despairing_ letter, he despair'd even of

Jacob, who, Mr. Moore protested, was never in actual danger. No

matter now tho', for he certainly is recovering; and I earnestly

_hope_ I did not neglect my duty to him, while my heart was full

of everything else in the world.

Indeed, indeed, Cecilia has, between her lovers and her illness,

worked my poor heart very hard this year. I marvel Drummond is

not come down yet, for he knows all that happened, but the same

avarice which prompted his original pursuit of her restrains him

from spending seven Guineas to follow _her_, and fret _me_. Some

certain comfort every state affords, you know. Cecilia does mend

to be sure as fast as ever anybody did mend: ay, and as fast as

she grew worse, which was with a rapidity I never before was

witness to....

Dear Piozzi does _not_ get the gout, so we shall surely move

hence o' Monday, but Haygarth is very good, that he is, and

comes at a call very quickly too. He has made two visits, and

kind Mr. Moore nurses, and sends his wife to nurse, and help sit

up, and everything,--that is, he _did_ do so when wanted,--as if

he were one's oldest and sincerest friend. He _never_ thought

her in danger, and is now the happiest person, except myself, in

the Town of Denbigh. The neighbouring Gentlemen send in baskets

of fruit and sallads, and all they think she can want: so if she

_does_ hate Wales, which I do believe she does most heartily,

the People could do no more to make her love it.

Remember, that tho' the Dr. came twice, she spit blood but

once; remember too that I did not wait till she spit blood

before I sent for him,--_that_ agony was while he was coming

hither,--this day sennight, and Mr. Moore had just bled her as

he walked in. The state of her blood however, and of her case,

made Haygarth order the operation to be repeated; and 'tis to

bleeding alone that I impute her cure....

She was as well, as lively, and as handsome as ever you saw her

just before this attack: she lost the cold _you_ had observed

by the time she reached Meriden. I remember her running up and

down the garden slopes like a school-girl; so she ran up and

down the Castle Hill here, to fright me and Sally Siddons at the

heights she shew'd herself from,--for mere sport and frolick.

The disease was sudden and violent. She had caught the cold when

Jacob caught _his_, riding in the rain to the Belvedere, and

then coming home in the chaise with us, her habit wet thro'. She

_would_ ride that day tho' it was showry when she set out, but

the roads are so bad for a carriage that every body will ride

that _can_; and she is not used to mind a cold, poor soul....

This is, I think, my most rational letter yet.... Sally Siddons

is my darling daughter, and _so_ affectionate. Farewell; beg

dear Mr. Whalley's prayers for me, and write to Chester to yours

_gratefully_,

H. L. P.

_Sat. 6 Oct. 1792._

My dearest, truest, kindest Miss Weston's sympathizing letter

makes a nice contrast to cruel Doctor Haygarth's, this moment

received,--wherein he bids me not relax my caution, for that

diseases of these kinds are peculiarly insidious;--says Miss

Thrale ought to be watched with the most sedulous attention,

&c., and brought to him, if able to move, next Monday, to

Chester,--where however he _despairs_ again of finding us any

comfortable accommodations.

How can dear Sir Lucas Pepys love a man so unlike himself?--and

how can a creature who witness'd my anguish suspect, or pretend

to suspect, my care of a child whose welfare precludes every

other thought and consideration?

Well! Cecilia has no sweats, no febrile heat, no chills, no pain

in the breast _at all_. She sleeps uninteruptedly seven hours

at a time, and coughs only _now and then_, as we say, but it

certainly is not cured. This morning we try her with an airing,

but I'm forced to send my letter away, because our Posts come

and go very slowly, as you see. Sally Siddons scolds me for

crying over Haygarth's letter, because she says _she_ sees Cecy

mend every moment.

The remaining page and a half is filled up by Sally, who enlarges

on this text in great detail, and with much common sense. She seems

to have converted Mrs. Piozzi to her opinion, for the next letter,

instead of being written at Chester, is dated from Guy's Cliffe, near

Warwick, then the seat of the Greatheeds. Mrs. Piozzi had become

intimate with Bertie Greatheed at Florence, and wrote the Epilogue for

his blank-verse tragedy, _The Regent_, which was performed at Drury

Lane in 1788. It was not a great success, in spite of the acting of

John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Here the object, though not the nature,

of Mrs. Piozzi's anxiety suffered a change; for Sally had a bad

attack of the spasmodic asthma from which she suffered all her life,

and of which she eventually died.

GUY'S CLIFFE, _Sunday 14 Oct. 1792._

Never, my dearest Miss Weston, never _try_ to oppose the

immediate dictates of Heaven. I was miserable, yes _miserable_

at coming to this sweet hospitable house, because I wanted to

be at home with Cecilia, to see and embrace my kind, my true

friend--and to endeavour at sleep in _my own_ bed--for from

every other it has long been flown. On the road hither however,

for we came softly, not to hurry poor Cecy, only 44 miles o'

day, Sally Siddons was taken _illish_. I hop'd it was the

Influenza, for cold she could not have catch'd, and I have kept

her at all possible distance from my own girl ever since she

threw up blood at Denbigh. Here however was she seized yesterday

with _such_ a paroxysm of Asthma, cough, spasm, _every_ thing,

as you nor I ever saw her attack'd by.... But as God never

leaves one deserted, _here_ most providentially was found Mr.

Rich'd Greatheed, who you know practised physick many years in

the West Indies; and under his care we are now _existing_, not

living. He is very charming, and so is his dear sister, who

desires her love to you, and all possible happiness. I told

her _my_ infinite obligations to your generous friendship, and

she says how good, and clever, and how much admired you always

were. Sally in her bed begs to be remembered to you, who have

so often watched her bedside. She has reason to adore Mrs.

Greatheed though, who ransacks the country for relief to the

dear creature, and we expect her mother every instant to add to

our agony.

Meantime Cecilia remains _just the same_ as when Haygarth

pronounced her _well_; but she is _not_ well, no nor _ill_

neither.... Well, her sisters had the best of my flesh and of

my purse; poor Cecilia can but pick the skeleton of either, and

she is welcome to _that_. I knew from the Lloyds that Drummond

was acquainted with all; he doubtless attributes her illness

to disappointed love of _him_. I knew it from them, but they

did not _tell_ me so, mind: oh, had I never known anything of

Drummond but what I had been _told_, my information had been

very shallow, sure.

Adieu! if no new affliction arises we shall be at Streatham Park

on Thursday night, 18, and you shall see what yet remains of

your poor

H. L. PIOZZI.

Mrs. Siddons was no stranger at Guy's Cliffe. More than twenty years

before, when her parents were trying to break off her engagement to

William Siddons, she had lived there for two years, nominally as

lady's-maid, though it is said that her chief employment was to read

poetry to the then master of the house, Mr. Samuel Greatheed. After

her marriage in 1773 she often stayed there as a friend of the family.

STREATHAM PARK. _Wensday, 7 Nov. 1792._

I am truly delighted, dearest friend, with your charming

pacquet....

We are all in the right to love Mr. Pennington, 'tis for all our

credit to love him, and will be ever so to yours. Never were

so many knowing ones taken in at once as would be if he proved

worthless. You will follow _him_ soon, and the moment we have

half a crown _in hand_ we will follow you. Let mine be the first

letter sign'd P. S. P. Siddons says you must say nothing from

her, but you may tell Mr. Whalley from me, that I think her as

yet neither well nor happy, soon to be so however, as we all

hope; that's enough, she will always do right, we are sure of

her principles, _unbending_ as her best admirer said they were.

So you are a widow when this reaches you, and your true love is

gone away. What mistakes he will be guilty of till you come, I

am thinking; for he, poor soul! dreams only of his Sophia.

May your Mother end her days peaceably under his protection and

your care, and quite forget she ever had any other son! _'Tis

best_.

My Master will call some day, if he _can_, that is. Mr. Ray

has given him tickets for Lord Mayor's Feast, so he is to see

London's Glory,--_in good time_; he has seen the Apparitions,

which he greatly approves.

Helena Williams should not be sick now all goes her own way; Is

this a time, brave Caius, to wear a Kerchief? &c.,[8] as Brutus

says. I will write to her some of these days....

[8] "Oh what a time have you chose out, brave Caius," &c.--_Julius

Cæsar_, II. i. 315.

[Illustration: MRS. SIDDONS

_By R. J. Lane after Sir Thos. Lawrence_]

In France the Prussians had been driven back, the National Convention

had abolished Royalty, proclaimed the Republic, and were now preparing

to try the King, though it is not likely that the last item of

news had yet reached Mrs. Piozzi. The Republic at once took up the

offensive, and its troops occupied Savoy and Nice, which no doubt gave

rise to the expectation of an attack on Rome, as mentioned in the next

letter.

STREATHAM PARK, _Wensday 21_.

My dear Miss Weston's kind letter came safe to my hand, 'tis the

last I shall read with that signature. Do pray tell me whether

your Brother knows how matters go, and when he found it out.

Does good Mamma set out at the same time you do? Yes, I dare

say. Give my truest regards to charming Mr. Whalley, and your

_real_ cousin, his amiable Lady, and tell my Harriet Lee how I

expect her, and long to see her, and tell all my tales of sorrow

and of joy about poor Cecilia, whose kind and wise Physician

came here out of pure good will two days ago, and signed a _good

Bill of Health_ for all the family,--honest Jacob included; and

said moreover that sweet Siddons would recover in due time, and

that time not distant. He is one of _us_ her adorers....

How happy Mr. Pennington must be in Mrs. Tryon's admiration of

his Sophia's fine qualities. These are the bright moments, the

lucid spots of life, which those who never marry never see. Mr.

Whalley's is really a lucky house, I seldom have seen it without

a courting scene upon the foreground. Tell him, (if you can

remember,) that his democratic friend, Count Andriani, asked for

him the other day, tho' I perfectly recollect his turning quite

pale with passion while they disputed about politics. Meantime

the French are expected hourly at Rome, and at Loretto, to pay

their troops with the rich spoils of Palaces and Churches. Some

Italian noblemen dined here last week, and actually wept with

reflexions upon past terror and apprehended injuries. Excellenza

Pisani in particular, at whose throat, and at those of his

little girls, ten and eleven years old, they held knives and

pikes for the space of _four_ hours, surrounding his coach as

he came away, and loading him with the bitterest curses; adding

Rogue and Rascal, etc., till his daughters' Gouvernante, in

perpetual fits, seem'd wholly dead from fright, and his Steward

came out in a spotted fever with the agony. I never heard

anything so dreadful. Little Lady Caterina says she thought they

would kill Papa every minute. Remember that Pisani is one of the

first families in Europe, and that his person ought to have been

sacred as Ambassador from one of the first Republics in it.

Poor Marquis Spinola has the same tale to tell; but he had

lived twenty years in France, and acquired kindness enough for

the Nation to be sorry for _them_. Well! we will now think of

nothing but private happiness, and rejoice that 'tis still

within our reach. May you, my kind friend, long remain a proof

and pattern of it, prays your truly affectionate and obliged

H. L. PIOZZI.