The Intimate Letters of Hester Piozzi and Penelope Pennington, 1788-1821

by Hester Lynch Piozzi; Penelope Pennington

CHAPTER VI

Attacks by reviewers—The Peace, 1801—Visit to London—South Wales—Mrs. Pennington's troubles—Bath again—Breach with Mrs. Pennington, 1804.

The next letter is directed to "Longford Cottage, the Seat of the Rev. Thomas Sedgwick Whalley, near Bristol," where Mrs. Pennington was staying for a few weeks.

Brynbella, 3 June 1801.

... I do assure you that between your own house and this no greater anxiety has been felt for Mr. Whalley; he is our very true friend, and we have sense enough to know it. He is so much Miss Hannah More's friend that I am convinced of his fretting at Sir Abraham Elton's officiousness. Will you have proof how wrong those things are? I am frequently asked after celebrated characters when we return home to so remote a neighbourhood as this is: and to the questions asked about these exemplary Ladies I made such replies as a friend is expected to make. Some of our neighbours, however, within these three months, have had a fancy to take in a Bath newspaper, and "Oh!" says one now, and "Ah, ah!" says another, "why you never told us, Mrs. Piozzi, concerning this paper war between Miss Mores and Mr. What's his name! As good as you say they are, those who live in the world see spots in the sun, we find," etc. etc. Now would it not have been better far to have left these dear creatures round Brynbella nothing to talk about but the going off of Lord Kirkwall's marriage with Miss Ormsby, the coming on of Mr. Piozzi's gout, just at Laburnum season, the hopes of famous news from Egypt, and, blessed be God, the near certainty of immense crops to feed our poor, and damaged rice from India to feed our pigs? Would it not have been better? But we will talk of something else, if you please.

The trunk is not come, but coming, and it was kind in you to let me know how I might look after it. I had no thought of its taking such a voyage. The comical preference, shown in your letter, of a trunk to a Lady, is more than classical. In Homer's time they preferred a tripod to the fairest: when the tripod was chas'd, though, and the damsel a slave.

I have had a civil letter from Miss Thrale now. She is retired to a friend's Country Seat, I understand.... The noise and racket of London was grown painful to her, and she longed for sight and smell of green fields. I wrote her word that if chance should bring you and her together, it would be very pleasant to you both, who have many ideas, and many expressions too, in common. I would the love of H. L. P. lived in her heart as in yours, but of that, as Sciolto says, "as of a gem long lost, think we no more."

Do you recollect that agreeable morning dear Mr. Whalley gave us at Laura Place this Spring? and how he talked of the River Euphrates, and said it would be one day literally dried up for the Jews' return? And do you remember what you said, after he was gone, upon the subject? and how I exclaimed "Why, you are talking just like Miss Thrale?" Well! and I begin—since he open'd my own mind,—to think that it may be so; ay, and without contradiction of your humourous asperity against the talkers and hearers either. Beg of Mr. Whalley, when he is better, and can amuse himself with such stuff, to look in Plutarch's Life of Lucullus, 'tis an early life, first volume, I think, and if my memory fails me not, he will find something like a confirmation of his own opinion,—and of yours. Now please to observe that I have no Plutarch here, nor have seen one since I saw you. In such an act of mere reminiscence, therefore, the mind may be mistaken, but my heart tells me that Lucullus perceived some property in the River Euphrates,—some quality rather, which would (he observed) make it fordable upon a future day, altho' so deep when he was wishing to pass over.[18] All this seventy years before our Saviour's appearance in the flesh.

I am always ready you know for a bit of old Stilton, as Dr. Johnson called profane History. "Thou dost love," said he, "my dear, to play the part of Swift's Vanessa, who

Nam'd the ancient heroes round,

Explain'd for what they were renown'd, etc.

and I have as steadily resisted that mode of conversation;—now pray, pray let's have no more of it." In obedience to his commands, as well remember'd, sure, as Plutarch's lives, I leave this, and begin saying a good word of Mr. Murphy's book, and feel delighted that you take an interest in it too. There was some danger lest it pleased me merely by bringing old scenes to view, but I will trust your criticism. The work has more merit as Garrick and he certainly never loved each other, and you may see his praises of the man he celebrates are dictated by duty, while those bestowed on Barry spring from fondness. I had rather he had been kinder to sweet Siddons. What a thing it is that her husband cannot at least count and keep together the money she gets for him. That man has, I fear, some rage for speculation; a dangerous game. The prudent people are, for aught I observe, no better calculators than we open-pursed fools, who are cheated out of 20s. perhaps, by Bett Lewis the vagrant; while they lose £200 sterling in the management of a puppet-show that takes fire, or sink three times as much in a Canal that lets out water, or some nonsense.

We have had an earthquake here, as they say, for I felt it not, tho' I am confident I was wide awake at two o'clock Monday morning. Lady Orkney's Canary Birds fell from their perch however, and some of our Denbigh friends fancy they heard a noise. I was thinking about my master's Bavanda, and he was thinking how thirsty the gouty pains made him; so Brynbella was unconscious of the shock.

Buonaparte is supposed to be all this time under the influence of poyson administered three months ago, but I believe that as I do the earthquake. Poor Selim's death of the Continental Apoplexy is less improbable; so is young Constantine's hope of restoring the Greek Empire. No matter! Live our own dear King, I care for none of them. Here is his 63d birthday, and the value of his life is increased 63 times since it began. But y^e grand climacteric passed over, I count him safe, and would rather have an annuity upon him than on the dangerous dame we fear so justly.

Oh! I forgot to tell you, Stockdale sends word we have a wicked enemy at Bath, who injures the sale of Retrospection by spiteful and ingenious censures. Who is it, I wonder! ...

[18] Vol. iii. p. 258 of Clough's translation.

Swarms of pamphlets on the "Blagdon Controversy" were making their appearance about this time. Those which Mrs. Piozzi had in view were probably "A Letter to the Rev. Thomas Bere ... occasioned by his late unwarrantable attack on Mrs. H. More," by the Rev. Sir Abraham Elton, Bart.; which was answered by "An Appeal to the Public in the Controversy between H. More, the Curate of Blagdon, and the Rev. Sir A. Elton," by the Rev. Thomas Bere.

Murphy had just published his Life of David Garrick in two volumes, which was not very well received by the contemporary critics, who found fault with its clumsy arrangement, and its excessive padding with prologues, epilogues, etc. Mrs. (Ann Spranger) Barry, who died this year, was a popular actress in London and the Provinces, and was considered by the critics to equal, if not to surpass Peg Woffington and Mrs. Cibber.

Sultan Selim did not die of apoplexy, but lived to be deposed in 1807. The Empress Catherine of Russia had conceived the idea of extinguishing the Turkish power in Europe, and placing one of her own family on the throne of the restored Greek Empire. For this purpose she chose the second son of her own son Paul, had him christened Constantine to fulfil the prophecy that a Constantine should again rule at Constantinople, and educated him to carry out her plan. There seemed to be some chance of its success when the Emperor Joseph gave it his support in 1788; but Turkey was saved by Pitt's triple alliance of England, Prussia, and Holland, to restore the Balance of Power. About this period Constantine had gained some distinction as commander-in-chief in Poland.

[Dated, by Mrs. Pennington, Jul. 1801.]

Dr. Randolph is a wise man for not caring what these foolish fellows say, and Mrs. Randolph is a sweet lady for caring. On the like principle H. L. P. is a dunce for being angry, and dear Pennington is a kind friend for being enraged at these odious Critical Reviewers. Those who say my book is merely good for nothing cannot be answer'd. The book says something like that of itself,—but its worthlessness consists in telling people what they knew before, not in telling what is false, for that is the charge that offends me. Much of this obloquy might have been avoided certainly, by quoting authorities, but they would add more to the work's weight than its value, were the deed done to-morrow: and I thought it a mere insult to the Public sitting gravely to inform them of what they may read in the 7th Period of the 3rd Chapter of the 1st Part of Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History, edited by our friend Macleane, who, in a note, confirms the fact of Tiberius desiring the Roman Senate to deify our Saviour. One would really wonder at a man's assurance who, like our Critical Reviewer, boldly asserts that "this is an exploded fiction." It stood on the testimony of Eusebius and Tertullian for sixteen centuries before it was disputed: and M. Iselin, with Hase the Hebraist, and numbers more since the year 1700, have proved its truth beyond all power of denial. I saw Miss Case with Macleane's Mosheim in her hand when I last visited her. She need not be deceived, she can enquire and see the truth of my position. When I wrote to Mr. Gillon expressing my uneasiness under a charge of ignorance ill-deserved, he said my antagonist was a man of immense abilities, and I had better let him alone. But Robson the Bookseller, who sent me down the Review, liked my refutation so well that he requested leave to print my angry letter to him on the occasion. I suppose it resembles that I wrote to you, and you will see it in the Gentleman's Magazine for July.

I am sorry about Hannah More: these things are, upon the whole, very mortifying, and injure the cause of Religion, Virtue, and sound Literature too much, at a moment when enemies to all three are ready and keen to take every possible advantage.

I have a cold and reproachful letter brought me just now from Harriet Lee, accusing my heart of alienation because I made no enquiry concerning her state of mind, altho' I saw, she says, that it was an uneasy one. How unreasonable the people all are! I thought myself acting delicately to make no enquiries, where nothing was avow'd as capable of being construed into more than a past vexation about the children's sickness.... Nothing would be less pleasing to me than the thought of having offended any of the house of Belvidere. Never did I say a slight word, or write a peevish one, about them. Never did I fail to express my just admiration of their talents, or even suffer myself to be provoked to more than sorrow—not anger—when I had reason for believing that Robinson was better disposed to y^e purchase of my book before his visit to Bath, than he was afterwards.

I hope she will write kindly and make all up. I am ready. If she does not—we must sing Ralph's song in the Maid of the Mill, I think.

Nothing's tough enough to bind her,

Then agog when once you find her,

Let her, let her go, let her go, never mind her, etc.

Poor dear pretty Siddons! What has she been doing to her mouth? Picking it, my master says, as I do my fingers, which, he threatens me, are one day to resemble poor Mr. Pennington's toes. But in earnest and true sadness, what can be the matter with her lips? Lips that never were equalled in enunciation of tenderness or sublimity! Lips that spoke so kindly to me and of me! Dear soul! what can ail her? She dreamed once that all her teeth came out upon the stage I remember; I told her she would go on acting till age had bereft her of them; but God forbid that she should lose them now. Her husband will mend at Bath.... Sally's death will be no loss to her dear mother, altho' a very poignant affliction without doubt; and Cecilia will be her delight I dare say: but Sally and her Father both will yet last many years I am confident. Shall we have a Bath Winter all together and be comfortable? Or will they pay her, and lure her back to Drury Lane? You must get her mouth in good order, that she may look like my little miniature of the greatest and only unrivalled female this century last expired has pretended to produce. When her lips close, what good will our ears do open? Yes, yes, they will hear Randolph preach, Piozzi sing, and Pennington converse. Comfort the charming creature all you can tho', and get her into her accustomed beauty, and tell her how she is beloved at pretty Brynbella....

P.S. by Mr. Piozzi.—

... Well! I think it time to forget the Critical Review, and Mrs. P. she is persuade to do so. The writer is a poor miserable wretch wanting bread, and so sufficit. Belvidere people they can write, but they cannot understand Retrospection. Next week Little John we expect him at Brynbella....

James Robson, like Robinson and Stockdale, was a Cumberland man, and began his career in the shop of Brindley, whom he succeeded.

Bickerstaffe's opera, The Maid of the Mill, was based on Richardson's Pamela. Ralph was the son of Fairfield the Miller.

Mrs. Siddons's trouble seems to have been erysipelas, from which she suffered a good deal in later life.

[Dated, by Mrs. Pennington, Jul. 1801.]

You are a dear Friend, and a wise Lady, and—"Conscience" (says I) "you counsel ill": and "Pennington" (says I) "you counsel well."[19] See the learned Lancelot Gobbo. But my heart tells me that the Gentleman's Magazine will exhibit a letter of more anger than good sense at least, being written on the spur of the moment, the very day I read my antagonist's spiteful accusations. 'Tis most likely, for it never entered my head that Robson would print what came to him in form of complaint, just as I wrote it to you. Yet when he asked leave to show it up before the public, and said several friends in his shop advised the measure, I would not shrink from it.

Harriet Lee has sent me a making up Epistle; so we make up, but it is a cold and flat paste we make on't at last, and as little George Siddons said of his brother's friends, whom he had been half afraid of, "I know what they are now." I know what she is, too; and worded my answer accordingly. She lamented the ill nature of the Critical Review to me with due and proper pathos. I replied lightly that they were not half as ill-natured as they were ill-informed, and that if charming Hannah More valued such abuse as little as H. L. P. did, she would live long a champion of religion's cause, and not dye, as they wished her to do, a martyr to't. The truth is her controversy gets very stale now, and like her torment Beer (Bere)

Though stale, not ripe, tho' thin, yet never clear.

I will hasten to expose my Gentlemen's ignorance, and then release people to think and care about matters more worth their attention.

The loss of those two fine ships was vexatious enough, but we must have a few knocks. Hannibal lost one eye early in life you know: so these fellows came on the blind side of him, that's all. Our cutting the Corvette from Camaret Bay was an exploit worthy to be preserved in History till Time shall be no more. But nothing ever equalled the hardihood of Naval Officers shown in course of this war. It is a tissue of heroism, and to attempt shores so guarded would seem frenzy, had one not to recollect apparent impossibilities conquered by Buonaparte: particularly his passing Mount St. Gothard in winter, never relaxed; which however did yield (God only knows how) to the French Artillery, suffer'd to cross that Mountain for the sake of gaining a decisive battle at Marengo. We must have more sense, if they do land, than fight any battle at all with such troops; our business is to harrass them and thin their numbers, not easily repair'd; and attacking them only by night, assure to ourselves the advantages accrueing from our own knowledge and their ignorance of the country. Mr. Pennington will tell you I am quite right, and it was for want of knowing as much in old times that Harold foolishly set his Island on the hazard of one grand battle, which he lost at Hastings.

Our Secret Society men who buy up the corn and fling [it] by night into the river or sea, are far more dangerous enemies; and will, if matters ripen into reality of bustle, be less afraid of acting openly. Their present intentions tow'rds irritating our lower ranks, and making them willing to rebel, are happily counteracted by the enormous quantity of corn in the field, and ports, and harbours. They too are known, and people see into their machinations pretty clearly.

Bath is a well-judged place for the King during times of apprehended turbulence, and the waters may do him good, as they do me.... 'Tis a nice place beside, for a man of his open character and manners to attach individuals, and delight common folks with his familiar way. I am glad he will see Captain Dimond play Lothario at three score years old, to our lovely friend's inimitable Callista....

We have got a dear Member of Parl^t now close by us in Denbigh Town; so Heaven have mercy on the correspondents of your

H. L. P.

[19] "'Conscience,' says I, 'you counsel well.'"—Mer. of Ven., II. ii. 21.

The loss of two ships here mentioned seems to relate to the vessels which grounded at the commencement of Nelson's engagement at Copenhagen. On his return home he was set to watch the French armament collecting for the invasion of England, under the protection of the fortified camps at Boulogne, Brest, &c. There was no opportunity for any decisive action, but Camaret Bay, near Brest, was the scene of one of the numerous cutting-out engagements in which the British commanders distinguished themselves at this period.

The "gallant, gay Lothario" was a character in Rowe's Fair Penitent, his victim, Callista, being one of Mrs. Siddons's favourite impersonations.

Mrs. Piozzi does not seem to have made much use of her "dear Member," for this is the only letter this year which he can have franked.

Brynbella, August 1801.

Be in better spirits, dear Friend, or at least in the best spirits that you can: things will draw cross sometimes, we know they will:

We know that all must fortune try,

And bear our evils, wet or dry.

My master's misfortunes are few, but dry ones; he has now a chalk-stone on his ear, but Siddons's mouth is a more important ailment by half....

What is the meaning of Hannah More's marriage being thus gravely announced in every newspaper, and resounding here in N. Wales from every mouth, while you say not one word upon the subject?... Give me an answer to the thousand enquiries buzzing round me, and give it quickly that the talk may end....

Our little boy is blithe as a bird, almost as wild; a model of gayety and good-humour.

With smiling cheeks, and roving eyes,

Causeless mirth, and vain surprise,

as Hawkesworth describes childhood, such is he: may he get safely thro' the next stage!

I have not yet seen Harriet's tale, and without your information should never have heard about Belinda. These soft'ning books greatly encrease the dissolution of manners, tho' each, unexceptionable in itself, cannot be complained of. The youth of our present day however read nothing else, and how they should escape such melting relaxers, added to their own feelings in the warm season of life, I guess not. Literary arrogance and early ambition are the only antidotes which this world will supply.

Education is a mere word now for a theme or subject on which to display the eloquence of teachers, and the teachers themselves—Miss More perhaps excepted,—are drawing boys and girls into Love's labyrinth with one hand, while they are pointing to distant Wisdom and Virtue with the other.

The Curate and Barber who burned Don Quixote's Library of large romances[20] would have been frighted to see them thus epitomized into the power of a school boy to purchase, as India's fragrance is happily compress'd into a Guinea phial of Odour of Roses.

Our Novel-writers have a right to hate me, who set my face so against fiction, and who have endeavoured (tho' fruitlessly) to make truth palatable. But when they boast that my book is liked only by the old Heads of Houses at Oxford and Cambridge, and chained up in the Bodleian or All Souls, 'tis such a vaunt as the French make when they chain their ships ashore.

It is in the meantime very surprising that Nelson should try again after seeing that he attempts impossibilities. I think he has play'd double or quits too often, and tempts good fortune too far. Egypt is our own at last, and will bring its plagues with it. For how should we garrison such distant possessions, which the French may disturb whenever they are disposed to rid themselves of a troublesome General and 40,000 open mouths? I wish the East Indians, for whose sake we drove these fellows out, would be pleased to keep them away now they are gone.

So my Lord de Blaquiere is run away to make drawings beyond Snowdonia, and the Bishop is in Anglesey, and no Frank, for love or money, can I get.... I hear Mrs. Mostyn has a son Arthur. He will, I hope, fill his round table with Knights, and revive the spirit of Chivalry. M[ark] L[ane] is the great Dragon which devours us all, and 'tis said there is a train laid to rid the Kingdom of a combination so strong, that relying upon its force, a Gentleman offer'd yesterday to bet a wager that Corn would be as high priz'd next November as it was last January. But this is croaking worse than Mrs. Pennington, and I believe that the Gentleman will lose....

[20] Don Quixote, Bk. I. chap. vi.

HANNAH MORE

By Scriven after Slater, 1813.

From the Collection of A. M. Broadley, Esq.

This month Nelson had made an attempt to cut out the French flotilla at Boulogne by a boat attack, which failed owing to the fact that the French had chained their vessels together, and were able to defend them by a heavy musketry fire from the shore.

Lt.-Col. John de Blaquiere, son of an Emigré, who had been M.P. for several English and Irish constituencies, and Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, was created a Baronet in 1784, and advanced to the Peerage in 1800.

Brynbella [6] Sep. 1801.

(Franked "de Blaquiere")

... Our Barometer begins rising while I write, and the plantations drink their fill from the Horn of future Plenty. Ploughing and preparing ground for next year's crop will now be all done by Michaelmass, and the dwellers in Mark Lane may pray for their own safety: it will be in more danger than our purses and stomachs. God Almighty will send victuals, and the—— may take care of the Cooks.

I know not how you gather'd from my letter that I believed in Hannah More's change of condition, tho' my neighbours did. Yet never having heard that Dr. Crossman was a married or a single man, and seeing no jokes accompany the intelligence, which came in the regular list of weddings for the week, I own myself stagger'd, and now the Papers are filling with epigrammatic nonsense which will confirm people in their credence, if no contradiction is given.

With regard to our dear charming friend, her tormentors must be private ones. The Public would not suffer their truly deserving favourite to be insulted; and she should run to, not from the Theatre, for protection. I guess not what character it was in which, you say, she will appear no more. Tell me, and tell me what she thinks of the enclosed. Oh! how you and I must for ever hold abhorred of our whole souls, the human creature who can thus delight in torturing a heart like hers! Have I ever seen him, think you? Has he made advances to her, and been refused? Or does he protect a rival Actress rising into fame? Or what inspires such horrible malignity? I pretend not to trace, as Fanny Burney and as Harriet Lee can do, vile passions to their source, but such characters prove the Play of Hatred and feelings of de Montfort not out of nature....

My packet of macaroni came down without the book in it, so I still remain ignorant of all but what you tell me.... Well! I shall read it some time, and will learn (even without its assistance) to give my esteem where confidence would be ill bestowed. I wish all the Lees very well, notwithstanding what has passed in my own mind concerning their conduct towards me. We must take people as they are, and such people are, at any rate, extremely difficult to meet with.

Our little Boy left us yesterday, and for Mr. Davies's credit and his own, left us chearfully. A sweeter temper'd creature lives not, nor one better disposed to smooth down life's asperities before him, either by well applied strength, or by a power happier still, of rolling over them, and suffering little hurt.

Miss Thrale has written to me very civilly from Lowestoffe. We have the whole island between us; for Mr. Piozzi promises me a dip in our Irish Channel next week, and we go on Thursday next to a Bathing Place called Prestatyn, about 14 miles off. Now do not exclaim "What! are you 14 miles from the sea?" because we are scarcely 4 miles; but from any conveniences we are at least fourteen. The invasion seems to keep nobody inland, and by the King's giving up Bath entirely I gather the Ministers no longer feel apprehensions. If French chicanery cannot raise a famine or a sedition among us, and if "even-handed Justice does indeed return the ingredients of that poyson'd chalice to themselves," and set on foot a mutiny among their own soldiers,—peace must follow. I told you it was coming, and plenty too; and what I told you then my heart adheres to still....

Dr. Crossman, to whom the newspapers had married Hannah More, was rector of Blagdon, the parish in which her controversy with Bere, the curate, arose.

Brynbella, Fryday Oct. 9, 1801.

Well! my dear, tardy Friend! your letter is come at last, and a nice letter it is. I have one too this post from Mr. Whalley, so kind! He has had enough to do with his Lady Writers, but he loves both Hannah More and myself, and the least we can do in return is to be merry, love our friends, forgive our enemies, forget offenders and offences, and light up our windows for the Peace. The terms are certainly in no sense disgraceful, and since we have all been saying so repeatedly, "Let us heal our own wounds, limit our own expences, and care no longer for Allies who, 'tis sure, care not for us;" I pronounce our Ministers fully justified to this Country for quitting their post, and leaving every other Country to the fate they would none of them resist. While France, having enlarged her own territory beyond the proudest hope of their own proudest Monarch, has prudently bought us off from fighting Europe's battles, with two eminently rich, useful, and valuable Islands: well knowing that an Englishman will always be quiet while his palate is pleased and his pockets full.

The Gold, and Silver, and Rubies, and Rice from Ceylon, sweeten'd by Sugar from Trinidad, will keep Great Britain in perfect good humour, and the Commercial Treaty will keep her employ'd; and in the meantime Alexander and Buonaparte mean to divide the Globe. Such is apparently their project for 1801; how and by what means God Almighty will render it abortive remains to be seen. The internal politics of our United Kingdoms here at home offer a fair shew certainly, for if people are not pleas'd with seeing their ports fill'd with foreign corn, and their stack-yards groaning under the weight of our own harvests, what will please them? Not the price of Mutton in the markets I trow; for between the inclosing commons, and improving the breed of sheep in Counties where such large animals cannot find pasture, with many other reasons, their flesh will sell for 6d. an ounce next year, and we shall have more mouths to feed after the War is over, unless the mortality at Liverpool goes on. Ah! dear Friend! I told you how it would be, and true did I tell you, but no matter,

For other thoughts mild Heav'n a time ordains,

And disapproves that care, tho' wise in show,

That with superfluous burden loads the day;

And when God sends a chearful hour, refrains.

Let us light up our windows and be merry....

Little did I dream seven years ago of seeing peace proclaimed between Great Britain and the Consular State of France. Little could I ever have dreamed that I should see Venice annihilated, Genoa forgotten, Piedmont's Alpine barrier insufficient to keep out invasion, even in the depth of winter; and old Rome, divided against herself, dropping into her enemy's mouth almost without invitation. The world, as it appears, consenting to all this, and even happy to think things have gone no worse. We shall see more yet, but shall not see all. All! no, nor half....

I wrote Harriet Lee word how much her tale impress'd me. 'Tis a characteristic of this age, I think, to shew what forcible impression may be made by setting only our mean passions to work, avarice, fraud, and fear; instead of generosity, love, and valour. What she has done, however, is very striking; and every one I lend the book to is amazed to find Conrade the murderer of Stralenheim....

The long-expected Peace, which gave us Trinidad and Ceylon, was not finally arranged till March, but preliminaries were signed October 1.

Brynbella, 30 Nov. 1801.

No, thank you, my dear anxious Friend; we are pretty well, and pretty happy, as health and happiness in this world go. I have had more than my share of both, blessed be God. My master has an addition to his torments, St. Anthony's fire, in and out, but much less afflicting than troublesome. It keeps him from going to neighbours' houses, and without that, there is no hope of Autumnal society at Brynbella: it will keep him from going to yours, and then he must learn to swear of dear Mr. Pennington. Lord de Blaquiere, who used to free my covers, is gone to London, and my prudence (for the first time in my life) overbalanced my tenderness, and so I made you uneasy: and so I'm glad you were uneasy, and there's an end.

We have written about the house to Mrs. Garrart and to Harriet Lee both. They say my Lord Kenmare is in now, and will be out on the 12th Jan. That time will do nicely, and the poor folks round here are glad he does not quit sooner, tho' Mr. Piozzi has given a dozen of them good warm winter jackets, and a petticoat each to the wife: and barley, which last year was at 32s., they may have now at 18s., and good wheat at a guinea. So I shall leave them with less regret this year than last for all those reasons; and we employ a vast many hands in planting....

Something is the matter at Belvidere House, I do think. Harriet says she has the Black Dog upon her back, and writes as if wishing to be courted out of the secret. Instead of doing which, I wrote her a rhodomontading letter, all mirth and no matter[21] (as Beatrice says) to turn the course of her ideas: for I wish not confidence where real kindness has ceased to reside: and if these novel-writing Ladies fancy that they, and they alone, can read the human mind,—'tis a mistake. Your imagination is bound by the Juggler who rattles and talks while he ties a knot in your pocket-handkerchief, as surely as by the sly Thief that steals it, only the intention is more honorable....

Oh do tell the Doctor that Lord Kirkwall did not marry Miss Ormsby, and that everybody says it was because he felt that he liked Miss Blaquiere better; certain it is the first match went off; and if this second does not come on, I shall wonder.

You were always more sanguine about the benefits of peace than I was, but tranquillity is the best consequence it can have; let's not therefore disturb that by putting monopoly in people's heads, or in their mouths. Such talk leads to nothing but riot. If there is no scarcity there will be no monopoly: the people can monopolise nothing that is not already scarce. A peace which leaves unresisted France mistress of more territory than was ever hoped for by her proudest Monarch in his proudest day; which annihilates before her grasp principalities and powers, and leaves her tributary Republics secur'd to her services by the cheap garrison, Opinion, cannot be viewed without horror by the mere writer of Retrospection. Tho' such were the miseries of war, and such the acquisitions by treaty to Great Britain, that peace has a right, not only to please, but to console, and even delight a true English subject....

[21] Much Ado, II. i. 344.

Brynbella, Tuesday Night, 15 Dec. 1801.

... Well! Time passes away, and so do torments, and poor Mrs. Whalley will have no more in this world. I shall have that of telling you that there will not be any habitable Brynbella this Summer, that is coming. We shall be thrown on the wide world ourselves, and mean to pass the early part of it at Streatham Park, on a visit, the latter end in Caernarvonshire, where my lease of a little estate is out, and then call here for a month or two in our way back to Winter Quarters.... On this hope of real comfort let us live till then, and pass some chearful hours together at dear Bath, where I would I were this moment! Mr. Piozzi playing on the Piano e forte to Mrs. De Luc, you and I listening, and hoarding up chat for the half hour after he and his auditress are abed and asleep....

I cannot yet rid myself of this Bristol quarrel. If the Mores are, and have been always Sectaries, why do they deny it? Where's the harm done? I had rather they were good High Church folks like you, and like myself, but the religion that was good enough for Isaac Watts need not be shrunk from. What are they afraid of?...

Mrs. Hamilton tells me sweet Siddons is alive, but I fancy she is on no stage now. Poor Mrs. Whalley's death will grieve her unaffectedly. I was never intimate enough to feel her loss, but she was no common character, that's certain. Half a dozen Gentlemen who lived much together abroad were so sincerely vex'd when she left presiding at their public table, that they quitted the house; a surprizing testimony to the conversation talents of one so wanting in youth or beauty....

[P.M. Bath.]

My dear Mrs. Pennington's friends will learn to hate poor H. L. P.'s name, and that of her family, I fear, when I have told her how my little John Salusbury and his Preceptor, Mr. Davies, are coming for ten days in the middle of January, to occupy our only apartment, and that, as you know, a bad one. The time is past when he was Piccolino and slept with Allen, and play'd with the men and maids; he is a great boy now, and I would not trust him out of my own sight, except with his Tutor, for all the territory of Venice.

And now let us talk of sweet Siddons, who, next to immediate home concerns, is dear to you and me. Here is her letter back, and truly sorry am I for her. Be perswaded now, and remain convinced that neither fame nor fortune can make happiness....

How people do study to prolong their own existence in this world, and their own enjoyment of this world, through their offspring, may be learned by the strange tale, now revived, of Hugh Capet's being told by an Astrologer that his descendants should reign over France not quite 800 years. "Will it," he said, "add to their time of sitting on this throne if I do not reign at all?" "Oh! yes," replies the man, "your dynasty will then continue 806 years." Hugh Capet was, for that reason, never crowned. And if you will add those 806 years to A.D. 987, when he asked the question, they will make 1793, when his last descendant was deposed and murder'd. This story now comes in peoples' heads because of the surprising Labrador stone dug up in Russia, and containing Louis XVI's profile delineated upon it by the hand of nature. Miss Thrale has seen it, and there is a facsimile handed about this town; yet many think it an imposition, and those who think otherwise are ashamed to say they think so. I wish to look at it in your company, which always adds to every intellectual gratification bestow'd on yours truly,

H. L. P.

Accept our Christmas Wishes, and hope of a happy New Year.

Sat. 22 May 1802,

George St., Manchester Square, London, No. 5.

My dear Mrs. Pennington will begin to expect accounts, and I think the first thing to give account of is our house; wherein was no bed, no fire, and no spit, upon our first arrival. Here, therefore, none save a negative inventory of felicities can be given; but we hire, and we croud, and we dine out, and we endure the inconveniences with the more philosophy as neither house, nor lodgings, nor room even in a Hôtel can be got nearer to Christian dwellings than Cecil Street in y^e Strand, where Governor Bruce has housed himself. So much for residence.

The cards of visitors and inviters, however, cover our little table, and we have already pass'd three pleasant evenings enough! The first at dear Siddons's, where Lady Percival, Mrs. Barrington, Mrs. FitzHugh, and Mr. Whalley all met us; and we talked of you, and everyone talked as you would have wished to hear; but Mrs. Siddons disclaims letter writing, and says her friends must be contented without being her correspondents. Among them they perswaded us to push for places at the Theatre next night, where Hermione's statue was exhibited for the last time. I never did see anything so admirable, or so much like a statue of our lovely Actress, for it really did seem stone; and the whole was got up with such taste and splendour that I wished for Garrick to witness the magnificence of modern Drury Lane. He would have wonder'd tho' what was become of his old Florizel and Perdita—Barry and Mrs. Cibber. Kemble played Leontes better than I ever saw him do anything since the Regent. Apropos to which, here is the Author; looking as well as ever, handsome, gay, and brilliant. Mrs. Greatheed alters, and becomes very fat. Their habitation is said to be fixed at Guy's Cliffe, though they are hastening to Paris as I understand, where Helen Maria Williams and the famous Polish hero Koschiusko attract general notice. Buonaparte is consider'd as tott'ring on an unfix'd seat of pow'r; if he can once convert it into a throne it will perhaps stand firmer.

We dined with Miss Thrales yesterday, the party particularly agreeable, and very good talkers in it. We women retired to Coffee as the clock struck nine; the men followed in less than an hour, and when tea was taken away at 11 o'clock, we came home to sleep, and the rest went out to various parties for y^e evening.

Fryday was pass'd at Streatham; little Salusbury seems much improved. I heard his whole class say their lesson, and made observations like those of Mrs. Quickly in the Merry Wives of Windsor. It was in those characters Susanna and Sophia shone, it seems, at the last Masquerade, dress'd exactly alike, for Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page. I wish my rich tenant Mr. Giles would get a wife, that one might with better grace accept his kind invitations to Streatham Park, which never was so fine before....

Charles Edward Bruce, Governor of Prince Edward's Island, was third son of Charles, fifth Earl of Elgin, and brother of the seventh Earl, who collected the Elgin Marbles.

Susanna Maria Cibber, a daughter of Mr. Arne, first made her mark as a singer, Handel's contralto solos in the Messiah and Samson being written for her. She obtained even greater reputation as an actress, and played with Spranger Barry at Drury Lane in 1748, and at Covent Garden in 1750.

Tadeusz Kosciusko, after having been educated in France, had a chequered military career in America, where he fought for the Colonists, and at home. After the second partition of his country he formed a Provisional Government, but was soon after captured by his enemies. On his release he visited England and America, but finally settled in France, where, about this time, he was forming an estate near Fontainebleau.

No. 5 George St., Manchester Square.

Wensday, 2 Jun. 1802.

My dear Mrs. Pennington's beautiful letter is the picture of her mind, a mind which only this vast Town can fill: and she starves at pretty Bristol, as I call it, like a large fish put in a small pond, pining for more space, and more of something to occupy that space. My taste is different. I really feel more confounded than amused at every public place, more stunned than informed by every conversation, and more generally perplex'd than pleased with the multitude of faces, voices, and caprices that surround me. Banti and Billington sang three nights ago at Viganoni's Benefit,—we heard them,—not a duet, two separate songs of the same class, Italian Airs, and both of them Bravura. When they had done,—"I am a Bantist," says one Critic. "Ah! long live Billington!" exclaims another, "Her's is the only straight road to fortune and to fame." All appeared quite distracted with the delight they had enjoyed, yet none seemed satisfied; for scarce a female in the room except myself went home to bed at midnight. But some at Ranelagh, some at my Lady Pomfret's, disposed of the hours once consecrate to sleep: while many filled the back rooms of Fancy Dress Makers, who this year keep houses open all night for various purposes. The ostensible one, (and that rational enough too,) is that the women may chuse Habits unobserved by each other for these innumerable Masquerades, where two or three different characters are supported every evening by Ladies of y^e Haut Ton; increasing expence, and facilitating intrigue in a manner hitherto unexampled. One consequence of all this is our paying half a guinea for chickens,—the couple I mean,—and 9d. o' pound for what I should have termed soup-meat at Bath Market.

Another happier consequence to Country Rustics like us will be reconcilement to quieter scenes and far more tranquil pleasures. I grow very much to resemble the ill-bred fellow you and I used to laugh about, who, when Lord Mount Edgecumbe showed him the glories of our grandest sea view, from our most cultivated spot of earth in Devonshire, commanding the exits and entrances of fleets, armies, commerce, etc. from Plymouth Sound and Dock, declared that he had been exceeding happy at The Leasowes, for that he liked inland prospects, (for his part,) and river fish. In no unsimilar ill-humour do I vaunt the comforts of Bath society and a Sedan Chair, when the pole of some gay carriage runs into our pannel, or when, to avoid that, I take a run in the rain, and wet my feet upon their wide trottoirs.

Apropos to Bath conquests made, it appears I have retained but one. Gen^l. Smith is faithless, and has so completely forgotten us he never has left a card. Mr. Simmons is a fav'rite among the Great, and we humble Lodgers are not likely to be remember'd while suites of splendid apartments in every grand street and square are open to talents—of whatever kind. Edmund Charlton alone is true. I have a letter from him signed my very dutyful and affectionate friend, and saying he is less unhappy now than when he wrote his Mama word he was miserable.... Our own Titmouse bids fair to possess abilities for bustle, and by y^e time he comes into y^e world, it will be a mad world enough.

Well! I can yet make new conquests. Lord Stanhope professes himself my admirer, and the admirer of my books. Lady Corke call'd him and about 300 people more round her last night, on the spur of a moment, because Mr. Piozzi, who had met her in Cumberland Street, had promised to sing at a very private party for her Ladyship's amusement: and there was H. L. P. caressed by all the Liberty-Lovers: sweet Lady Derby more lovely than them all, and protesting that my husband never looked younger nor sung better. There was a Mr. Moore, a new favourite with the public, who makes his own music and poetry, and pleases people very much,—a sort of English Improvisatore,—and there were the Abrahams, and there was everybody: and all our talk was the terrors and riots of a Mask'd Ball held the night before at Cumberland House, now the Union Club. Many women were hurt, and many frighted. My Susan Thrale came off with a black eye, but her fingers were well, and she played on y^e harp at Lady Cork and Orrery's. Sophia went for a Comic Muse, but said the end was very nearly tragical; those who fainted from fear were trode upon. Lady Derby stood still and cried, and succeeded better in obtaining compassion. The men's brutality, Mr. Andrews protests, was quite unexampled in a civilised country: but Mrs. Greatheed, a jocund young Shepherdess, went thro' the whole unhurt, under the protection of such a husband and such a son as are rarely seen, and both striving which shall most pet and most adore her. They are now all of them repairing their charms for Mrs. Drummond Smith's Assembly, and Beedle's grand Ranelagh Fête to be held next Fryday. So much for flash intelligence....

Political matters do not run quite so even. Buonaparte tho' is likely as we hear to be made all he wishes; and if he lives to coin the money, Apollion Buonaparte Dei Gratia Imperator Gallorum, it will be very curious indeed....

Elizabeth Billington, considered to be the finest singer England ever produced, was engaged both at Drury Lane and Covent Garden. This year she sang in Italian opera at the King's Theatre for Banti's farewell.

Lord Stanhope must have been Charles, third Earl Stanhope, the scientist, who married Lady Hester Pitt.

The English Improvisatore was, of course, Thomas Moore, who had lately come into notice by his translations of Anacreon. The British Critic described him as "a young man of elegant and lively, though not sufficiently regulated imagination"; and predicted that if he applied himself to "more important subjects, and of a more moral tendency, few poets of the present day will equal, and perhaps scarcely any excel him."

After the Peace of Amiens the Senate proposed to appoint Bonaparte First Consul for ten years. He artfully referred the question to the people, but in the form of a consulship for life, which was adopted 9th May.

No. 5 George St., Manchester Square.

Sat. 19 June 1802.

... Cecy Mostyn indeed is no steady intelligencer; she says but little, and that little speaks good of but few. I could not dig from her one word, good or bad, concerning you, tho' Mr. Piozzi and I both mentioned Mrs. Pennington's name on various occasions, while we were all enjoying Mr. Giles's kind hospitalities together at old Streatham Park.

We are returned now like Stella, to Small Beer, a Herring, and the Dean. Apropos to Deans, we have lost our Bishop at S. Asaph, and the learned Dr. Horsley is expected to reign in his stead. But you had rather hear about Mara and Billington. We were at the grand Concert and Benefit when they sung a Duet with immoderate applause, tolerably impartial too, because Mara shone there with her low notes. Agitata however went off very coldly, under visible tremors of jealous anxiety. I could have cried almost to see 60 struggling so against six and thirty, with so little hope of success in a professional contest; whilst in all those where merit is not look'd to, the Filly loses every heat. Our gay Prince of Wales, gayer than ever, shines the charm of society, his charmer by his side. When his fair cousin does appear in public, she retires thence unnoticed except for her beauty and dress, which is always singularly rich and grand. Pretty women are common, as far [as] I observe, who think so very little about them, but I see none strikingly handsome.

Sophia Streatfield is much alter'd in person, but her manner, little changed, secures to her, even yet, some pow'rs of fascination. At her request, we visit; odd enough! But as Callista says, "It is no matter; she can no more betray, nor I be ruin'd...."

Well! I am really haunted by black shadows. Men of colour in the rank of gentlemen; a black Lady, cover'd with finery, in the Pit at the Opera, and tawny children playing in the Squares,—the gardens of the Squares I mean,—with their Nurses, afford ample proofs of Hannah More and Mr. Wilberforce's success towards breaking down the wall of separation. Oh! how it falls on every side! and spreads its tumbling ruins on the world! leaving all ranks, all customs, all colours, all religions jumbled together, till like the old craters of an exhausted volcano, Time closes and covers with fallacious green each ancient breach of distinction; preparing us for the moment when we shall be made one fold under one Shepherd, fulfilling the voice of prophecy.

One of the things most worthy of remark here is the surprizing increase in population. You would be astonish'd to see the Town as much fuller (in all appearance,) as 'tis larger. On an evening when common people come forth for amusement, all these new streets leading up almost to Hampstead, are thronged like Cheapside upon a busy day: and when I enquire if Westminster and Southwark suffer from the change of fashion, as I deemed it, the reply is that rents never were so high in both places, and that fresh outlets are daily forming, and ground contended for on building lease....

Mr Piozzi says the Music Carts are a proof of all I say. They are so numerous now it makes one wonder. Yet he dislikes the style in which that art is carried on; and though Vinci is a pleasing singer, she is no favourite for want of striking airs to shew her voice. Mr. Braham sang "Every Valley" so as to remind me of old Johnny Beard—the manner I mean—quite exactly, and you will trust my remembrance of a performer I liked so much....

On the death of Bishop Bagot, as Mrs. Piozzi anticipated, Samuel Horsley, who had previously been Bishop of St. David's, was translated from Rochester to St. Asaph.

As Mara was born in 1749 she was not really much over fifty. She is said to have made over £1000 by her farewell benefit this year, after which she retired to Russia, and lived at Moscow till it was burnt during the French invasion.

Sophia Streatfield was one of those women who are not only irresistibly attractive to the other sex when they choose to exercise their powers, but seem impelled to exercise them on every man with whom they are brought in contact. Thrale had fallen a victim to her fascinations, and the undisguised admiration he showed for her had caused his wife much heart-burning many years before, as she describes in her Autobiography.

John Braham, the tenor, son of a German Jew, had been singing at Drury Lane and the Festivals of the Three Choirs for about six years. His predecessor, John Beard, born about ninety years before, began as a singer in the chapel of the Duke of Chandos at Cannons. He made his reputation in Acis and Galatea, and appeared at Drury Lane in 1737. His first wife was Lady Henrietta Herbert, daughter of James, Earl Waldegrave, and widow of William, Marquess of Powis.

London, 16 July 1802.

You will wonder, dear Friend, what has delayed us here so long. I will tell you now that we are delayed no longer. In the first place our letters from Wales tell us hourly of the impropriety—impossibility I might call it—of being comfortable at Brynbella. In the next place we are paying only 4 guineas o' week here for a whole house, such as it is, so I see not where we could be cheaper, and many Friends that leave this Town very late, have made it agreeable to us by letting us live in our house very few days in every week. Mr. Piozzi says we have dined from home no fewer than 30 times....

England seems quite on fire with these odious and foolish elections. The scenes exhibited in my young days by Johnny Wilkes could alone equal the raging uproars at Brentford during this last week. Mr. Bradford dare not go through the place to Henley on his necessary business, and the Sans-Culotte Candidate at Covent Garden keeps Westminster all in a ferment. An intelligent acquaintance newly returned from France describes that Country very differently. The people's spirit is totally broken down, he says, and any government is welcome to them that will leave quiet individuals in peaceable possession of their lives. Not a Country Gentleman's seat is left standing, he tells me, between Calais and Paris, nor any place of worship, except what is filled with shops, raree-shows, etc. Buonaparte's declaration, that he will absolutely hear a Military Mass four times per annum, has made them clear out one church in the Capital: but force will be found necessary to oblige his subjects to marry, as they have learn'd to live without conjugal shackles, till the gross licentiousness of French behaviour is deemed positively dangerous to population. Our Streatham neighbour, a wealthy and well accomplished friend of Mr. Giles, hasten'd to bring back again his wife and daughter: tho' when they were come home he protested that no modest woman was left.

What else shall I tell to amuse you? Our talk is only how unfavourable the weather is for Vauxhall: I got more rational converse at our own good Tenant's table last Sunday than I have heard now for some time.... Something is however always going forward at London, and Mons^r Garnerin's Balloon called all its inhabitants into the fields here one day, when such an exhibition of umbrellas darken'd the air as I could not have conceived without seeing. Our country servants' amazement at the numbers flocking round contributed exceedingly to my diversion. Little Betty was half out of her wits with wonder, and even Tom takes interest in the appearance of five or six hundred soldiers on a field-day in Hyde Park. They are going back to Brynbella immediately.... Mr. Piozzi has bought a nice cart here, and a horse which draws them down in it, whilst we proceed to Tenby through Oxford and Cheltenham....

The Brentford election riots were the result of the candidature of Sir F. Burdett, who had attacked the New House of Correction in Coldbath Fields as the "English Bastille," giving rise to the following squib:

"Ho! Ho!" cries the Devil, "come, bring me my boots!

Here's a kettle of fish that my appetite suits,

To Brentford an airing I'll take;—'tis past bearing

That my friends should be fettered by Justice Mainwaring.

But young B——tt I like; and will form a connection

To abolish jail, gibbet, and House of Correction."

André Jacques Garnerin made the first successful descent by a parachute. He demonstrated his invention in Paris in 1797, and this year came to London, where he ascended from North Audley Street, and descended from a height of about 8000 feet, near St. Pancras.

Tenby, S.W., Tuesday, 3 Aug. 1802.

What can be the matter, dear Mrs. Pennington? When you do not write something must be the matter I am afraid. We were so near you at Cheltenham; I expected letters there from all the living world, but nobody's pen stir'd, and after having drank water for a whole week, without any of the usual effects from it, we drove on through South Wales to the Sea, which always looks homeish to a subject of Great Britain. The beauties of Brecknockshire never seem to have been praised half enough.... Our little salt water cup here is the prettiest thing possible, a caricatura in miniature of the Bay of Naples, and I hope Lord Nelson will be struck with the resemblance if he comes hither with the Hamiltons next Thursday, as we expect. Four thousand people collected in a trice to give him welcome at Caermarthen, and sung the Conquering Hero as he past. It was the greater proof of their gratitude because a temporary frenzy had seized all the inhabitants, who were battling an Election contest with fury unexampled, till he arrived, who united Reds and Blues in a momentary procession, accompanying and applauding the warrior who, by his prowess, had purchased them leisure to display their folly. The disgraceful scenes exhibited at Brentford and Nottingham are however of a far different complexion....

I dined among profess'd Democrates just before we left London, but it seemed to me as if their fondness for Paris was rather diminished than increased by their last visit to that Metropolis, where they described Buonaparte as living in a Camp rather than a Court, and with a careful brow receiving, not enjoying, the homage paid him. By their talk I gather'd that Helen Williams lives in the same Hotel with Stone; but that no scandal or idea of connection subsists for that reason; that Koschieffsky, the Polish chieftain, is her hero,—much as Miss Lee venerates General Paoli;—and that her house (Helen's) is the resort of a Literary Coterie, all malcontents, who tell those that get into their circle what a short duration the present order of things will be granted, and what happy days await France when the next change takes place. Was not Lord Lyttleton right enough when, walking round Ranelagh, he observed that pleasure was always in the next Box?

Miss Hamilton is said to be writing somewhat very entertaining in a cottage near some of the Lakes. Miss Edgeworth makes everybody laugh but me, with her Essay on Irish Bulls. Hannah More is suffering from her Pamphlet Fever still. And they tell me Helen Williams thinks of nothing with real delight except London Society, and an unsullied reputation for female honour. Her mother, yet alive, curses the atheistical notions that surround her, teaches Cecilia's Babies Dr. Watts's Hymns and our Church Catechism, prays for King George the Third morning, noon, and night, and centres all her wishes in that one of seeing old England (forsooth,) once again. Why upon earth did they leave it?...

Pasquale de Paoli had been elected Generalissimo of Corsica in 1755, and held the post till the Genoese sold the island to France in 1768, when he escaped to England, and was granted a pension. He accepted the Governorship at the Revolution, but being disgusted at the proceedings of the Convention, organised a revolt, and was again elected Generalissimo. Finding himself unable to maintain the independence of his country, he agreed to hand it over to England, and when we evacuated the island, retired to London, where he died in 1807. His remains were conveyed to Corsica in 1889.

Miss Hamilton's "something amusing" would appear to be her Letters on Education, published 1801-2. The Essay on Irish Bulls was the joint work of Richard Lovell and Maria Edgeworth. The British Critic deemed it "a kind of peace-offering to the Irish nation for the harmless satire of Castle Rackrent."

Tenby, Friday, August 6, 1802.

This is indeed a dismal end to the long silence of poor dear Mrs. Pennington. Your letter kept us both awake last night, yet I have fixed on no mode of consolation to be offer'd you in the morning. Should it please God that you were to become once more a Single Woman, I hope we should always be able and willing to afford you shelter. In the mean time it is your duty to be careful of your health, your Husband, and your Mother, who, of the three, is really most to be pitied. There is always some brighter part than the rest, of every cloudy sky; and that part gets more luminous as one fixes one's eyes upon it....

Be perswaded to anticipate possible, though distant, good; you will not believe in ills till they are near indeed. My croaking with regard to public matters you rejected, as disturbing your rejoycing in the peace, and the plenty, and the taking away of the Income Tax: but what I said then might now be seen, if we were not blind: it will shortly be felt, for feeling is a sense that will remain long after the others are blunted.

If the Parliament, by finding Sir Francis Burdett's votes illegal, make the Westminster election void, who will stand forward to oppose him? Mainwaring? And if he does, will that be very advantageous, (think you,) towards the peace of the Country and our Sovereign Lord the King? Or will his next opponent, if Mr. Mainwaring be weary, have any better success? And will you give the Democrates a fresh triumph, because this last is not sufficient? If he is outed at a stroke, and Mr. Mainwaring called in, the consequent violence will be great indeed, and the uproar deafening. It was an ill-managed business....

What you have lost, could not, I suppose, have been saved; what Government loses, they do not much struggle to keep. Everything is done in a new way, and we who lived in former times do not much like it. But as Baretti said, when losing at Backgammon, "These are bad dice, but we must play them as they are." ...

Sea bathing is beautifully pleasant in this little place, fertile in fish beside, but seeing no fruit makes one feel as if summer was quite over.... Mr. Piozzi waits here very good humourdly till Brynbella has made her toilette. What a mercy 'tis that Gout has not yet laid hold on him!...

Mrs. Pennington's troubles were of a financial description, and seem to have been brought about, for the second time, by her scape-grace brother.

Brynbella, 30 Aug. 1802.

(Franked "Kirkwall.")

Sick or well, sorry or glad, nobody sure does write such letters as our dear Mrs. Pennington. It is because nobody else writes from the heart, I suppose.... Mr. Pennington was always an honourable character, and since you are to be a dependent wife, be thankful your dependence is upon a Gentleman who, while he deems himself such, will never desert you. Be thankful too, that you have no young family. You cannot now I think, be parent of two children, and live to see the one rob the other and run away. These are sins against Nature! My heart recoils from thought of them. Poor Mrs. Weston!! I, who am a mother, must feel for her!

After long wanderings and washings, like the Lady in Hannah More's Village Politics, with hot water and cold water, salt water and fresh water, here am I returned to Brynbella, and if I thought it would divert you for a moment, I would tell you how sublime and beautiful a journey we had across this Principality from South to North. Fine Alpine scenery between Machynlleth and Bala, varying at every step; and presenting now a rough, high, uncultivated rock, and now clusters of small corn fields round a tiny village, that for aught I see need not be so poor, because the grass and grain are really plentiful. Small lakes among volcanic fragments are perpetually occurring, and our guide showed us one which had literally no bottom. From Bala Pool indeed the River Dee takes its source, and winds about with very elegant bends till it reaches Chester; but Kader Idris is the chief feature of the whole Country, and tho' far smaller than Snowdon, it is much more impressive. Our weather likewise on that day was gloomy;

The winds were high, the clouds low-hung,

And drag'd their sweepy trains along

The shaggy mountain's side.

Apropos to Verses, you must read the British Critic for last April, and what he says of Retrospection: it has entertained me exceedingly, and will amuse Gen^l. Smith and Dr. Randolph. I hope those two friends will join to console you; what talents and literature can do, they are, above all men I know, capable of administering: but it is a grievous thing to think how very little can be done by either talents or literature. Piety and business will effect in a month what the other two could not perform in a year. Fly to those, dear Sophia, and be not solitary or idle for an instant. Your situation is happy in that too it forces you on Company. Nor is it wise at any time to be fastidious; you may receive from very plain people very good hints, and one comes away having learn'd something where 'tis least to be expected, much oftener in this life than you would think for....

MRS. PIOZZI (ABOUT 1808)

By J. Bate after a medallion by Henning, 1808

From the Collection of A. M. Broadley, Esq.

Sir Francis Burdett, a friend of Horne Tooke, had been elected for Middlesex by a large majority over Mainwaring, a magistrate who had opposed the inquiry into prison abuses. He sat for two years, when the election was declared void, but litigation went on, at an enormous expense, till 1806, when Burdett resolved not to contest another election.

The British Critic describes Retrospection as a work "perfectly singular,—a Universal History from the beginning of the Christian Era, translated into chit-chat language, alternating with passages in an elevated style"; and inclines to think that it was originally written in blank verse, but disjointed by the printer or the author, e.g. (p. 76):

"Chased many Vandals from their ancient seats,

And so increased his wild and wide domain,

Soon to be called after his name, their founder,

That all the Northern districts of the Empire

Felt justly fearful of these gathering storms."

"Many, like M. Jourdain, have talked prose half their lives without knowing it, but few have written half a large book in harmonious heroics, when they meant to write mere prose. If we might advise, the ingenious Author should turn the whole into blank verse, and republish it."

Brynbella, Thursday 7 Oct. 1802.

When a Member of Parliament says to me, "Shall I give you a Frank?" "Oh yes!" I always reply, "for Mrs. Pennington." Lord Kirkwall's generosity is the cause of this letter, because in these hard times one likes, you see, to get a little chat gratis. The next thing to be considered is,—what shall I ask? and what shall I tell? That my Master has had a smart fit of gout in his hands, and that I expect him to have one in his feet, may be told with truth. That the Countess of Cork and Orrery drove up to our door while he was confined, may be told with some degree of vexation, because I knew not how on earth to amuse her, but she was good humoured, and gave little trouble, and after a fortnight's visit—went away. What she related of her adventures among the crags of Kader Idris, her admiration of that wild mountain scenery, and the contrast our gay prospect afforded her, will, I suppose, be served up in many a London Assembly next May.

Ladies appear now to travel all Autumn upon a foraging plan of gleaning talk for their Spring parties. They who spend June and July in London can never perswade me that they are really in search of rural pleasures the remaining part of the year in our cold climate, or that rural pleasure is really to be found where deformity is sought. Miss Thrales have been looking for both, as I understand, among the Western Islands, described by every traveller as barren, bleak, and dangerous. Had Mr. Piozzi and I known that they were navigating the stormy Sound of Mull when we heard the wind roar so a fortnight ago, irritated by Equinoctial Gales, we should have been in pain for them, not for the furniture expected from Mayhew and Ince to decorate pretty Brynbella.

All is safe however. Mrs. Bagot used to say it was superfluous to wish anybody a good journey, because, said she, everybody has a good journey. "Ah! dear Friend!" I hear you exclaim, "many have a good journey through life too; yet is it not superfluous to wish their neighbours one likewise; for surely mine has been a very bad one." Come, courage! The next stages will be smoother, for you shall not predict of your own fortune with that unlucky acuteness you show in discerning the future lot of others....

Sweet Siddons ... writes me word from Belfast that she will call here in her hurrying journey back to our Metropolis....

The next letter was written the same day, and was evidently called forth by the announcement of an unexpected visit from Mrs. Pennington; but neither this, nor that of Mrs. Siddons, ever came off.

Brynbella, Thursday 7 Oct. 1802.

My dear Mrs. Pennington will have the sincerest welcome possible, but she will have nothing else. My volunteer letter, franked by Lord Kirkwall, will shew you that we have no curtains, and no blinds up, no anything but, as Buchetti used to say of a Spanish Posada, "Four walls! no more." Those walls will however resound with joy at your arrival, and dear Siddons's. How good and charming she is! I have a letter—three lines long—from her too....

The next is written while on the way to pay their winter visit to Bath.

Gloucester, Sat. night 4 Dec. 1802.

And so I lose Hannah More, and so I lose Mrs. Siddons, and so I lose dear Mrs. Pennington, and so I lose my fav'rite house at Bath.

Still drops some joy from with'ring life away!

But 'tis all for their good, as the children say, and I resign to my fate. Let us hope at least that increase of health and fortune may make them happy. My Master comes better from Brynbella this year than I scarce ever saw him....

You caution'd me, dear Friend, not to tell of your arrangements. Assure yourself I am incapable of any such breach of trust. If one lets the Maid comb one's own secrets out of one's head, (and I have none in,) those confided to me are in a safer place, lodged in my heart. I hope your new projects will answer, and that you will tell me so on New Year's Day, after dinner....

No. 5 Henrietta Street,

Thursday 16 Dec. 1802.

Dear Mrs. Pennington is always right,—the letter was a mere nothing. Such will, I hope, prove the more rationally alarming report of Constantinople's sudden and unlooked for destruction. Be that as it may, our charming Dr. Randolph took occasion to draw thence a most beautiful and impressive sermon last Sunday, when he preached better than ever I heard him, to a heterogeneous congregation, which attracted my notice as much as the discourse did: Mr. Pitt, Dr. Maclean, the Duchess of York, and Bishop of West Meath....

Harriet Bowdler is a sad loss to me, and so are the Mores. Bath is scarce Bath this year somehow: were it not for Laura Chapel and Pump, I should regret leaving solitude and Brynbella; but then Laura and Pump are two good things for soul and body, and what is all the rest?...

The Mores removed this year from Bath to a new house they had built at Barley Wood, in the parish of Wrington, and which became their permanent home. It would seem that a similar move was responsible for the loss of Harriet, (properly Henrietta Maria) Bowdler, sister of the editor of the Family Shakespeare. She herself was a writer of poems and essays, and also of a volume of sermons, published anonymously, which were so good that Bishop Porteous is said to have offered preferment to the unknown author.

Pitt, who was now living in retirement at Walmer Castle, was much harassed by debts, and in October visited Bath for his health. It was for his birthday dinner this year that Canning wrote the song, "The Pilot that weathered the Storm."

The Bishop of Meath, Thos. Lewis O'Beirne, had been educated for the priesthood in the Roman Church, but received English Orders and was made Bishop successively of Ossory and Meath. He appears to have been an excellent prelate, reviving the office of Rural Dean, and carefully examining his Ordination candidates.

Tuesday, 21 Dec. 1802.

Well, well! as Sir George Colebrooke says, if we must not meet we may write, I suppose; and I really will try to rejoice if my absent friends are happy. Dear Siddons's letter was of more real value than you seem to think. All our News Papers and News Talkers have been telling how she was hissed in Dublin, and how ill it had made her.... But all is well, and so that wise man Mr. Twiss, with his clear, straightforward understanding, said it would be; and February will bring her home with all her money safe I hope....

Our weather here is wondrous mild and soft, good for Brynbella planting, and very good for the very poor people, who cannot keep themselves and their one cow alive in hard frost....

The hostile reception of Mrs. Siddons at Dublin was the result of an unfounded report that she had refused to act for a local charity. It appears that she gave her assent when the manager suggested it, but the latter, for some reason, failed to arrange for the performance.

The remaining letters from Bath have no particular interest, but it appears that just before her departure Mrs. Piozzi had rather a sharp attack of illness, apparently influenza.

Thursday, 14 Ap. 1803.

... Dr. Parry and Mr. Bowen both called yesterday to bid me go out at noon this memorable Thursday. So I went, but found no enjoyment, except in returning without any apparent harm, or fresh access of Fever, which they had all so imbued my mind with, that I felt nothing while from home but fears of a relapse. It does not appear however that such an accident has happen'd to me as yet: and perhaps God Almighty will permit us to see Brynbella once again.

Sunday, 17 Apr. 1803.

... We shall set out, if it please God, to morrow sennight, and sleep at Fleece Inn, Rodborough....

My airing in the carriage did me good, and the knocking knees took a walk with me yesterday, up Pulteney Street and down again,—no more. To-day I will go twice up and down, and so season myself by degrees....

Brynbella, 19 Jun. 1803.

Assure yourself, dear Mrs. Pennington, that my thoughts towards you are in no wise changed: and if I always thought you the best letter writer in our King's dominions, (before they were contracted by loss of Hanover,) how much more do I think so since your last arrived, full as it is of pungent and tender reproaches....

There are two Bishops and one Dean dead, you see, and their families left low in the world; yet the Democrates keep on stripping clergymen of every reason for becoming such; and tear away tythes etc. without mercy....

Sweet Siddons is at Cheltenham healing her honourable heart I hope, and washing away its cares. Mr. Whalley is happy, it is a cordial to hear of somebody being happy. You are too nervous—as the phrase is; meaning that your nerves are too irritable to be placidly content; and that is the best state to be in....

The next letter is addressed to Miss Hannah More's house, Barley Wood, but has been re-directed to Hotwells.

Brynbella, 31 July 1803.

Such is the present situation of everybody and everything, that even your lovely description of Nature and her beauties, in some place which you, dear Mrs. Pennington, call Bower Ashton—but of which I never heard in my life before—fail to detain my mind from events in prospect, and near prospect now, of enormous importance indeed.

Poor Jane Holman, cydevant Honourable Miss Hamilton, is running hither for refuge from murder and massacre. She has written to-day to bid us expect her every moment; and though the ground is covered with wavy corn, and the trees are loaded with apples, pears, and all useful fruitage, my heart at this instant feels more bent on their defence than on their admiration.

I defer'd writing till the time that your letter gives me leave to suppose you are under the half sacred roof of a Lady, to whom, if we direct in Europe, it will find the destined way. Present me with truly respectful attention where I wish so sincerely never to be forgotten; and in return I will enclose you some Impromptu verses, which I threw across the table to Mr. Piozzi last Monday. We had no company ... only one friend from Denbigh, and the Parson of the Parish, who translates Miss More's admirable stories into Welsh, for benefit of his poor and ignorant parishioners. But here are the lines to Gabriel Piozzi, 25 Jul. 1803.

Accept, my Love, this honest Lay,

Upon your twentieth Wedding Day.

I little hoped that life would stay

To hail the twentieth Wedding Day.

If you're grown gouty, I grown gray,

Upon our twentieth Wedding Day,

'Tis no great wonder; Friends must say

Why 'twas their twentieth Wedding Day.

Perhaps there's few feel less decay

Upon a twentieth Wedding Day:

And many of those who used to pay

Their court upon our Wedding Day,

Have melted off, and died away

Before the twentieth Wedding Day.

Those places too, which, once so gay,

Bore witness to our Wedding Day,

Florence and Milan, blythe as May,

Marauding French have made their prey.

If then of gratitude one ray

Illuminates our Wedding Day,

Think, midst the wars and wild affray

That rage around this Wedding Day,

What mercy 'tis we are spared to say

"We have seen our twentieth Wedding Day."

If Helen Williams, ever lovely, and once so beloved! is looking towards England now in preference to France, it is a great testimony to our Island's felicity and honour. For such suffrage is not mean, and Helena has had experience of both nations, since she published that little book in which she charged our Londoners with harshness, avarice, and want of feeling, because they suffer'd some Monsieur de Fosseè to wear straw boots. The Londoners' behaviour now does them vast credit in the opinion of all thinking people, and Mr. Bosanquet's speech will doubtless be handed down to posterity as giving [a] great example. Should not you be struck with the sight of a Metropolis you lived so long in, fortified against hostile force? It would to me bear an extremely awful appearance....

Mrs. Mostyn is said to meditate her return to the rustics of N. Wales, who will receive her as if she came to confer on us both benefit and honour. Such is the consequence of that lofty conduct which forces people into their places, as the Ton Ladies call treating their humble servants with distant and scarce lukewarm civility. Well! those who take the other way are worse used in this world, and I suppose will stand no better in the next for directing to Miss White instead of plain Sarah. I cure every day of some prejudice or other....

The short-lived peace had come to an end, the English Ambassador quitting Paris on 12th May, and the old scare of invasion was at once revived. Mrs. Holman was flying from Ireland, always a likely landing-place for a French expedition. After a quarrel with the management of Covent Garden, her husband had, for a time, transferred himself to the Dublin Theatre, and subsequently took up farming.

The verses, at any rate as to their form, are modelled on those written by Dr. Johnson to celebrate her own thirty-fifth birthday, and which will be found in Hayward's Autobiography, i. 31-2.

The reference to Helen Williams was evidently occasioned by Mrs. Pennington having communicated the contents of a letter received from her early in the month, in which Helen justifies her journey to Switzerland in company with Stone, as previously mentioned. After expressing her regret at hearing of the death of Maria Siddons, and offering condolences to the afflicted father and mother, she proceeds:

"Mrs. Piozzi's heart is then changed towards me! I am afflicted to hear it, because I cannot cease to love her. If she could look into my heart she would be very sorry for her error: she would not, I am sure, be willingly unjust to any one. Yet I should have conjectured, I own, that having suffered so much from calumny herself, she would have been slow to believe ill of others!"

Saturday, 5 Nov. 1803.

(Franked "Kirkwall.")

Our correspondence has languished miserably of late, dear Mrs. Pennington, but though your letters may be unacknowledged, they cannot be forgotten....

I have heard ... how much notice you attracted from the Duke of Cumberland, while he was remaining in or near Bristol, and heard it with a great deal of pleasure. Indeed I ever thought it a consolatory circumstance to live where a Royal Family is established, and posessing a large stake in the country one inhabits. They are the most likely people to be active in protecting it; and the present situation of affairs in England, added to the exemplary conduct of our British Princes, makes me cling closer to my old opinions.

We have had the Duke of Gloucester's son in this Country; he spent some time at Llewenny Hall, and Lady Orkney came here herself to insist on my dining with him there. But Mrs. Holman was just come from Ireland, and I would not leave an old friend for a young Prince, you may be sure. His behaviour was much admired wherever he appeared.

The festivities that have since taken place on account of Lord Kirkwall's birthday, and his Baby's christening, had us for sincere admirers. It was a pretty sight to see the four generations of an ancient and noble family all in one room so: the Marquis of Thomond kissing his great grandson, and dancing himself at the Ball.

I hope Buonaparte will not disturb our happiness in this Country, which never looked more beautiful....

We have got a Clergyman to our mind besides, and Mr. Piozzi has permitted me to pick up all my poor old Ancestors' bones, and place them in a new vault under the church, which he kindly repairs, and floors, and beautifies at no small expence. So here is a fair given account of my long silence.

Ernest Augustus, fifth son of George III, afterwards King of Hanover, had been created Duke of Cumberland 1799; he was now in command of the Severn District. The Duke of Gloucester was William Henry, third son of Frederick, Prince of Wales. His son, William Frederick, known as Prince William of Gloucester, Colonel of the 1st Regiment of Guards, was appointed Lieutenant-General in 1799.

The four generations at Llewenny Hall were: (1) Murrough (O'Bryen), Earl of Inchiquin and first Marquis of Thomond, who had married Mary, Countess of Orkney. (2) Their daughter and heir, Mary, now Countess of Orkney, who married the Hon. Thomas Fitzmaurice of Llewenny. (3) Their eldest son John, Viscount Kirkwall, who married, 1802, the Hon. Anna Maria de Blaquiere. (4) Their infant son, born 1803, Thomas John Hamilton, afterwards fifth Earl of Orkney.

Brynbella, 3 December 1803.

When other things go pretty well, let us not, dear Mrs. Pennington, despair of the Commonwealth. If the Ministry cannot or will not take care of us, we must take care of the Ministry: and sure I am that hitherto History affords no example of a nation enslaved, whose inhabitants resolved to be free.

For the rest, I am ready enough to confess that unprecedented occurrences are, in these strange times, to be witness'd every day, and God only knows what may happen; yet I do surely hope and trust old England will never disgrace herself.... This famous Armada however, and its Xerxes, do not seem in haste to try the courage of their only opponents, tho' backed with the assistance of our old Allies, and gilt with the trappings torne from our Sovreign's immediate family and possessions. He will be right to say as Macduff does, "Within my sword's length set him,"[22] etc.... Mrs. Holman staid with us 8 weeks exactly, no more.... Her husband is writing for the Stage....

The Colonel's old Papa seems likely to outlive all he ever heard of in his youth, I think; the monarchy of France, the haughtiness of Spain, the papacy of Rome, the riches of Holland, the independence of Switzerland, and the prosperity of Great Britain. While one general pulse however keeps beating, my hopes will live, and beat too. Buonaparte's fate draws towards a dreadful Crisis, let him but come out, and our Admirals will give good account of him. Miss Thrales are at Broadstairs under Lord Keith's protection, who fears them not; they row out to sea for purpose of looking at the Wolves over the Water, and say it is an enormous preparation sure enough, but our sailors have no doubts of the event, and Mr. Gillon's letters are encouraging. He likes what has been doing in West India very well. Oh! how it must provoke the Tyrant of Europe to think he cannot likewise tyrannise in America.

The seizure of Alexandria too, proves the active secresy of our Government; and I remember Ministers who would have [been] much praised for such a step. Once more adieu, and do not despair of the Commonwealth.

Our plans must wait permission from above. If these Marauders come, home is the proper place to be found in: besides that my Master must see some weeks over before he becomes portable, and in those weeks!!! Oh Heavens! what is there dreadful in this world that may not happen before the 1st January 1804?

God preserve you, dear Mrs. Pennington, and have mercy on the anxious heart of your

H. L. P.

[22] Macbeth, IV. iii. 234.

Though the much-talked-of invasion still hung fire, the French were able to inflict some loss on England by the occupation of Hanover this year. On the other hand, many of the French and Dutch colonies in the West Indies fell into our hands, mainly through the energy of Sir Samuel Hood, who helped to capture St. Lucia and Tobago, with Demerara and other places on the mainland.

Brynbella, Thursday 5 Jan. 1804.

(Franked "Kirkwall.")

Enjoy your Ball, dear Mrs. Pennington, and be assured that all is at least as well with your particular Friendships as with that one great public Family to which we all belong.... Mr. Piozzi has weather'd this fit, and is come down stairs once again.... My own health will do all that is wanted from it, and as to wishing myself at Bath, I do not. Dr. Thackeray gallop'd over from Chester, and what he did afforded more immediate and visible relief than anything I could hope, more than I ever saw done either by London or Bath Physicians. There is besides one comfort in a country Doctor one can never have from a town one. They stay and sleep at your house, and have time to observe the progress of your complaint, and the power of their own medicines over it....

Shew Dr. Grey this letter.... I am all of his mind that England can be no better prepared for defence, or France for attack. 'Tis a grand Tournament, on the decision of which the world waits as composedly as it did 2000 years ago, when the plains of Pharsalia determined the names of their sovreigns. The issue of this contest will settle what Nation the others are to serve.... I do really wish the crisis was come now; for after the Dinner is once ready you know, be it little or much, it gets worse for waiting. Our Volunteers will make themselves work, if Buonaparte finds them none of the right sort. Let him once appear and we know who to turn our swords upon....

No. 11 Holles St., Tuesday, 6 March, 1804.

So many things have occur'd since I received your last letter, dear Mrs. Pennington, that this will of course be a long one. The King's illness and recovery, the continued talk of invasion, the widowhood of your fair friend, cydevant Honoria Gubbins, the correspondence of those French Noblemen so fêtè and so admired in Bath and Bristol, and these present conjectures concerning Sir Sydney Smith, fill every mouth, and render me still more enraged when toothach hinders my list'ning to such interesting circumstances.

Never was there a moment more favourable for rusticated folks like myself to pick up opinions, facts, etc., and fill my little bag. But Lord St. Vincent's ill-timed ill health is among the things I should like to fling out of it.

Dear Mrs. Siddons is in great beauty this year: her Zara was never more passionately admired. The Kembles look happy too, and so do Miss Lees; but when I was introduced to Mr. Cumberland at Lord Deerhurst's dinner yesterday, I did not know him, nor he me. The public will not however fail to recognize him, I suppose; he tries them in a new Play very soon. Poor Holman is—— poor Holman!!! and everybody seems grieved at his double disappointment.

Miss Thrales are well and gay; Mrs. Mostyn plump and pretty,—so are her sturdy little boys.... Oxford will be rendered a fine amusing place for the gay fellows by Mrs. Lee's accusation of the Gordons: it was always a good place for those who liked looking over books, conversing with scholars, etc. We staid two days there on our journey to London, for me to make my respects to the Eleusinian Ceres; but she, alas! was gone to the other House, as the Players say, Lord Elgin, who sent her over, being a Cambridge Man.

The weather has been very odd this year. We enjoyed Spring at Brynbella, where birds were singing, and trees coming out, every day before we came to Town for the Winter. It has snowed and blow'd, and hail'd and rained, ever since, I think; and the Thames looked all in a storm to-day from dear Lady Orkney's beautiful apartments at Chelsea....

The King had a slight return of his malady in January. On his recovery Addington, who had lost his majority, resigned, and Peel succeeded to the Premiership in May.

Sir Sydney Smith had been appointed in 1803 to a small squadron acting under Lord Keith off the coasts of Flanders and Holland. He now seems to have been watching the French preparations for invasion. Lord St. Vincent's suffering was probably more mental than physical. His exposure of the gross corruption prevalent in the Naval Administration had drawn down upon him a storm of abuse and misrepresentation, in which even Pitt joined.

Holles St., Monday Ap. 16, 1804.

Dear Mrs. Pennington's beautiful letters shall lie no longer unacknowledged. Mr. Parsons brought me the first.... Dr. Gray came to see us since that, for the first time, but his appearance spoke happiness, and his conversation unaltered friendship to you and to ourselves. He is a good man, and he liked our little Boy, who was at home just then for Easter Holidays.... As to dear Lady Orkney, she takes her lodgings on a Milestone, I believe, for there is no catching her, Town or Country.... Lady Hesketh will be amused to hear that the people who have seen her cousin Cooper's snuff-box, or the seat his favourite Mary sate in, cry "Touch me, touch me, that you may say you have touched the person who sate in Mrs. Unwin's chair, or handled Cooper's snuff-box." This is all good, is it not? for Mr. Hayley.

Cumberland's Play keeps the stage, in spite of younger wits who wanted people to laugh at the Author instead of the Comedy; but Mrs. Abingdon and I,—veterans like himself,—are glad that he succeeds; for as she expresses it, "He has a graceful mind."

Miss Lees and we have met twice or thrice, but either the Life of a Lover, Sophia's new novel, is not out, or I have not seen it. Holcroft's Paris, and Miss Edgeworth's Popular Tales are the only books found in windows, on toilettes, etc.

No tales of wonder, and such are not hers, can equal the death of Le Duc D'Enghien, or the apprehensions seriously entertained at present for Mr. Drake, British Ambassador in Bavaria, and our good friend, as you remember.... He married Miss Mackworth, and now we expect him to be hanged, as he surely will be, poor Fellow! if Buonaparte catches hold of him. These are novelties at least, though not novels; yet few romances would have ventur'd such an incident....

Mrs. Mostyn is full in feather, and high in song, as the folk say who keep Canary Birds, and her immense Aviary put me in mind of the phrase. She has three very sturdy Boys beside. De Blaquieres, Kirkwalls, all Holles Street I believe, dined with her yesterday, and among the rest my gay Master, and his and your

H. L. P.

Harriet, wife of Sir Thomas Hesketh, was a daughter of Ashley Cowper, the uncle of the poet. The latter died in 1800, and his biography by his friend William Hayley was published 1803.

In 1803 Sophia Lee gave up the school at Belvidere House, and devoted herself to writing. Her first important work, published the following year, took the shape of six volumes of letters, entitled The Life of a Lover.

Thomas Holcroft, shoemaker, actor, and dramatist, had been living for five years on the Continent to escape his creditors. On his return he published in 1804 his Travels from Hamburg through Westphalia, Holland, and the Netherlands, to Paris, in 2 vols. 4to.

It was apparently with the idea of arousing prejudice against England that Bonaparte brought an unfounded charge of plotting his assassination against Mr. Drake and Mr. Spencer Smith, our envoys at Munich and Stuttgard, and procured their expulsion by the courts of Bavaria and Würtemburg.

The treacherous seizure of the Duc d'Enghien in March in the neutral territory of Baden, his condemnation by a court-martial on no specific charges, and hurried execution, was a tragedy which shocked all Europe. It was this inexplicable incident in the career of Bonaparte which gave rise to the well-known mot of Fouche, "It was worse than a crime, it was a blunder."

Brynbella, Sunday Morng, 19 Aug. 1804.

I am the wretchedest Quarreller on earth, dear Mrs. Pennington, and not the most ingenious Reconciler. Like mine Hostess Quickly, I am the worse when one says—quarrel[23]: nor did ever the Country Gentleman in Ben Jonson need London instructions in the art of angry reciprocation more than I do. Let us leave a subject I really understand so little, and lament that the universal Quarreller, Death, has been so busy among our common acquaintance since we parted.

How senseless, not to say offensive, must yours and my Master's mutual complaints appear in the eyes of poor Mrs. Dimond just now! Such a son!—the parents' just pride and joy—so snatched! And that unhappy Mrs. Adams who, you may remember, said she had heard the bell ring for her own execution; she has lost the daughter she alone desired to live for. Few people find the way of being happy, and those who throw little Hedgehogs in one another's paths, like the rioters, to make them stumble and roll about, have none of my approbation....

You will not be talked to (you say), of the Cat, and the Dog, and the times, and the weather; tho' really the first of these subjects is not amiss for you quarrelling disciples, and I will not, like Grumio, talk to you of how bad my poor Master was when your letter came to him, and in what a shocking situation his fingers have been placed by the last fit of gout, no nor what a loss we have sustained in poor Hodgkins, nor what a successor we picked up for him. But all these wonders, as old Shakespeare says, shall now be buried in oblivion,[24] as shall all my true expressions of admiration at your letters, which still exceed every one the last received. Farewell then, and be merry, and believe me with every possible good wish, your ancient Jigg-Maker,

H. L. P.

[23] "By my troth, I am the worse when one says Swagger."—2 Henry IV, II. iv. 113.

[24] "Things of worthy memory which now shall die in oblivion."—Taming of the Shrew., IV. i. 85.

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