STANZAS TO THE TRAVELLERS
(Marquis Trotti and Mr. Piozzi)
Written at the Rectory, Nuneham, 10 Aug. 1791
1
While you your wandering footsteps bear
To harsher climes and colder air,
Nor once our absence feel;
Here still beneath the shady tree
We sip our solitary Tea,
Or turn the pensive Wheel.
2
Yet oft our thoughts recur to you
As the rich landscape lies in view,
And spreads its beauties wide;
Such beauties once were found, we cry,
In our loved Friends' society,
By us 'ere while enjoyed.
3
In the pure current as we gaze,
Where Isis through the valley strays,
Far from her silvery source;
From Pride and Prejudice as clear,
We read our noble Traveller,
Refining in his course.
4
Like him she haunts the rural shade,
Nor loves the clam'rous, proud Cascade,
Loudest in stormy weather:
Nor scorns to mix her ancient Name
With honest, artless, British Thame,
And seek the Seas together.
5
But if around we turn our eyes
Where Learning's lofty turrets rise,
Dropping their classick Manna;
How swift does fancy back reflect
The hours devoted to collect
Our fav'rite Buchettiana!
6
When Cynthia swells with silver light,
Lending new lustre to the night,
If Philomel we hear,
Pouring her wood-notes o'er the plain,
How does our Piozzi's sweeter strain
Still vibrate in our ear.
7
Too empty then your projects prove,
To run from Friendship and from Love,
And call it Separation;
Reason admits of many a cheat,
But never yet was found deceit
Cou'd trick the Imagination.
With regard to her own compositions she writes in her Commonplace Book: "Grave verses have seldom, I think, dropt from my pen. Poor dear Jane Hamilton, afterwards Holman, used to say she was at a loss to decide whether the ground work of my character was seriousness embellished with gaiety; or a blythe, pleasant temper, shaded with very serious, and not seldom melancholy, reflexions."
The next letter, though undated, was evidently written before that dated 18th August, and within a few days of receiving Harriet Lee's verses.
I know not, my dear Girl, whether the great Dictionary is a good incentive to Love or no, but if agreable letters produce it the Gypsie prophecy towards you will not surely be long in completing. I never read any Book so interesting or entertaining, therefore recommend no Novels, but write again, and that directly....
Dear, lovely, sweet Siddons is better; and at last tolerably reconciled to parting with me for the relief of those whose anguish is of the soul, while hers, I thank God, is confined wholly to the beautiful clay that fits it so neatly with its truly well suited inclosure....
And now my beloved friends do not think me wanting in my duty about our Lorenzini; I never was remiss in bringing the subject forward, never lost sight on't but from thinking it prudent so to do; as Adriana says,
"It was a Copy of our Conference,
Alone it was the subject of our Theme,
In company I often glanc'd at it,
Still did I place it in his constant view."[4]
[4] Comedy of Errors, V. i, 62.
The verses I dispatched after them to Denbigh, which they cannot yet have reached, a proof I never shrunk one instant from the cause, and as this moment has brought me a cold, stiff letter from him, dated Shrewsbury,—this moment shall carry one back from me to tell him I think it such. Meantime you know I never said that it was likely he should marry in this manner unless from irresistible impulse; the obstacles I know to be all but, if not wholly insurmountable. Only my notion of his Love is stronger than yours can be, who have seen so little of him; and proportionable power will vanquish proportionable, or rather disproportionable resistance. If Gunpowder enough is put under Mont Blanc—it must give way. Such was my reasoning always, and I still think it just. The last evening he spent here, crying over Piozzi's Song, and applying every word on't, as I could see, mentally to his own situation; looking all the while like very Death, and never sleeping in the night, but employing himself in penning his Journal forsooth, which consisted only of tender sallies at the sight of the Bath Road; at thoughts of leaving Streatham; &c., till his very heart was breaking with passion, apparently increased instead of diminished by absence. Vindicate my hopes and even belief that he will relieve his anguish, when become totally insupportable, by a union which every natural friend he has in the world will certainly disapprove. As to the letters which he brought down to the Library in his hand the morning we left Streatham, they were letters he had himself written, not received: I suppose to say that he was resolved on remaining another year in England. They had, as he confes't, cost him even tortures to write them. O my sweet Sophy! I know most fatally from experience every pang that poor young man is feeling; yet I was an Englishwoman! of a country where no such aristocratic notions are acknowledged as taint his hotter soil; and yet three years did I languish in agony, absence, and lingering expectation. "If fortune," said he to me one day, (dancing to the tune in his own head, for I had not mentioned fortune,) "If fortune were the only obstacle, I hate it, I despise it; I have been offered fortunes enough, the first in Lombardy I may say; but I abhor them all." "One may see," was the reply, "you have no such mean notions." "My Father pleased himself," said he, "I made no objections. If people were generous! but——" "But what, my Lord?" quoth I. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and changed the conversation. Who would have pressed him further to tell that which I know already, and which no power on earth can cure; the difference of Birth, Religion, and Country? If however he has but love enough, all those three things which would drown him if he tried to swim across, may be leaped over; and I, who have taken the jump before him, never cease to show him how well I feel myself after it. For the rest, he is now in bad company for our cause to be sure; but I shall have another sight of him at Shrewsbury, before he gets to Bath, and will send thither all the particulars....
Nuneham, Thurs. 18 Aug. 1791.
One more long letter, dearest Miss Weston, and then away to Shrewsbury, whither direct your next. This last has been just as long reaching Oxford, whence I almost see myself within five hours of you, as a letter yesterday received from Marquis Trotti at Wrexham, a place not less, surely, than 140 miles off. They make a mighty slow progress, which tires my spirits to follow; and seem exceedingly well amused, a thing I was not absolutely dying to hear. Meantime, what he has written, tho' cold, has pensive passages in it which keep my hopes alive; and 'tis not cold neither, but guarded. Now I tho't it my duty to keep Harriet ignorant of nothing I knew, and as I have told her every good and desirable symptom, so have I left in no doubt his present disposition, for the first letter I copied for her, and this last I enclosed.
Was there ever such a storm seen in England as this last dreadful one of the 15th? Our December lightning that frighted you so was nothing to it. Where was my poor Husband then, I wonder? Perhaps on Snowdon, incumber'd with a horse no less confounded than himself. We were all here much alarm'd indeed, though Mrs. Siddons has mended ever since, I think....
Now for more public concerns, of which your last letter but one gives me the best information. It does really appear, contrary to my predictions, that all Europe will joyn to re-instate a descendant of that House of Bourbon, which, when represented by his ancestor Louis Quatorze, all Europe united to humble: but this should be considered as justice, not caprice. That last mentioned Prince sought openly to seize the rights of others, while his wretched successor has been cruelly deprived of his own; and the world will not look on, it seems, while the Crown of France is trampled on, though none stir'd a step even when the Sacred head of an English monarch was sever'd from his body by the Democrats of that day.
Helena Williams is a courageous damsel, and will, I hope, never be a distressed one in consequence of that conduct, which, if anything happens but good to her, will be condemned as rashness; and if she returns safe will be applauded as curiosity after the great objects in life, while we are listening only to hear how go the small ones. I find that fierce doings are expected, and I am much delighted with your nine thousand men: 'tis an admirable anecdote of old Marshal Saxe, and to me a new one. It will, may be, divert you to hear that he married a Lady he did not much like, merely because her name was Victoria, and that when he died, one of the female French wits said, what a pity it was that no De Profundis should be said for him who had so often made France sing Te Deum. He was a Lutheran, you know.
You never sent me word you liked my Verses, and they were really ingenious ones too; did Harriet ever shew them to you? If much applause ensues, I shall be tempted to copy over some stanzas made for pretty Siddons's little red book, where she keeps everything yt has been ever said or sung in her praise, unprinted....
I expect a letter from my Travellers before I send this: meantime Heaven forefend that I should meet the Marquis at Shrewsbury. He will quit my Master at Denbigh, sure, and go thro' S. Wales to Bristol. Say everything that expresses esteem, love, and gratitude, to Mr. and Mrs. Whalley, and tell Miss Seward how valuable her health is even to me, who see so little of her: if she neglects it, she is doing public injury, and is worse than a Democrate....
French affairs, as reported in England at this juncture, were no doubt very confusing. The King's attempt to leave Paris in July had been frustrated, but he had been making overtures to most of the crowned heads in Europe, and intervention on the part of some of them must have appeared imminent.
It seems likely that Mrs. Piozzi made the acquaintance of Helen Maria Williams through their common friend, Dr. Moore. She was a girl of great natural ability, but of scanty education; for though born in London, she was brought up at Berwick-on-Tweed. She returned to town with her mother in 1781, being then about twenty years of age, bringing with her a romantic poem, "Edwin and Eltruda," which, like several subsequent works, met with considerable success. In 1788 she went with her mother to France, on a visit to a sister who had married a Swiss Protestant minister; and having enthusiastically adopted the principles of the Revolution, she made that country her home, and wrote a good deal on French politics, as will be noticed later. These proceedings, and her intimacy with J. H. Stone, who had been separated from his wife, provoked a good deal of hostile comment, both among her acquaintances, and in the papers like the Anti-Jacobin, of which she was not aware till much later. It was currently reported that she was living under Stone's protection, a view accepted in the Dictionary of National Biography. But it is not quite fair to judge her conduct solely on such ex-parte evidence, though perhaps it was all her biographer had to go upon. Her own letters, written to Mrs. Pennington, put a somewhat different complexion on the case. In the first of these, dated 2nd July 1803, she mentions that she is taking charge of the orphan children of her sister, who had died suddenly. She lives with her mother and another relative, Mrs. Persis Williams, whom she has never quitted for three days together since she left England, except for her journey to Switzerland, which was undertaken to save her neck. Stone procured her passport, but she travelled, not with him alone, as had been represented, but with three other gentlemen, one of whom was an English M.P., and on her arrival was placed under the charge of her brother-in-law's relatives. In 1811 she writes that her mother is dead, but that she is still living with Mrs. Persis Williams and her nephew. In another letter, dated 26th January 1819, after Stone's death, she mentions that his matrimonial troubles had begun before she knew him, and that it was his wife, "an odious woman," who provided herself with gallants in Paris, and then, seizing on the new Law of Divorce, "in spite of all our counsels," separated herself from her husband, who had by this time lost his fortune. After this they took Stone in, and he lived for twenty-five years as a member of the household.
HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS
From an engraving by J. Singleton in the British Museum
Mrs. Piozzi, who abhorred her books, though she never quite lost her affection for their author, writes in her Commonplace Book: "I think Helen Williams turned wholly foreigner, and considered England only a place to get money from." Though her poems, novels, and politics may alike be forgotten, she has a certain claim on the gratitude of generations of play-goers, for it was her tale of Perourou the Bellows Mender that the first Lord Lytton adapted for the Stage as the Lady of Lyons.
Shrewsbury, 29 Aug. Monday.
You are a noble girl yourself, dearest Miss Weston, and a true friend; if to be an elegant letter writer was praise fit to mix with this, I think you the best in England. Both the sweet Epistles came safe; the first pleases me best tho', because most natural. But if the thing is credible, believe it, they have been come a little bit, and no enquiries has he made; but he treats me with a haughty reserve, in consequence perhaps of my verses, or I dream so: for when Buchetti praised 'em, he said nothing. We are none of us going through S. Wales to Bath and Bristol. He has business in London, he says, and God knows we have little pleasure here; so we all set out on Thursday morning together. You will be sadly hurt at all this, but 'tis true. No more does he follow me fondly about, as at Streatham or the Rectory, but I think apparently avoids me. Bad symptoms these; while poor Miss Owen, polite by habit, and desirous of keeping her own anguish down by hospitable attentions in which the mind has no share, though the kind heart wishes it had, leaves me not an instant to myself or to him.
Oh! but I have caught my Spark at last. He began talking to me of the Assizes, "Where," said I, "Marquis Trotti shall be indicted on a new Statute, for Heart-stealing without intentions of payment." He coloured, laughed, and stared,—well he might,—but asked my proofs, and I produced your letter. We should have made a good picture enough. "And what," says I, "is to be the end of all this?" "A ride to Bath," replied he. "I have begged Jacob to buy me a horse, and I will go, and go alone; and I will see S. Wales and all. As to the letter, Miss Weston is charming, but, I hope, has embellished a good deal. And who is going to sea-bathe?" "Only her sister-in-law," answered I. "Oh! that sea-bathing frighted me!"—We were interrupted, but I find by Mr. Piozzi that this matter has been discussed among them, and my husband thinks now that there is somewhat in it. But he is always right friendly and charming, and says just what he ought, but wishes our Harriet well too, and is reading your letter now.
No description can tell what I have suffered in another friend's cause since I came here; but my death is not catched, and my leg is not broken, so I'll say as little as possible on a subject of more horror than one can express in words, though dear Miss Weston chose them....
From the next letter it appears that all the party had returned to Streatham Park.
Monday 5 Sep.
Kind! charming Miss Weston! your letter was a sweet cordial after the journey, for I did get home very tired and fatigued and latish on Saturday evening, after suffering something, sure enough, in the cause of friendship....
The Marquis is making Jacob buy him a horse, to ride over South Wales, and Mr. Davies tells him that Bath and Bristol is the nearest way thither; sure he will never ride that way, however earnest to rid himself of his companion's good advice, which his head probably applauded while his heart resists it. There is a cold reserve about the man, mixed with fine qualities too, but he has only a half confidence in me certainly; and seems, odd enough! to like teizing my curiosity with conjecture about his intentions towards Harriet, which I have not yet penetrated. He waits in this neighbourhood for his servant from Paris, whither he has sent him to fetch all his goods away. So far looks well, and runs as he told me long ago, when he said "I can at least give you that satisfaction, that I do not leave England this year." For my own part he puzzles me completely, and so confounds my conjectures, that were I to hear within a month that Harriet was Marchioness Trotti, or were I to hear he had informed her that such an event was impossible, I should in neither case be surprised. He is gone to London this morning, under promise to return o' Thursday, and says his servant will not be here before the end of the week. So much for Lorenzo.
My own health has been shaken, but will tie up again with use of the tub, or perhaps we may try the Sea too. But I feel so glad to get home that scarcely will pleasure or profit tempt me out again in a hurry. Harriet talks of going to Weymouth or Southampton: if he should go to find Belvidere House without his favourite Bird, how would he feel? Yet will I not tell him the project, lest he should make that an excuse for not going: let him go, and hear, perhaps see that she is ill, from those whom he will believe. Better so; she may change her mind too, and I hope she will; but I only give her information always, not advice. I have this day acquainted her with all he says and does, 'tis she must act accordingly. My dear Master is pleased to find me at Streatham Park once more in a whole skin; the danger will be better to talk than write about, and we shall meet again some time, I trust, and exchange minds....
Dear, charming Siddons is better; we stopt at her village, not at her house, returning, and heard yt Sheridan and Kemble were with her; on business no doubt, so we would not go in, but sent comts. They may see I do not want any favours they have to bestow.
Adieu! my charming friend! Poor Harriet laments your loss most pathetically, and I am very, very sorry for her: yet let us remember 'tis not now above six or seven weeks suspense. I should, from the first, have thought it very fortunate if she had not to count by months at least, if not years. Adieu and love your
H. L. P.
John Kemble, Mrs. Siddons's brother, became manager for Sheridan at Drury Lane in 1788. His sister's retirement during the season of 1788-9, though mainly due to ill-health, was not altogether unconnected with the difficulty of extracting her salary from the brilliant but unbusinesslike Sheridan.
At this date Miss Weston was staying at Corston, near Bath, with the Rev. F. Randolph, D.D., Canon of Bristol, who afterwards acted as Domestic Chaplain and English Instructor to the Duchess of Kent in the little Court at Amorbach, shortly before the birth of the Princess Victoria.
The Rev. Reynold Davies, M.A., of Streatham, who is frequently referred to in the later letters, was much esteemed by Mrs. Piozzi, who entrusted him with the education of John Salusbury Piozzi for some years after he was brought to England. In the Oxford Matriculation Registers he is described in the usual way as Reynold Davies, son of David, &c.; but on the monument he erected to his parents it is stated that he was the son of David Powell of Bodwiggied in Penderyn, co. Brecknock, an unusually late instance of the old Welsh system of nomenclature, by which the father's Christian name was taken as a surname by the son.
Tues. 28 Sep. '91.
Your letters, my lovely friend, are like the places they describe, cultivated, rich, and various: the prominent feature elegance, but always some sublimity in hope and prospect....
Our Italian Friends are still with us; the Marquis talks seldomer than ever of his intended tour through S. Wales to Bath, yet may mean it ne'er the less; and I dare say he will go and refresh his passion. Make Harriet Lee tell you Cecilia's saucy trick; it will divert her to tell it, and I won't take the tale out of her hands: her spirits mend, I see, as to her heart, it scarce can receive improvement; and the strong sense she posesses, with such variety of resources too, will guard those passes where tenderness prevails over prudent apathy....
My Master went last night to Town with good old Mr. Jones, to see what sport the transmigration of Old Drury can afford. We hear that all goes well, and that the Town accepts Kemble's new terms willingly and generously....
During 1791-2 Drury Lane Theatre was rebuilding, and Kemble and his company were acting at the Haymarket until the new house was ready for occupation.
"Good old Mr. Jones" was a connection by marriage of Mrs. Piozzi's, having married a daughter of Sir William Fowler, her mother's cousin. He was instrumental in bringing about the public reconciliation between Mrs. Piozzi and her daughters, as narrated later on.
Streatham Park, Sat. 15 Oct.
My dear Miss Weston's letter contain'd more agreeable descriptions of the places I love, than of the people. I must hear better accounts of our sweet Harriet before my heart is easy, yet I doubt not her command over a passion which no longer appears to disturb the tranquility of her once half-frantic Admirer; who told my Master, in confidence no,—was his expression to me,—but in common discourse, that if he married a woman of inferior birth, such were his peculiar circumstances, that exactly one half of his estates would be forfeited. He remains constantly with us, but the world seems a blank to him: he takes no pleasure, as I can observe, and either feels no pain, or pretends to feel none. If he ever does marry an Italian lady he will be a very miserable man however, from being haunted by our Harriet's form, adorned with talents, and radiant with excellence. Should he renew his attachment to her, and sacrifice half his fortune to his love, every child she brings will seemingly reproach him for lessening an ancient patrimony.—Such is life.
Mrs. Siddons is at Harrogate, and, we hope, mending. Poor Sir Charles Hotham is going to change the Scene, I hear: his state of existence, so far as relates to this world, draws to an end. Yet though the Physicians send him to Bath, he and Lady Dorothy resolve, it seems, to see the new Drury Lane Hay Market before their curtain falls. Who says there is no ruling passion? It appears to me that any passion, or even inclination, nursed up carefully, will rule the rest, tho' naturally larger and stronger; as our little Flo lords it over the out-door dogs, merely on the strength of being his Mistress' favourite.
Chevalier Pindemonte has written me a long letter. He sends particular compliments to all our Friends and Coterie almost, and says a vast deal about dear Siddons. "What," cries Mr. Buchetti, "does he say of Helena Williams?" "Oh! not a word," replied I, "men never speak at all of the woman whom they really like." A painter would have enjoyed Marquis Trotti's countenance at this conversation. Meantime our little democratic friend is not doing a foolish thing at last by leaving England, I do believe. Such is the advantage of exchange between London and Orleans, that they say the very difference may make it worth her while; nor is that position a weak one, if it be true that a British Guinea is worth thirty-two French Shillings; and it was a man just arrived who told it me for a fact....
Della Crusca has married a Woman of elegant person and address, and who will bring him perhaps £500 o' year, with an unblemished character, as people tell me: the husband meantime will congratulate himself charmingly on his own superiority, no small pleasure to some minds; and the world will always be on his side in every dispute, tho' he had neither character nor fortune when they met. His family, I hear, are very angry.
The Kembles get money apace. Mr. Chappelow says he is sure that the Pit alone pays every night's expence, and people in general seem highly satisfied. Here's a long letter from your ever affectionate
H. L. P.
Sir Charles Hotham lived long enough to see the new theatre after all: his curtain did not actually fall till 1794.
It was during her Italian tour that Mrs. Piozzi had met Mr. Chappelow, who remained her firm friend till his death. Her connection with Robert Merry ("Della Crusca") at Florence has been mentioned in the Introduction. He returned to England in 1787, and published some rather turgid poems of a sentimental character, which were satirised by Gifford in the Baviad. At some time in the course of this year he was in Paris, being, like Helena Williams, an ardent sympathiser with the Revolution.
Streatham Park, Tues. 8 Nov.
My dearest Miss Weston would readily forgive my long silence, if she knew how heavily my hours are passing, and how happy a moment I think even this that I have stolen to write at last. Poor Mr. Piozzi has been, and is as ill with the Gout as I do believe a man can possibly be. Knees, hands, feet,—crippled in all, and unable even at this hour to turn in the bed....
Marquis Trotti and Mr. Buchetti have both been excessively kind indeed, and I shall feel eternally obliged by their attentive friendship. The Marquis has delayed his journey till he sees our Master on his legs again, and Mr. Buchetti keeps his courage up, as nobody but a countryman can do in a strange land....
I rejoice in our dear Harriet's recovery, which you say proceeds from her fate's being decided, a position I never believed, yet cannot contradict, for to me he never names her; notwithstanding I am confident he thinks of her still, nor would I bet a large wager he does not yet marry her; but it was not an event ever likely to happen in three months, and in three years she may, for aught I see, still be his, tho' I never more will tell her so.
Agitation of spirits is the worst illness, of which my present situation is a proof, and too much love is good for nothing, as I see, except to make one wretched. Mr. Piozzi has had Gout upon his throat, his voice, all that could agitate and terrifie me, but now Safe's the word, and I care little for his pain, poor soul, if we can but keep away danger....
Streatham Park, Sat. 20 Nov.
My dear Miss Weston deserves twenty letters, yet can I scarce write her one somehow. That all have their vexations is very true, and perhaps my share has been hitherto not quite equal to my neighbours'. Notwithstanding they would make no inconsiderable figure if prettily dressed up,—I mean my own. Poor Piozzi gets on as the Crabs do, he says, backward. Yesterday no creature could bear to see his agony, and tho' we all dined in the Library, we wished ourselves back a'bed....
I have had a letter from sweet Helena [Williams] this very post, telling how she is got safe to Orleans; 'tis however written in a strain less triumphant than tender, I think; and if as she purposes, we may hope to see her next Summer, I shall have few fears of her return to France.
As to our dear Harriet, you know how much I love her, but old Barba Jove and I have a vile trick of laughing at Lovers' resolutions. No matter, my heart wishes her sincerely well, and I have too many obligations to Marquis Trotti's politeness and attention while Mr. Piozzi was ill, not to wish and desire all good for him which he can desire for himself....
Owing, no doubt, to Miss Weston's return from Bath to Westminster, there are no letters for the next three months; the next, though as usual, undated, is shown by the postmark to have been written from Bath in 1792.
Monday 5 Mar. No. 15 Milsom Street.
My dearest Miss Weston will not wonder I write so little while my hands are full of engagements, my heart with anxiety, and my head,—as old Cymbeline says,—amazed with too much matter.[5] Harriet will have let you into a great deal of my story, and you will be surprised less at the behaviour of a man who, it seems, had no birth nor education to found good manners upon. The only difficulty is whether we shall tell the lady what we know, or suppress it. I am for the latter, because like Zara she may care little whether he is Osmyn or Alphonzo, for aught I know. But my Master, ever steady to the care of his own honour, says she shall be told that which we have heard, because 'tis our duty to speak as much as hers to listen. Send me some good counsel, and continue to love your
H. L. P.
[5] Cymbeline, IV. iii. 28.
So ends Harriet Lee's romance. No clue is given as to what had been heard to Trotti's prejudice, but it must have been something serious, and as Harriet had met him, as a friend of the family, at Mr. Piozzi's house, the latter felt bound to clear himself of any suspicion of collusion. The Marquis, if not altogether an impostor, was clearly not what he seemed; the curious thing is that the Piozzis had not had their suspicions aroused sooner.
The characters alluded to by Mrs. Piozzi occur in Congreve's Mourning Bride, in which Osmyn, otherwise Alphonzo, son of the King of Valentia, is wrecked on the coast of Africa, where Queen Zara falls in love with him.
The next letter, undated, but bearing the postmark of July '92, alludes to a pecuniary loss Mrs. Weston had sustained, apparently through the fault of her son. Perhaps as the result of this they left the house in Queen Square, and till September the Westons took up their abode at Lewisham.
I would not, dearest Miss Weston, for the World, add to your torments. Comfort your poor Mother, and present her my cordial good wishes and compliments. Tell her that I say one good child out of only two is a good proportion, and I am sure God Almighty will not forsake her if the World does. While I have a house you command an apartment; consider it as your own, and come when it suits you. Cecilia will get her arm again, but 'twas a dreadful accident; that Girl is always saved from the brink of a precipice somehow: nothing could be more painful or more dangerous, she must wear it in a sling for a week at least.... Could not Mr. Vandercorn be useful? he would make a point of serving you, I'm sure; but I fear, I fear the poor £1000 is irretrievably gone. Despair not of Fortune however, she is never long in a mind, and will not be always so cross, I am sure she will not....
Marquis Trotti was here yesterday, to my amazement, who concluded him gone abroad; he brought Zenobio, Merlini, and Buchetti with him, and we had no manner of talk: he looks very well, says he leaves London for Paris next Wednesday,—I will not tell Harriet for fear of keeping her away. Would he had never come! We wanted him not, Heaven knows....
No sooner is one romance ended than another begins, destined, like the last, to give Mrs. Piozzi a good deal of anxiety to equally little purpose. Cecilia's first admirer appears upon the scene, in the person of a Mr. Drummond, and prosecutes his suit with an ardour which for a time carries all before him.
Whatever faults the Marquis may have committed, he did not consider himself in any way cut off from intercourse with the Piozzis, or feel any difficulty about keeping up a correspondence after he left England, which he did just in time to be present at Paris during the September massacres.
Streatham Park, Tues. 17 Jul.
Mr. Piozzi has so many things to call and to hurry him—he can only come on Monday next to fetch his dear Miss Weston and mine. Be ready then kind creature and come away....
I am wholly of your Mother's opinion, that 'tis best be near the spot: and if she is contented with her situation, what need you care to change it?... My vote is for doing nothing, it commonly is you know, if one stirs, 'tis always to hurt oneself, I think, literally and figuratively and all....
No news has been heard of the Federation, but all is supposed to be quiet in France, as an effect of the late coalition between the King and Jacobins. We shall see how matters end; I wonder one has no letter from Marquis Trotti.
Mr. James Drummond has pranced over the Common now with comical effect enough; for he half frighted a quiet old Gentleman of our Village here by stopping him on his ride, and telling his tender tale to most unwilling ears, as no man could like a love story less: and he had no claim to his confidence, for he could not guess who he might be. Mr. Thomas—a man you have heard Mr. Davies call his Oracle—was the person so unwillingly trusted, and while they were together, Drummond called to Miss Lees, who were walking on the lawn, and renewed his acquaintance with them: he likewise halload to Jacob in a gay tone. Such Geniuses are entertaining and comical as Larks, but I like them not about my house, and shall feel uneasy on the 25th lest some frisk may be performed.
The elder daughter of Mrs. Siddons, Sarah Martha, known among her friends as Sally, was just now staying with the Piozzis, as a companion for Cecilia, who was her junior by about two years.
Streatham Park, Sun. 9 Sep. 1792.
My dearest Miss Weston, this is my last letter from home; we go to morrow, and I am now so glad we are going, because Kitchen looks and talks as if Cecilia's cold had fastened seriously upon her breast and lungs. She certainly does breathe with less freedom, and the cough, though the slightest possible, is not removed. Lord! Lord! what an agony does it give me to think on possibilities! But change of air is the first thing in the world for such disorders, and she must have Asses' milk now, instead of Sally Siddons, who grows fat and merry. Be happy if you can, sweet friend, 'tis a hard task, even with all I have to make me so: but let us never provoke God's judgements by repining even at his mercies. Accept the present offer as such, if you do accept it; and carry this kind hearted man a chearful countenance, for that he has deserved. What does Mrs. Weston say? Write me all, and write me soon, remembering how truly I am yours
H. L. P.
This letter gives the first hint of Miss Weston's approaching change of condition. That it had not occurred before was not due to any lack of admirers. In 1779 she was indulging in a semi-Platonic friendship for the half-genius, half-charlatan, and wholly egotist, long patronised by the Whalleys, who signed himself Courtney Melmoth; who wrote to her from Longford Court letters of seven foolscap sheets, filled with rhapsodies about his charmer, or rather about his own feelings for her, in which he seems to have been much more interested. This extraordinary being, who in real life was named Samuel Jackson Pratt, was a man of good family and education, being a graduate of Cambridge, and son of a High Sheriff of Huntingdon, had in his life already played many parts, having been by turns priest, actor, fortune-teller, bookseller, playwright, poet, and essayist. He was a thoroughly untrustworthy person, as Sophia seems to have discovered in time, though he was the only one of her admirers whose letters she was at pains to preserve. William Siddons had reason to believe that he was the original author of the anonymous attacks on his wife, previously alluded to, and the Swan of Lichfield was convinced of similar duplicity on his part towards herself. It is from her letters to Sophia that we get some information as to the latter's more serious admirers.
Of these the first was Major Cathcart Taylor, who evidently made some impression on her heart, but proved himself "unworthy," and was dismissed before 1784. Later on a strong mutual attachment grew up between her and Mr. W. Davenport; but the engagement was broken off by what Anna Seward terms "the rascality of a parent." The last of the series, who made the Swan his confidante, and whom she calls "the gentle Wickens," had a "little temple of the Arts" at Lichfield. But "prudence laid a cold hand upon his hopes"; the lady was far above him, and he gave her up for her own sake. "He admires the brightness of the Star, but will not draw it from its habitual sphere."
The match she was now contemplating was not brilliant, or even romantic, and probably her head was much more concerned in the decision than her heart. But the suitor, in spite of a somewhat scandalous story retailed to Sophia by her cousin Mrs. Whalley, was evidently an honourable man, and certainly his suit was not prompted by mercenary motives. William Pennington probably belonged to a Bristol family, for a merchant of these names was living there earlier in the century; but he himself, according to the editor of Whalley's correspondence, was a loyal colonist ruined by the American War of Independence. This account goes on to relate how, on the way home, he made the acquaintance of another colonist returning to find relations in the Old Country with whom he had long lost touch. The latter fell ill on the voyage, and, in spite of all Pennington's care, died before they reached England; but not before he had made a will leaving everything to his new friend. Pennington's first care on landing was to seek out the dead man's relations, and then, having torn up the will, to put them in the way of obtaining the property.
This must have been before 1783, as in January of that year Sophia, writing to Whalley, incidentally mentions that Mr. Pennington is sharing a house with "cousin Somers." In 1785 we find him acting as Master of the Ceremonies at the Clifton Hot Wells. A contemporary Guide Book informs us that he was "inducted" to this important office "under the patronage of the Archbishop of Tuam, and the Bishop of Cloyne, and with the unanimous voice of a numerous circle of nobility and gentry." Here, "distinguished by a medallion and ribbon," he presided over the Assemblies, and legislated for the better preservation of their dignity, ordaining, inter alia: "That no Gentleman appear with a sword or with spurs in these rooms, or, on a ball night, in boots. That the Subscription Balls will begin as soon as possible after seven o'clock, and conclude at eleven, on account of the health of the Company." He continued to officiate as M.C. for twenty-eight years.
PORTRAIT OF MRS. THRALE AT THE AGE OF 40
From the original picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds about 1781, in possession of Mrs. Hugh Perkins of Fulwood Park, Liverpool This was just about the time of her first meeting with Piozzi
Crown Inn, Denbigh, 15 Sep. Sat.
I make haste to assure my kind friend that all apprehensions for Cecilia are at an end. The change of air relieved her oppression the first day, and carried off what remained of cold, or cough, or whatever it was, the second. But soon as arrived here, after the rainyest journey ever seen, I suppose, poor Sally Siddons was taken ill of an excessive sickness and pain, and our whole night has been spent as yours was, when I was just as ill at Streatham Park.... She is now risen and better, and eating Chicken Broth. I am very sorry to think you have been suffering the same torture, but do make haste and get well, and take Bark; it is the best thing after all for you who have, I think, few complaints except what proceed from irritated nerves and perpetual anxiety of heart. A decided situation will tranquillize every sensation, and calm the tossing of the waves, which keep on their turbulent motion very often long after the storm is over. Yours is surely past, and so Dear Coz, (as Cecilia says to Rosalind,) Sweet Coz, be merry.[6] Your Mother is right, I daresay, about going to London, Lewisham is a dull place, it were better live here at Denbigh. We have Coals at 10d. per C.—and they say how dear it all is! and Chickens 1s. a couple,—and such a prospect! Well! I do think my own poor Country a very pretty one, that I do: and cheap, for though we are called the Squire and his Lady, who live upon the best, and pay for the best, they cannot for shame ask more than seven Guineas o' week for our lodging and boarding and linnen and china and all included;—four people and three servants, and we have one very long staring room and clean beds.
So much for Wales, meantime our letters from France will come slowly, for though they boast their brisk intelligence, I believe the Duke of Brunswick may be in quiet possession of Paris, or beaten back to Coblentz, before we shall hear a bit about the matter, as this town lies in the high road to no town, and smaller events than the deposition or restoration of Sovereigns make much ado here. We shall be quiet to morrow, and go to Funnen Vaino on Monday, if Sally recovers quite well, and I doubt not her doing so; our Medical Man here is very kind and comfortable.
Helena Williams should mind who she keeps company with; so indeed should Hester Piozzi: that fine man she brought to our house lives in no Emigrants' Hotel at Paris, but a common Lodging, in a place where numbers lodge. He carried no wife over with him, nor no children; they are left at Hackney I am told. Her mother and sister are at Montreuil....
P.S.—(by Mr. Piozzi.)
Dear friend, we are arrived at Denbigh very safe; the Crown Inn is prety comfortable, and I've got a very fine room for Company; next Monday morning we'll go all togheter to see our place for the new House, and I hope in two years she should be finisd to receive our selves, and our dear friend; be merry and comfortable if you can, and believe me for alway your
G. P.
[6] "Sweet my Coz, be merry."—As You Like It, I. ii. 1.
If letters from France came slowly, yet they did arrive. Mr. Broadley's collection contains two written from Paris by the Marquis Trotti, who found himself in the thick of the September massacres, of which he speaks in guarded terms. In the first, dated 3rd September, he says: "I did not run any risk in the terrible bloodshed of yesterday. It was an horrid havock: but I forbear to come into any detail, as it would very likely prevent your receiving this letter. The King and Queen are still living.... I am a Traveller, and never meddled in anything, and as such I trust to come out safe." He writes again on 13th September: "So it is, Madam, I long to be in some peaceful, retired place, where people are happy and free without such violent exertions to be so. What I saw lately in Paris is quite enough for me, and I would hate myself if I was to grow familiar to such horrid scenes. Slaughter in cold blood, and murder without provocation, bring us straight back to the state of a brute, which would be ten thousand times worse, living as we do now in populous cities, than as we did formerly in forests.... O how often shall I remember the sweet tranquillity of Streatham Park, and the circumstances which will always endear it to me."
He goes on to allude to the project of building a house in Wales, and assuming the rôle of Prophet, foretells the founding and growth of a "New Salisbury" around Brynbella, greater and more imposing than the old one, with a monument to the "Illustrious Lady" erected in its great square.
The constituent Assembly, having framed the new Constitution, had dissolved itself, and left Louis to work it with the aid of the Girondins, who declared war on Austria in April, but were soon dismissed by the King. A threatening manifesto by the Duke of Brunswick helped to bring the Jacobins into power, who deprived the King of what little authority he possessed, while the new Assembly was succeeded by the Convention. These changes were speedily followed by the imprisonment of the Royal family, and the massacres by the Paris Commune in August and September; but of these Mrs. Piozzi had evidently not yet heard.
Helena Williams' friend was evidently John Hurford Stone, whose name occurs several times in the succeeding letters. He was a Unitarian, and originally a coal-merchant in London, and a prominent member of the Society of Friends of the Revolution. He had thus brought himself to the notice of Fox and Sheridan in England, and had made the acquaintance of Talleyrand and Madame de Genlis in France. He was now paying a visit to Paris from which he returned early in 1793, but soon took up his permanent abode in France, where, on the outbreak of the war, he was imprisoned as an Englishman. In 1794 he was divorced from his wife, and thereafter lived with Helena Williams. His tombstone in Père Lachaise styles him an "enlightened champion of Religion and Liberty."
The idea of building a residence on Mrs. Piozzi's Welsh property, first mooted in 1789, was now taking shape. The old mansion of Bach-y-graig, besides being inconvenient and ruinous, occupied a low and rather damp situation on the banks of the Clwyd, so a higher and drier site was chosen for the new house.
Sally Siddons soon recovered, but in a few days Cecilia had a serious relapse.
Sat. 29 Sep. [1792].
My head full of opium, my heart of anguish, I will write to my valuable friend about her affairs, my own I cannot trust the pen with; dear Sally must write them for me. Mr. Whalley is angelick, you should be happy to call him cousin, sure; and the sweet, artless, hoping man's letter enclosed, that quotes my verses—in good Time!—and gives the lye to all old maxims which say that we lose our Lovers when we lose our fortune. How can you be so cold to him? But 'tis illness makes you so; be well, sweet friend, and reject not Heaven's offer of temporal happiness in its natural form: that of a good husband. Every hour shows me there is no other comfort in this world but what we receive from indissoluble union with a soul somewhat like one's own. Even in my case I feel consolation in my Husband's disinterested goodness. Your Husband, I am sure, has a heart in which meanness will not make its abode. Then why should you scruple to honour or obey him? I honour him from my heart. Have him! Have him! and try not to disappoint his romantic expectations of felicity never to be found. Cecilia mends hourly, or I could not write thus much; yes, hourly!—and yet,—Sally takes the pen. Show Sir Lucas Pepys this letter; if mortal pow'rs can save her, his will; he saved her once, why was he out of Town?
Ah! dear Miss Weston, what affliction have we all been in! what anxious days and sleepless nights has poor Mrs. Piozzi pass'd! Cecilia has been ill, very ill, a Physician from Chester has been call'd; we now hope to God she will recover, sure, almost, that there is no immediate danger. Not immediate, but dearest Miss Weston, how afflicted will you be to hear that Dr. Hagarth indicated but too plainly that Cecilia, whom we thought so strong, so free from every complaint, will fall into a consumption. Dear Mrs. Piozzi has fear'd this since the first day Cecilia ail'd any thing, which was last Sunday, when she directly sent for Mr. Moore the Apothecary of Denbigh. He said nothing was the matter but cold; she cough'd and complain'd of a pain in her shoulder and side, Monday she was worse, Tuesday and Wednesday she still got worse, Thursday she kept her bed, and Dr. H. was sent for. That day she spit a good deal of blood and was bled. Dr. Hagarth and Mr. Moore differ'd in opinion concerning what part the blood came from. Dr. Hagarth feared it was from the lungs, and that was a bad symptom,—they let her blood again at night. Yesterday Dr. Hagarth left us, and Cecy, after a good night was surprisingly better; she was in better spirits, sat up some time, and was very well disposed to talk and laugh, but she is ordered not to do either. To-day she is still much better, and we hope soon to see her well. In the meantime dear Mrs. Piozzi through anxiety and grief has caught a violent cold, to-day she seems better. Oh, my kind friend, how would your tender heart have bled for her! Mine was ready to burst, in the midst of her affliction on Cecilia's account, to see her compose herself, and assure Mr. Piozzi that for his sake she would bear all patiently, and take care of her own health: indeed, indeed, it was a heart breaking sight. Cecilia does not in the least suspect her complaint, she was only frighten'd when she spit the blood. Tho' to be a spectator of such affliction is a sad thing, yet am I happy in being here. Cecilia is pleas'd to have me near her; she turned everyone but me out of the room when she was bled, and me she held fast and close to her. I think I am a small comfort to poor Mrs. Piozzi too,—at least she told me so. What melancholy reflections does Cecy's illness bring into one's mind; that one who yesterday was young, healthy, strong, prosperous in her fortunes, belov'd by her Parent and friends, in short, with every thing conspiring to render her happy, should to-day be within an inch of death, and quitting for ever all these blessings, is a sad and striking lesson. To make things still more vexatious, poor Jacob has had a terrible fever and sore throat; he is to-day mending. Mr. Piozzi is all tenderness; he is, you may easily conceive, low spirited enough. Let us pray to God that Dr. Hagarth has been deceiv'd, or at least, if he has not, that the complaint may be got the better of. I am sorry indeed to hear how ill you have been, do, dear Creature, get well, and accept of the comfortable independence which is offer'd you by so amiable a person. Will it not in some measure soften the affliction the former part of my letter must have given you, to tell you that my belov'd Mother is at length cur'd of her complaint, and quite an alter'd woman? What a happy being was I when I received this charming news from herself, in her own handwriting! The intended journey to Guy's Cliff must, I fear, be given up, I will hope that when dear Cecy is recover'd, we shall yet pass some happy days there together. The weather has prevented our enjoying this lovely country sufficiently; I have seen enough to make me never forget the beautiful Vale of Clwydd. The new house is to be call'd the Belvedere. Yours sincerely,
S. Siddons.
This letter is addressed to 14 James Street, Westminster, where Mrs. Weston had taken rooms, and where she remained at any rate till her daughter's marriage. Sir Lucas Pepys, in whom Mrs. Piozzi reposed so much confidence, was the leading physician of the day. He had been created a Baronet in 1784, was President of the Royal College of Physicians, and attended the King in several of his illnesses.
The suggested name of Belvedere for the new house was not adhered to. The one finally chosen was a hybrid Cambro-Italian form, Brynbella, meaning the Beautiful Bank, or Brink.
Crown Inn, Denbigh, 1st Oct. Monday.
I write myself now, kindest Miss Weston, and I write with steadier fingers. The cough has yielded to repeated bleedings, and she mends as rapidly as she grew ill. Dr. Haygarth it was who threw me in that agony, by pronouncing Cecilia in serious danger from the blood spit up, which he said came from the lungs; and never did twenty Guineas purchase as much affliction at one dose, I do believe, as those we gave to him. Dear Mr. Moore, an agreeable Practitioner settled here as Accoucheur, Surgeon, &c., who cured Sally Siddons, had repeatedly assured me that it was not from the lungs.... Her quick recovery gives great reason to think him right; and he so smiles, and so rejoyces, yet insists on my telling nobody that he differs from Dr. Haygarth, who is a man of very high reputation, and in earnest a very pleasing Physician—skilful too I dare say—and fully perswaded of his own opinion, which is supported by Science, as the other's by Experience.
Dear Cecy's recovery will, if complete, prove the old adage that an Ounce of Mother is worth a Pound of Clergy; meaning that good Common Sense, or Mother Wit as we call it, beats learning out of doors.
So may it prove! I will now pluck up courage and write to Sir Lucas myself. Doctor Haygarth recommended us to take Cecilia to a warmer climate, and that instantly: at the same time he said she must not be hurried, or even suffered to talk much, or move. Naples was the first place that occurred: but how should we get to Naples? Thro' France? They would refuse Passports, perhaps hurry her into worse apartments than these we are in: a prison, and present her with the sight of heads streaming with blood. Thro' Germany? Through marching armies into miserable towns, where want of horses to get forward would detain us in a climate worse than that of Great Britain; a German inn to escape catching cold at is a good joke to be sure. 'Tis a residence for Pigs only, not delicate Damsels, sure.
Let it be Lisbon then! Very well, Lisbon be it; but now do not you open your lips, or black one bit of paper with this intelligence, for if she really ails nothing—which Mr. Moore says will very soon appear to be the case—all these phantoms vanish, and poor Mr. Piozzi and I are not to be driven forcibly, expensively, dangerously, and suddenly from all our comforts, all our friends, present enjoyments, and future projects. The little Belvedere may yet go forward at Funnen Vaino, and we may yet be merry with you in many a beautiful spot, but none like the Vale of Llwydd. My health, tho' horribly shaken, may tye up again, and I may kiss my pretty black Cock and Hen (that I forgot to thank you for,) at poor old Streatham Park. They are of the Polish breed; we will call them the King and Queen of Poland, there will never be any other, I fancy....
Jacob's dangerous sore throat and fever has been a great addition to my agony, but he will live, poor fellow, I thank God; and so the favourite horses got lamed with neglect while he was sick, and Phillis came to evil, and all went consistently. I expect my poor Husband to get a fit of the gout every day, and that would do for me. I should remind myself of the Welch Parson's letter saying
"Dear Sir, as I was passing the heights of Snowdon last week, with Mrs. Jones behind me, I got in much distress, for night came on, my horse tired, and my Wife fell in labour...."
Of Sally Siddons I say, like as Imogen says of Pisanio, "thou art all the comfort the gods will diet me with."[7] Her mother's recovery is however one solid and certain felicity to us all. I do thank God for that: she is an invaluable Creature.
[7] Cymbeline, III. iv. 183.
Thursday 4 Oct. Denbigh.
Well! My dearest Miss Weston, you are a true friend if ever any one had a true friend, and you will think of nobody but me, and of nothing but my miseries; from some part of which however charming Sir Lucas's letter and yours together have relieved me. I write to him to-day, and I beg'd Dr. Haygarth to write. His will doubtless be a despairing letter, he despair'd even of Jacob, who, Mr. Moore protested, was never in actual danger. No matter now tho', for he certainly is recovering; and I earnestly hope I did not neglect my duty to him, while my heart was full of everything else in the world.
Indeed, indeed, Cecilia has, between her lovers and her illness, worked my poor heart very hard this year. I marvel Drummond is not come down yet, for he knows all that happened, but the same avarice which prompted his original pursuit of her restrains him from spending seven Guineas to follow her, and fret me. Some certain comfort every state affords, you know. Cecilia does mend to be sure as fast as ever anybody did mend: ay, and as fast as she grew worse, which was with a rapidity I never before was witness to....
Dear Piozzi does not get the gout, so we shall surely move hence o' Monday, but Haygarth is very good, that he is, and comes at a call very quickly too. He has made two visits, and kind Mr. Moore nurses, and sends his wife to nurse, and help sit up, and everything,—that is, he did do so when wanted,—as if he were one's oldest and sincerest friend. He never thought her in danger, and is now the happiest person, except myself, in the Town of Denbigh. The neighbouring Gentlemen send in baskets of fruit and sallads, and all they think she can want: so if she does hate Wales, which I do believe she does most heartily, the People could do no more to make her love it.
Remember, that tho' the Dr. came twice, she spit blood but once; remember too that I did not wait till she spit blood before I sent for him,—that agony was while he was coming hither,—this day sennight, and Mr. Moore had just bled her as he walked in. The state of her blood however, and of her case, made Haygarth order the operation to be repeated; and 'tis to bleeding alone that I impute her cure....
She was as well, as lively, and as handsome as ever you saw her just before this attack: she lost the cold you had observed by the time she reached Meriden. I remember her running up and down the garden slopes like a school-girl; so she ran up and down the Castle Hill here, to fright me and Sally Siddons at the heights she shew'd herself from,—for mere sport and frolick. The disease was sudden and violent. She had caught the cold when Jacob caught his, riding in the rain to the Belvedere, and then coming home in the chaise with us, her habit wet thro'. She would ride that day tho' it was showry when she set out, but the roads are so bad for a carriage that every body will ride that can; and she is not used to mind a cold, poor soul....
This is, I think, my most rational letter yet.... Sally Siddons is my darling daughter, and so affectionate. Farewell; beg dear Mr. Whalley's prayers for me, and write to Chester to yours gratefully,
H. L. P.
Sat. 6 Oct. 1792.
My dearest, truest, kindest Miss Weston's sympathizing letter makes a nice contrast to cruel Doctor Haygarth's, this moment received,—wherein he bids me not relax my caution, for that diseases of these kinds are peculiarly insidious;—says Miss Thrale ought to be watched with the most sedulous attention, &c., and brought to him, if able to move, next Monday, to Chester,—where however he despairs again of finding us any comfortable accommodations.
How can dear Sir Lucas Pepys love a man so unlike himself?—and how can a creature who witness'd my anguish suspect, or pretend to suspect, my care of a child whose welfare precludes every other thought and consideration?
Well! Cecilia has no sweats, no febrile heat, no chills, no pain in the breast at all. She sleeps uninteruptedly seven hours at a time, and coughs only now and then, as we say, but it certainly is not cured. This morning we try her with an airing, but I'm forced to send my letter away, because our Posts come and go very slowly, as you see. Sally Siddons scolds me for crying over Haygarth's letter, because she says she sees Cecy mend every moment.
The remaining page and a half is filled up by Sally, who enlarges on this text in great detail, and with much common sense. She seems to have converted Mrs. Piozzi to her opinion, for the next letter, instead of being written at Chester, is dated from Guy's Cliffe, near Warwick, then the seat of the Greatheeds. Mrs. Piozzi had become intimate with Bertie Greatheed at Florence, and wrote the Epilogue for his blank-verse tragedy, The Regent, which was performed at Drury Lane in 1788. It was not a great success, in spite of the acting of John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Here the object, though not the nature, of Mrs. Piozzi's anxiety suffered a change; for Sally had a bad attack of the spasmodic asthma from which she suffered all her life, and of which she eventually died.
Guy's Cliffe, Sunday 14 Oct. 1792.
Never, my dearest Miss Weston, never try to oppose the immediate dictates of Heaven. I was miserable, yes miserable at coming to this sweet hospitable house, because I wanted to be at home with Cecilia, to see and embrace my kind, my true friend—and to endeavour at sleep in my own bed—for from every other it has long been flown. On the road hither however, for we came softly, not to hurry poor Cecy, only 44 miles o' day, Sally Siddons was taken illish. I hop'd it was the Influenza, for cold she could not have catch'd, and I have kept her at all possible distance from my own girl ever since she threw up blood at Denbigh. Here however was she seized yesterday with such a paroxysm of Asthma, cough, spasm, every thing, as you nor I ever saw her attack'd by.... But as God never leaves one deserted, here most providentially was found Mr. Rich'd Greatheed, who you know practised physick many years in the West Indies; and under his care we are now existing, not living. He is very charming, and so is his dear sister, who desires her love to you, and all possible happiness. I told her my infinite obligations to your generous friendship, and she says how good, and clever, and how much admired you always were. Sally in her bed begs to be remembered to you, who have so often watched her bedside. She has reason to adore Mrs. Greatheed though, who ransacks the country for relief to the dear creature, and we expect her mother every instant to add to our agony.
Meantime Cecilia remains just the same as when Haygarth pronounced her well; but she is not well, no nor ill neither.... Well, her sisters had the best of my flesh and of my purse; poor Cecilia can but pick the skeleton of either, and she is welcome to that. I knew from the Lloyds that Drummond was acquainted with all; he doubtless attributes her illness to disappointed love of him. I knew it from them, but they did not tell me so, mind: oh, had I never known anything of Drummond but what I had been told, my information had been very shallow, sure.
Adieu! if no new affliction arises we shall be at Streatham Park on Thursday night, 18, and you shall see what yet remains of your poor
H. L. Piozzi.
Mrs. Siddons was no stranger at Guy's Cliffe. More than twenty years before, when her parents were trying to break off her engagement to William Siddons, she had lived there for two years, nominally as lady's-maid, though it is said that her chief employment was to read poetry to the then master of the house, Mr. Samuel Greatheed. After her marriage in 1773 she often stayed there as a friend of the family.
Streatham Park. Wensday, 7 Nov. 1792.
I am truly delighted, dearest friend, with your charming pacquet....
We are all in the right to love Mr. Pennington, 'tis for all our credit to love him, and will be ever so to yours. Never were so many knowing ones taken in at once as would be if he proved worthless. You will follow him soon, and the moment we have half a crown in hand we will follow you. Let mine be the first letter sign'd P. S. P. Siddons says you must say nothing from her, but you may tell Mr. Whalley from me, that I think her as yet neither well nor happy, soon to be so however, as we all hope; that's enough, she will always do right, we are sure of her principles, unbending as her best admirer said they were.
So you are a widow when this reaches you, and your true love is gone away. What mistakes he will be guilty of till you come, I am thinking; for he, poor soul! dreams only of his Sophia. May your Mother end her days peaceably under his protection and your care, and quite forget she ever had any other son! 'Tis best.
My Master will call some day, if he can, that is. Mr. Ray has given him tickets for Lord Mayor's Feast, so he is to see London's Glory,—in good time; he has seen the Apparitions, which he greatly approves.
Helena Williams should not be sick now all goes her own way; Is this a time, brave Caius, to wear a Kerchief? &c.,[8] as Brutus says. I will write to her some of these days....
[8] "Oh what a time have you chose out, brave Caius," &c.—Julius Cæsar, II. i. 315.
MRS. SIDDONS
By R. J. Lane after Sir Thos. Lawrence
In France the Prussians had been driven back, the National Convention had abolished Royalty, proclaimed the Republic, and were now preparing to try the King, though it is not likely that the last item of news had yet reached Mrs. Piozzi. The Republic at once took up the offensive, and its troops occupied Savoy and Nice, which no doubt gave rise to the expectation of an attack on Rome, as mentioned in the next letter.
Streatham Park, Wensday 21.
My dear Miss Weston's kind letter came safe to my hand, 'tis the last I shall read with that signature. Do pray tell me whether your Brother knows how matters go, and when he found it out. Does good Mamma set out at the same time you do? Yes, I dare say. Give my truest regards to charming Mr. Whalley, and your real cousin, his amiable Lady, and tell my Harriet Lee how I expect her, and long to see her, and tell all my tales of sorrow and of joy about poor Cecilia, whose kind and wise Physician came here out of pure good will two days ago, and signed a good Bill of Health for all the family,—honest Jacob included; and said moreover that sweet Siddons would recover in due time, and that time not distant. He is one of us her adorers....
How happy Mr. Pennington must be in Mrs. Tryon's admiration of his Sophia's fine qualities. These are the bright moments, the lucid spots of life, which those who never marry never see. Mr. Whalley's is really a lucky house, I seldom have seen it without a courting scene upon the foreground. Tell him, (if you can remember,) that his democratic friend, Count Andriani, asked for him the other day, tho' I perfectly recollect his turning quite pale with passion while they disputed about politics. Meantime the French are expected hourly at Rome, and at Loretto, to pay their troops with the rich spoils of Palaces and Churches. Some Italian noblemen dined here last week, and actually wept with reflexions upon past terror and apprehended injuries. Excellenza Pisani in particular, at whose throat, and at those of his little girls, ten and eleven years old, they held knives and pikes for the space of four hours, surrounding his coach as he came away, and loading him with the bitterest curses; adding Rogue and Rascal, etc., till his daughters' Gouvernante, in perpetual fits, seem'd wholly dead from fright, and his Steward came out in a spotted fever with the agony. I never heard anything so dreadful. Little Lady Caterina says she thought they would kill Papa every minute. Remember that Pisani is one of the first families in Europe, and that his person ought to have been sacred as Ambassador from one of the first Republics in it.
Poor Marquis Spinola has the same tale to tell; but he had lived twenty years in France, and acquired kindness enough for the Nation to be sorry for them. Well! we will now think of nothing but private happiness, and rejoice that 'tis still within our reach. May you, my kind friend, long remain a proof and pattern of it, prays your truly affectionate and obliged
H. L. Piozzi.