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.