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.