Streatham Park, 24 Jan. 1793.

My dear Friend,—It is very vexatious that we cannot come to Bath this year, and I am excessively grieved at it for a thousand reasons....

I hope we shall make a point of showing our attachment to Royalty and Loyalty by wearing black for the poor King of France, whose murder is meant only as prelude to still more extensive ruin and destruction of all things most dear and sacred in the eyes of Christian and civilised nations: destruction to the Arts, the Altar, and the Throne. Have you seen the large spot upon the Sun's disk, discernible to a naked eye, and large as a button on a man's coat? None was ever seen without a telescope till now; and last Sunday, when London's caliginous atmosphere had stript old Titan of his rays, and render'd his face as you have often seen it, red and round, like a piece of iron heated in the fire, a considerable crowd gathered about St. Paul's, and viewed the phenomenon distinctly. So at least Mr. Greatheed informed us, who was himself among the starers....

Piozzi continues immovable; he says "I advance towards recovery indeed like the Lobsters—I go backward. Tell so to Mrs. Pennington." You see I have not changed his mode of expression. Sweet Siddons has been here to careen and refit after her terrible cold. She returns to duty this moment, and carries this letter to the Post Office, only waiting while I assure you of the continued affection of your ever faithful and affecte

H. L. P.

Mr. Pennington's turn came next; for it appears that an attack of gout had prevented his directing some special entertainment, perhaps in the nature of a benefit, at the Hot Wells.

Streatham Park, 30 Jan. 1793.

Poor, dear, kind Mrs. Pennington!

I am glad and sorry and all in a breath from what your letter tells me: had we been at Bath, matters would have gone just the same....

Why does not that hapless Queen of France dye of grief at once, and spare Frenchmen the crime of murdering an Emperor of Austria's daughter, whom they have already reduced to the disgrace of begging a black gown of his murderers, to wear for her Consort's death? I never heard anything so horrible as the account of the King's execution, and I fear there is no war to be made upon the wretches neither. Mrs. Mackay gives us to understand that Rome is ripe for rebellion, and Ireland is half under arms. All private concerns seem lost in public amazement somehow. But dear Miss Owen's brother has got a large windfall, it seems, by his crazy cousin of Porkington's burning himself to death, airing his shirt: and that nasty Mr. Stone, that we all hate so, is come away from France; I'm glad of that too....

Marquis Trotti is safe at Vienna. I want a letter from him concerning the plot there. Mrs. Siddons is in her business, and Sally with her; Maria coming home. Major Semple was one of the active men, I find, at Louis XVI's execution. His wife returns to England with her little flock, on pretence of broils in France, but I suppose in order to avoid her husband. I have read the 5th edition of Village Politics, but I had seen another thing written before that, called Liberty and Equality, prettier still in the same way, and fancy it the production of Mr. Graves of Claverton. 'Tis in his style, and very interesting and very clever indeed....

James George Semple wrote his autobiography in Tothill Fields Prison in 1790, from which it appears that his wife was a daughter of Elizabeth, the "amazing" Duchess of Kingston, that he had served in America and on the Continent, and being then on General Berruyer's staff, had witnessed the execution of Louis XVI. But this was the more respectable side of his career, against which must be set the fact that he had found it convenient on certain occasions to pass under four or five different aliases, and that he had been twice sentenced for fraud, and once to transportation, which he narrowly escaped. So his wife may have had good reasons for putting the Channel between them.

"Village Politics, by Will Chip," was the work of Hannah More, published in 1792, which was thought so highly of that it was distributed gratis, not only by patriotic societies, but even by the Government. The proceeds of its sale enabled her to begin her series of Cheap Repository Tracts. The Rev. Richard Graves, who held the living of Claverton, near Bath, till he was nearly ninety, had been a prolific writer of poetry, but was best known as the author of a novel, The Spiritual Quixote.

Maria, the second daughter of Mrs. Siddons, now about fourteen years old, had been educated at a boarding-school in Calais. She, like her sister Sally, was beautiful but delicate, and was carried off by consumption a few years later.

Thursday, 7 Feb. 1793.

And so your kind heart beats still for those helpless ladies in the prison at Paris: so does Mr. Piozzi's; he cannot rest for thinking on the accounts (I hope greatly exaggerated,) of insults offered to their persons,—the young Princess Royal's in particular. Can such things be, and no lightning fall yet? The Sun may well hide his head....

Dear, charming Siddons goes on as usual, and another fair daughter is come home to give her something more to do; and an old Tragedy, written ages ago by Mr. Murphy, is coming out at last, a mythological play of the dark days, Theseus and Adriadne, and that old ware. I guess not how it will be liked. Meantime we hear no more news than you do. You know that the King and Nation cry War! War! glorious War! while Opposition longs for Peace and dull Delay, and an Ambassador to the Fish-women of Paris. You know that Mr. Grey would not wear black for the King of France; and you know the story of the Dauphin running out and crying "I'll go, and beg, and kneel to them to send home my Papa alive"; and the brutal centinel catching up the child, and thrusting him in with "Get back, you troublesome Bastard, he's no Papa of yours." The insulted Sovreign only said "Too much! too much!" and stept into the coach. This anecdote from Mr. Ray, who had it in a private letter from a friend at Paris: I call that good authority. Everyone knows he rode backward in the coach: two impudent Officers of the National Guard sitting in the front seat; and how oddly they must feel the while, methinks! Well! if we live we shall see some signal vengeance overtake these gallants, that I do believe; and in the meantime war is hourly expected by all, desired by the Court no doubt, and wished for by the bulk of mankind in general. It will be good sport for Naples, Spain, etc., to see France humbled, and England impoverished, and their dastardly selves sitting snug; but I believe Holland will be lost if we don't stir, and those things must not be. Dumourier has promised to plant his tree in Amsterdam on the 17th, and none but ourselves can hinder it. Venice has been overflowed with a high tide, so has Rotterdam; "the sea and the waves roaring, men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking on those things that shall come upon the earth." What says dear Mr. Whalley? Miss More has written very sweetly, and is applauded by all the world for her nice Village Politics. 'Tis more read than that little Pamphlet I like so, called Liberty and Equality; but the more of those things go about the better; if one misses, another may hit. My stuff will please perhaps: I sent a sheet to the Crown and Anchor for distribution this morning,—a threepenny touch, but you shall not be told till you find out which is mine. Mr. Greatheed being asked which side Mrs. Piozzi was of quickened my zeal. I hope it cannot be ever asked again.

Farewell, dear Friend; wish my rheumatism well,—if it is rheumatism, I take James' Analeptic Pills for it, they cannot hurt me, and while I remain above ground, most gratefully and affectionately shall I ever be yours,

H. L. P.

MARIA SIDDONS

By G. Clent after Sir Thos. Lawrence