The "old Tragedy" was that of the Rival Sisters, written in 1786, but not acted till 18th March 1793, when it was staged for the benefit of Mrs. Siddons, who took the part of Ariadne. Its author had in his own life played many parts, having at one time or other been a bank clerk, an actor, an author, a barrister, and a commissioner in bankruptcy. He was an old friend of Thrale, who was indebted to him for the introduction of Johnson to his circle; and about this time he was the means of making the Piozzis acquainted with Samuel Rogers the poet.

Though Mrs. Piozzi does not seem aware of it, the French had declared war on England on 1st February; but just then the Republic was more engaged on the regeneration of Holland by means of the army of Dumouriez, which, after the defeat of the Austrians, had occupied Belgium.

London, 12 Mar. 1793.

Do not despond so, dear Friend, all will be well. I saw Mr. Parsons lately, who was full of your praise, and said how that conduct which always did please the World, now pleased it more.

Public matters have at length taken the wished for turn, and France must soon be humbled. No longer will our worthless Democrates boast the friendship of a powerful and victorious Republic, as they called her: she will be tatter'd and torne in pieces now very soon, I doubt not.

Meantime here are we, amusing ourselves, and the weeks do fly so heavily, compared with what I find them in the Country, while Flo barks, and the Parrot takes him off. Well! but I really have neither been sullen nor sick. I have covered Cecy with finery, and sate up till morning at every place without repining, while she was diverted, I hope. Drummond took no notice of her at the only Public Place we saw him at, so I trust that foolery is finished, and nine days more shall see me counting my Poultry, and kissing my Canes at home, where Spring pours out all her sweets to tempt us back, and there will I finish this letter.

Streatham Park then, 20 Mar. 1793.

Here we are again, and in new characters somehow, or else old ones revived. Last Saturday, at Mr. Jones's, Piozzi received a Billet from Miss Thrale, requesting to see him next morning. He attended her summons while I went to Church, and heard, at my return, her intention of coming to see me the day following, at my own hour, with her Sisters. I appointed 12, and she promised for the other Ladies and herself. My Master saw only the eldest, but our good hospitable Landlord, rejoicing in this new and strange event, (which gives every one's curiosity an air of tender interest that it would be ill manners in me to repress,) spread his finest tablecloths, and invited them to breakfast at ten, an hour they appear'd eagerly to catch at, and coming to their appointment, sate down with us and Mr. Rich'd Greatheed, and Baron Dillon, who came in by chance; while each, thinking I trust on everything else in the world, agreed to converse only on popular topics. Susanna felt nervous, however, and left the room with Cecy for a moment, but Miss Thrale and I stood our ground admirably, and I beg'd Mr. Richd Greatheed to tell dear Siddons how well (like Rosalind,) I had counterfeited. Night carried me to her Benefit, and Company crowded round all day, so that my spirits were so oddly kept afloat that, upon my honest word, I have never been sleepy since Saturday that Piozzi received the letter, and this is Wednesday morning.

Well! we returned the visit, and invited the Ladies here on Easter Monday to Dinner. All the Town would buy tickets I'm sure, with pleasure, could they procure 'em, and pass through danger itself willingly, to see the sight. I told my Master it would have been best to take the little Theatre, and give them the whole show at once. Nothing does revolt me so as that true British spirit of tearing out every private transaction for public discussion and amusement: it makes one's feelings appear affected if indulged, and annihilated if they are repressed. But this luxurious Nation longs to learn what cannot be known, and see what its own very light renders incapable of being clearly discerned. For when they have stared in our faces on such an occasion, how much do they find out of our hearts?

Farewell! and do write to me: I can talk of nothing but this, and will talk no more about that, so Adieu, and love your true friend

H. L. Piozzi.

Easter Tuesday.

My dear Mrs. Pennington has often seen people talked into misery, 'tis the way now to talk me into happiness; but I am content to be happy the way other people please, and I am sure they are right. I returned the visit I told you of next day, and they all din'd and supped here last Monday,—oh! yesterday—after an interval of fourteen days, in which I saw nothing of them. However all is vastly well, they are contented to take me up, as they set me down, without alledging a reason; and I am contented to be taken and left by them without reasoning on the matter at all. We had a brilliant day, with feast, and dance, and song, and broke not up till four o'clock in the morning. Our elastic house pulled out to embrace them, and the Hamiltons, kind and sweet, the Greatheeds, Miss Owen, dear old Mr. Jones, and all the Siddons family. One of my delights was to see Cecilia dancing with Mr. Richard Greatheed, who, when he felt her pulse at Guy's Cliffe, I feared would never have made Allemande with her. Everybody seemed pleased however, and we all were pleased. Our acquaintance will henceforth be theirs, and things will shake naturally into their proper places. Nothing could exceed the kindness of our common friends, except my sensibility of it. The Girls seemed less shy of Mr. Piozzi than of me, comical enough! But he is so good, and so attentive to them! How you would love him! And public concerns were prohibited the conversation, so Mr. Greatheed was quite charming. The dear Broadheads could not come, their uncle is dead, and has disinherited them, leaving £50,000 to a little Currier's boy, who as I say will jump out of his skin for joy I suppose, while they fret as I once did on a like occasion....

The reconciliation thus unexpectedly brought about was perhaps a little too formal to be permanent, being the result of policy rather than affection. The daughters seem to have inherited a large share of their father's cold and reserved nature, and never to have been sufficiently in sympathy with their mother to understand her impulsive disposition. There was never any open rupture, but as causes of friction arose, chiefly in connection with business matters, they drifted gradually apart; more rapidly after Piozzi's death, when his widow found another and more absorbing interest in the career of their adopted son. She, on her side, does not appear to have made any sustained effort to keep in touch with them, and at the close of her life she was almost a stranger to her own children, who seldom wrote—she mentions Lady Keith's "annual letter" on 1st January 1818—and never visited her at Bath.

Streatham Park, 21 Apr. 1793.

I am truly sorry, dear Friend, that things go no better, but 'tis a sad world, and so we always knew it was: kind Piozzi is quite grieved for Mr. Pennington's long continued illness.

Joe George, the sick labourer, was turning the earth over this morning among the clumps, and saw me feeding your black cock;—"And pray, Madam" (said he,) "what is become of Miss Weston? I never see her now,—and so good she was!" "Didn't you know, George, that Miss Weston was married, and lived at Bristol?" "No, Madam, because they never tell poor folks anything,—and I am as glad as the best of them, and I'll drink her health." You may guess how the dialogue ended.

We are to dine in Town and meet charming Siddons at Mr. Greatheed's on Fryday next; our own Ladies too—alias Titmice—will be there. Nothing serves them but fagging me out, that we may show ourselves together in public, Susanna says; so out I march, and do not laugh nor cry, though under perpetual temptations to both, for why did we not always do so? or what has happened to make us do so now? My comprehension reaches not these wonders. Cecilia thinks 'tis a merry life, and when she is in a calm, as mine Hostess Quickly says by Doll Tearsheet, she is sick.[9]

Drummond follows us about with his baffled countenance, making my words good, who told him the Girl would never be nearer marrying him than she was that day, when I had the honour of predicting how I should see them pass each other in public, saying to their separate parties, "That's the man who was troublesome to me,"—and "That's the girl who jilted me." Just so was it at Yaniwitz's Benefit....

Your favourites in the Temple tower are yet alive, but help is further off than we thought for. Dumourier's army were not of his mind, you see; France will not yet be quiet under kingly government, her convulsions must be yet stronger before the crisis comes on, and this frenzy fever abates. Madame Elizabeth's character rises upon one every day; had you heard Mr. Stretton, who saw it all, tell the tale of the 22d of June, I think you would have cry'd till now; so sweet yet so steady a creature! Sure, she will not yet be sent after the brother she alone can ever resemble.

Adieu dear soul! My arms ach with putting the Library to rights. The old work, say you, and I would I had my old assistant, says your faithful

H. L. P.

[9] "An they be once in a calm, they are sick."—2 Henry IV, II. iv. 40.

The allusion to Dumouriez recalls a curious episode in the history of the Revolution. That general had for some time been distrusted by the Jacobins, and after a defeat at Neerwinden he made terms with the Austrians, by which he agreed to abandon Belgium. This of course meant ruin, if not death, and as a last desperate resource he started to lead his army on Paris, hoping, with the aid of the Gironde, to overthrow the Jacobins, as a preliminary to setting up a constitutional monarch in the person of the Duc de Chartres. But the Girondists were not prepared to adopt such a scheme, which only served to throw more power into the hands of the Jacobins, who proposed the creation of the Committee of Public Safety to deal with the situation, and summoned Dumouriez to give an account of himself before the Convention. At this critical moment his army failed him; his old troops might have followed him, but the new Jacobin Volunteers mutinied, and he was driven to take refuge, with the Orleans princes, in the Austrian camp.

Streatham Park, Fryday 26 Apr. 1793.

I hasten to thank dear Mrs. Pennington for her kind letters. We have got a man, and his name is Goodluck, and I hope it will be ominous.... You know the state of my heart pretty exactly, how then can you say that you are ignorant of my political opinions. God forbid that, among Christian people, there should be two opinions concerning the impiety of these French rebels, who trample under feet every sentiment of honour and virtue, everything sacred and everything respectable.

Lady Inchiquin, who met us at Mr. Macnamara's yesterday, has seen a letter from Miss Edgeworth, sister to the late King of France's Confessor. Her brother told her that the poor injured Sovreign said, when they drowned his voice on his attempt to harangue his subjects from the scaffold, "They will not listen, well! I shall be heard in Heaven," and so to prayers; where Mr. Edgeworth, kneeling down and endeavouring to collect his thoughts, felt himself suddenly covered with the royal blood, so speedy was the execution of their guilty sentence. We see however divine vengeance overtaking them daily; and 'tis my belief that no men are to have the punishing of these crimes, but that the perpetrators of them will fall by their own or their companions' hands, or perish by famine, storm, or other dreadful judgements. You see we take no ships, yet all their fleets are ruined. The combined armies gain few signal victories, yet their forces moulder away.

Lady Inchiquin told a tale of the poor victims in the Tower, not exactly, but much like yours; and if 'tis sure that they are to be seen for sixpence thus, everybody will have a tale to tell, and we shall hear as many false as true. Mr. Stretton said he was shown them; but I had not, when he said so, a notion of the sight being a thing paid for....

Harriet [Lee] says in her last letter that the fellow who stole an heiress, Miss Clarke, from a Boarding School in Bristol, is afraid the girl will hang him after all; a pretty youth he must be to have obtained no more tender interest than hanging in a lady's heart of thirteen or fourteen years old all this while, for no one but she can hang him, that's sure. Do send me some particulars, I forgot to bid Harriet write concerning it. Bristol has always some wonder to exhibit, an impostor, or a poet, or a devil, or some strange creature....