Go, Caroline, we thee implore,
And sin, (if it be possible,) no more.
But if that effort be too great,
For God's sake, go—at any rate."
Penzance, Fryday 24 Nov. 1820.
· · · · · · ·
The oldest friend I have in N. Wales, poor dear Mr. Lloyd of Pontriffeth, is dying; and my earliest playfellow and cousin, Tom Cotton, is dead. We never met, of course, since my second marriage, and he was saucy. But I am sorry, for he will be saucy no more. So if my death prevents me from returning to No. 36, you must not wonder, tho' I will not say you must not cry.... Conway writes the kindest of letters: but Newton is tardy in his payments, and I am as low-spirited as a cat.
It would however have made me laugh to see Miss Hudson illuminating her windows, and it does not make me weep to observe that the Brynbella people never write. Tom Cotton's death is a bad thing for Salusbury, his life is in all our leases. Mr. Thrale had a proper notion of that man's longævity. He lived 77 years. Lady Keith and I are the other two. Dearest Piozzi enjoyed the estate and improved it, and never had a life to renew,—never cost him a penny. Those who do right get a little reward for it, even here; and now that my heart feels itself on the brink of eternity, how daily and nightly do I thank God and my parents that in my gayest hours I never did forget it....
Lieutenant Parry's voyage might supply much food for thought and chat. He has surrounded the Pole, and found the seas more open than was expected. I do not understand that we are brought nearer to America, but we are near enough to them for the love they bear us. 'Tis pity he lost sight of the red snow, and the savages who took our ships for animated creatures, fancying, like the Mexicans in Dryden's "Indian Emperor," that
They turned their sides, and to each other spoke,
We saw their words break forth in fire and smoke, etc.
It was so pretty to see his fine ideas realised.
Miss Willoughby and your most humble servant have been at a Penzance Ball, the first, (as we were told,) illuminated by Wax Candles; and the Ladies led our admiration to the lustres. They had better have led it to their own beauty, for we had seen lighter rooms often, seldom such pretty women; and all like one another....
I will live, if I can, but every day counts now, aye, and every pulse too, and 'twere a folly not to feel it. Were a soldier to sleep sound in a besieged town, Mr. Pennington would count him lethargic. But he that sleeps during the attack, can only be compared to that man or woman who does not prepare for death at 81 years old, but just tries to keep him out of sight....
It is not because I think better of Mortal Man than you do, dear friend; worse probably of men and morals, having seen more. But then I am contented with less, and ever thankful when things and people are no worse, surrounded with temptations as the poor creatures are, and filled with snares, holes, gins, rotten planks, etc., as we all find the bridge that carries us from this world to the other. Fools flapping their umbrellas in our faces all the way, hiding the light from us at every step, and triumphing in slips made by their neighbours, whilst tottering along themselves, scarce able to stand or go. Do not be sorry that I have arrived at more than three-quarters over, but pity those that have many arches to pass, with broken battlements on either side, enough to giddy their brains. Salusbury's path seems clearest of difficulties, but he is in danger of drowsiness; Conway's walk is above all men's dangerous. And neither of them, poor dears! have, in their early stages, experienced the advantage of an authorised hand to lead or guide them. Yet you will see them both—good fellows in their way—whether they love me enough or not, I'm sure you will. Conway certainly, I believe both, do think better than she deserves of theirs and your
H. L. P.
... I am sitting without a fire, it is so warm and damp, and soft an atmosphere, we are all relaxed to rags. No sunshine.
Thomas Cotton was the fourth of the six sons of Mrs. Piozzi's maternal uncle, Sir Lynch Salusbury Cotton, Bart., and almost the only one of that large family to whom she ever alludes.
Lieutenant Parry had commanded the Brig Alexander in the expedition of Captain Ross to the Polar regions in 1818. In 1819 he sailed in command of the Hecla to discover the N.W. passage, and reached Melville Island. He returned in the autumn of this year, landing at Peterhead on October 30, and posted to town. His despatches reached the Admiralty on November 4, and he was shortly afterwards promoted to the rank of Commander.
The latter part of the letter is of course based on Steele's "Vision of Mirza," published in the Spectator, No. 159.
Penzance, Thursday, 30 Nov. 1820.
... This morning, all agree, is to exhibit a new procession through the streets of the Metropolis, which, with its consequences, may justly fill thinking people with alarm. How much benefit can result from invective meanwhile, I see not. Insult is harder to forgive than injury, and for the best reason, it does the insulter no good. A man may fill his purse by robbing me, while he who flings dirt sometimes forgets that there's a pebble lodg'd within, which cuts so sharp as to excite lasting hatred; and all for what? Reformation never yet was effected by scurrility. And if the Fourth Estate of the Nation, as some Member of Parliament called the newspapers, were less violent on both sides, it would be better. Irritating an already much offended and dangerous enemy is, surely, not prudent. Better get rid of such a one without submission, but without harsh language.
If then we fail, the world will only find
Rage has no bounds in slighted womankind.
Dryden.
When the Orientals go out Tyger hunting, they try to finish, not to wound the creature. But I am wearied with conjecture, and must wait the result as I can....
No new book has reached us but the Abbot, an odd novel enough, but to me a dull one. The Edgeworths have always humour, and often some good information.
Jeffrey Crayon's Sketch Book is pretty enough. How oddly the things come round! There was just such an out-of-the-way writer entertained the Town about 66 or 67 years ago. He called his book Sketches, and assumed the name himself of Lancelot Temple. But 'tis strange how names are left behind, when the books are forgotten that first used them. John Bull is in every mouth, and every Pamphlet, yet people do not seem to know who first called Old England by that very appropriate appellation. Mr. Pennington, I dare say, well recollects that it was Dean Swift: when, to reconcile the Nation to Harley's Peace of Utrecht, and the loss of their Bonfires for Marlboro's victories, he and Arbuthnot planned a little work called Law is a bottomless Pit; in which he represents Great Britain as engaged in a litigious quarrel with Lewis Baboon, by which name he designates Louis Quatorze, and shows how we were cheated by our Allies, Nic: Frog for Holland, my Lord Strut, for the Emperor of Germany, and so on. Of all this rubbish, composed of wit and malice and mummery, little now sticks in any but such memories as mine; remembering old stuff better than new....
The invention of the phrase "Fourth Estate" is attributed to Burke, who, referring to the Reporters' Gallery, said, "Yonder sits the Fourth Estate, more powerful than them all."