Weston-super-Mare,

Tuesday, 7 Sept. 1819.

Your letter came too late last night, dear Mrs. Pennington, for me to take any measures concerning the House.... You will have it, as a favour, for three Pounds o' week;—cheaper than mine certainly.

The list of things wanted is just everything: knives, forks, spoons, plate, linnen: Weston affords only beds, tables, and chairs. Yes, yes, they do give us crockery, and there were two books in the town when I came, a Bible and a Paradise Lost. They were the best you know.

I am no better pleased with the complexion of the times than you are, but feel much more sympathy with the Mob than with their Galvanizers, who mean to give just the portion of excitement they choose, in order to deplace, displace I mean, one set of Ministers, and put up another set in which they take deeper interest. In this virtuous cause they care not what lives, or whose peace they endanger. But let them be cautious, or the Mob will make them their tools, to help break down the gates which, when thrown back as those of Hell in Milton, they will start to see

Before their eyes in sudden view appear

The secrets of the hoary deep, a dark

Illimitable Ocean without bound,

Without dimension: where length, breadth, and height,

And time and place are lost.[26]

Noblemen and Gentlemen are of necessity Aristocrates in earnest: and the numbers who now stand aloof, looking how it will end, and being—as we used to say of dear Siddons—no-crates at all, will even die with terror, and the conscious certainty that the great folk who assisted in the work at first, broke open, but to shut excelled their power. An ambitious Sovreign meanwhile, might while his army continues true to him, make them all his tools; suffering them so to destroy the House of Commons that he could reign in future without a Parliament, only just cajoling the Reformers between to-day and the year 1820. And such madmen are those who wish the overturn of constituted authorities....

Poor dear Mrs. Lambart can hardly hear these strange tales, I believe; she is at least seven years older than myself, but does not like, it seems, to tell her age. My Register, clearly written, as Bishop Majendie says, points out 1740.

On September 12 Mrs. Pennington writes to Miss Brown that she is going to Weston. "Dear Mrs. Piozzi is there, we shall be within two or three doors of her. She has been as active and anxious to serve us in this particular as she could have been at any former period.... If the air of that place, the fine weather we seem likely to have, and her charming society, does not restore me to something like health and spirits, I shall give up the point altogether."

The Card Table Riddle, which appears in the next letter, is taken from Mrs. Piozzi's Commonplace Book; where she remarks that "it has been plundered, and played tricks with, and published in Pocket Books, &c., but these are the genuine verses."

Sat. Oct. 17, 1819.

My dear Mrs. Pennington charged me to send her the Riddle, and Miss Camplin asking for commands, I thought it a good opportunity, therefore

A place I here describe, how gay the scene!

Fresh, bright, and vivid with perpetual green.

Verdure attractive to the ravished sight

Perennial joys, and ever new delight,

Charming at noon, more charming still at night,

Fair Pools, where Fish in forms pellucid play,

Smooth lies the lawn, swift glide the hours away.

The Banks with shells and minerals are crown'd,

Hope keeps her court, and Beauty smiles around.

No mean dependance here on Summer skies,

This spot rough Winter's roughest blast defies.

Yet here the Government is curst with change,

Knaves openly on either Party range;

Assault their Monarch, and avow the deed,

While Honour fails, and Tricks alone succeed.

For bold Decemvirs here usurp the sway,

Now all some single Demagogue obey,

False Lights prefer, and curse th' intrusive day.

Oh! shun the tempting shore, the dangerous coast,

Health, Fame, and Fortune, stranded here, are lost.

This Riddle I gave Salusbury when he was a boy, "But what is it, Aunt? What can it be?" "Why, replied I, can't you perceive that

A Card-table's green is perpetual and bright,

A Card-table charms men from morning till night;

Where, angling with skill for some innocent fool,

Their thoughts are still fixed on the Fish and the Pool;

While Guineas and Counters, promiscuously heap'd,

With hope fills those pockets whence pelf has escap'd.

Thro' Winter and Summer and demi-saison,

This occupies Ladies and Lords de Bon Ton.

For Knaves are successful at Limited Loo,

At Whist the odd Trick makes all Honours look blue.

The Ten, at Casino, Decemvir we call,

And Aces, at Commerce, take tribute from all.

Wax Candles superior to Sunshine they boast,

While Time, Fame, and Fortune for ever are lost."

Bath, 29 Oct. 1819.

I certainly do not remember a word about Siddons, and probably I did not get dear Mrs. Pennington's letter. It is no joke that my feelings grow torpid; I have had so much of the torture in my life that it is really a natural consequence, and if some odd things (kindness is one) do keep me awake this year, I shall certainly sleep out the next....

Conway's name is on the Posts as having renew'd his engagements, but he possesses many perfections, and leaves writing letters to you and me. Cecy Mostyn is a most entertaining correspondent. She is at Florence now, making good sport of her Cavaliere Servente, the Marchese Garzoni, but remembers your Mother still, and says I must mind and keep as bright as she did to 90 years old.

All you say of these horrid Blasphemers is said with truth and wisdom, but Dr. Gibbes and Mr. Mangin both protest to me, and they are no strait-laced moralists, that Carlisle and all his crew are white to Lord Byron; whose book is so seducing, so amusing, and so cheap, it will soon be in every hand that can hold one. Upham sent it me, thinking of course it could not hurt an old woman; but I held my crutches fast, for 'tis no fun to have them kicked from under one at fourscore—and the Scriptures are my crutches. If these gay fellows delight in obliterating the direction posts for Youth in the journey through life, they some of them may get into the road again; but as Carter said, my religion is my freehold estate, and whoever tries to shake my title to it is an enemy.

Dr. and Mrs. Whalley seem to have been giving la Comedie gratis here while the Theatres were shut up. Incidents are certainly not wanting, and the Catastrophe kept quite out of sight, as Bayes recommends, for purpose of elevating and surprizing. Those who come to hear what I say on the subject, go home disappointed, for I say nothing, and have indeed nothing to say....

Helen's sinking into oblivion is no proof of the people's good taste, for she is a clever creature, though no one less approved of her Classical Elopement—Helen to Paris—than I did. Is Mr. [Stone] dead, or only his wife? He was a Radical before they had taken root....

Lady Baynton has not improved her beauty by living in France: her son however does surprize me. A Titmouse scarce out of the egg when last we met, a Boy now of elegant carriage and behaviour; not a little manieré, perhaps too much so for rough England....

In this letter occurs the first mention of William Augustus Conway, who engrossed such a large share of Mrs. Piozzi's interest, and even affection, at this period of her life; filling, it may be, to some extent, the place formerly occupied by her adopted son, now launched on an independent career. That she felt a great admiration and real affection for the handsome young actor is obvious, and she set herself to forward his interests with as much assiduity and enthusiasm as if he had been her son. It has been suggested that her feelings towards him were quite other than maternal, and certain "Love Letters," purporting to be written by her, have been adduced in support of this theory. But the way he is spoken of in this and other genuine correspondence of hers should be sufficient to disprove the suggestion. It must be admitted that her admiration led her to credit him with talents which were not obvious to other eyes. He was a man of striking appearance, of gentlemanly and attractive manners, and a tolerably good actor, but gave little indication of the genius which she discerned in him. He had acted with some success at Dublin and Covent Garden before he came to Bath in 1817, where he acted in tragedy and comedy for some three years. Only a few days before her death, according to Macready, she sent him a cheque for £100, but this he returned to the executors. The same year (1821) he left the stage, on account of an attack attributed to Theodore Hook, and sailed for America. He played again at New York in 1824, but seems to have intended to devote himself to the ministry. For some unexplained reason he threw himself overboard, while on a voyage to Charleston, in 1828, but the seven "Love Letters" above referred to were not published till 1843. They are, in the main, undoubtedly from the pen of Mrs. Piozzi, though possibly touched up in places to make them a little more sensational. But, taken by themselves, and without any reference to the circumstances under which they were written, they might easily be misunderstood—as it was perhaps intended they should be. For the editor was either unaware of, or ignored the facts which appear plainly enough in the present correspondence; that Conway was at the time engaged to a lady at Bath; that Mrs. Piozzi was deeply interested in this little romance, and promoted it to the best of her power; and that the most emotional of the letters was written to console him at the moment when the engagement had been broken off. Her attitude all through is that of an anxious mother, seeking to ensure the happiness of a dearly loved son.

Doctor, afterwards Sir George Smith Gibbes, physician to Queen Charlotte, and author of a Treatise on the Bath Waters, was one of the first explorers of the Bone Caves of the Mendips. He attended Mrs. Piozzi on her death-bed, as described by Mangin.

The Rev. Edward Mangin, who had been a naval chaplain, and Prebendary of Killaloe and St. Patrick's, was a notable dramatic critic, and at this time a recognised leader of the literary coterie of Bath. He was thus brought into close touch with Mrs. Piozzi, and the result of their intimacy was his Piozziana, published anonymously in 1833, now rather a scarce book, which contains many of her letters as well as his personal recollections of her later years.

Carlisle was the publisher of Tom Paine's Age of Reason, and other works of a like character.

Dr. Whalley's first wife had died in 1801, and two years afterwards he married a Miss Heathcote, who died in 1803. In 1813, when nearly seventy, he made a third venture by marrying the widow of General Horneck. The lady was of extravagant habits, and came to him in debt to the extent of some thousands, for which he found himself responsible. Mutual recriminations followed, and in 1814 he went to France, leaving his wife behind. A formal separation took place in 1819, after which he again went abroad, and died at La Fleche, 1828.

Of Byron she remarks in her Commonplace Book: "My own idea is that he resembles the Dead Man's skull animated by a Toad, and made to hop, in such a manner that it attracted notice from the Lord Chief Justice Willes, enabling him to detect a murder."

Sat. Night, 6 Nov. 1819.

Dear Mrs. Pennington will believe the torpor when I confess the Siddons' story not new to me, and it is quite in his character who once quoted Cowley's verses to me in conversation as descriptive of his wife's person.

Merab with spacious beauty fills the sight,

But too much awe chastis'd the bold delight:

Like a calm sea, which to the enlarged view

Gives pleasure, but gives fear and reverence too.

"Too grand a thing." I hope some one will take your Grand Thing off your hands. We shall be wondrous rich if seven's the main. Your friend's fancies about seven are few in comparison with mine. Why seven is the perfect number, and the word implies and expresses perfection in Hebrew. Everything indeed goes by septenaries among us all day long. At seven years old the Baby becomes a Boy, changes his teeth, and his evidence is taken in a Court of Justice. Two sevens produce the change from Childhood to Youth, and the third emancipates the Minor. Don't ask me to go on; my conjectures would take 7 days writing, and all would not be finished this day seven-night. I enclose a Pound Note, and for the seven shillings it will be good luck to wait.

One would be frighted at your prognostics if you were a seventh son instead of an only daughter,—so sadly have the Rogers family justified your odd predictions.... Conway, poor fellow! will sure enough come to the case you assign for him:—work, and die nobly, or starve, and pine away. Old Bartolozzi, a veteran servant of our English Public, was censured for leaving us in the last years of his life. "It is because I know them," he replied. "Whilst I can work for them, and do what no one else can do, they will pay me liberally, and when my eyes fail, I may retreat to an Hospital erected for the Indigent Blind. I will," continued he, "go to Portugal, and accept a moderate annuity from the Sovreign." So he did, and died there,—out of an Hospital:—but Waltzing is better sport; so

The three black Graces, Law, Physic, and Divinity,

Walk hand in hand along the Strand, and hum la Poule.

Trade quits his Compter, Alma Mater her Latinity,

Proud and vain with Mr. Paine to go to School.

Should you want advice in Law, you'll little gain by asking it,

Your Lawyer's not at Westminster, he's busy Pas-de-Basqu'ing it:

D'ye want to lose a tooth, and run to Waite for drawing it?

He cannot sure attend, he's Demi-queue-de-Chating it.

Run, neighbours, run; all London is Quadrilling it,

While Order and Sobriety dance Dos-a-dos.

Brackley or Brockley Combe I know by heart, and very pretty 'tis, and Cheddar Cliffs: more like good genuine mountains than most British imitations are. For your complaints, I do pronounce them the effect of shocks upon the nerves, and sorry am I that the sea air did you so little good. I certainly liked it, and found Weston very agreable, and 'tis the true Ton to say how the place agreed with Mrs. Piozzi. So it will now become the fashionable retreat for old-age and haggardism,—a new word of my own making.

Mr. Stone was a raging Democrate, an Enragé; so he is not wanted, we have enough such. I fear Helen deserves some whipping, but so we do all: as Hamlet says, "Give us our deserts, and who shall escape whipping?"[27]

What, I wonder, put me in mind of poor old long-dead Demosthenes Taylor, a Doctor in the Commons? The torpor, I suppose, for I can tell but one story of him,—who told no stories at all. Johnson said once, "That man had credit for knowledge, perhaps he possess'd it, but I have dined six times in his company, and never heard him utter but one word, and that word was Richard."

My story must necessarily be this. He lived a Scholar's life, you may conclude, threescore years ago at Amen Corner, near St. Paul's Churchyard; studying Greek books and collating manuscripts all morning; smoking his pipe at night, and indulging in a game at All Fours with a distant and dependant relation,—a young Surgeon in the neighbourhood. One evening they were at play together. "Doctor," exclaims old Taylor, "I have got the Belly-ache so bad, we won't above finish this game." "Right, Sir," was the reply, "take something very hot, and go to bed. If you are worse, call me. If not, I shan't come till Wednesday, for very good reasons." "Ay, ay, my lad; mind thy business," was the monitory answer; and they parted at 10 o'clock Monday night. On Wednesday young Stevens came, according to custom. The pipe was smoked, and the game played, and "Doctor!" exclaims our old Demosthenes, "dost remember how bad my Belly ached o' Monday night?" "Yes, sure, Sir; and I beg'd you to take something hot, and go to bed." "Why so I did, a great rummer-full of hot Brandy." "Heavens!" cried the Surgeon, laughing, "I did not mean so." "Well, young man, it cured me. I went to sleep, and lay very late in the morning, and have no feeling in my Belly now at all: none in the least." "Lord! Sir, how you alarm me! No feeling?" "No, on my honour." "Good God! Let me look at it directly." So he did. The mortification had spread rapidly, and good old Taylor was a corpse in four and twenty hours.

Dr. Whalley has seen me at last, and told his tale. The loss of Mrs. Lutwyche's good opinion hurts him; as to mine, it is nothing impair'd. What astonished me was his saying that he was annoyed by Creditors when we were at Mendip in the year 1813;—living like the Dukes of Bedford or Marlborough. Mr. Arnold or Almond, his fine Man, shewed Bessy and me twenty Pounds worth, not 20 lbs. weight of meat in the Larder one day, design'd, he said, for the stew-pan. Is it not time to beg and pray for torpor? Sensibility would drive one distracted, sure. So good night, and give my true regards to those you love best; believing me your fast-asleep Friend,

H. L. P.

Francesco Bartolozzi came to London from Florence in 1764, as engraver to the King, and was one of the Foundation Members of the Royal Academy. He left England to take charge of the National Academy at Lisbon, where he died 1815.

The Rev. John Taylor, LL.D., F.R.S., and F.A.S., was the son of a barber at Shrewsbury. He gained a Fellowship at St. John's, Cambridge, and became Chancellor of Lincoln, Archdeacon of Buckingham, and Canon of St. Paul's. His great work, from which he gained his sobriquet, was what was intended to be a complete edition of Demosthenes, published between 1748 and 1757.

The origin of Dr. Whalley's matrimonial troubles has already been explained: it was about this period that the final rupture took place. In the first of the so-called "Love Letters," written 1st September 1819 from Weston, to Conway at Birmingham, she alludes to the recent scandal of "old Mr. Whalley's wife running away from him, and settling in Freshford."

The reference to Helen Williams is no doubt connected with a letter written by her to Mrs. Pennington, dated 26th June 1819, mentioning that Stone was "now reposing in his grave," and giving an account of her life and connection with him, as previously quoted. She then proceeds to refer to the reconciliation of the long-parted friends. "How much in contrast with my sad details is your brilliant account of Mrs. Piozzi;—what a privileged mortal! But really you seem to me to love her much better than she deserves; what excuses the 16 years of separation? The fault must have been hers: she always seemed to me kind and warm-hearted, but with no deep sensibilities."

The lines on dancing are quoted from her Commonplace Book, where she assigns them, on the authority of Mrs. Hoare, to "Smith, author of Rejected Addresses."

4 Dec. 1819.

To no one else in the world would I have written, dearest Mrs. Pennington; but you are so good and so partial. Other friends can find signs enough of torpor. Miss Williams's Beau, as we call him,—Mr. Wickens,—found me fast asleep on the sopha; he is a good creature and was sorry:—said the world was now coming to an end most surely, when such symptoms attacked, in the middle of the day, your H. L. P. If it goes on, my favourites must contrive to do without me. Our old King came into the world but a short time before his dutyful subject who writes this, and who hopes to get away in his train—if possible.

I have little thought to bestow on Dramatick Exhibitions; but Mr. Mangin, who is a classical Scholar, and has leisure to amuse himself with those who provide pastime for the rich and idle, said, when Conway acted Coriolanus here, that he had never seen the Roman Toga worne so gracefully. He has not yet left London. Macready was a fine promising Actor when I saw him last, three or four years ago: a very gentlemanly man too. We dined together at dear Dr. Gibbes's.

Mr. Pennington has, I hope, taken a new lease. Gout is a pledge of long life, if long life be indeed desirable. I begin to find it very burthensome to myself and my attendants, out of whose power it is to alleviate anything I feel. Dr. Whalley will do well enough among nieces and nephews, devoted to him of course, if he has retained any thing to divide among them at the hour of dissolution.

The Dipper at Weston super Mare came here on a visit yesterday, bringing me Fish and Poultry; how good natured! But I hear of a still cheaper and more charming place along the Cornish Coast, where chickens for 6d. each may yet be had, and Fish for almost nothing.

Meanwhile the Great are not exempt from ill-health or cares, any more than we. A general mourning will come, consequent on the Duchess of Gloster's death as on that of the King, and both will alike ruin my wretched Fête;—a foolish promise! but I must keep it now, and it will be the last folly.

With regard to Politics, they go very ill no doubt. My long life can call up but one year in which the machine went so as to please everybody: and there was printed at the beginning of the new Almanacks these words, observed perhaps by no one but myself,

In seventeen hundred and sixty—tis written,

All strife and contention shall cease in Great Britain.

In effect there was but this dispute in Parliament, whether our Success was the cause of our Unanimity, or our Unanimity the cause of our Success. And Garrick's song ending every stanza with

Cheer up, my Lads, with one heart let us sing

Our Soldiers, our Sailors, our Statesmen, and King

shews the same spirit. I believe they were never so praised en masse but that one time, which nobody recollects except—Yours and Mr. Pennington's

H. L. P.

In 1760, the year of George the Third's accession, Pitt's vigorous administration had, for the moment, annihilated party feeling. Wolfe's victory at Quebec had terminated the French rule in Canada; the battle of Plassey had given us Bengal; the French power in Southern India was broken by Coote; the engagement in Quiberon Bay testified to our power at sea; and England stood forth as the first maritime and colonial power in the world.

Tuesday, 7 Dec. 1819.

Threatening me as you do, dear, nervous Mrs. Pennington, I will, I must write directly. But surely we are neither of us such younglings as to fancy things at 80 years old can go on as they did at 40. We might then be shown for a show. It would be silly to believe my inside possessed its pristine strength, and the want of that strength leads to various uneasinesses, ill-described in a letter. We will do as well as we can.

Meanwhile assure yourself that one wonder does wait upon your newly-restored friend. At fourscore years old her outside is the best of her. Dr. Gibbes is too wise a man to wish to attend much; he knows there is nothing to be done, and what would you have him do? Mr. Cam the Baby Catcher would have suited me better to-day. The late Duke of Glo'ster kept one in the house the last six weeks of his wretched life's wretched end.

Weston did me nothing but service; gave a power to the unelastic nerves, and consoled body and mind. All is as it should be, though I do not think Conway's all-expressing countenance showed him contented with the looks of his Patroness yesterday, when he dropped in among other morning callers. I will mind Mr. Pennington's good advice and yours, and not disappoint the Boys and Girls of their Gala.

Salusbury and his wife will soon be here, I hope you will like them....

There is a pretty Book come out, very pretty indeed, against the Blasphemers; but I will not put my feeble hand to the Ark, assure yourself. That women should keep silence in the Church is a good injunction, and should be obeyed now more than ever....

Bath, 10 Dec. 1819.

Well now, dearest Mrs. Pennington, I have got a complaint I can talk of, or write about—a sore throat!—tho' never out of this warm room since Sunday. I fancy it is caused by relaxation,—talking about you to Mr. Conway, who saw your charming letter.... Tho' I did say, in a prudent humour, that he should see as little as possible either of your letters or yourself....

How is your fortune going forward? Smilingly I hope; and how will my Gala get forward if I do nothing but write funny letters to Mrs. Pennington, instead of calling names over to fill up the Cards with, or sit and chat with dear Conway concerning past sorrows and future prospects. He says he is come to act Master Slender: and thin he is most certainly: but so young-looking, never. I hope we shall make a full house to witness his first performance in Coriolanus next Monday. Can't you come over anyhow without serious risque? It would be pity to miss such an exhibition, and your retentive memory has Kemble's mode of acting it well impress'd. Mine reflects back only one Scene, I think, and he never saw Emperor John in his short life.

The Salusburys come next Tuesday sennight, and where shall I get them lodgings? I am all in a fuss, as the Ladies say; and wish you were helping me to do the nothings I busy myself about.

The world looks white, but it is not the robe of innocence; gilt and gloom lie under, and will burst out—upon the thaw. Conway's account of Carlisle's tryal froze me with horror....

The last appearance of John Philip Kemble was at his Benefit at Covent Garden in 1817, so there is no reason why Conway should not have seen him, though perhaps not in the part of Coriolanus.

Fryday night, 17 Dec. 1819.

.... On Wednesday Conway acts Iachimo to Warde's Posthumus. They neither of 'em ever performed the characters, and it will be a pleasure worthy of Mrs. Pennington. How will you manage? Better make business subservient to enjoyment, and come. The Coriolanus electrified us all; and my amiable friend gets admirers and invitations every day. We spent our last evening at the Fellowes's. The Hon. Mr. Burrell there promised to introduce him to some Club of Gentlemen, who will all attend when Benefit time comes on, and will, I hope, compensate him in some measure for his past sufferings....

I suppose [the Salusburys] will just come time enough for my Foolery, which plagues me to death already. "Would it were night, Hal! and all well!"[28]

John Prescott, who assumed the additional stage-name of Warde, had appeared at Bath in 1813, and till shortly before this date had been acting at the Haymarket. Mrs. Piozzi had a great admiration for his talents, and had helped to organise a Benefit for him in March.

Monday, 20 Dec. 1819.

Well, dearest Friend, I sent your letter to Conway, who is already in love with you, and wishes the impression he has already made not to be taken off by Iachimo. His wishes of being presented to you are most warm and cordial; he thinks you love his little Patroness, and I feel happy in the fancy that you will one day love each other, and talk confidentially concerning your poor H. L. P. when she is supposed to be far out of hearing....

My winter is not tedious for want of engagements. I am torne to pieces with invitations, and am forced to dine at Archdeacon Thomas's on Thursday, when I wished to be in the Theatre: but our Friend says we have time before us. So he has, if it please God, and so have you; but 80 years of my life are past, and I wish this winter was past too, that spring might make our intercourse more easy.

My Ball and Supper begin to be a plague to me, but I somehow hope and fancy that they may be of use to him whose welfare is really very near the heart of yours faithfully,

H. L. Piozzi.

In a note written three days afterwards Mrs. Piozzi announces that she and Conway are hoping to pay Mrs. Pennington a visit the following week, and then goes on: "Mrs. Stratton bore true witness to your impatience of our Separation; and indeed when the fine Statue we disagreed about has been pulled down a dozen years!!! 'tis fit the cobwebs should remain no longer." Can this really have been the origin of a misunderstanding between two sincerely attached friends, which lasted for fifteen years? It seems almost too ridiculous, but is the nearest approach to an explanation of the mystery afforded by the letters.

In spite of a snowstorm, the proposed visit was duly paid, and Mrs. Pennington writes to be assured that Mrs. Piozzi had taken no harm, and to express her pleasure at the meeting. "It was an hour of true, intellectual enjoyment, of real happiness." Conway evidently made a very good impression. "Of your Friend and mine, since so kindly permitted to use the, to me, always sacred distinction, I can only say he appears worthy of all the esteem and regard he has been so fortunate to obtain in your opinion. If that fine, ingenuous countenance, conciliating voice, and gentle, elegant demeanour deceive me, I will never trust to those tokens again. There is a certain something in his appearance that interests me more strongly in his happiness, than I ever felt on so short an acquaintance; and I long for an opportunity of discussing with you, dearest friend, those points that are most immediately connected with this object."

P.M. Dec. 30, 1819.

My dear Mrs. Pennington is a kind and generous friend, but her anxiety was superfluous. We got home without an atom of anything resembling alarm, or cause for it; and found the way short—I speak for myself—it was shorten'd by talking of you. Conway does certainly merit all our care, and all our admiration; may he be as happy as deserving!...

How good Mr. Pennington was to us! and all your friends: and how far from cold it was going home with that Eider Down bag that covered us so. I wonder where such things are to be had!...

The Salusburys will not come this fortnight, the Ladies God knows when....

In a letter, dated "Friday the last of 1819," Mrs. Pennington writes: "Remember me kindly to dear Conway, towards whom I feel disposed to indulge more kindness than I ever thought to entertain again on so slight an acquaintance. I hope personal knowledge has not injured the impression your partial friendship sought to create on my part. On his, the materials, all in prime keeping, are too excellent and admirable to admit any doubt on the subject. But we are, alas! something fallen into 'the sere and yellow leaf,' and cannot cope with these summer blossoms. If however not downright scarecrows to the young, 'the beautiful, and brave,' we may at least be useful land-marks and monitors, if they will permit us. Pray tell him from me, that in the experience of more years than I think it necessary at this moment to enumerate, I never knew either man or woman compleatly ruined until they were married. Observe, I do not say nor always so then, and I heartily wish him the best luck in the world in that fearful and doubtful Lottery. But I entreat him, by the friendship you have united us in, that he will not be hasty in chusing his Ticket, and that he will endeavour, as coolly and dispassionately as possible, to examine the Number before he makes his election.

"The Eider Down that was so comfortable to your dear Friend, I imagine can be procured at any of the capital Furriers, at least in London, tho' I know Paris is the place to get them in perfection. A Lady of my acquaintance purchased a delightful Pillow there, of an immensely large size, which wrapped about her head, or feet, or served her as the warmest and lightest coverlid possible. The Custom House Officers took it from her at one of the Ports, and she was fearful of not getting it again, or at least not without a heavy premium; when, strolling about, she happened to look into the Custom House to make some enquiries. No one being there, and seeing her treasure of a Pillow lying in a corner, she clapped it under her arm, and walked off with it, fortunately unmolested, on the principle that every one had a right to their own."

In a postscript she expresses a wish that "my dear, and pretty Maria Brown ... was rich enough for our Conway, I would trust his happiness with her."

2 Jan. 1820.

No proof more perfect can be given or received, dear Mrs. Pennington, of our hearts being well united once again, than your sudden as surprising impression in favour of our common Friend's happiness. I have studied nothing else since I knew him: yet must confess his power of raising such real interest is a singular one....

I passed yesterday at Mrs. Lutwyche's, and missed the Comus my heart was set upon, but Sir James Fellowes dropt in while I was writing this letter, and said it was inimitable. "Ay," replied I, "the Scholar's correctness, levigated by the Wit's elegant hiliarity." The answer was that Conway should have a patent for acting, and I should have one for praising him....

A few days later Mrs. Pennington paid a visit to Bath, and on her return was escorted home by Conway. She gives her impressions in a letter dated January 17:

"We had as pleasant a ride as it was possible to have on a road that carried me 12 miles from you. So interesting was our conversation that we felt no cold, and were surprised when we reached the end of our little journey. You may easily guess our subjects; but I am sorry to say that in the discussion of certain points, I cannot find reason to think our dear and amiable Friend so near the goal as your ardent and benevolent spirit is disposed to believe. The fair lady is, I have no doubt, as amiable as he conceives her; but the timidity and diffidence which renders her more lovely in his eyes, creates obstacles and difficulties that demand a bolder spirit, and more self-confidence than she possesses, to overcome. Love, all powerful love, which sees in the object the ultimatum of all its wishes, and overlooks all contingent and subordinate circumstances, only can do this. We shall see whether such is hers. Such only, in my opinion, can deserve the man who gains, every hour that I see more of him, such an increasing interest in my regard, that my anxiety for his happiness is become painful. My dear Husband is highly taken with his fine manners and intelligent conversation. He says he has seen no such man since the prime days of his friend, Governor Tryon, who was reckoned the handsomest man and finest gentleman of his time.

"Oh! no Lady need fear she can lose consequence by the side of such a man, who will always cast a lustre about whatever profession he may follow. Perhaps it is the very circumstance of holding the power of decision wholly in her own hands, that renders her so cautious, lest others should suppose she has not used the responsibility wisely. Oh! love, real love, knows no such reasoning as this! you know, dearest friend, it does not.

"I am on very ill terms with myself respecting the silly speech I made about your pretty Silver Tea Pot. You have shown me you cannot leave it me, and I will not deprive you of the use of it. That would be foolish indeed; for I want no remembrancer of you, and have many: besides I do verily believe I am not likely ever to receive it on the terms I asked it. Sincerely and fervently do I pray and believe you have many more years before you, than I have any right, from constitution and the present state of my feelings, to reckon upon. And it would be worse than absurd to rob you of an article of daily use, to throw it into the hands of other people. All I can consent to therefore is, that you continue to use it, dear Friend. Long may you do so, and should the most fatal deprivation I can now ever feel (but one) befall me, desire Betsey to deposit that with dear Conway's watch, and I will drink my tea from it for the rest of my life, and mingle my tears with the fragrant libation."

The teapot was destined to be a source of much heart-burning, as will be seen later on.

Tuesday, 18 Jan. 1820.

Well, dearest Mrs. Pennington, you sent home our favourite Friend ready to cry: he! whose business it is to make us all cry. But he swears you were so pathetic, and your kindness—so kind! His spirits required spurring for the evening at Mrs. Pennell's. I have not seen him since, save on the Stage....

If the Salusburys are not snow'd up upon the road, they will be here to-night: how shall I thaw them? We will make them a little no Party for the 20th....

Conway surpassed himself in Pierre last night; he has long left all others behind. It would grieve me should he meet mortification where he looks for happiness; though such things do befall the wise, the witty, and the beautiful. I wish he would stand prepared for endurance of an evil 'tis possible may be hanging over him. I have no guess how matters stand but as he tells me; and to-day his not calling, added to your letter, gives me apprehension.

Adieu! I have been to the cold Rooms arranging my supper, etc. Oh Heavens! what a foolery! It will utterly ruin your poor

H. L. P.

Something appears to have gone wrong with this letter, as Mrs. Pennington writes on January 20 in an agitated strain to enquire whether Mrs. Piozzi's silence is due to "a return of those frightful Cramps," or some other ailment. "Keep me not [in] suspense," she continues, "it is not wise to indulge so intense an interest as that I feel for you, and all that relates to you. I live on your letters, and literally think of nothing but you, and our common Friend. Would to God he was as deeply seated in the heart of his Beloved as he is in ours! But is it reasonable to expect that a mere girl should be able properly to appreciate the rich treasure of his love. No, it requires something more, rather more mature in judgement, discrimination and feeling. I was willing to be sceptical as long as I could, as to the nature of his attachment, and its extent; but I am convinced it is ardent, pure, and deep-seated.... She cannot know the value of such love by the objections she makes, and the indecision of her conduct. She thinks perhaps that the next Lover will love as well; but if she lets him go she will lose an unique, a noble fellow, and find too late that such love is seldom any woman's lot, and never more than once.

"I cannot think what has created such an interest in my mind;—yes, I can,—it is you, who have been, and are almost (I must not for shame say more) everything to me.... Give my love to the Chevalier [Conway], Did he tell you that after all the confidence reciprocated in our pleasant ride, I sealed the bond of friendship we have sworn with a kiss (as chaste as Dian ever gave) at parting, which he was to leave on your dear hand?"

Mrs. Piozzi's letter, written on Tuesday, did not reach Clifton till Friday, January 21, when Mrs. Pennington writes complaining of the bad management of the Bath Post Office, and then touches on the subject of Mrs. Piozzi's great Birthday Fête.

"I begin to feel considerable uneasiness on the subject of your Gala. I fear indeed, dear Friend, you will be run to an enormous expence.... I have enquired, and know that the thing was done at Clifton, and very handsomely, at half a Guinea per head, wine included: for after all there is very little drank at a Supper where women are the half, or larger proportion of the company." She then returns to Conway's affairs. "Entre nous, I cannot persuade myself the girl has spirit or stamina to set her above, and carry her through those disadvantages which others (called the World) would see and condemn in such a connexion. If she insists on his giving up his profession, he is shorn of half his beams; more especially as her fortune will not supply that independent respectability which would be some compensation for the loss of the eclât he cannot fail of deriving from the exertion of his talents. If she cannot make up her mind to take him as he is, I verily think she does not deserve him. The objections she lays stress upon are not to be found in Love's Calendar...."

Fryday, Jan. 21, 1820.

.... Don't be alarmed. Our Chevalier will do well; I hope in every sense of the word. But happy or unhappy, he will do right I am sure, and more than well. James Harris says, you know, nothing can happen that shall prevent a wise man from behaving wisely, an honourable man from behaving honourably; and for his conduct I will stake my life.

He must be diligent to-day, for he is to act Mark Antony to-morrow, and you will not see him, which will mortify us both, but he had no notice till this morning....

I am sick of my Foolery before it begins, very sick indeed, tho' people send me kind encouragement too....

James Harris, M.P. for Christchurch, whom Johnson set down as "a prig, and a bad prig," is best known as the author of Hermes, of which he gave Mrs. Piozzi an interleaved copy before her first marriage.

Monday 24.

My dearest Mrs. Pennington must stay over Saturday; our Chevalier comes out in a new character, and seems to like it. His Mark Antony transcended all I ever saw of scenic perfection,—dramatic rather. The tender pathos with which he said, "Oh! pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,"[29] was beyond all praise, and Lady Salusbury liked it. Sir John seems to consider Conway as much inferior to Warde in beauty, voice, and action: and the Chevalier's bright eyes, seeing how opinion goes, drop when he enters the room. They have dined but once together indeed, but both can see into a mill stone as far as most men. We meet at Bourdois' and Burney's to-morrow, and he acts Moranges on Wednesday. He will be introduced to the Masonic Honours on Thursday; and then give you, whom he justly adores, the meeting at my Concert. If he does not dance with the proper Partner, it will vex you and me both: but he will—surely he will. Meanwhile here's a flood to fright one. He, and all the people at the bottom of our town are in real danger....

The weather hurts everybody, and the applications to me for cards make me, like Othello, perplex'd in the extreme.[30] Here comes a tempest of visitants; no gloomy sky keeps them away....