Chapter VII (3)

I saw the Holmes, and pretty Mendip Lodge, as we came along,
and fancied I could discern Weston super Mare, whose Sea View
Place is just such a row of houses as Regent's Terrace; only
we have here such magnificent gardens, and one good house in
the middle of the row, looking down with true contempt on the
mouse-holes each side it:--and _that_ Mansion I am in chase
of, only suspecting that, before we knew it was to be had, I
entangled myself in a mouse-hole.

The women here are beautiful. The Lady of Mousetrap Hall, with
whom I have entangled myself, has eyes like Garrick's, teeth
like Salusbury's, complexion like your own, but cruel as lovely.
I fear she will not let me off; and in her house I should regret
the _ample_ space of your house, or mine at Weston super Mare.

I have half a mind not to let this go till I have finally
settled this _great affair_. Great indeed just now, for as
Goldsmith said

"These _little_ things are great to _little_ men."[33]

And on this 26th--I shall sit, fret, and dine
In a chair-lumber'd closet, just eight feet by nine.

For I feel myself after all condemned to the Mousehole for
three months certain; £2, 15_s._ 0_d._ per week, with a view of
the sea, and _then_ (if we live to see November), Mr. Paul's
comfortable Mansion at next door.

[33] _The Traveller._

PENZANCE, _Wed. 3 August, 1820_.

Charming Mrs. Pennington's beautiful letter was indeed most
welcome, tho' it does put me a little more out of humour with my
run-away frolic than I was before it arrived....

Now for Penzance and its Parties. Mrs. Hill made a splendid
one, for _me_ I rather think, and my black satten gown (for no
other is yet arrived,) was my best garment. Bessy lent me a
cap of hers, and my youthful looks were duly appreciated--my
whist-playing _applauded_. We had two tables, one for shillings,
one for sixpences; a profusion of exquisite refreshments, and
music in another room. Oh! if I escape all temptations to
sensuality, I shall live to see dear Mr. and Mrs. Pennington
again, and the Hot Wells, and Clifton Terrace, where I shall
surely jump for very joy. But these Red Mullets and Dorees for
two pence o' piece will certainly destroy _some_ of us. Poor
Bessy has been _seriously_, I might say dangerously ill, from
indulging in a Crab; it made James sick too; all the family
half-killed,--for the small price of a groat the fish, and a
Pound to the Dr.... a real Physician, thank God, and not a
country 'Pothecary....

The people know not how to be civil enough, and if my stomach
will reconcile itself to the clouted cream, I shall come home
as fat as the pigs of the country, and such pork did I never
see. Our own garden affords potatoes for us all, and onions
etc., besides the flower plot, perfuming the very air around
with carnations of every hue, Myrtles of every form, and exotic
shrubs with Linnean names innumerable. The appearance of our
Mansion, _pleasure_ ground, and kitchen garden, reminds me of
Kingsmead Terrace, Bath; but James says the houses here are by
no means so _spacious_ as that where your compassion carried
you when our incomparable Conway was so ill. I hope he has
proved himself _irresistible_, and what must the heart be over
which he cannot, if he pleases--triumph?... Oh! if I possessed
an unappropriated £100 in the world, I would go see him act
once again, that I would.... I am glad Mrs. Rudd's heart seems
lighter than when we left her; the Rogue has never written to
_me_, no, not a scrap; but she had an _earlier_ pretension to
his regard, I think it is scarce a truer.

Meanwhile Sophia Hoare has written me a more good-humour'd
letter than usual, and I am _so_ delighted! Maternal love is
the only good thing mankind can not throw away. It springs
fresh with the least drop of water flung upon it. She wishes her
illustrious Neighbour out of Town I see, and says wisely that
her present residence being so near the Barracks is unfortunate,
because the soldiers' wives and children are among her every
night's applauders. The Hoares are used to be violent opposers
of the Ministry, but Democrates like to have their property held
sacred, as well as you or I; and firing houses will make no
sport to the Bankers, I trow.

So now _pray_ accept these _not elaborate_ verses: they will
amuse Mr. Pennington's gout.

Around their _Queen_
Here are seen,
Sharp'ning every _sting_,
Bees,--alarming
By their swarming
People, Peers, and King.

But in their tricks,
Should they fix
On our property;
They must learn
To discern
That when they _sting_, they _die_.

Surely such Cakes, Jellies, etc., as they use here for
refreshments, all new and warm, were never _seen_ at Bath or
London, so various, so profuse. I never touch them, certainly,
but never was so tempted. No Confectioner's shop visible in the
place, _all made at home_.

With regard to rain, we live in a cloud of soft mist, rain,
if you please to call it so; certainly a perpetual damp, warm
moisture. Lady Jane James said, you know, that she never put on
a dry chemise at St. Michael's Mount, and truly did she speak;
but nobody ever told me that the sea here is as tame as the
country is wild. Wild without sublimity, coarse externally, like
other Misers; its riches all concealed underground. I saw Hay
carried last night, two months after the environs of Clifton.
But I have wrong'd old Neptune; he _can_ roar, I hear him now,
thank Heaven. Oh! how much more delightful is the music he now
makes than that of the pretty Ladies of the parties, to the rude
ears of dearest Mrs. Pennington's everlastingly obliged and
faithful

H. L. P.

Aug 3. Fateful month! but no clothes, no books, no Cook, no
Conway's portrait yet for poor H. L. P.

Cook, books, and clothes were still in the Port of Bristol, as Mrs. Pennington writes on the 29th, waiting, as it appeared, for the captain to make up his freight; and might then be expected to take from four days to a fortnight--according to the wind--to make Penzance.

The renewed enthusiasm for Queen Caroline was aroused by the anticipation of the Bill of Pains and Penalties, intended to dissolve the marriage, which was brought in on August 14, but proved so unpopular, both in and out of Parliament, that it had to be dropped.

On August 10 Mrs. Pennington is able to announce that the _Happy Return_ had actually sailed, with Mrs. Piozzi's belongings, five days before. Conway had been to see his mother, and had called on herself, rather, she thinks, from civility than from choice. "There was a polite distance assumed, evidently for the purpose of repressing enquiry.... I am persuaded we trouble ourselves much more about his concerns than he either wishes or likes." She gathered, however, that he had secured some sort of recognition from his father. She alludes to the letter of "lovely Mrs. Hoare," whom "I always liked ... because I thought her more personally like you than any of the Ladies."

PENZANCE, _Sunday August 13, 1820_.

Come! oh come! dear Mrs. Pennington, I see you half long to be
here, and what a relief, what a comfort, would your society
afford to your starving H. L. P.? Here is _no_ heat, _no_ dust,
_no_ cold: I daresay it is a very _negative_ place, but I must
not have you tell tales out of School. Miss Trevenan may justly
disapprove my censure on the _no_ picturesque of her native
county: and if you read her my letters so, I must grow cautious,
à la Conway. I _have_ heard from him, thank God! The rogue
told me nothing tho', except how charming you and I were, what
admirable letters we wrote, etc. "Yea, and all _that_ did I know
before,"[34] as Juliet says. Quere, whether he has anything to
tell; unless it be that he has at length calmed his own noble
and too-feeling mind, by conduct which himself approves.

[34] _Rom. and Jul._, II. v. 47.

But at the same moment with your kind letter comes our
long-expected ship. Cook says they have been to _Wales_; Swansea
in Glamorganshire!

The day you receive this one whole month will have elapsed since
I left the full moon _shining in her brightness_ on Clifton
Terrace. Never have my eyes seen her since. No, nor a starry
night. Yet here is sun enough, and the sea so beautifully blue
and clear, you would be delighted with it, as one is with a tame
Lyon. Will you come?...

Much, meantime, and of much more importance, is crazing all the
brain-pans of poor Europe. The revolt at Rome strikes me as very
surprising. The same people who defended their Sovereign as
long as they could, poor creatures! against French aggression,
now fly in the face of his not only _Innocent_, but _innocuous_
successor: no mortal can guess why. Ay, ay, you used to laugh
when I mounted my turnep cart and preached the end of the world.
But you don't like witnessing the convulsions that precede
it, and which increase in violence visibly every day. Poor
Ithaca! whence Ulysses was detained, you know, by the gardens
of Alcinous, has been shattered completely to pieces by an
earthquake, under the name of St. Mauro; and Inspruck, where I
spent a few days, has seen the destruction of her _Golden House_.

Our Queen Bee, of whom the Radicals have laid hold, will be the
instrument of concussion in _our_ Country; and we drones shall
suffer, while the stingers go on torturing each other into
madness. The Naturalists, Pennant, Linnæus, etc., have long
observed that all the _Hymenoptera_ have stings. Yet I suppose
that will not deter the _hopers_ from _marriage_....

Mr. Mangin's Intercepted Letter was a little Pamphlet, censuring
some Authors, Actors, etc., commending others; and I got two
kind lines, before we were at all acquainted,--so _that_ brought
on Library conversation, and he offered his services about the
_Name-Book_;--took it to London for me, where it was rejected,
not through any neglect on his part: and I felt myself much
obliged by his attentions, and rejoiced in his good fortune when
he married....

No particulars are forthcoming respecting the "Name Book," but it was evidently a work on Etymology, written some years before, which was to have been called _Lyford Redivivus_, for which she was unable to find a publisher. A letter in Mr. Broadley's collection indicates that it was finished about 1816, when she writes to Sir James Fellowes, "I wish Mr. Jenkins had taken the Name Book."

PENZANCE, _Saturday Night,
26 Aug. 1820_.

Dear, kind Mrs. Pennington, I love you for wishing that you
_could_ come, and you ought to love me for agreeing in the
notion that to come would be very foolish. One can hardly save
the expences of such a journey by cheap fish, when the water
'tis boyl'd in must, every drop, be paid for. And what an ideot
was James not to pay the carriage of the Turbot! When I miss'd
it in the weekly account I could have cuff'd him.

The heats are equable, not strong or _starvy_; but little can
be said in praise of the weather. Rain, almost incessant, keeps
one at home, and to get at this lovely sea, such stinks must
be encounter'd as I never knew but at Rome or Naples. Poor,
dear Italy! I _did_ love it however, and hear with unaffected
sorrow of the pangs that are tearing it to pieces. In France
_fire_-brands seem the instruments of punishment from on high.
In England _one female_ suffices. If nothing can be done
without _more help_, my Paper says that Buonaparte is to be let
loose, and that Prince Esterhazy's business here was to solicit
his liberation. Hissing the Duke of Wellington is a prelude,
a pretty overture to such an Opera. Opera means _piece of
work_, you know. It makes me more willing to _quit_ the world
certainly, when I see it rolling downhill so. But the whole of
it must be discover'd before it is destroy'd, and the little
ship _William_, a trading vessel from Blythe in Northumberland,
has in effect found at last the great Southern Continent, so
long supposed to exist, so completely forgotten of late years....

Did you ever read my verses, which this discovery made by the
_William_ confirms? "_No_," is the answer, Well then, here they
are, making part of a long poem composed 35 years ago.

Where slowly turns the Southern Pole,
And distant Constellations roll,
A sea-girt Continent lies hurl'd,
And keeps the balance of the World.
But felter'd fogs, and hoary frost
Defend th' inhospitable coast,
Which, veil'd from sight, eludes the Pilot's care,
And leaves him fix'd in ice, a statue of despair.

I hear no more of Salusbury. I never could get _him_ to care
about these matters: and after all, does not he act as _all_
parents wish their children to act, soberly and quietly, keeping
a steady eye to his _interest_ in this world; not, I hope and
trust, forgetful of the next. One must love the creatures for
their valuable, or delight in them for their shining qualities,
no matter whether they love me or no, and _in their way_
they do love me. Sir James Fellowes has written kindly and
good-humouredly, and my heart has entirely made all up with his.
Nothing, as you say, ail'd him but jealousy; and I hold that
to be what foolish Merlin, the mechanic, called a _desagreable
compliment_....

Miss Willoughby has written from St. Anne's Hill. She says Lord
Erskine wishes the illustrious Lady, who causes so much talk,
was _in_ the Liturgy and _out_ of the Country. After what past
at Ephesus, I see not why one should wish any such thing; but
the aggregate of understanding she is tried by will decide
rightly, I doubt not....

Well, God mend all; and give us a merry meeting on our _Happy
Return_....

The populace had been exasperated with Wellington over the Peterloo incident, and he was just now sharing the unpopularity of the Ministry, of which he was a member, on account of the Bill of Pains and Penalties designed to effect the Queen's divorce. The exclusion of her name from the Church Services had been one of the first objects of the King on his accession.

Miss Willoughby, who soon afterwards followed Mrs. Piozzi to Penzance, appears to have been a daughter of Charles James Fox.

_15 Sep. 1820._

I hope my dear Mrs. Pennington is beginning again to look for
an empty letter. Empty it _must_ be of all but good will, badly
express'd, for we are still-life people here, who see and hear
very little, and reflect _less_ upon what _is_ seen and heard.
I think every day more and more with our old Master Shakespear,
that "there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at
the flood, leads on to fortune."[35] Caroline of Brunswick has
surely miss'd her tide. A commotion might have been raised
the first week: I now begin to doubt its possibility on _her_
account. Rebellion however is _in_, as boys say of Cricket and
Kite-flying, and any excuse serves in any country. When what
is called a Spirit of Liberty seizes the swarthy inhabitants
of Morocco, how should their old enemies, the Portuguese,
escape? "When Afric _recovers_, Mundus will _end_," says an old
proverb. And as dear Mrs. Pennington says, "no matter how soon,
it _should_ be either ended or mended." The eclipse however did
nothing towards its destruction. I saw it here beautifully, but
there was little apparent obscuration, tho' the Thermometer sunk
two degrees. We shall have an elegant Eclipse of the Moon on our
Equinoctial day, the 22d of September: and our tides become even
now a little stronger in their flux and reflux. Like other quiet
temper'd people, their anger, I understand is dreadful....

[35] _Timon of Ath._, IV. iii. 218.

Doctor Randolph's state of health grieves me, and the loss of
Mr. Bayntom; on whom so many, (and those wise people too,)
depended with a very firm reliance. I always wonder at _such_
partiality. It has been my lot to love three or four Medical Men
very sincerely, and _like_ them in earnest for companions and
friends, but would not give much of preference to any. And 'tis
well that such is my humour, in a place where we send to the
_Tallow chandler's_ if we want drugs: no Apothecary or Chymist
residing near happy Penzance. Fowls we buy in the feathers--and
James says every shop in the Town sells Barley to feed them
with. There are no more Poulterers than Milliners yet everybody
is genteelly drest, and I warrant our Michælmas goose will be
good, and cost us scarce half a crown, giblets and plumage. I
should like to write you a letter with my own _quill_....

Well! now I will go work at your Fly; but even that is nonsense,
for I cannot frame it, nor line it, nor put it in a box. There
are no frames, no boxes, no linings, at Penzance. I cannot make
it worth your acceptance; and who dreams of my living till the
spring, and bringing it with me to Clifton, when I shall be
going on to 82 years old? I must finish, and leave it in charge
with Bessy, to save from the hands of my Executors; as I will do
by Conway's portrait....

The Harvest here is beautiful and plenteous:--

"Far as the circling eye can range around
Unbounded, tossing in a flood of corn,"

as Thomson says. Industry is a rough power surely, but a kind
one; working that you and I may sit idle, ploughing that H. L.
P. may have leisure to work Butterflies, and weaving that pretty
Mrs. Balhechet may look lovely in her various dresses.

Charles Shephard has written to me again. He likes the
correspondence I suppose, for we are 4000 miles asunder. By dint
of industry however, he will come home _rich_; and seeing 500
people richer than himself, will find he has exchanged honour
and distinction for Coffee-house chat and Drawing-room small
talk,--the food his fancy _now_ is longing for, but which will
grow insipid in six months; and reflection will _then_ inform
him that to talk of _Rum_ and _Sugar_ has more _spirit_ and
_sweetness_ than to talk of _nothing_. He begs me to write, not
newspaper occurrences, he says, but _stuff out of my own head_,
as they say at Eton School:--the head of an old Haggard, 81
years old!!! But he is consorting with those who never heard
tell about the gardens of _Alcinous_. Some one sung a Ballad in
which Lethe was mentioned, not a soul in the company guess'd
what was meant, till some very clever fellow found it was a
river, running between Leith and Edinburgh....

In Morocco, under Soliman, the Christian slaves were being liberated, and piracy suppressed. In Portugal, after the flight of John VI to Brazil, the government had been in the hands of a Regency, which included Marshal Beresford, who organised the army, but used its power despotically. During a visit he paid to Rio in 1820, insurrections took place at Lisbon and Oporto, the English Officers were expelled, and a Constituent Assembly formed.

The Eclipse of Sep. 7, 1820, was an annular one, well seen over the N. of Europe. Mangin relates how a similar one occurred in Mrs. Piozzi's girlhood, and an astronomical friend told her she might live to see another at 80.

On Sep. 21 Mrs. Pennington writes, much disgusted at the revelations of the Queen's trial, and apprehensive of their effect on public morals. "Not a Boarding School Miss, nor a Parish Girl, that can make out the words, but we see studying these detestable pages, and devouring their contents as they would a new Novel.... The worst part of the business is the little respect, and less approbation, felt even by well disposed and moderate persons for a certain Great Individual. The vices of debauchery offend and disgust more (with many who are not altogether disinclined to the practice,) than the downright wickedness arising from the ambition and tyranny of the worst Monarchs that ever reigned; and prove that the moral virtues are of more value than anything. Our late K--g lost 13 Provinces, and supported a war which was unpopular with a great part of his subjects, and which has ruined the Nation; yet he was loved for his moral excellence, and his memory is revered."

She deprecates precipitancy in the matter of the Butterfly, and suggests that any Carpenter, with 4 strips of wood, might make a rough, but efficient, substitute for the Tambour Frame which she thought Mrs. Piozzi could not procure.

PENZANCE, _Tuesday, Sep. 26, 1820_.

In life's last scenes, what prodigies surprize!
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!

SAM. JOHNSON.

Poor dear Dr. Randolph! Ay, and poor dear Mr. Chappelow too! The
post which brought your letter--charming friend!--brought one
from his nephew, son to Soame Jenyns, saying his uncle was dead,
and had left my letters carefully tied up, which he would send
to Bath immediately. I wrote and beg'd him send the packet to
_you_, where I shall find it safe if I live till May-day; and if
_not_, you will give it to Sir John or Sir James, my Executors.
He had lost his head long before he lost his life, I find. Awful
reflection! For a pleasant head it was, and a world of pleasant
stories were hatched in it. Would not Mr. Pennington be sorry
for such a loss to his true servant H. L. P.? I am very _sure_
he would; and vexations at 81 years old cannot contribute much
towards holding it in its place....

Of the discovery made by the "William," I think very seriously.
It is the last place that has lain concealed, and when the
Gospel has been _preached_ there,--Christ does not say
_obeyed_,--"then shall the end come." Distress of nations with
perplexity was never, no _never_ so apparent: tho' Dorset
Fellowes writes me word that they say not a syllable of their
own conspiracy at Paris.... You are right about the tryal ending
in smoke. I daresay it will: but the people, falsely called
people in _power_, are afraid of its ending in _fire_, like
myself, and will therefore be glad to compound. It was never a
thing of _their_ seeking, and the French are all for la belle
Caroline, of course; and threaten their English visitants with
the speedy appearance of Monsieur le Baron Bergami. Meanwhile
the fashionable joke is to say a noble Marquis, much talked
of in London, is like a _comb_, all back and teeth. Yes, says
another wag,--a _Horn_ comb.

My fret about your Fly was for a frame, a picture frame, to
hang it up in your boudoir. The only merit in _my_ work is
that it is all done upon the _hand_; I do not know how to use
a Tambour. The drawing it is ill executed from represented
the _Blue-eyed Paris_ from Chandernagore; a Butterfly of much
dignity, according to Linnæus, but you must accept it cover'd
with faults. Lady Williams of Bodylwyddan had the _Ulysses_
worked reasonably well,--a dozen years ago,--and Mrs. Rudd has a
Moth....

I never heard Miss Stephens sing, and what is much stranger,
never heard the famous Mrs. Sheridan. But I have heard old
Dr. Burney say _she_ sung "Return, O God of Hosts" better
than anybody except Mrs. Cibber the Actress, whose manner of
delivering that air was absolute perfection. Miss Sharpe says
the Kembles are well and happy at Lausanne.... I hear the
Twisses are returned to Bath, meaning Mr. and Mrs. Twiss; the
Girls are out, like good girls, getting their living.... Horace
has got into Parliament safe and snug.

Poor Mrs. Rudd! I hope she will keep her houses full, and find
me a lodging in some of them next Spring, before the 10th of
June, that I may bustle and be busy; and get my _little things_,
(as Ladies call everything,) from No. 8 Gay Street to No. 36
Royal Terrace, Clifton. But how hopeless and silly all this is
at 81 years old, and dear Chappelow dead of superannuation, six
years younger than myself, in whom _hope_ of living six months
would be _proof_ of superannuated folly. We must do as well as
we can, and wish we could do better. He was as temperate as I
am.... But when sickness comes in consequence of drinking some
stuff that _pretended_ to be smuggled wine, and _was_ a mess
made with sea water in an Alehouse; why then I _do_ despair of
ever again seeing any place or people that are dear to your poor

H. L. P.

Mr. Ray has long left Streatham and its neighbourhood. His mother died of cold in a rough winter some years ago. She would go and sort her apples in a loft; where being seized with a shivering fit, she was brought down,--only to expire,--at 92 years old.

* * * * *

Soame Jenyns, who, according to the _Dictionary of National Biography_, left no issue by either of his wives, was the author of the epitaph on Johnson containing the lines--

Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,
Will tell you how he wrote, and talk'd, and cough'd, and spit.

The French conspiracy here alluded to was the plot hatched for the murder of the Duc de Berri, son of the Comte d'Artois.

Bartolomeo Bergami, who just now loomed large through the cloud of scandal which surrounded the Queen's trial, was originally engaged by her as a courier, when she retired to the Continent in 1813. His handsome person so commended him to his royal mistress that she speedily promoted him to be her equerry and chamberlain, and treated him as an intimate friend. Through her influence he was made a Baron of Sicily, a Knight of Malta, and several other orders, including one of her own devising, under the patronage of "Saint Caroline": while a number of his relatives were provided with posts in her train.

Catherine Stephens was at this date the leading soprano at Covent Garden, and afterwards sang at Drury Lane, and in the chief concerts and festivals. In 1838 she married the fifth Earl of Essex, then over eighty years of age, and died in 1882. Though she had not a finished style, she sang airs like "Angels ever bright and fair" with much pathos and devotional feeling.

The Mrs. Sheridan here spoken of was the dramatist's first wife, Eliza Ann Linley, who died 1792. Though she was the finest singer of her day, her dislike to appearing in public had much to do with her run-away match with Sheridan.

Of Dr. Burney she writes in her Commonplace Book that he "died at last, I am told, at 89 years old, and in full possession of his faculties. They were extremely good ones. He _thought_ himself my friend once, I believe, whilst he thought the world was so. When the stream turned against the poor straw, he helped its progress with his _stick_ and made his daughter do it with her _fingers_. The stream however grew too strong, and forced the little straw forward in spite of them."

* * * * *

Mrs. Pennington sends a closely-written foolscap sheet dated October 1, largely taken up with the Queen's trial, a propos of which she says: "We received a comical anecdote in a letter from Town. They say it was a common trick for the little rascally boys, if they could get hold of a stranger in the mob, to offer to _shew them the Queen for sixpence_! On receiving it they would _shout out_; on which Her Majesty would immediately appear, and smile and curtesy graciously: and the boy would then add, "_I'll have her out again presently!_"

PENZANCE, _Sunday Oct. 15, 1820_.

A propos to Kingly residence the best joke is that since Her
Majesty has possessed herself of all the John _Bulls_, her
husband ran to _Cowes_ by way of retaliation. It would seem
by the Papers now, I think, that the Tryal draws near to a
conclusion. If any poor Italian should be put in the Pillory,
as menaced, he never, no never, would come out alive. When
Mr. Thrale and I lived in Southwark, I pass'd a poor creature
in that situation, upon St. Margaret's Hill, and could eat no
dinner for thinking of his sufferings and danger. "Madam,"
exclaimed Dr. Johnson, "give yourself no concern about him. My
life for it, he is drunk by now." The hapless Lombards have no
such resource, and the man I saw died before night. But Miss
Willoughby tells of another joke. One says the Queen must be
fatigued to death sitting in this room so, without refreshment.
"No Sir," is the reply, "the Queen's not _nice_; she can take a
_chop_ at the King's Head";--an Alehouse in the neighbourhood.

What you observe concerning public and private virtues may
be true now in 1820; in 1760 I remember, when Wilkes's moral
character was objected to by the Loyalists, the Liberty Boys
cried, "What care we whether he be vicious, or the man he
insults be virtuous? We look to _public_, not to _private_
character." In consequence of these opinions the Town was
deluged with verses, of which I can call to mind one stanza in
praise of the then popular Hero.

'Tis thus that we are told,
The Ægyptians of old
Ador'd their still _fouler_ Ichneumon,
Who alone durst engage
The fell Crocodile's rage,
With courage exceeding the human.

I forget whether the crocodile stood for King George III, or my
Lord Mansfield. They equally resembled him, I believe; but 'tis
plain men thought little of Jack Wilkes's _vartue_.

Your Butterfly, which was finished yesterday, is not less fixed
in his flights than popular opinion. When Cardinal de Retz was
followed up and down by an admiring mob, "Is not this fine?"
said a flatterer, "to see your Eminence possess'd of so many
friends and followers" "Let anybody ring a dinner-bell," said
he, "and see how many would be left me _then_."

Meanwhile the storm continues very grand indeed, but something
very like very dreadful. This bay looks so calm too! But
sweetest wines make the sourest vinegar, and no anger is so
fierce or fatal as that of gentle natures irritated to frenzy. I
begin to wish it was over; as I did travelling among the Alps,
which at first enraptur'd, but the third day _wearied_ my very
heart. Effect of the true sublime....

[_P.M. Nov. 2, 1820._]

This will be a dull letter, dear Mrs. Pennington; I have been
very ill, ill in good earnest, the pulse 92. There is a fever in
the Town, and Sophy, my stout-looking housemaid, lies cover'd
with blisters now....

Let us talk of the storm, it is more entertaining, and tho'
death seems, by the _describers_, to be most dreadful under
the form of white breakers, it comes cleanlier, and less to my
personal disliking, so, than accompanied with gallipots and
all the tribe of sick-bed sorrows; for which, and the talk
concerning them, my aversion was ever great....

I continue to do what I came hither to perform, eat cheap fish,
and pay old debts. Mr. Pennington will laugh, so will Dr.
Randolph, if you tell them Tully's _Offices_ are come to the
last _chapter_, and that I shall write FINIS to _that_
book, if I live the _next_ month through.

Am I, d'ye think, to see the end of 1820? If I am, those who
say people of letters are never people of figures, shall find
themselves mistaken in H. L. P. Had I dreamed of losing £6000 at
a stroke so, I would have been more prudent.

Conway was a good boy to send Partridge and pretty words to dear
Clifton: he sends me no such nice things, knowing that my regard
is not a ceremonious one. Marcella's speech to her lovers in Don
Quixote, when they tax her with ingratitude, has the best common
sense I ever read. "You love me," said she, "because I am young
and beautiful and attractive by talents and graces. When you are
so too I will requite your love, but no gratitude is due for
that attention which you all confess to be involuntary. Get you
gone, and plague me no more. Should I want your assistance when
grown old and ugly, would you give me any? No, I warrant. Then
I have nothing to thank you for."[36] ...

[36] _Don Quixote_, Bk. II., Chap. xiv.

Dorset [Fellowes] has been _surprisingly_ kind to me ... for after
all, "Age is dark and unlovely, it is like the glimmering light of
the Morn, when she shines thro' broken clouds: the blast of the North
is on the plain, and the Traveller shrinks on his journey." Well!
the people at Penzance do endure the dregs of the Piozzi very good
naturedly; and Miss Willoughby grows much a favourite with them all.

What is to be seen at Penzance however, is a _storm_. The billows
most majestic, and the sea spray tossing, foaming, as if to remind me
of Brighthelmstone. For _there_ alone does the salt water throw its
particles into the air, so as to be carried 9 miles over the Downs to
Lewes; where I have been warned to strip the Peaches of their downy
coat, because they would taste of the last tempest. The shipwrecks
here are shocking, and very frequent. This is no land of felicity
to any but starvelings. Bessy buys five such fine Soles as I have
partaken of at your table for one shilling, and they feed the family.
We had a Turbot larger than that I sent to you for half a crown, a
while ago. Miss Willoughby and I dined on the _fins_. But I scarce
believe all fish is wholesome food, the town is full of Typhus
now....

My heart tells me that H. L. P. has made her last journey; but 'tis no
matter, and will be no loss.

A new book called Nicholle's Reflexions, or Recollections, will amuse
you. His opinions of the late King run parallel with yours. But I, who
remember caricatures of Charlotte toasting the muffin, and George the
third reaching the Tea-kettle, can never be made believe that modern
Reformers sigh for _moral_ Princes. How did Louis 16^ze please the
people with _his_ morality? Calling his present Majesty _Nero_, is
to me _comical_. Carleton House may indeed be termed Nerot's Hôtel,
because the Master of it is kept, like the people of a bagnio, in
_hot water_. And it seems that's the true London joke. Adieu....

"FRYING SPRATS" (Q. CHARLOTTE) "TOASTING MUFFINS" (K. GEO. III)

_From a caricature by Gillray, 1791. From the Collection of A. M.
Broadley, Esq._]

The £6000, as appears from subsequent letters, had been given to Sir John Salusbury.

* * * * *

The joke about "Tully's Offices" evidently relates to her paying off the expenses of her birthday fête. The supper was provided by a celebrated Bath pastrycook named Tully, and the jest originated with Mrs. Piozzi, who, addressing her guests, bade them do justice to "Tully's Offices," the name by which Cicero De Officiis was commonly known in the eighteenth century.

On November 17 Mrs. Pennington, who has herself been ill, writes in great agitation about the Typhus, entreating Mrs. Piozzi, if she will not return to Clifton, to fly to Torquay. The Randolphs report it to be a terrestrial Paradise;--the scenery exquisitely beautiful, the air pure, mild, and dry, the town clean and neat, the living cheap, (the best possible meat 6_d._ per lb.,) and no lack of good society. Mrs. Randolph considered that Mrs. Piozzi might keep a carriage and live there _elegantly_ within £1000 per annum.

Of the caricatures she remarks that "they were no proofs of the people not _loving_ George the 3rd as a good man, a good husband, and good father, but merely the result of that spirit of _persiflage_ to which the people of this country are said to be so much addicted. The simultaneous expressions of joy which you and I witnessed in the Streets and Theatres of the Metropolis on his recovery, could only have been the effects of genuine love and affection. It is in the failure of these virtues that the present K--g has lost the warm hearts of so many worthy subjects."

PENZANCE, _Sunday, 12 Nov. 1820_.

I am very sorry, dear Mrs. Pennington, that I said anything
about this odious Fever; it will perhaps hurt the place, and in
no wise benefit me.... We are surely in the hands of the same
God at Penzance as at Torquay; and when _he_ calls, go we must.

I cannot leave my habitation, which I have taken for a term, and
must abide in till the term is over, nor will I go back without
having done what I came hither to do. My friends are but too,
_too_ solicitous. They have all heard of this nonsensical story,
and every day brings me letters full of pathetic, and I believe,
_sincere_ admonitions.... I wish you would all be more moderate
in your kindnesses. My establishment is not a little Cloke-bag
to put on my shoulder, and carry away from one place to
another.... Be _quiet_, dear Friend, so I say to Miss Williams
and Conway, who are half wild, God bless them!--and their loss
would be nothing to what they fancy it. Yet 'tis all I can do to
keep them from my door.

The world is all unhappy. This vexatious affair of the Queen
has been a _Tryal_ to everybody. I wish to know how the Bishops
of Salisbury, Bangor, and St. Asaph give their votes. Lord
Liverpool's observations are the best. If there was nothing
_wrong_ between the Lady and the Courier, what _was_ there?
Conversation was difficult, and talents there were none.

No letter has come from Brynbella this long time, but I know
from Miss Williams there is nothing wrong there; meaning as
to health and happiness. As to pelf I will be more prudent in
future; indeed the danger is over when the money is all gone....

Bessy and I are engaged far differently from trimming hats for
parties. Housework, and nursing, and crying, and clinging about
Dr. Forbes and Mr. Moyle, an intelligent Surgeon, is all we have
been doing a long time.... I do believe there is always Fever of
this sort in these low situations, and when we _do_ move, if it
be not to Dymerchion's burying ground, it shall be to the lofty
Crescent at Clifton. Torquay may do for some of those future
years dear Mrs. Pennington talks of....

If you like to tell Mrs Rudd I still hope to come early in
spring, do tell her so. Her son is a good child, and will ever
be an honour and a comfort to her and to your _really_ obliged
and troublesome

H. L. PIOZZI.

Her anxiety had not been all on account of Sophy the housemaid. Her attendant Bessy was the mother of a small boy named Angelo, a great pet of Mrs. Piozzi's, who accompanied them, and whom the Fever had brought to death's door, but who was now beginning to mend. She herself had only had a feverish cold.

The Bill of Pains and Penalties, reluctantly introduced by Lord Liverpool, then Prime Minister, though it passed the third reading, was abandoned by the Government on November 10, and the next letter gives a lively picture of the demonstrations which ensued.

PENZANCE, _Nov. 15, 1820_.

I feel terribly afraid, dear Mrs. Pennington, that my state of
anxiety when I wrote last, betrayed my pen into some impatience
of expression; ... and the interest Dr. and Mrs. Randolph were
obliging enough to take in my concerns, deserved more thanks and
compliments than I had, at that moment, leisure to pay.... The
weather is changed, and the Fever quenched, ... and H. L. Piozzi
become less a nuisance to her active Friends....

This town may defy any place of its size, or twice its size, for
a burst of real feeling displayed in honour of the late event.
All the ships in the harbour have flags flying during day time,
lamps blazing thro' most of the long night. "Queen Caroline for
ever" round every head in ribbons, while Laurel, Myrtle, every
blooming shrub, decorates the houses that would not wish to be
pulled down. And no bustle you and I witnessed in 1788, could in
any degree equal the spread of influence shown on this occasion
by Britons in love with morality, from Scarborough to Penzance.
Popularity may be outlived indeed, as her uncle learned I trust,
when shot at twice in _one_ day, and nearly torne to pieces on
another; when Cecil Forester, passing by accident, called up the
Guards, and saved George the third's life, in his own Park, from
the fury of a Mob, joined in deliberate design to murder him.
I was in Wales, but could not doubt a fact so well attested.
The State Coach, in which he _had_ ridden that morning, was
demolished, and he nearly dragged from his own private carriage.
My wonder is he escaped so often, and died in his bed at last.

Our Horse's Mother, (Mr. Pennington remembers the story,)
sent to me to bid me not to be frighted into illuminating my
house. The Peuple Souverain say "Light your windows, or we will
break them." My answer is the same to both. "We will do as our
neighbours do."

16th. Wish'd morning's come. The windows unbroken. The gay
fellows from Newlyn and Mousehole, (who increased our mob,) all
gone home to bed, after drinking "The Queen and Count Bergami
for ever," till they could scarcely reel to their wretched
habitations. But St. Michael's Mount was the beautiful sight to
see. Lamps in a pyramidal form to the top, where Tar Barrels
were placed, and gave a glowing light to the whole scene,
resembling the Bay of Naples.

Well! the wife of George the second was just dead when my poor
eyes and ears opened on talk and show. She was a writing and
reading woman, who respected _herself_, and half ador'd her
husband. She died detested of the people, and derided by the
wits. Our next was Charlotte of Mecklenburg. "Poor ugly Pug!"
cried the populace, who crowded about _her_ Chair, as she went
to the Theatres on her first arrival. Poor Pug indeed! when the
mob met her suddenly a few years after, at St. James's Gate,
with a bier and mourning apparatus; "Young Allen's body" written
on it. "Young Allen, murder'd by your husband's soldiers." The
Queen fainted, miscarried, and lived thirty years, when she
died. The people swung a Cat about the Palace, and sung "Old
Tabby's departed." _This_ Lady is a _favourite_; but sure the
others were not hated on account of their immorality. I never
heard a fault but avarice laid to _their_ charge, and _that_ has
been disproved....

Oh! these are pretty times in which to be caring for a
_lengthen'd stay_: but I have not _that_ folly to answer for.
May you, dearest Mrs. Pennington, be _as_ willing to lay down
the burden of life, when the Angel of release comes to cut the
last thread it hangs by, as is your truly sincere and faithful

H. L. P.

November 16, 1820, is the last date in her Commonplace Book which she notes was begun at Brynbella 1809, thrown aside for some years, begun again at Streatham 1814, and continued at Bath 1815.

In 1794, a year of great scarcity, as the King went to open Parliament on October 29, his carriage was surrounded by a mob crying "Bread," and "Down with George!" and stones were thrown through the window. A somewhat similar attack was made on the Queen's carriage in 1796, when she herself was hit by a stone.

In a letter dated November 17, Mrs. Pennington replies. "In an early stage of our acquaintance, speaking of you to Mr. Greatheed, I recollect his exclaiming, 'Oh! if you like her so much _now_, what will you do when you see her _miserable_? She is so _comical_ then, that she is quite _too_ charming.' And _comical_ you are, sure enough, my dearest Mrs. Piozzi! You scare one with ugly words, and then are half-angry that one is frightened. At above 200 miles distance, was it possible to hear of 'Fever and Typhus' in the town, and even in _your house_, and not be alarmed?" ...

"_All_ the Bishops voted for the Bill, (with the exception of the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Tuam,) tho' they divided on the divorce clause.... And all (with the above exceptions,) declared their perfect conviction that her Majesty was guilty, to the full extent of the charges." ...

"You remember, I daresay, Mr. Dennam's concluding sentence, in his address to the Lords, conjuring them to imitate the beneficent spirit of the Saviour, and to say to her, 'Go, and sin no more.' A blunder certainly, if he had taken the proper inference into account, worthy of _Paddy_ himself, from a man advocating her _innocence_. The following lines are, I think, neat enough on the subject.

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."