To Sir James Fellowes. Bath, 20 May, 1818. My dear Sir James Fellowes's last letter was so long and so kind, that I could wish for another chat with him; did not the idea intrude of his being all engaged with these quality weddings, and that he would wish my large sheet of paper, perhaps, back in my own writing-box. Well! no matter; there are some people one never can get quit of, say the great folks, and you perceive I am one of them. Meanwhile we were making impromptu charades and nonsensical trifles the other day, when one of the company said suddenly : The brilliant colors that appear Good-natured at least, was not it? But we have not the fine thing here, constructed by Brewster,* uniting camera obscura with the other catoptric devices. O, how I should like to see that, and the exhibition, in your company. You really should write me some account of it. This weather will bring wealth to the farmers, and felicity to the apple-vats. A Devonshire lady, Sir Stafford Northcote's wife, who knows your brother Henry, says there is promise of more cyder this year than has been known for many summers, and as to hay and wheat there can surely be no want. The Queen's approaching death gives no concern but to the tradesmen, who want to sell their pinks and yellows I suppose; though something should be settled concerning the guardianship of her poor old husband's person. Our Demagogues are to make * Sir David Brewster, Principal of the University of Edinburgh, &c. a grand push for triennial parliaments, they say. People are in such haste to be happy; they play short whist, short commerce, &c., but after all these complaints of bad harvests, I did not expect them to cry for short commons; so that's one of my silly jokes. Is it a joke that Buonaparte is dying dropsical? Ay, ay: sweetly sung the old French poet who said of such folks: "Tant que la Fortune vous seconde, Mais au grand revers funeste Bright with fortune's dazzling favor Warriors tame our souls to fear; But reverses spoil their feigning, - Well! 't is no great matter whether they are turned off the kaleidoscope or no, if we listen to Dr. Hales, the great theologian, under whose quarto volumes on Chronology, poor Upham's shelves are bending. He stood up in Mr. Grinfield's pulpit last Sunday fortnight (as, perhaps, I told you), and said confidently that the world would end that day sixty-two years. It was the anniversary of our Lord's Ascension; and perhaps it may be so. You will find innumerable reflections on that event, in King's "Morsels of Criticism," which I have loaded, if not deformed, by numberless notes, manuscript, but legible enough, for I looked them over since Hales's sermon, as I thought they would amuse you. 'Tis almost a pity you should suffer them to be sold after my death. Sir Joseph Banks's evenings must this year be more interesting than ever, though I do fear the North Pole expedition will be a long time in finishing, and the people here are so desirous always to put extinguishers on their own entertainment. The ice field attached to our Ultima Thule, Fulda or Fulah, is now said to be a mere newspaper story. Yours faithfully, H. L. P. Adbury must be in high beauty just now; when do you go thither? I hear much of an exploding mineral in Derbyshire, that is to supply our deficiency in volcanic matter; and my curiosity is all alive about it: what mineral can they mean ? To Sir James Fellowes. Bath, June 1, 1818. My shamefacedness, and my desire of talking about twenty other things, kept me from showing you the verses I sent in answer to her exaggerated compliments, and kept me too from reading you some which she made impromptu on my complaining of the loss of youth and its accompaniments, beauty, admiration, &c. "O talk not to me of the days that are flown; Though Youth's cheerful blossoms decline, Even Autumn and Winter their treasures can boast, "In each season of life there are blessings in store, To rejoice in the fruit our life's harvest may give, For times I never can forget, And thus your praises, partial friend, Miss O'Neill will be visible here with the naked eye, as men say of a new star or comet, on the 13th June next, Saturday se'nnight. I shall make her panegyric an excuse for another letter. The first début on these boards is Belvidera, which I have seen Siddons play to Dimond's, Brereton's, and to Kemble's Jaffier, well recollecting how she spake and acted every passage, particularly her soft but striking "Farewell! remember Twelve!" which was sure to electrify the house; but I must say "Farewell! remember five!" which when the clock has struck, the postman will wait for no more from yours ever faithfully, To Miss Willoughby. H. L. P. Monday, 15th June, 1818. My dear Miss Willoughby was very kind in writing so soon, but do not call me unkind in writing so late; I waited to see Miss O'Neill. She is a charming creature without doubt, and charms, as it should seem, without intending it, calling in no aid from dress, or air, or studied elegance, such as in old days one expected to find in a public professor or dramatic recitation; but like Dryden's Cleopatra, "She casts a look so languishingly sweet, As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, Neglecting, she can take them." Comparing such an actress with Mrs. Siddons, is like holding up a pearl of nice purity, and asking you if it is not superior to a brilliant of the first weight and water. You are fortunate in finding a cool place during these unlooked-for heats of a summer season long forgotten in our country. My house is, as you know, on the hill's side; but down in Green Park Buildings, one can't help thinking how a fairy would feel if held down at the bottom of a bowl, from which the hot punch had just been poured away. But I am going to Wales, if these elections will have left me any untired horses. Meanwhile, our pretty friend, Mrs. Webbe, had a very nice party some time ago, and her brother presided so kindly. I fancy he is a good sort of man, but loves a wonder; and told me the other day of a gentleman who expected to sit in the House of Peers as Earl of Huntingdon. A gay dream, I suppose; but Mrs. Fox will know if there is any truth in the tale. Well! I do hope your favorites, the Wards, will rise in the profession. He is indefatigable; and though I felt him feeble and sinking in some parts, some scenes I mean, of that neverending Jaffier, he sustained many scenes admirably; the one with Renault was inimitable, and 't is long, indeed, since I have seen such a beautiful Pierre as Conway. Mr. Ward is so correct, too, so never-wrong. The poet has always justice done him by a scholar-like speaker; on the whole, I was very well entertained. Miss Stratton, one of them, is really very pretty: she went in hysterics at Belvidera's distress, so did Miss Glover. I said we should all melt into tears, but the joke was good for nothing, the house was no hotter (where I sate) than any other house entered of late by dear Miss Willoughby's ever faithful, humble servant, H. L. PIozzi. To Sir James Fellowes. Thursday, June 18th, 1818. It was sweetly done of you, indeed, dear Sir, to put the little warm bottle, and the warm kind invitation into your brother's pocket so. God forbid that I should outlive that quantity of Cayenne pepper, and want more!! An old Welsh squire did certainly keep on breathing till brandy was not sufficiently exciting for him without Cayenne pepper, but I think he was turned of ninety. Well! Miss O'Neill might have moved him even then. Our ladies are all in hysterics, our gentlemen's hands quite blistered with clapping, and her stage companions worn to a thread with standing up like chairs in a children's country dance, while she alone commands the attention of such audiences as Bath never witnessed till now. The box-keepers said last night that the |