as well give me a little as give all to the gardener. Pray make my compliments to Queeney and Burney. I am, &c. LETTER XLV.--TO THE SAME. June 10th, 1780. DEAR MADAM, You have ere now heard and read enough to convince you that we have had something to suffer, and something to fear, and therefore I think it necessary to quiet the solicitude which you undoubtedly feel, by telling you that our calamities and terrors are now at an end. The soldiers are stationed so as to be every where within call; there is no longer any body of rioters, and the individuals are hunted to their holes, and led to prison; the streets are safe and quiet: Lord George was last night sent to the Tower. Mr. John Wilkes was this day with a party of soldiers in my neighbourhood, to seize the publisher of a seditious paper. Every body walks, and eats, and sleeps in security. But the history of the last week would fill you with amazement: it is without any modern example. I do not exhort you to reason yourself into tranquillity. We must first pray, and then labour; first implore the blessing of God, and use those means which he puts into our hands Cultivated ground has few weeds; a mind occupied by lawful business, has little room for useless regret. We read the will to-day; but I will not fill my first letter with any other account than that, with all my zeal for your advantage, I am satissider property than I, commended it for wisdem fied; that the other executors, more used to conand equity. Yet why should I not tell you that you have five hundred pounds for your immediate expenses, and two thousand pounds a year, with both the houses, and all the goods. whether long or short, that shall yet be granted Let us pray for one another, that the time, us, may be well spent; and that when this life, which at the longest is very short, shall come to an end, a better may begin which shall never end. I am, dearest Madam, your, &c. LETTER XLVII.-TO THE SAME. DEAR MADAM, April 7th, 1781. My part of the loss hangs upon me. I have lost I HOPE you begin to find your mind grow clearer. a friend of boundless kindness, at an age when it is very unlikely that I should find another. Several chapels have been destroyed, and several inoffensive Papists have been plundered, but the high sport was to burn the jails. This was a good rabble trick. The debtors and the criminals were all set at liberty; but of the criminals, as has always happened, many are If you think change of place likely to relieve already retaken, and two pirates have surren-you, there is no reason why you should not go dered themselves, and it is expected that they regard to practice and business they are the to Bath; the distances are unequal, but with will be pardoned. Government now acts again with its proper force; and we are all again under the protection of the king and the law. I thought that it would be agreeable to you and my master to have my testimony to the public security; and that you would sleep more quietly when I told you that you are safe. I am, dearest lady, your, &c. LETTER XLVI.-TO THE SAME. London, April 5th, 1781. DEAREST MADAM, Or your injunctions, to pray for you, and write to you, I hope to leave neither unobserved; and I hope to find you willing in a short time to alleviate your trouble by some other exercise of the mind. I am not without my part of the calamity. No death since that of my wife has ever oppressed me like this. But let us remember, that we are in the hands of Him who knows when to give and when to take away; who will look upon us with mercy through all our variations of existence, and who invites us to call on him in the day of trouble. Call upon him in this great revolution of life, and call with confidence. You will then find comfort for the past, and support for the future. He that has given you happiness in marriage, to a degree of which, without personal knowledge, I should have thought the description fabulous, can give you another mode of happiness as a mother; and at last the happiness of losing all temporal cares in the thoughts of an eternity in Heaven. same. and the post is more expeditious and certain to It is a day's journey from either place; Bath. Consult only your inclination, for there is really no other principle of choice. God direct and bless you. Mr. C - has offered Mr. P- -money, but it was not wanted. I hope we shall all do all we can to make you less unhappy, and you must do all you can for yourself. What we, or what you can do, will for a time be but little; yet certainly that calamity, which may be consi dered as doomed to fall inevitably on half man kind, is not finally without alleviation. It is something for me, that, as I have not the decrepitude, I have not the callousness of old age. I hope in time to be less afflicted. am, &c. LETTER XLVIII.-To THE SAME. DEAR MADAM, THAT you are gradually recovering your tran quillity is the effect to be humbly expected from trust in God. Do not represent life as darker than it is. Your loss has been very great, but you retain more than almost any other can hope to possess. You are high in the opinion of mankind; you have children from whom much pleasure may be expected; and that you will find many friends, you have no reason to doubt. Of my friendship, be it worth more or less, I hope you think yourself certain, without much art or care. It will not be easy for me to repay the benefits that I have received; but I hope to be always ready at your call. Our sorrow has different effects; you are withdrawn into soli- | have a discreet friend at hand to act as occasion The prudence and resolution of your design to return so soon to your business and your duty deserves great praise; I shall communicate it on Wednesday to the other executors. Be pleased to let me know whether you would have me come to Streatham to receive you, or stay here till the next day. I am, &c. LETTER XLIX.-TO THE Same. DEAR MADAM, I AM sitting down in no cheerful solitude to write a narrative which would once have affected you you with tenderness and sorrow, but which will perhaps pass over now with a careless glance of frigid indifference. For this diminution of regard, however, I know not whether I ought to blame you, who may have reasons which I cannot know; and I do not blame myself, who have for a great part of human life done you what good I could, and have never done you evil. I have been disordered in the usual way, and have been relieved by the usual methods, by opium and cathartics, but had rather lessened my dose of opium. On Monday the 16th I sat for my picture, and walked a considerable way with little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening I felt myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, and in a short time waked and sat up, as has been long my custom, when I felt a confusion and indistinctness in my head, which lasted I suppose about half a minute; I was alarmed, and prayed God, that however he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding. This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made in Latin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to be very good: I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpaired in my facul ties. Soon after I perceived that I had suffered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered that perhaps death itself, when it should come, would excite less horror than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two drams. Wine has been celebrated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into violent motion, and I think repeated it; but all was vain. I then went to bed, and, strange as it may seem, I think, slept. When I saw light, it was time to contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left me my hand: I enjoyed a mercy which was not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I am writing, and rejoices that I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why he should read what I put into his hands. I then wrote a card to Mr. Allen, that I might should require. In penning this note I had some difficulty; my hand, I knew not how nor why, made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden, and I sent to Dr. Brocklesby, who is my neighbour. My physicians are very friendly and very disinterested, and give me great hopes, but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recovered my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's prayer with no very imperfect articulation. My memory, I hope, yet remains as it was; but such an attack produces solicitude for the safety of every faculty. How this will be received by you I know not. I hope you will sympathise with me; but perhaps ness. My mistress, gracious, mild, and good, But can this be possible? I hope it cannot. I hope that what, when I could speak, I spoke of you, and to you, will be in a sober and serious hour remembered by you; and surely it cannot be remembered but with some degree of kindI have loved you with virtuous affection; I have honoured you with sincere esteem. Let not all our endearments be forgotten, but let me have in this great distress your pity and your prayers. You see I yet turn to you with my complaints, as a settled and unalienable friend; do not, do not drive me from you, for I have not deserved either neglect or hatred. To the girls, who do not write often, for Susy has written only once, and Miss Thrale owes me a letter, I earnestly recommend, as their guardian and friend, that they remember their Creator in the days of their youth. I suppose you may wish to know how my disease is treated by the physicians. They put a blister upon my back, and two from my ear to my throat, one on a side. The blister on the back has done little, and those on the throat have not risen. I bullied and bounced, (it sticks to our last sand,) and compelled the apothecary to make his salve according to the Edinburgh Dispensatory, that it might adhere better. have two on now of my own prescription. They likewise give me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence, but I am satisfied that what can be done is done for me. I O God! give me comfort and confidence in Thee; forgive my sins; and if it be thy good pleasure, relieve my diseases for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen. I am almost ashamed of this querulous letter; but now it is written, let it go. I am, &c. LETTER L.-TO THE SAME. DEAR MADAM, AMONG those that have inquired after me, Sir Philip is one; and Dr. Burney was one of those who came to see me. I have had no reason to complain of indifference or neglect. Dick Bur ney is come home five inches taller. Yesterday, in the evening, I went to church, and have been to-day to see the great burningglass, which does more than was ever done before by the transmission of the rays, but is not equal been advanced about it. One that the materials are not natural stones, but an artificial composi tion hardened by time. This notion is as old as Camden's time; and has this strong argument to support it, that stone of that species is no where to be found. The other opinion, advanced by Dr. Charlton, is, that it was erected by the Danes. in power to those which reflect them. It wastes | enabled me to confute two opinions which have a diamond placed in the focus, but causes no diminution of pure gold. Of the rubies exposed to its action, one was made more vivid, the other paler. To see the glass, I climbed up stairs to the garret, and then up a ladder to the leads, and talked to the artist rather too long; for my voice, though clear and distinct for a little while, soon tires and falters. The organs of speech are yet very feeble, but will, I hope, be by the mercy of God finally restored: at present, like any other weak limb, they can endure but little labour at once. Would you not have been very sorry for me when I could scarcely speak? Fresh cantharides were this morning applied to my head, and are to be continued some time longer. If they play me no treacherous tricks, they give me very little pain. Let me have your kindness and your prayers; and think on me as on a man, who, for a very great portion of your life, has done you all the good he could, and desires still to be considered, Madam, your, &c. LETTER LI.-TO THE SAME. London, July, 1, 1783. DEAREST MADAM, THIS morning I took the air by a ride to Hampstead, and this afternoon I dined with the club. But fresh cantharides were this day applied to my head. Mr. Cator called on me to-day, and told me that he had invited you back to Streatham. I showed the unfitness of your return thither, till the neighbourhood should have lost its habits of depredation, and he seemed to be satisfied. He invited me very kindly and cordially to try the air of Beckenham, and pleased me very much by his affectionate attention to Miss Vezy. There is much good in his character, and much usefulness in his knowledge. Queeney seems now to have forgotten me. Of the different appearance of the hills and valleys an account may perhaps be given, without the supposition of any prodigy. If she had been out and the evening was breezy, the exhalations would rise from the low grounds very copiously; and the wind that swept and cleared the hills, would only by its cold condense the vapours of the sheltered valleys. Murphy is just gone from me; he visits me very kindly, and I have no unkindness to complain of. I am sorry that Sir Philip's request was not treated with more respect, nor can I imagine what has put them so much out of humour; I hope their business is prosperous. I hope that I recover by degrees, but my nights are restless; and you will suppose the nervous system to be somewhat enfeebled. I am, Madam, your, &c. LETTER LII.-TO THE SAME. London, Oct. 9th, 1783. Two nights ago Mr. Burke sat with me a long time; he seems much pleased with his journey. We had both seen Stonehenge this summer for the first time. I told him that the view had Mr. Bowles made me observe, that the transverse stones were fixed on the perpendicular supporters by a knob formed on the top of the upright stone, which entered into a hollow cut in the crossing stone. This is a proof that the enormous edifice was raised by a people who had not yet the knowledge of mortar; which cannot be supposed of the Danes, who came hither in ships, and were not ignorant certainly of the arts of life. This proves likewise the stones not to be factitious; for they that could mould such durable masses could do much more than make mortar, and could have continued the transverse from the upright part with the same paste. You have doubtless seen Stonehenge; and if you have not, I should think it a hard task to make an adequate description. It is, in my opinion, to be referred to the earliest habitation of the island, as a druidical monument of at least two thousand years; probably the most ancient work of man upon the island. Salisbury cathedral and its neighbour Stonehenge, are two eminent monuments of art and rudeness, and may show the first essay, and the last perfection in architecture. I have not yet settled my thoughts about the generation of light air, which I indeed once saw produced, but I was at the height of my great complaint. I have made inquiry, and shall soon be able to tell you how to fill a balloon. I am, Madam, your, &c. London, Dec. 27th, 1783. LETTER LIII.—TO THE Same. DEAR MADAM, THE wearisome solitude of the long evenings did indeed suggest to me the convenience of a club in my neighbourhood, but I have been hindered from attending it by want of breath. If I can complete the scheme, you shall have the names and the regulations. The time of the year, for I hope the fault is rather in the weather than in me, has been very hard upon me. The muscles of my breast are much convulsed. Dr. Heberden recommends opiates, of which I have such horror that I do not think of them but in extremis. I was, however, driven to them last night for refuge, and having taken the usual quantity, durst not go to bed, for fear of that uneasiness to which a supine posture exposes me, but rested all night in a chair with much relief, and have been to-day more warm, active, and cheerful. You have more than once wondered at my complaint of solitude when you hear that I am crowded with visits. Inopem me copia fecit. Visiters are no proper companions in the chamber of sickness. They come when I could sleep or read, they stay till I am weary, they force me to attend when my mind calls for relaxation, and to speak when my powers will hardly actuate my tongue. The amusements and consolations of languor and depression are conferred by fami- | Liar and domestic companions, which can be visited or called at will, and can occasionally be quieted or dismissed, who do not obstruct accommodation by ceremony, or destroy indolence by awakening effort. Such society I had with Levet and Williams; such I had where--I am never likely to have it more. I wish, dear lady, to you and my dear girls, many a cheerful and pious Christmas. I am, your, &c. LETTER LIV.-To MRS. PIOZZI. DEAK MADAM, WHAT you have done, however I may lament it, I have no pretence to resent, as it has not been injurious to me; I therefore breathe out one sigh more of tenderness, perhaps useless, but at least sincere. I wish that God may grant you every blessing, that you may be happy in this world for its short continuance, and eternally happy in a better state; and whatever I can contribute to your happiness I am very ready to repay, for that kindness which soothed twenty years of a life radically wretched. Do not think slightly of the advice which I now presume to offer. Prevail upon Mr. Piozzi to settle in England: you may live here with more dignity than in Italy, and with more security; your rank will be higher, and your fortune more under your own eye. I desire not to detail all my reasons; but every argument of prudence and interest is for England, and only some phan-' toms of imagination seduce you to Italy. I am afraid, however, that my counsel is vain, yet I have eased my heart by giving it. When Queen Mary took the resolution of sheltering herself in England, the Archbishop of St. Andrews, attempting to dissuade her, attended on her journey; and when they came to the irremeable stream that separated the two kingdoms, walked by her side into the water, in the middle of which he seized her brible, and with earnestness proportioned to her danger and his own affection pressed her to return. queen went forward.-If the parallel reaches thus far, may it go no farther.-The tears stand in my eyes. The I am going into Derbyshire, and hope to be followed by your good wishes, for I am, with great affection, your, &c. PROLOGUE. YE glittering train, whom lace and velvet bless, Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress! From grovelling business and superfluous care, Ye sons of Avarice, a moment spare! Votaries of Fame, and worshippers of Power, Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour! Our daring bard, with spirit unconfined, Spreads wide the mighty moral for mankind. Learn here how Heaven supports the virtuous mind, Daring, though calm, and vigorous, though resign'd. Learn here what anguish racks the guilty breast, If truths like these with pleasing language join; Ennobled, yet unchanged, if Nature shine; Be this at least his praise, be this his pride; ACT I. SCENE I.-DEMETRIUS and LEONTIUS, in Turkish Habits. Leon. And is it thus Demetrius meets his friend, These groans were fatal, these disguises vain; Leon. Yet Greece enjoys no gleam of transient hope, No soothing interval of peaceful sorrow; caverns Pregnant with stores that India's mines might envy, Th' accumulated wealth of toiling ages. Dem. That wealth too sacred for their country's use! That wealth, too pleasing to be lost for freedom! That wealth, which, granted to their weeping prince, Had ranged embattled nations at our gates! That froze our veins, and wither'd all our powers. Leon. Whate'er our crimes, our woes demand compassion. Each night, protected by the friendly darkness, Dem. How changed, alas !-Now ghastly In triumph sits upon our shatter'd spires; Leon. From every palace bursts a mingled clamour, The dreadful dissonance of barbarous triumph, Dem. Aspasia! spare that loved, that mournful name: Dear, hapless maid-tempestuous grief o'erbears My reasoning powers--Dear, hapless, lost Aspasia! Leon. Suspend the thought. Dem. All thought on her is madness; Yet let me think-I see the helpless maid, Behold the monsters gaze with savage rapture, Behold how lust and rapine struggle round her; [dream, Leon. Awake, Demetrius, from this dismal Leon. Reproach not misery.--The sons of Think on the various accidents of war; Greece, Ill-fated race! so oft besieged in vain, The clouds, a signal of impending showers, Think on the mighty power of awful virtue; Dem. O Providence! extend thy care to me, Leon. Some virgin martyr, it. Perhaps, enamour'd of resembling virtue, Dem. A thousand horrid prodigies foretold A feeble government, eluded laws, A factious populous, luxurious nobles, And all the maladies of sinking states. When public Villainy, too strong for justice, Shows his bold front, the harbinger of ruin, Can brave Leontius call for airy wonders, Which cheats interpret, and which fools regard? When some neglected fabric nods beneath The weight of years, and totters to the tempest, Must Heaven despatch the messengers of light, Or wake the dead, to warn us of its fall? Leon. Well might the weakness of our empire sink Before such foes of more than human force; Beyond the power of constancy and courage? 'Twas vice that shook our nerves, 'twas vice, Leontius, Leon. Enough of unavailing tears, Demetrius: I come obedient to thy friendly summons, And hoped to share thy councils, not thy sor rows: While thus we mourn the fortune of Aspasia, To what are we reserved? Dem. To what I know not: But hope, yet hope, to happiness and honour; If happiness can be without Aspasia. Leon. But whence this new-sprung hope? Dem. From Cali Bassa, [counsels. The chief, whose wisdom guides the Turkish He, tired of slavery, though the highest slave, Projects at once our freedom and his own; And bids us thus disguised await him here. |