VI L

22 March 1782.

I danced till six this morning in the midst of festoons,
glittering lustres, painted cupids and garlands of roses.
All our fine butterflies displayed their gayest colours -
jewels, as in duty bound, sparkled on every side. The Prince,
brighter than sun-shine, cast a brilliant gleam where ever
more graceful, more insinuating.
he moved. I never saw him in a livelier or kindlier mood,
To me in particular he was graciousness personified. So
benign am example was sure to be followed and it became the
rage to bestow upon my dress, and my dancing, and all I did,
and all I said - the most wildly extravagant encomiums.
In the choice of a partner I really was most fortunate.
Lady C. S. fell to my share the best part of the evening.
Many fair damsels and their scheming conductresses followed
us with scrutinizing eyes. Lady G. scowled formidably.
You may easily guess why. George was there, looking forlorn
and miserable. Sophia had not been asked. You may also
easily guess why. Lady Melbourne's host of admirers were
uncommonly numerous - but for my part, I did not add to the
number. I dont like these full bosomed, large elbowed Junos
better than you do. They may be divinities in Olympus for
aught I know to the contrary, but here upon earth it is only
in the dairy that they hold a very high rank in my estimation.
In our prime cotillon this potent Lady entangled her feet
in her furbelloes and flounces - but kept dancing on as
intrepidly as a tom boyish school girl skipping over a rope.
Had/

x We know what swarms of flatterers a grand reputation for
riches has always engendered - and as at this period I had
the honour of passing for "England's wealthiest son", the
exaggerated praise I received may be easily accounted for.

VI. 0

April 5 1782.

At length - after moving Heaven and Earth and one
would almost think the powers beneath it - Lady Craven
has succeeded in obtaining the loan of Queensbury House
for the performance of her Pastoral - the words - a
farrago of her Ladyships - the music a farrago of
mine - our actors and actresses - singers and songstresses
are all in their teens without any exception - Burton
and Bertoni are drilling them apace - under a special
commission from me. The "spectacle" in the last scene
will be "ravissant" - not less than twenty or thirty
blooming girls and boys appearing together at one time
on the stage.

Would you believe it - for a long while our usually
indulgent friend the dapper Dickie () run quite rusty - and
kicked at the idea of having his palazzo pulled to pieces.
This was prophetic as it turned out, for we are all at
work clearing away partitions and making (sic) as thick
a dust as ever was raised by coaches and phaetons on the
grand day of Epsom and Ascot. Heavens, thought I, how
the old Duchess would rave could she cast a glance from
below at our attack on her gallery. How tremendously
would her mob-capped satellites - inexorable as the
destinies - ply their besoms to sweep us out. I really
shudder to think of it, never forgetting the scene at
Amesbury I have so often told you of - when she kept
brandishing over my head a red-hot poker exclaiming I
will be obeyed as its fit I should.

"In this sublunary sphere none can answer for changes.
A power as determined as her grace now rules within her
palace/

-2-

palace. Lady Craven is doing exactly what seemeth best in her fine large eyes and I am seconding her delicious little acts of despotism with a willing spirit. Barthelemon leads our band and manages our chorus and a nice chorus it is, composed of his wife, his eldest well taught brat and seven or eight stray choiristers from Westminster and the Chapel royal. Our "Noblesse " though they cut a delightful figure on the stage and open their coral lips very plausibly, are not in reality required to sing - no - no - the efficient chorus is behind the scenes enveloped in mystery. Henry Fitzroy is our principal singer - by far the handsomest looking specimen of King Charles's breed I am acquainted with - your silken eared favourite not excepted. He sings from the heart in a delightful contralto and thanks to our beloved Bertoni has caught already some of those bewitching appoggiaturas which were probably in high vogue at the Opera of Sybaris. Our prima donna - Miss Fawkener - (the daughter of a once most fashionable Miss Ashe) has real talent, which is more than I can say of several others, who shall, and deserve to be nameless, and who are O ye Gods - how right entirely hum-drum. One of these Dowdies x opens (sic) the opera with a song about twirling a wheel - of my composition alas'. - but of which I am ashamed most heartily.

X: Elisabeth, Miss Charles e. Dan.

X Dowdy the 1st) Miss Craven, married a Mr. Maddocks.
Dowdy the 2nd - L'Sefton.

13

Maddocks

Sometimes, even calumny has its uses. We may be thankful to this viperish power for our Queensbury House Opera. Had it not been for spiteful old stories revived, and new ones disseminated, Lady Craven would never have made such perseverant exertions to set up her gem of a theatre. She thought, and wisely too, that the eagerness to get invited would dispel a certain film of shiness which was beginning to creep over fashionable faces at her approach. The scheme has succeeded to a miracle - and every body is begging and beseeching to gain admittance to our rehearsals. The starchest of the starch are fast relaxing into comphlacency and the wisest of the wise are foolish enough to stoop down to all sorts of petty manoeuvres to curry an invitation. Nothing more curious than to observe the cordiality with which Lady Craven is now greeted. You cannot imagine how many "potent, grave and reverend seignors" are on the "qui vive" to witness this charming expansion of buds and blossoms. The Chancellor - for one - comes to us every night. You ask whether your friend Lady Charles's first born is one of our actors? He certainly is (the worst luck as people say in the country) for Henderson who has most kindly and condescendingly taken upon himself the task of dis-awkwardlyising our raw actors cannot communicate to this un-hopeful youth one spark of the true spirit. Though the d - -1 a note can he sing, he is so prematurely devoted to heavy music that I verily believe he has no higher ambition in this world than that of becoming a good, plain substantial organist for which lofty post breadth of/

-2-

of thumb and ponderosity of foot admirably qualify
him. Burton and he are become sworn brothers, but
Bertoni keeps aloof, taking pinches of snuff in his
quiet way, and muttering blasphemies in an under tone
against Handel. Pacchierotti is in high good humour,
assisting the "maestro" in giving lessons to H. Fitzroy
and Miss Fawkener, - and Barthelemon constant to his
post, but you must not imagine that all our paths are
those of pleasantness and peace. We have now and
then very troublesome rivalries - and have had a good
deal of plague about the Figurantes. Gallini, to whom
we applied in the first instance, and who promised to
do all we wished - came to me this morning to say that
for his part he wished to do nothing at all - it might
interfere with opera rights, dancing rooms and this and
that and t'other. Baffled in this quarter, in a
propitious hour we invoked the assistance of Cosway -
who instead of having recourse to the faded exotics of
the Haymarket went straight to Drury Lane, and there
from amongst the goodly company of sylphs and fairies
selected a bouquet that I think you would style divine.
The fairest rose of all, however, he could not succeed
in placing with in our nose-gay - for just as terms were
agreed to by a smiling uncle, a crabbed, austere mother
intervened, and overset them completely - mighty
primitive sort of dame, it seems, who said with a
decided snarl that she did not like even the sound
of Queensbury House - she knew its proprietor too well
and had great fears that Lady Craven herself was but a
poor patroness of strict morality. Her child should
not/

The clock is striking five - I am but just returned
from Charles St., where we had a prodigiously gay supper,
(quite an orgy), after the Innocents (one excepted) had
been prudently dismissed to their couches. The morning
is grey and showery - a low mumuring wind would fain
lull me to sleep, but it cannot. The violent excitement
of my spirits will not allow me to take what is vulgarly
called rest. Your letter is lying on my table. I will
open it. I will answer it by the light of expiring
tapers and give you a full account of our last nights
proceedings at Queensbury House. Good God - Louisa -
what do you tell me? What then is become of your
mouthmaking consciencious Brother? That strange com-
pound of squeamishness and intrepidity, of pulling
scruples and rampant manhood. What possessed him
to other night at the opera? Was it a freak of jealousy
or a fit of remorse? All on a sudden, during the
conflagration of Armidas palace he grew wild and raving
wished the whole theatre in flames and Sophia herself
expiring in the ruins. What does this most vehement
out-break portend? We are much happier at our humble
theatre. Our blooming actors and actresses are not
yet torn by the fury passions: their youthful bosoms
are still unagitated, though, I must needs confess,
Lady C. is doing her utmost to impart a few glowing
ideas to some of our fine, tall Innocents, which, it
is just possible, may have been unknown to them before.
Last evening we were lighted up in style and had "provu
generale". I must send you a little "appergu" of the
company as I know it will make you smile. Talk of the
ark indeed! Never believe that sacred vessel sheltered
half/

i.e. Sophia Austen, Irish actor.

① He had flown off from Sophia, leaving a pious and sentimental letter behind, but he soon returned.

-2-

half so incongruous an assemblage of curious animals
as our profane little theatre. Here were to be seen
at one and the same moment, nay on one and the same
bench - H.R.H. of Cumberland rattling away like a
Dice-box - the Arch-bishop of York sitting next to
Dicky Cosway, the Chancellor listening superciliously
to Dog-Jennings, Dr. Burney worshipping Lord North,
who laughed incessantly, sir Joshua holding out his
trumpet to Parson Este and parson Este his hand to a
stupid loon, whose name I took no pains to discover.
Nearer the stage were marshalled a formidable array
of starch old maids, pattern wives, exemplary matrons
and gambling dowagers - there too peeped out from
between a mass of brocade and velvet our good old
friend Dr. Maty looking, you know, like the French
Pastry Cook in Hogarth's march to Finchley. Dr.
Turton looking like himself, that is to say perfectly
like a gentleman, and Giardini as if his infernal
Patroness had just given him a hearty drubbing - and
as close as they could stick themselves to the
orchestra - three or four Baboonical Elders - not
quite so prying and ardent, perhaps, as those we
read of in the book of Daniel, but pretty nearly so.
To the right and left of this edifying group -
jumbled together in apparently inextricable confusion -
sat or stood - Lord Huntingdon in his velvet coat
(the image of the monkey who had seen the world in one of
the prints to an old edition of Guy's fables). Lord
Lothian/

-3-

Lothian frizzled out and furbished up to the very top
of the mode, pink and white Jerningham, yellow sallow
Jekyll - Charles Fox, - Tommy Onslow, dwarfish Lady
Newhaven, resolute Lady Salisbury, still more deter-
mined Mrs. Sturt, commanding Lady Melbourne, glorious
Lady Beauchamp, scarlet Lady Archer, and fifty more
of all sorts, sizes, and complexions, but all good
company according to the received acceptation of the
term - and such as no uninspired seer could ever
have predicted the gathering together under Lady
Cravens banners. The attendance of so rare and
dignified a congregation exilarated her frolic
Ladyship beyond bounds. I never saw her in such
triumphant spirits. A finale in which the words -

Listen to the rill afar -

Hark - the chime from yonder tower -

Lo - the conscious evening star

Warns the lovers to their bower -

sung by our efficient chorus in the most perfect tune
and feeling manner - seemed to smooth her fair brow
so blandly that she even forgave the liberty I had
taken in writing not only the music but the words to
this part of the pastoral. I wish I had shaken off
lasiness and written the whole. When you recollect
her farce called the silver tankard and conceive that
this same pastoral - although not half so vulgar is
ten times more insipid, you will not be surprised at

my

① Where ever any thing very smart or lively was going
forwards either in public or private arrangements he
was sure to be of the party. Not a great many years
after our U.H. entertainments, he blazed forth at one
of the Powderham masquerades in the character of His
Satanic Majesty. Some wag or other (perhaps himself)
to commemorate the circumstate wrote the following
epigram

Say was our fete or good or evil
The ladies all were mute

His Lordship played the lute,
And Lawyer Jekyll played the Devil.

② Lord Lyttelton used to say she gave him the idea of a
drunken pea-cock.

-4-

my fits of impatience whilst adapting music to such
lackadaisical trumpery. Dont imagine I am much
better pleased with my part of the performance than
with that of her Ladyship. Not a single air do I
think worth sending you. Lady Clarges, with one of
her arch looks, told me fairly I did not shine -
however when she heard the finale she exclaimed Thank
God! - at last you have made a good end - and now I
have told you all that passed at our dressed rehearsal
worth noting down - and now the sun casts a brilliant
ray for the clouds have all dissipated. Instead of
putting my feet into bed they shall enter my stirrups.
I must inhale the morning freshness, and gallop to
Harrow as fast as my fleetest horse can carry me.
Tomorrow our Opera begins in right earnest. Tomorrow
the whole town will rush in upon us. Tomorrow - ten
to one - I shall be suffocated." ( )

On the following night, the first performance proper took place.

17th April.

"As I foretold, the heat was _intolerable_ - and the
congregation, which had received an immense addition
of simpering fools, false connoiseurs, and consequential
block-heads - still _more_ so - the "Spectacle" in itself
turned out even more charming than I expected. The
children were enchantingly well dressed - in the best
and that is to say the simplest taste. Among the
Figurantes were some of the most nymph-like ethereal
creatures you ever beheld - pale and interesting - for
I entered a strong protest against rouge, and as I
happen to act a very essential part in the drama, namely
that of pay-master general - (my lord Pôt au feu) - my
remonstrances/

-5-

remonstrances were strictly attended to. Some indiscreet,
gloating stares from the satirical part of the audience
covered many lovely cheeks with blushes. — The effect of
this tender colouring — these evanescent tints — was
enchanting. How you would have understood and admired
it! How you would have enjoyed the perspective of the
stage at that moment when it presented a living parterre —
in which the rose and the smooth glossy lily were blended!
Bertoni, who presided at the harpsichord often stole a
moment to gaze, and Pacchierotti, who has the quickest
perception in the world of the beautiful was so enraptured
that he could not resist going behind the scenes and
throwing in a few chords as a second to Madame Barthélémon
in the finale. They were absolutely electrical. — "Lo
the conscious evening star" his favourite passage consists
of merely a few bars which pass away as rapidly as the
reflection of the globe of the moon I saw t'other night
in a telescope, but the impression they left behind was
lasting and most remarkable. Little did I think, when
composing this passage, that the expression Pacchierotti
lent to it would have sunk into my heart so deeply and
cause your image to rise before me with such distinctness
that I lost sight of every other. The theatre and all
its accompaniment — the actors, the choristers, the
audience seemed dissolving into mist and vapour. My
thoughts were so entirely absorbed in melancholy
reflections upon your absence and your languid health
that I hid my face in my hands and wept; — but even this
passionate effusion did not relieve me. Telling Lady
Craven that I was taken suddenly ill, a truth to which
my/

Copy of B's hand (1841)

May 1783

Don't you remember telling me last year how much you
were pleased with Charles Greviles house, its finely
proportioned rooms with their low grecian chimney pieces
formed of real antique friezes, and the unlimited view
it commands over green fields, Harrow on one side, Hampstead
on the other - well I have purchased this smiling well
ventilated abode, and the more I examine it, the better I
am contented with my bargain. With a few Watts touches
a bust here and a vase there it will become thoroughly
classical. The arrival of my caravans from Fonthill laden
with furniture and superfluities of all kinds has already
made quite a stir in the neighbourhood. Madam Montagu,
who has just finished her palace which goes slanting, you
know, across a corner of the square desires me to name a
day for meeting at dinner certain "Savii grandi" whom she
has promised to introduce to me. You may easily suppose
I could have dispensed with the honour not being at all
given to dining out - but what is this honour in comparison
with the one I received a week ago and accepted yesterday
from another neighbour, a much more extraordinary Lady than
Madam Montagu - no less a personage, in short, than the
Countess of Home, known amongst all the Irish chair-men and
riff-raff of the metropolis by the name, style and title
of Queen of Hell. As her infernal majesty happens to have
immense possessions not only - as of course - in the realms
below, but in the Island of Jamaica which some think next
door to them, she took it into her supremely excentric head
as that a west Indian potentate I ought to receive distinguished
honour. Aware of my musical propensities she determined
to celebrate my accession to Portman Square by a sumptuous
dinner and a concert of equal magnificence. Last evening
it took place, and you never beheld so splendidly heterogeneous
a repast as the dinner, nor ever heard such a confounded
jumble of good and bad music - such a "charivari" in fact as
the/

-2-

the concert - poor, old Giardini, who for the punishment
of his youthful sins I presume, - is become her Maestro
di capella went fairly distracted - not without cause as
you shall hear, for during her morning round she happened
to meet with a brace of tall athletic negros in flaming
laced jackets tooting away on the french horn as loud as
their lungs permitted. By God - exclaimed her majesty
(she swears like a trooper) you play delightfully - get
up behind the carriage and come home with me - you shall
perform to night at my concert. Here - said she to the
hapless Maestro, who was waiting at the street door to
hand her in - here - my fine fidler, I have brought
you a great acquisition. These glorious fellows have
quite enchanted me - I never heard horns blown with so
capital a gusto in all the days of my life. My-Lady,
answered the Maestro, casting a very suspicious glance
at the sable pair, I doubt whether they play in score,
persons of their sort seldom do. Never mind that
replied the despotic Countess - put them into the
Orchestra - they shall chime in. Happily for us all
having been made extremely welcome below stairs they
slept most of the time nodding and bobbing their wooley
pates about in so ludicrous a manner that I was convulsed
with laughter. However the moment her Ladyship approached
I was just able to asume a civilized expression of
countenance, and praised these charming examples of
original talent as warmly as their patroness could
possibly desire. There, said the Countess, turning
round triumphantly to the rueful Maestro, Did not I tell
you so - Mr. Beckford is a real judge.

De Rome ce 6 10bre. 1780.

J'ai recu votre charmante lettre de Bath ma chère Cousine avec un transport des plus vifs. Vous ne scauriez croire l'intérêt que je prends a votre santé ainsi faites moi dire bientôt que-je je vous supplie que vous vous portez mieux. Bath m'a toujours ennuyé mortellement, et comme j'ai l'honneur de penser a peu pres dans votre gout - je ne suis guère étonné qu'elle produit sur vous le même effet. Vous scavez comme j'abhore ces gros Nigots qui font les jolis cœurs dans les contredanses - et ces braves lourdauts de campagne qui peuvent être de fort honnêtes gens, mais qui ne sont pas moins revoltants selon mes idées. Je reviens actuellement de Naples, où j'ai passé des heures charmantes chez ma cousine d'Harriette qui touche le clavecin avec un esprit céleste - après avoir resté une quinzaine avec elle a Caserte - a faire de la Musique - a rever comme mes Amis les Auteurs des contes Arabes - et a courir les Montagnes et les prairies tapissées de Mirthes - la fantaisie m'a puis de me rendre a Venise, pour entendre encore une fois notre cher Pacchierotti - me voici donc a Rome sur le chemin du grand Opéra Venitien/

Venitien - la Tête farcie de Finales et de Tercettos.

[Five words in Louisa's hand obliterated] [Ah si je pouvez (sic, lege pouvois)] vous transporter ici [pour vous montrer notre deleted] [sous ce] beau Ciel azure [six words obliterated] vous faire entendre la véritable musique Italienne - car chez nous on ne fait que marmoter quelques [one word obliterated] paroles [estropies] entre les Dents - avec un accent détestable, et une froideur qui me pétrifie.

L'enthousiasme/héroique, la pompe sublime] que le Pacchierotti met dans son recitatif - quand il debite sur un Théatre d'Italie [les belles tirades de l'olimpiade et du Quinto Fabio] ne peut pas se [figurer ailleur.][c'est quelque chose de si touchant, de si passionné qu'on deleted and half a line following obliterated] Notre climat - et nos facons peu encourageantes lui ont fait une telle impression que je peut très bien dire que vous ne l'avez jamais entendu. Je [three words obliterated][de vous presenter deleted] le Choeur que j'ai compose pour le conversatoire des Mandicants a Venise, mais Dieu sait quand je serai de retour - l'Italie est bien aimable, et après la semaine sainte - je gage bien que j'aurai envie d'y passer une année profane. Au Printemps je compte d'être a Portici chez les Hamiltons qui me donnent un appartement delicieux/

delicieux - ma chère Mère n'aimera pas trop ce petit
plan là - mais que faire - les belles vues de Naples
sont si seduisantes - les Coteaux qui dominent sur la
Mer - la promenade de Pansilippo - l'Isle de d'Ischio-
la romanesque Capree - les environs de Bai - enfin tout
ce Pays de délices auquel il faudra m'arracher - je sents
bien que je n'aurai guère la force - pourtant - je
devrois revenir - et vous - et le petit Courtenay -
et Pacchierotti même - seront tous en Angleterre.

Je crois qu'il faut faire des efforts, et tacher de
romple les liens Magiques qui me retiennent et bien -
dans le Printemps j'irai lire mes destinees chez
Mademoiselle de Cumo - qui jadis recevoit les gens
fort poliment dans son Antre - peutetre ferai je
quelque petit tour dans les Enfers sous sa protection.

Proserpine chantoit autrefois à ce que je me suis
laisse dire - et les Furies avoient aussi un fort joli
haute contre - demandez à notre Sibille Angloise Ly. M:
Duncan quand je dois vous revoir - car je doute fort que
sa Perruque ne soit oraculaire. Apparamment vous etes
dans ce moment a Stepleton vis-a-vis de cette [terrible
deleted] Montagne au nom [Hod] barbare, [A line
obliterated] la prison [peutetre] de quelque geant[des
temps/

temps croustilleux ] [three words obliterated] Ne
l'entendez vous jamais Roufles? [Three and a half
lines obliterated] [Entre autres objets formidables]-
voiyez vous [quelquefois] par hazard l'eminentissième
Cardinal Bashua Ellisi? mes compliments a son Nez
couleur de Pourpre. Mettez de ma part à mon Cousin,
a ma Cousine Postiche [Marion Pitt afterwards married
to Mr Foxhalle] - a [a word obliterated] votre [plus
qu'inconcevable] Frère - et aux Enfants que j'embrasse
de tout mon Coeur. Adieu. [Two lines, a few words
obliterated]. [Gavin Hamilton m'attend, et Piranesi
est à feuster dans mon antichambre comme
untaureau.

Note.

Except where otherwise stated, the words enclosed in
square brackets are interlined in Beckford's hand.

Paris ce 10 Fevrier 1781.

Votre lettre ma comblée de joye ma chere Cousine -
il n'est plus question des Temples a la Perruque -
Oraculaire - c'est aux Naiades presidentes - de Bath
que je dresserai mes autels puisqu'elles ont retabli
votre santé - la mienne va tout doucement - un climat
Italien est je croi un peu trop subtil pour des gens
de ma volée - l'état de ma Mere m'afflige infiniment -
plus au Ciel que mon retour lui pourra être de quelque
soulagement - Assurement vous êtes bien étonnée de mon
depart précipité de Venise - Helas! il ne me restoit
que deux chemins à prendre - celui d'Angleterre - ou
celui de la Mort - je l'ai touché de bien près - et
je ne saurai exprimer mes langeurs - mon abbandement que
par la voye de la Musique - je vous apporte quelques
Morceaux de ma façon - qui vous rappelleront un peu
je me flatte notre cher Paëchierotti - son triomphe
est complet - toute Venise lui offre de l'Encens pendant
que mille jeunes et belles adoratrices remplacent la
Sibille de Londre. - Quel Opera - O Dieux Harmoniques!
ai je quitte! quel chant Moelleux et pénétrant - un
recitatif de feu - et des ariettes plustendres - plus
seduisantes que celles des Syrenes. J'enverai Rouiaglia
sans doute au cent milles Diables - en revanche on me
dit beaucoup de bien du Tenore Ausani - mais - il est
aparien/

d Roncaglia

aparais qu'on ne pense qu'aux Vestris et à Mlle Bacelli.
Notre spectacle parisien est sublime en fait de Decorations
ce n'est que Pavillions Dorés et champs fleuris - Ombres
heureuses - et chanteurs Damné - car c'est impossible
de miauler plus exerablement - quonque la Musique est
de Picini. - Je languis après le Printemps car alors
nous nous revenons - mais peut-être viendrai-je vous
saluer a la Campagne et chanter un De profondis sur la
Tombe de votre Géant tutelaire. Paris est bien Gay -
bien folâtre a son ordinaire, mais je n'ose pas m'y
livrer. Que fait Mlle. ma Cousine postiche - monte
elle souvent a Cheval? comme elle,brillerait ici sur
les Sablons - au Bois de Boulogne! quel ravage ne feroit
elle pas avec ses yeux noirs - heureusement pour Messrs.
les Parisiens quelle court seulement les plaines
verdoyantes qui vous environnent! si la Jamaique s'a bien
conseillez votre delicieuse Cousine Betsabie (car c'est
plus tendre que Bashua) de venir s'établir aux Boulevards -
nous lui trouverons une Gargotte - et je reponds que ses
singeries feront fortune - ayant un joli Gozier, le
succes la suivra aussi dans l'Opera Comique - et c'est
alors/

(sic, lage quorigue)

alors qu'on verra Miss Jenni ou Sophie en Tom Jones -
dans la dernière perfection. Mille pardons ma charmante
Cousine pour l'execrable brouillon que j'ose vous
envoyer - Hélas ma plume est Francaise - et ne se
préte pas à une main Britanique. Adieu! je vous
quitte avec regret pour me rendre au bureau d'esprit
et de puritanique politique chez Mde. la Dsse.
D'Auville - donnez moi de vos nouvelles je vous
supplie - dans le cas que vous n'êtes pas paresseuse
j'aurai le bonheur de les recevoir avant mon départ
pour Londres. - Je vous donne carte blanche en fait
d'Amitiez - de compliments &c. à mon Cousin votre
Frère - et Mlle. Pitt - Adieu encore.

Paris ce 2d d'Avril 1981.

Vos Lettres me font un bien ma charmante Cousine joliment

que je ne scaurois exprimer - on ne peut pas écrire plus
joliment que vous - et je crois que c'est impossible de
peindre ses idees avec plus de Grace. Je quitterai

volontiers les plaisirs de Paris, pour jouir un instant
de votre compagnie - et faire quelques petites courses
sur le dos du Géant de votre voisinage. Avec quel
empressement ne vous chanterai je pas certains airs
langoureux - qui me rappellent Venise - et ses Isles
éparses sur l'Ocean. La magnifique place de St. Marc
et cette foule de Gondoles qui se remuent sans cesse.

Adieu - chers moments de Venise! votre souvenir ne
s'évanouira qu'avec mon existence! - pardonnez ces
egarements - ces transports - auxquels des Ames comme
la minne sont exposées. - graces au Ciel nous voici
au Printemps et en trois Semaines ou plus tard je compte de
revoir l'Angleterre - peut-être m'ai je tout de suite me
perdre dans les Forets de Fonthill et en cas que vous
n'auriez pas encore abandonné le séjour de Stepleton -
j'y viendrai vous dire bon jour - et demander des nouvelles
de mon Cousin, à qui je vous supplie de faire bien mes
Amitiez. J'ai manqué deux ou trois fois de faire la
connaissance de la petite Montalimbert - je ne la [croyais]
[<u>one word obliterated</u>] pas si [<u>éloigne</u> du train train
<u>ordinaire</u>] - [<u>one word obliterated</u>] [Ces] Femmelettes en
général qui [<u>pincent</u>] [<u>jouent deleted</u>] de la Harpe - et
[<u>three words obliterated</u>] [de la bouche] dans les Comedies
[morales] [<u>five words obliterated</u>] [si fort à la mode - ne
m'intéressent guère - à dire la verité] il n'y a rien qui
m'ennuye comme ces jolis petits talents de Société - ou le
Cœur/

Cœur et le Genie n'ont point de part - vous voyez comme je
suis farouche - et même sauvage - je n'aime que la Nature -
et la simplicite de ces beaux jours de la Grèce - quand on
couroit les Prairies en chantant des Hymnes [avec une
dévotion non feinte] aux Nimphes tutelaires des Fontaines
et en se jettant des Roses. Vous etes faite ma charmante
Cousine pour orner des pareils Tableaux - et mener les
Choeurs qui dansoient jadis dans le Vallon d'Enna quand
Ceres y tenoit sa cour. Adieu. Je passerai ma vie a vous
écrire - mais [on m'appelle sans misericorde, deleted] je vous implore!
(pour mon malheur - voila, le roid - a word in the same hand
obliterated] Ld. M. et M. L. son très digne gouverneur - qui
viennent me conduire au bureau d'esprit et de Franklinisme
chez M. la Dsse. d'Auville.

**Note.** Except where otherwise stated, the words enclosed in square brackets are interlined in Beckford's hand.

["3", "Paris 2 Avril 1781.", "Vos lettres, ma charmante cousine, me font un bien que\nje ne saurai de merveille. Mais m'inspirent une si forte\nenvie de vous voir - de vous entendre que je n'y tiens\nplus. Je quitte Paris en moins de dix jours - nous\nferons nos petites courses sur le dos du geant de votre\nvoisimage - - m'importe ce qu'en dira le Cardinal - -\nAvec quel empressement me vous chanterai je pas -\ncertains airs gondolesques qui me rappellent Venise et\nses Isles oparres sur l'Ocean - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Fonthill July 6th 1781.

[Till] Your Letter, [arrived] my dear Louisa, [relieved me from the most cruel anxiety deleted]. I was trembling lest you should have been relapsed into your former languid state - and endured the ennuis of Tunbridge in vain. [Forlorn deleted] [Common place] as it is in prospect [compared with your favourite rocks near Spa] I shall bless its waters if they do but send you an hour sooner than I expected to Fonthill. All that surrounds me [here] is [calm and] silent [and solitary deleted]: my [torment deleted in pencil] [[arbitrary Mother]] not being yet come down - I stray uninterrupted from Morn: till Eve: and feel a kind of Melancholy pleasure in being at liberty to pronounce [three or four words obliterated] [your] dear name [aloud in the free uncontaminated air - unreproached and unpersecuted]. [Eight lines obliterated]. The weather is [reckoned marvellously fine for this country yet] [admirably cool for July and deleted] I ardently wish some propitious Deity would transport us both to Naples - every day I regret [more and more] the [two words obliterated] [fragrant boschetto] of Portici and the thickets near the grotto of Pausilippo where I [was wont to enter in deleted] [used to pass hour after

hour/ otherwise

Except where stated, the deletions or obliations, the words enclosed within single square brackets are interlined in ink, and those within double square brackets are interlined in pencil, all in Beckford's hand.

hour in trying to discover the entrance of long hidden
subterranean palaces] - my rambles [would not deleted]
at present [would not] be [a word or two obliterated]
[charmless] could I but take them under [the genial
influence of]] a [still] softer sky. This morning
[however] I basked several hours in the sunshine -
stretched [along deleted] [my whole listless length on]
the side of a Hill which is purpled with Thyme. When
shall I see you again - moving about the slopes - in
all the flow of your beautiful Antique drapery! [Keep
up my spirits by writing deleted/[Write] to me [[Louise
even when you have nothing new to communicate]] [at least
a few lines almost every Post deleted in pencil]. Were
I not to hear [often deleted in pencil] [every day]
from you - I believe without exaggeration - I should lay
myself down and die. There are moments [already] when
I think myself on the utmost verge of [this troubled]
existence, and fancy I hear low murmurs [so strange
and mysterious] that [[I more than half believe they]]
come from another World. Adieu - I will try my best to
linger here - at least till I have once more seen my
dear Louisa.

Harrow, JanV. 16, 1782.

Wednesday.

I have received your letter, but fear (by the irregularity of the post) you have not had mine. The situation of your mind at the time of your writing excited in me all the energy of sympathy. I have something too to communicate analogous to what you perhaps refer to; — but of this more on Saturday when I hope to see you. If you can send the carriage, let me know by the general post of to-morrow night, and I will be ready to obey your summons on Saturday morning, as early as you please after 10 o'clock.

At present the rains drive, the gust yells, and I shiver, ever by the fire. More mischiefs are apprehended to be brewing by certain omens which have been observed by

S. Henley.

Leaf with address missing.

Wednesday 30 JanV. 1782.

The letter you received from Hamilton was really his
own, and as well as I remember was tolerable. Both
himself and his brother are at present in very great
disgrace; and not without richly deserving it.

My soul rejoices to know that your imagination hath
been wrapped in the thickest gloom: never is the lightening
so glorious, as when it flashes from the darkest clouds.

I will gladly answer for all the horrible imaginings
that may have been suggested by my surly spirit, though
the murder which so shakes your state of man, were more than
fantastical.

Your own time will find me ready for any consultations.
When that is, I shall hope to learn from yourself on
Saturday morning about 11 o'clock, as I shall have
business which will call me on that day to town.

I do not know what message Payne sent with the Missals
and Fontaine. Finding by the catalogue that his Assignees
were selling his stock, and also that the Missal I mentioned
to you was not disposed of, I desired him to send that and
the other, together with Fontain (for the sake of the prints)
that you might see them. The price of Fontaine is 9s. the
missal, 5642 - £1.1.0, the other, 5645, £3. 3. 0. I know
nothing of their value. If you do not like them, the
sooner they are returned the better. Perhaps there are
other articles in the Catalogue, you would choose.

I expected much from Dr. Warton's new volume on Pope,
and am pleased to find it has afforded you entertainment.
I am, as you know, more disposed to think of Pope with him,
than with Johnson. Perhaps you will be able to lend it
me on Saturday.

What/

-2-

What a happiness that Lady D. is emerged out of
darkness. I understand from the News paper that Lord
Loughboro' has lifted up the lightness of his countenance
on her daughter Augusta: - some gleams obliquely falling
from the same great source of light may have, perhaps,
tinged with their splendor her mother's clouds. Of
Lady E. I know nothing; but, wherever she is (tho' it
were Paradise), her presence could not fail to convert
the happiest region into a dismal situation, doleful
shades, where peace and rest can never dwell. Tell me;
don't you think that Milton, by that poetic spirit, which
penetrates futury (sic), saw and selected her countenance
for the archetype of a certain respectable personage,
when he wrote the following lines:

round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witness'd huge affliction and dismay etc. - ?

With respect to the Living, I am in a more embarrassed
situation than you can imagine, and shall be glad of your
advice, how I should act. Adieu!

I am your's from my heart.

S.H.

Addressed. - William Beckford Esquire
Wimpole Street,
Cavendish Square.

May the 25th 1781.

I shall be in England my Dear W- e'er its long - but
for a very little time. -Ever green has given me
conge for three months only. He would not have done
it I really believe if he had not thought it was
absolutely necessary for my health to change the
climate - and had I gone any where but into my own
country he wou'd have been obliged to quit his ville
and go with me. My stay in London will be for a
very few days and I shall then go directly into
Yorkshire to my sister. Mrs Danby I'm told things do not go
on very well in that quarter and a little good advice
may perhaps be of service. I shall I believe take
my journey with Ly. Glasgow as I cou'd not be seen
upon the road by myself. Poor dear Ly. Mary is in
dispair. She is just as much hurt at my going as I
was when my Dear W- left Paris. I am provoked as
well as hurt at all the ridiculous nonsense that has
been said about us, as it will prevent my seeing you -
which will deprive me of the greatest pleasure I shou'd
have had in my journey for notwithstanding what your
friends think and what I know they say of me - you've
not a more sincere friend than myself - C'est le plus
beau titre que j'ai dans le monde. Adieu. I imagine
I shall set off in ten days. Remember you are not to
know of my coming. Ly. Mary desires to be kindly
remembered to you. I hope you have received my purse
I sent last week. I forgot to tell you I fought a
hard battle for you a few days ago. I heard you
call'd one of the greatest coxcombs that exists - which
I could not bear to hear.

Unsigned No address.

VIII 3

18 May 1785.

You must pardon me; but really your style is so mysterious
that it conveys not the smallest information. I cannot
imagine what you mean by the danger of raising spirits
more dreadful than any which have yet appeared.

The worst Daemons have been already raised according
to my ideas and unless (orgon was to lift her head - out of
the pit of Tartarus I run no farther risque of being
petrified.

I must beg you will cease perplexing me with such
strange hints and inexplicable apprehensions. Confused
as I am, your letters make me worse confounded and then
to talk of patience and quietness at F. Great God do
you comprehend me so little. Rather advise some
retirement amongst the Alps surrounded by the few Friends
who are yet left me than the remaining wrapped round with
the dismal winding sheet of Salisbury plain, tormented
with paraghs. and scared by unknown terrors and
phantoms but half discovered. Who are these slumbering
spirits whose repose my Mother has lately learnt I could
only at my peril violate? Pray inform me and dream not
Ld. L has taken lodgings at Shaftesbury to read my
letters or placed Machksmen on the road to shoot every
mail flying that brings intelligence to Fonthill.

Extract of a Letter to M.C.C. Feb. 22 1781.

I tremble least he should love me no longer as he has done
and remain no more 5 hours in my company without desiring
any other. Many a delightful Summer's Eve: have we
passed together at W[est] End coursing each other round the
Lawn and sucking the dew of the leaves of flowers like
those fortunate Spirits which Homer describes as wantoning
in meads of asphodel. Pray tell me if your N[ext] be
as fond as ever of these ætherial amusements and if he
looks forwards with pleasure to the moment of my return.

Surely he will never find any other Being so formed
by nature for his companion as myself. Of all the Human
Creatures male or female with which I have been acquainted
in various countries and at different periods he is the
only one that seems to have been cast in my mold.

When I first began to know him the pleasing delusion
would often suggest itself of our having been friends in
some former existence. You know he was never so happy
as when reclined by my side listening to my wild musick
or the strange stories which sprang up in my fancy for
his amusement. Those were the most delightful hours of
my existence. Twas then I grew sensible there was a
pleasure in loving something besides oneself and felt
there would be more luxury in dying for him than living
for the rest of the Universe. Good God - were he to
receive me with coolness and indifference I should desire
to close my eyes for ever'.

The World upon reflection is no more than a Desert
to me. I pass thousands and millions without discovering
a soul that converses with my own. In this dreary manner
I/

13

-2-

(sić)
I keep wandering along. Can you wonder then all my
anxious enquiries after the sole remaining. Being who seems
destined to cheer my solitude? T'is certain your B'.
holds my happiness or misery in his hands and should he
continue to oppose your Nephews coming to me at F', my
spirits would sink into a dejection which nothing could
to answer
remove. I cannot understand why he has ceased answering(sie)
my letters: explain this mystery if you are able or retain
any regard for one who has so much for you. He used to
write with the warmest affection and till he was silent I
never thought myself unhappy tho' innumerable reasons
conspired to warrant the idea. A languid chill moistens
my forehead whilst I write upon this subject. Were I
to continue you would imagine me upon the point of flying
distracted. My chief treasure, my consolation, my last
refuge is centered in W' ms'. friendship. The possibility
of losing it gives me the most cruel alarms. I dare not
pronounce probability, such a thought would throw me into
convulsions. Don't read him this Letter least he should
stare and be frightened at its violence. That it may not
produce a similar effect upon you is my ardent supplication.
You are too well read in the Human Heart not to be
sensible of the impatience with which I shall wait your
answer. If he cares no more about me or if I'd. and Ly.
[C] are determined he shall not, let me know that I may
try as soon as possible and reconcile myself with my Fate.
Give my love to him and let him not be ignorant that he is
the first object which enters my mind when I awake and the
last which quits me when I fall asleep. Even my Dreams are
full of his Image. You know how it used to haunt me in
the/

-3-

the gloom of Winter and <u>Asick</u> Fonthill. If the wind
sung in the crevices I seemed to distinguish his voice
and if I took a lonely walk in the long avenues of the
Temple plantation - his figure stood beckoning of me at
the end of the perspective. How often has my sleep
been disturbed by his imaginary cries, how frequently
have I seen him approach me, pale and trembling as I lay
dozing at Caserta lulled by my dear Ly. Hamilton's musick
and bathed in tears. You cannot conceive what effects
even my compositions have produced when they have had
him for their subject - when I almost fancied him
leaning upon me as he used to do in the twilight after
we had recited our horrid Tales and mutually scared each
other with our own imaginations. Several times has he
told me with looks that have sunk deep into my spirit,
I think we two shall never be at variance and when we
die let us be laid side by side in the same dark Tomb.
If anything could reconcile me to death
of mingling our last breaths together and sharing the
same grave. Should you perceive in him a pensive
melancholy moment seize the opportunity and remind him
of his Friend. Tell him I resemble him more than ever -
that my ferocious spirit has been tamed and that I am
now as gentle and humane as himself. Certainly my
mind is softened and I am no longer that proud and
implacable Being insensible to everything but its own
agrandissement. You will not find me altered for the
worse I hope. Unless I flatter myself you will think
me more likely to maintain than marr your Nephews happy
dispositions.

[a millen.]

Ly. H, whose affection for me is alone equaled by
that I entertain for our lovely Wm. contributed not a
little/

-4-

little to give me principles and just ideas. Her letter
are now my greatest resource and finest rule of conduct.
It was chiefly to her advice I owe my deliverance from
Venice and am worthy at his moment to breathe the same
air with the rest of my species.

Let me beg you will be very diffuse when you write to
me of Wm. Would to God I could say like the Israels
of their monarch and all the acts that he did are they
not written in the book of the chronicles of M.C. [Charles]
You cannot be too verbose upon this topic. Think you
are penning a form of Law and repeat over and over again
how he looks, speaks and thinks of me. I doat upon his
extasies at the Harpsichord, they are so like my own
which without vanity I may say have a great deal more
foundation than when I left England. Mention if Ly.
Yong be still the prime resource. She little thinks
I had rather be in her place than mount the throne of
China tho' I am for ever raving about its splendors.
Mrs. Tims I believe too was never before such an object
of envy. In short all those who live move and have
their being in his company are more fortunate according
to my ideas than St. Peter and all his Saints in the
conception of a Catholic.

The inclosed ne dit pas grande chose, I only give
it you that you may regale your eyes, with her dear
writing. I wel know the pleasure such a triffle gives
to those that love.

Monday Morning.

Dear William,

As I am obliged to go out this morning
to meet a <u>disagreeable</u> master of your acquaintance,
I shall leave this to console you for my absence. I
know the treasure inclosed will make you ample amends,
therefore shall not apologise. I received it a day
or two ago and forgot to shew it you as I promised on
Saturday at the Opera. Leave a card where you live
that I may know where to send to you, in case of
necessity. If we should receive any unexpected
attack from the enemy you know it will be necessary
to draw up all our forces, to give them a repulse.

Hebe.
heavens
Take care of her letters for her own sake and return
them or burn them.

(No address).

Give me joy - I am quit - once for all - I flatter
myself, of Madame Necker and eke also of Madame de Lucan.
The first has not forgiven the sudden ablution I bestowed
on her, nor the second, my unceremonious rescue of the
book Both, I am told, are loud in their abuse of me.
With all my heart - they may raise their voices to pea-hen
pitch as they please. I care little about *sound*, provided
I get substantially delivered from super-sense and its
train of confounded affectations. Notwithstanding a
war-like out-cry - advances towards peace have been made
by the good-tempered husbands of the offened heroines, each
with a conciliating and somewhat waggish smile, and your
name sake has written an epistle to me - not impossibly
with the acquiescence of her sublime Mamma, that would
melt a stone, but the flint that enters into my composition
is not to be modified - fiery sparks still fly out of it.
From what do these strange fits of feverish irritability
proceed? From no other cause, Louisa, than the restlessness,
the misery inflicted upon me by your banishment - and the
slight hope I can now entertain of its being shortened.
Oppressed by this conviction, - the saddest I could possibly
receive - I wander from one gay circle to another of this
dissipated town bearing a shade of melancholy ovdr my
countenance which, if I may judge from effects, has a charm
for the corps of Sentimentalists who most sincerely despise
and most heartily abominate the dull matter of fact
prosationers of the present day. Last night at the Duchesse
de la Vallieres happening to look remarkably pale, and being
as full of waywardness as the most capricious son and heir
that ever was spoilt by a romantic mother, Madam de Cambis
in one of her vehement moods cried out to me from across
the/

-2-

the room "Que vous etes interessant"! I don't want to
be"interessant". I want to see you. I am absorbed in
that wish - I have no other. The world and all its pompS
as well as vanities is become so indifferent, nay so
irksome to me that I would fain shrink out of it. The
only moments I value, the only moments that bring with
them any interesting degree of excitement are those I
pass with Sacchini by the side of his Clavichord, where
he sits hour after hour composing an opera from the story
of the Cid. There are passages in it more passionate
than any which ever struck upon my heart - one in particular
in which Chimene exclaims "mon espoir est eteint et mon
amour me reste" threw me into so agitated and almost
convulsed a state that had not my tears flowed plentifully,
I think, I must have expired. To tell you the plain
truth, Sacchini had written this passage in his most
charming, voluptuous style, but not with that intense
fdeling a hopeless passion inspires. - Devining what
passed in my heart from my agitated looks, and the colour
the ebbed and flowed in my countenance, he said, taking
both my hands in his, I see you are struggling to express
these words in your own manner - there - place yourself
at the instrument and express them. I did so, and he
adopted the passage. I would not for all the treasures
this world contains, you should hear it at present - away
from me as you are condemned to be - it would attack your
nerves too painfully - you would not find strength to
support it. Perhaps - the moment may arrive, when throwing
my arms around your neck, and mingling my tears with yours,
we may read it together. Let us not give way to total
despair. We have not yet entered the fatal portal above
which is written in the language of the grave

"Leave every hope - all ye who enter here"!

The two following letters and note of 9th December 1838
are contained in a folder titled thus:-

V M

Written Dec. 14 1838.

Read to A., Mar. 3 1841. X.

ORIGIN of the HALLS of
EBLIS.

X This in pencil.

VI. A

xxx Note to this letter written 9th Decr. 1838.

"Immured we were au pied de la lettreref for three days
following - doors and windows so strictly closed that
neither common day light nor common place visitors
could get in or even peep in - care worn visages were
ordered to keep aloof - no sunk-in mouths or furroughed
foreheads were permitted to meet our eye. Our societe
was extremely youthful and lovely to look upon, for
not only Louisa in all her gracefulness, but her intimate
friend - the Sophia often mentioned in some of these
letters - and perhaps the most beautiful woman in
England, threw over it a fascinating charm. Throughout
the/

-2-

in my best style, did not exactly delight Gardel, who took the liberty of observing that I rose much higher into the air than was at all necessary. This exhibition ended and another pounce from Mademoiselle brought me to the harpsichord, where sat Piccini like a King on his throne. He accompanied me admirably - much less, I believe, to his own satisfaction than mine, for all he said was "I perceive you have heard Pachierolli". It was next Mademoiselle's turn to display her musical abilities, which she did with a vengeance, for she sung incomparably out of tune from the first note to the last of the grand aria in Piccini's Didon. He said nothing, but looked daggers. His most animated pupil had scarcely quavered the last roulade, when the great door of the grand saloon flying open discovered a synod of sallow 'literati' in full court dresses, and a row of long waisted pink and yellow dowagers all seated on fauteuils composed of the stiffest tapestry all taking deliberate pinches of snuff at frequent intervals, and all determined to cross examine poor unfortunate me as if I had been actually expected to take degrees in their supremely dull coterie. In this exemplary task they were aided and abetted by Buffon, de la Lalande and a host of scavants their literary confessors. Zoology, Geology, and Meteorology formed the chief topics discussed, but tautology prevailed over all, for the same deductions from the same statements were repeated over and over and over again, every time, it appeared to me, with additional driness. The dinner was more unctuous than the discourse - to the affliction of my stomach you may easily imagine. Of the whole formidable party assembled at table, the master of the house himself was the least husky and wearisome. I had been told that he felt much depressed by the loss of power. Whether he entertains warm/

-3-

warm hopes of regaining it, or whether the consciousness
of having acted uprightly, according to his Genevan notions,
sustains his spirits, I cannot say, but I never beheld any
mortal being more complacently self-satisfied. It does
one good to witness the serene and happy attention with
which he listens to all the fine things his flatterers and
satellites (still a numerous band) are perpetually declaiming
to his glory and praise, but the person of all others to whom
he gives ear the most assiduously is his own dear self. I
often put in a few words to the same tune, which coming from
a hopeful young man, who had read his de Lolme and other
worshipful works of a similar plausibility never fails to
elicit a placid smile. Indeed, I must say he always treats
me with peculiar kindness and even a sort of deference the
exact reason for which I have not yet discovered. After
all, and in spite of the rank prejudices against him, so
rife in the circles in which I chiefly move, it must be
allowed that he possesses intellectual qualities of a high
description. As to his exterior, it reminds me of the
maître d'hôtel in the ballet de Mirza - nothing but a napkin
under the arm wanting to perfect the ressemblance. When he
has just received a well turned compliment, his mouth becomes as
round as the letter O and he appears as if on the point of
whistling a bul-finchish reply. His pedantic, domineering
consort (nee Curchand) is a very different sort of personage -
just such a one as Molière would have gloried in - half
precieuse-ridicule and half Comtesse d'Escarbagnas - the latter
character she certainly acted before me in perfection. Singing
and declaiming to please your name sake and antipode the brown
Louise had completely parched me up. Being therefore as
thirsty as the deserts of Arabia, I begged earnestly for a
very large goblet of water. I happened to be seated by
Madame/

-4-

the arched halls and vast apartments we ranged in,
prevailed a soft and tempered radiance - distributed
with much skill under the direction of Loutherbourg -
himself a mystagogue. The great mansion at Fonthill
a which I demolished to rear up, still more extraordinary
edifice was admirably calculated for the celebration of
the mysteries. The solid Egyptian Hall (1) looked as if
hewn out of a living rock. The line of apartments and
apparently endless passages extending from it on either
side were all vaulted - an interminable staircase, which,
when you looked down it, appeared as deep as the well in
the pyramid - and when you looked up - was lost in vapour,
led to suites of stately apartments gleaming with marble
pavements - as polished as glass - and gaudy ceilings -
painted by Caracci with all the proflicacy of pencil - for
which in that evil day for the arts he was so admired.
From these princely rooms a broad flight of richly carpetted
comfortable steps led to another world of decorated
chambers and a gallery designed by Soane: still above
which - approached by winding stairs - you entered another
gallery filled with curious works of art and precious
cabinets. Through all these suites - through all these
galleries - did we roam and wander - too often hand in
hand - strains of music swelling forth at intervals -
sometimes the organ - sometimes concerted pieces - in
which three of the greatest singers then in Europe -
Pаччиарротти, Tenduci, and Rauzzini - for a wonder of
wonders - most amicably joined - sometimes a chaunt was
heard - issuing, no one could devine from whence - innocent
affecting/

Casali

(1) 'On Tonha House' by Charles J. B. Pownall.

-5-

affecting sounds - that stole into the heart with a bewitching languor and melted the most beloved and the most susceptible of my fair companions into tears. Delightful indeed were these romantic wanderings - delightful the streying about this little interior world of exclusive happiness surrounded by lovely beings, in all the freshness of their early bloom, so fitted to enjoy it. Here, nothing was dull or vapid - here, nothing ressembled in the least the common forms and usages, the "train train" and routine of fashionable existence - all was essence - the slightest approach to sameness was here untolerated - monotony of every kind was banished. Even the uniform splendour of gilded roofs was partially obscured by the vapour of wood of aloes ascending in wreaths from cassettes placed low on the silken carpets in porcelain salvers of the richest japan. The delirium of delight into which our young and fervid bosoms were cast by such a combination of seductive influences may be conceived but too easily. Even at this long, sad distance from these days and nights of exquisite refinements chilled by age, still more by the coarse unpoetic tenor of the present disenchanting period - I still feel warmed and irradiated by the recollections of that strange, necromantic light which Loutherbourg had thrown over what absolutely appeared a realm of Fairy or rather, perhaps, a Demon Temple deep beneath the earth set apart for tremendous mysteries - and yet how soft, how genial was/

-6-

was this quiet light. Whilst the wretched world
without lay dark, and bleak, and howling, whilst the
storm was raging against our massive walls and the snow
drifting in clouds, the very air of summer seemed
playing around us - the choir of low-toned melodious
voices continued to sooth our ear, and that every sense
might in turn receive its blandishment tables covered
with delicious viands and fragrant flowers - glided
forth, by the aid of mechanism at stated intervals, from
the richly draped, and amply curtained recesses, of the
enchanted precincts. The glowing haze investing every
object, the mystic look, the vastness, the intricacy of
this vaulted labyrinth occasioned so bewildering an
effect that it became almost impossible for any one to
define - at the moment - where he stood, where he had
been, or to whither he was wandering - such was the
confusion - the perplexity, so many illuminated storys
of infinitely varied apartments gave rise to. It was,
in short, the realisation of romance in its most
extravagant intensity. No wonder such scenery inspired
the description of the Halls of Eblis. I composed
Vathek immediately upon my return to town thoroughly
embued with all that passed at Fonthill during this
voluptuous festival. It will be seen then that the
Khalifeh's adventures were written down, not at the age
of seventeen as Lord Byron has chosen to fancy, but at
the age of twenty and two.

Vlè

Post-mark: 4 FE [?DE] BLAND ....

Stepleton . Saturday.

Your letter my beloved William has revived my drooping
spirits - sunk to the lowest abyss by illness and impatience
of my miserable situation. Your assurances of affection
like gleams of sun shine on a dreary Winter's day gilds the
gloomy prospect of my soul, and for a moment wakes it to new
life and comfort. I will take care of myself, and if
possible shake off this lethargick insensibility to every
thing but grief. Beloved by my William - what greater
blessing can I ask of Heaven? Yet in spite of this
comforting reflection, and the hopes I entertain of seeing
you ere long - a fixed melancholly absorbs all my faculties,
and renders me unable to exert them in dispelling the
visionary fears that haunt me. I ever was inclined to it -
but never till now did it cast so dark a shade on my soul.
Time which is said to heal all wounds has no effect on mine -
that of our separation still bleeds - the keen sensibility
of my feelings destroy me - and the ardent desire I have
to behold you once more - prays on my spirits and consumes
my vitals. I behold every object thro' the jaundiced
eyes of misery - and were you not existing - I should wish
to close mine for ever, but my William. I will not give
way to this weakness I shall again see you - again clasp
you in my arms, and again hear that I am dear to you. (I

am all ... have been this night blessed with the
complete enjoyment of our loyally Kitty. Doubt not her
sincerity when she assures you of her affection. I am
persuaded she loves you to the full extent of her [power] -
that her feelings when compared to yours are not any ....
two words illegible. Still my opinion is that it not
sufficient that you hold the first place in her heart
without examining any further? A sentence follows which
is illegible. All deleted).

George/

-2-

George and Sophia are flourishing. They lay - wantonly basking in the beams of prosperity - heedless of the storm that is gathering from afar. Musters well knows her partiality to George, and took her out of Town last year merely on his account. Should he watch them and discover their private meetings - they are undone for ever. He is illtempered - unfeeling - and jealous of his own honour as well of her. He will be supported in his revenge not only by the whole herd of converted husbands - but by all her family whom he has gained over to his interest. If she escapes with her liberty - and George with his life it will be more than I expect. I do not however damp the warm flow of their present enjoyments by the smallest intimation of my fears - but content myself with preaching up art - and discretion without end or mercy. Beckford finding himself repulsed by her - has abused her to me with all the virulence of malice and disappointment. He little suspects I am acquainted with his motives for it. Adieu my Love. Continue writing to me. Tis the only comfort I have. To morrow I expect George her and Cumberland. I would willingly dispense with their company.

Unsigned.

Addressed. William Beckford Esqr.
Wimpole Street,
London.

VI E I

Stepleton. Monday.

(6 Feb. 1781 in a different hand)

"By a letter I have just received from Sophia (Musters written above in a different hand) I find she has acquainted you with the contents of some of mine to her. You see my William that you are perfectly safe in that quarter, and whatever may hereafter be said to your disadvantage will be most strenuously contradicted by her and George whose former opinion seems - by what I have written to her - to be entirely changed. To contribute to your comfort and safety is the greatest pleasure of my life, and I should not hesitate accusing myself of any crime whatever to screen you from the censure of an envious malicious world. Do you think there moves on the face of the earth a being who loves you with so real and disinterested an affection as myself?

'Is the height of my ambition, and my reward is your friendship and confidence. I possess them, and am as happy as I can be whilst absent from you. You cannot form an idea of the satisfaction I feel in hearing that you sometimes experience the want of me and that I am in some degree necessary to your happiness. Never my William will I forfeit this blessing - and were whole legions of devils or angels leagued against us I should stand unmoved and firm to the trust you repose in me, So great is my infatuation that I really believe I could support the being deprived of your presence - were it necessary for your interest. No other sacrifice I could make would be so strong a proof of my sincerity. (I am miserable now I have a little victim in training to sacrifice on your altar. I wish to God my William was old enough for it. He grows every day more and more beautiful, and will in a few years answer your purpose to perfection deleted), but what an age it is to look forward. Perhaps before that time one or both of us - sunk into another world - separated to all eternity. My William/

-2-

Can we ever forget each other, and if not
William can it be? can our souls exist in an eternal
separation. If it be permitted after death to stalk
invisible about this earth and haunt those places we once
delighted in - never shall I quit your side. I will follow
your steps by day and watch over your slumbers at night.
Could I by disclosing the misterious secrets of Fate and
breaking thro' the bounds prescribed me, incur eternal
damnation to preserve you from harm - I would bear the pangs
and tortures of Hell with resignation and even thankfulness
at having contributed to your welfare. Were I certain of
being thus always near you Death would lose all its horror
and become welcome - but to be separated by the vast gulph
of eternity is a thought I cannot endure.

"Adieu my love. These interesting reflexions have encreased
my usual melancholly and render me unable to add another word."

(Unsigned).

(Addressed) - To William Beckford Esqr.

Wimpole Street

London.

VIH

Stepleton. Wednesday.

I have began copying your letters and it is next to
receiving them - the occupation that pleases me the most.
Every lime brings you full to my view and every expression
of kindness thrills on my nerves. I dwell on them with
a satisfaction which is not to be conceived, and the more
I write the more I am absorbed in you. Yet - will you
forgive me my William when I say, that there are
almost wish to break the fetters that bind me so entirely
and solely to you - and vainly strive to rush out of a
shameful bondage, which my impotent efforts too plainly
evince is doomed to be eternal. (five lines
deleted) consuming away amidst the flames of an unconquerable
deleted? (Five words deleted and indecipherable).
passion? Yet when I reflect how much less cause I have
to lament my infatuation than the other miserable females
who swell your train of victims a gleam of comfort breaks
thro' the gloom that envelop's me, and I exult over them,
as you may do over me. Do not blame this unfortunate
disposition - it is too much like your own not to meet
with pity and indulgence. Write soon and tell me all you
do - and all you think. (Nine lines follow but are
deleted and are indecipherable).

(Unsigned).

(No address).

(Could I but restrain my sentiments within the
bounds of friendship the consciousness of
possessing yours might make me happy but the
bewitching poison of love will insinuate
itself into my veins in spite of every
precaution and my soul is

Post-mark: 8 MR BLANDFORD.

Stepleton. Wednesday.

William - I am distracted. Ever since the receipt of your letter, my sleepless eyes have been bathed in tears - and my aching breast swelled with sighs. I do more than pity you - I feel every pang that rends your soul, and my sympathetick heart burns with anger - and pants for revenge. Is there no shelter from this dreadful storm - must we shamefully sink beneath its blasting weight - and suffer the detested authors of it to rejoice at our fall? If there is an Infernal Power who protects the daring soul, unshackled by the vulgar trammels of virtue - that power will yet rescue us - it will exalt us above their feeble arts, and we shall triumphantly exult over their tottering schemes. Every drop of blood that flows in my heart, where you reign with such despotick sway - shall be expended in the service of its sovereign.

(Ten lines deleted and illegible).

I am on the rack of curiosity and impatience - and would give the Universe for one hour's conversation with you. But why/

-2-

why must Margaret be exalted to such a height of happiness?
Why must she possess lawfully and eternally what I would
suffer ten thousand deaths to enjoy one instant. William-
it must not be, - that cold-blooded disciple of pale-eyed
chastity must not revel in your arms - pant on your
breast - mingle her soul with your's, and under the
sanction of virtue wantonly indulge all the luxurious
fancies of vice. Since the dawnings of reason first
illumined my infant mind, never has it been torn by such
a variety of distracting passions. - Jealousy - fury - anger
revenge - and despair possess it by turns, and harass me
out of all patience. For mercy's sake do not give
yourself away yet - see me - speak to me - ere the cursed
knot is tied - and let my longing arms be folded once
more round the lovely form of my own William. Beckford
too - (Eternal tortures seize him) has altered his plan
and stays here till I go to Town. He is determined to
kill me by his hated presence. What shall I do? In
vain I search for an expedient to meet you in comfort.
I can think of none. Next Saturday he goes to Mr. Drase's
for the greatest part of the following week, then returns
to move no more till the middle of April. Had he made
this visit later in the month you might perhaps have
contrived to come during his absence - but Fortune is
against us and every thing conspires to make me completely
wretched. I could write a volume of expletations on our
miserable situation, and imprecations on the cruel authors
of it.

Unsigned.

London.

Stepleton. Saturday.

My uneasiness increases every hour. I anxiously expect
the arrival of another letter, yet dread to hear of some new,
and more fatal disaster. Why did I weakly flatter myself
that you would escape unsuspected and uncensured; that
foolish ill-grounded hope has encreased my misery by
adding to it the sting of disappointment. Could I see you
but one instant. It would be such a relief. I feel

(A thousand apprehensions of the dreadful circumstances which may attend this discovery are suggested by my fearful fancy deleted). Alarms which your presence only can remove. I also flatter myself I might by the affectionate part I take in your

conscionation - perhaps, form some plan for your future
conduct (and security, deleted). In short I perceive so
many reasons that render our meeting in some measure
necessary that I shall expire with vexation if it cannot
be accomplished. Thank Heaven, my torment is departed,
and has left me at liberty to indulge my grief in peace.
The difficulty I found in concealing it is not to be expressed,
nor could I do it so effectually, but that he asked whether
something was not the matter with me. I took the hint and
complained of a violent headache that had affected my eyes
and made them red. William - you don't know the excess of
my affection for you. From morn to eve: my thoughts are
engrossed by you alone. Even my dreams are full of your
image. There is not a blessing on earth - pleasure - fame -
health, even life itself - that I would not willingly
relinquish for your service. You may be, and undoubtedly
are beloved by others - but I am convinced there exists not
a being who is so ardently and entirely devoted to you as
I am. The pleasing consciousness that you cherish and
return my love is my greatest joy in prosperity, and my only
consolation in adversity. Adieu - write soon.

(Unsigned).

(No address).

VI.M

Stepleton. Wednesday.

(March 1781 in a different hand).

"The glimpse I have had of you my beloved William has only served to render me more miserable than ever. I now recollect a thousand things I had to say, and questions to ask, which escaped my memory during the tumult of pleasure which your presence occasioned. Your resolution of going to Naples, tho' prudent, and in some measure necessary adds to my misery, and I behold not one single ray of consolation to brighten the dreary prospect that lies extended before me. Hopes, I have none. B[egin] will never be prevailed on to go, and if he were his jealousy and distrust would encrease in proportion to my satisfaction. Now, I really do owe a sacrifice to the Furies - and am ripe for any mischievous undertaking which you my lovely Prompter may choose to suggest. Do you point out the victims. It shall be my care to lure them into your snares, and you shall find them at your return, panting on your altars.

"As a drowning wretch catches at every twig he sees reflected in the water, I eagerly seize every appearance of comfort, and am inclined to flatter myself that you really feel all the affection for me which you express. How my heart bounds with transport when I fancy that (after .... Kitty [deleted]) I am the being you prefer to all others'. William - I am determined to believe you - should I ever discover that I have been deceived - I shall at least have reaped pleasure from the deception. Forgive my renewing a subject on which you have so lately given me such ample satisfaction, and if my doubts were unjust, place them to the account of a love too excessive to be perfectly at ease. [Do you not sometimes doubt the affection of your kitty ? You know best whether with/

Stepleton. Sunday - (March 1782.

Good God. William how you have schocked me. The
tears swelled in my eyes as I glanced them over your
letter and entirely obstructed their sight - ere I had
half read your affecting account. It is not in language
to express how much I feel for our dear little William.
Next to you he loved his Mother better than any Being on
Earth - and I have often heard him mention her in the
warmest and most affectionate terms. My William, what
would I not give to be at your side. You want consolation -
I might perhaps administer it - and am banished from your
presence. Loving you as I do that idea alone is sufficient
to drive me wild and distracted - but this sudden - unexpected
event - occasions refflexions still more melancholly and
alarming. One day I see you - hear you - feel your heart
beat against my bosom - the next may behold me hanging
over your lifeless form in all the agonies of unutterable
despair - William - William - in vain I call - no one
answers, and my heart is ready to break. How weak I am.
Write for pity's sake. Tell me you are well or I shall
expire with apprehension.

Unsigned.

Address page missing.

Stenleton. — Wednesday.

I become every instant more and more miserable.
Harriot is gone. I cast my eyes around me, but behold
not one object that interests me. I think of you
incessantly and when I recollect the distance that
separates us and the number of tedious days I have
still to linger on without you I burst into tears, and
call aloud for an end of my misery or my existence.
Your image is for ever present to my imagination. I
see your elegant form wantonning in the air as if borne
on the downy wings of Young Zephyrs. I feel your
insinuating voice thrilling on my heart, and waking it
to those passions you feel so forcibly and express so
enchantingly. Wild with delight I stretch out my arms
to embrace the lovely phantom of my fond fancy, when
alas! it vanishes and leaves me a prey to all the horror
of grief and disappointment. Thus do I pass the tedious
day. Night arrives, but brings not her wonted repose.
I bathe my pillow with tears. If for a moment my eyes
are closed by the oppressive weight of sorrow fearful
visions disturb my slumbers. I wake suddenly — convulsive
starts of terror and apprehension shake my whole frame.
When the morning dawns I rise — my body unrefreshed — and
my soul torn with anguish. William — however exagerated
this account may appear — yet it is a faithful image of my
feelings. Never did I love you so ardently — and never
was I so miserable.

(Unsigned).

(No address).

Vis

17

probes 22 April?

Stepleton. Wednesday.

"My conscientious Brother left me two days ago - and thou not quite so superiorily wicked as yourself - by no means deserves the epithet you have thought proper to honour him with.

"Sophia's reign is almost over - and what he mistook for the things of conscience were in fact the loathings of satiety. Yet some small remains of honour and pity still attach him to her - and he rattles his chains without daring to break them. That he would is my most earnest wish. Her husband is on the watch. My father terrified and incensed - her character going to the dogs - and my own following with hasty strides. Forsake her I must - however cruel it may be. Yet William, you may laugh if you please - but my nature revolts at the selfish idea - and I hate myself for being capable of withdrawing my support and assistance from one, whom I myself have encouraged in wickedness, and urged on to ruin and contempt. Let not this momentary gleam of virtue alarm you my William. I am as much as ever your's and Sir Nicholas's - but so completely out of humour with myself - the world - and my existence - that I could find in my heart to turn Methodist for the pleasure of railing, and denouncing vengeance on all mankind. Should I be banished much longer from your presence - I know not what may become of me. (Two lines follow which are deleted and illegible, except that it is possible to discern a reference to Kitty.) Unsigned.

Address page missing.

Stepleton. Saturday.

At length my William I may indulge the pleasing hope
of embracing you ere many days are elapsed. Wednesday
I leave this detestable place - pass a few days at
Stratfieldsay, and reach Town Sunday at farthest. Yet
how greatly is my joy damped by the cruel recollection
of your departure. No sooner shall I have set my longing
eyes on your lovely form than it will be torn from me.
O William William. Did you know but half the pangs
that rend my soul you would own they are more than equal
to yours. You are (<u>a line deleted and indecipherable</u>).
(<u>Three words deleted and indecipherable</u>)I am doomed to
<sup>1</sup> alone. Yet, were I certain that you would
continue to prefer me to the rest of my sex I would be
contented with that blessing and ask no greater <u>deleted</u>).
But the most cruel doubts distract me. Speak comfort
to me. Tell me that I shall ever retain your friendship.
Deceive me into happiness, and save me from expiring in the
agonies of jealousy and despair. Be not offened my only
Love. Tho' your heart may be insensible to my excessive
passion, your vanity will, I trust, prevent its being
troublesome. Adieu, my eyes are bathed in tears. They
obstruct my sight, and I cannot write another syllable.
(Unsigned).
(No address).

Stepleton. Sunday.

My William - my dearest Love - how shall I express
the raptures I felt on reading your assurances of
affection. All my doubts are vanished. Never more
will I give way to feverish ill grounded fears but
believe in your love and bless the hour that brought
our souls in contact. The Indies would I give to
recall the letter I wrote yesterday. I know not why
but I fancied yours had lately been colder than usual.
I trembled at the most distant idea of losing your
affection, and could not keep my fears and complaints
to myself. But now - thanks to the Gods - I breathe
a freer air, and joy revels in bosom. Fear me not
William. I would offer my body to the most excruciating
tortures, and my soul to eternal punishment, sooner than
desert you one instant. We will join in heaping miseries
on this devoted world, and it shall not be said that we
are sunk into the dark abyss without having experienced to
the utmost the diabolical pleasure of revenge. I honour
your dauntless assurance - truly worthy, a descendant of
the great Lucifer. Your appartment adorned with the
youthful victims you have sacrificed on his altars may
perhaps ere long be sanctified by his presence - where -
transformed in the mystick shape of a goat - he will
receive in person our adorations. Monday you come down
to Fonthill. Sunday I shall be in Town. How soon after
that will my impatience be satisfied? Adieu my Life - and
remember that I am yours body and soul.

(Unsigned).

(No address).

London May the 17th 1782. in a different hand.

Never did I pass so melancholly a day as that cruel one,
on which I parted from you. Yet the moment of separation tho'
dreadful was not equal to those I have passed since. Whilst
I still beheld you I was not wholly miserable, but no sooner
was I left to myself than all the horror of my situation
appeared in its full force, and my regret instead of diminishing
encreases every hour. When alone, your Image at an unattainable
distance haunts my fancy, and when against my will I am dragged
into a world I detest the prying eyes of a curious despicable
multitude impertinently seek to read on my countenance the
pangs that rend my heart. Did I not indulge the pleasing
hope of seeing you ere many months are elapsed I should sink
into despair and wish to end an existence whose only charm
is centered in you, but when I recollect our delightful scheme,
a ray of pleasure restores me to life, and all my faculties
are exerted for means of accomplishing it. Your assurances
of affection and wishes to have me with you, urge me to run
any risk whatever, rather than fail in the attempt. It will
be some time before this letter can reach you, but when I
cannot speak to you I must write. Why should we ever be
seperated, nature surely intended us to live together'. Good
Night my Love. (I wish I could send you some account of Kitty
deleted).

London. May the 28th.

Since I wrote the above I have been excessively ill, so bad, as
to authorize me to declare that I have no hopes of recovering
whilst I remain under the influence of this wretched climate.
My reasons are so plausible and my pale, emaciated countenance
so much in my favour, that my Tyrant attends to my suit with
a/

a degree of complaisance he never did before. I am seconded
by George, and a long train of Aunts and Uncles, all warmly
interested in my recovery, and thoroughly persuaded it is
not to be effected in this country. In short my William the
most pleasing expectations fill my soul, and I begin to feel
as if I should once in my life taste of supreme felicity. Your
letter which I received yesterday has done me more good than all
the medicines of the Faculty. Rumbutter I have not seen, having
been confined almost ever since your departure. Kitty is not
yet returned but you may depend on my twelve words
follow which are deleted and illegible. Adieu my Love. I am
too weak and languid to add another word.

Unsigned.

Vice

Stratfildsay. October the 23rd 1782.

Tho' scarcely able to hold the pen, I cannot permit any
one but myself to prepare you for an event which will in all
probability very shortly come to pass. My William - I must
leave you. The gates of Death are opened before me, and
whillst a meagre spectre drives me on towards that dark and
silent habitation, I fancy I hear at an awful distance the
busy murmur of the world I am quitting. I can distinguish
your voice, and strive to linger in it, till I have once more
beheld you. Must that blessing be denied me, and must I
perhaps in this letter bid you an eternal Adieu?

I have had another relapse more dangerous and alarming
that any of the former ones. That form you once admired is
now borne down to the ground by pain and sickness. I feel my
last moments approaching, and the physicians after trying in
vain every method to recover me have at length declared that
I must be carried abroad, when perhaps change of climate and
youth may effect what medicine cannot. I am therefore, if
still in being and able to undertake the journey, to set off
next month for Nice. Pleased as I should have been at such
an order some months ago, I now detest the idea of quitting a
country to which you are returning: my weak frame cannot
support the agonizing sensations this cruel reflexion occasions.
O God! must I then quit you for ever, without even the satisfaction of hearing from yourself that you will sometimes
recollect how much I loved you, and perhaps shed a tear at the
recollection. I soothe myself with the idea that when I am no
more, my soul may still be permitted to hover round you.
William - I might then be happy. I have sealed up your
picture and letters in a packet which Mancia shall deliver
into your hands after my death. I must leave off - my
weakness is excessive. Write immediately and soothe my last
moments/

Stapletown.

November the 9th 1782.

The two affectionate letters I have this instant received
from you, have recalled my spirit from the utmost verge of
existence, my beloved William'. I may still behold you. A
gleam of hope brightens the gloom of my soul. I am better -
perhaps I may recover - heaven knows tis for you alone I wish
to live. I cannot bear to leave you William. I will take
care of myself. I am young. Your presence will revive me.
That only can snatch me from the jaws of death. Thank God
I shall not leave England so soon as I expected. A delay in
my Mother's answer retards my departure a few days. Would
to God I might be permitted to remain in this climate, tho'
I am convinced it destroys me. But how can I hope to recover
when absent from you. I am surrounded by difficulties. I
dread the idea of leaving you, yet know not how to avoid it.
Hasten to my relief. I shall leave this place next Tuesday -
from Stratfieldsay. I shall write again - should you dislike
to come to me there? My Father would be rejoiced to possess you
and Peter remains at Stepleton. I must not lose one instant
of your presence. Few perhaps are those I have to enjoy. Oh
William - I cannot bear to die - save me - take me to your arms -
in them I can expire but of pleasure. The little antique is
yours - all I possess - my soul - my very existence is yours'.
(Unsigned).

Avignon. December the 20th 1782.

Not the reviving beams of the Sun, the hopes of returning
health, nor the change of objects, can dissipate for an
instant the gloom that hangs over my mind. In vain I strive
to think on a less interesting subject, - your image ever
recurring, and renders me miserable. When I recollect the
months, the days, I must still support your absence, the most
lively impatience consumes my soul, and corrodes my existence.
My only hopes are in your letters. They will afford me some
consolation. No words can express how I languish after
them. We remain at this place till Sunday. My mother is
afraid of fatiguing me, but she knows not that her kindness
is cruelty. Till I reach Nice I cannot hear from you. Did
I tell you that I had dined with Miss Seymour during my stay
at Paris. She pretended to be very fond of me, talked of
you, and said she was grieved to hear so bad an account of
your health. During this conversation she fixed her eyes
upon me, as if she wished to discover by my countenance
whether I knew any thing of her history. She added with a
very significant look that you had also been ordered to Nice,
and wondered what could retain you in England. My mother
is dying to see you. She admires your picture, and will not
believe it is not so handsome as yourself. My William -
how I love to hear your praises'. The idea that I possess
a large share in your affections elevates me in my own
opinion. If you did not love me I should feel myself
abject. How I pity the beings you dislike'. Adieu my Love.
Tell me you are better and I shall not be so miserable.
(Unsigned).
(No address).

Brignoles. Xmas Day 1782.

There was a time when I fondly expected to have passed this day by your side, but alas', how cruelly are my expectations deceived. Banished ten thousand miles from the lovely spot you inhabit, I have not even the consolation of thinking that you are rendered happy by the presence of your K —. Recollect how we spent this day last year, and think what I must suffer when I compare it with this. Joy and exultation then swelled in every vein, and sparkled in our eyes. K — like a young divinity sat beside us at a table gleaming with silver. We triumphed with unholy joy at the success of our iniquitous schemes, and all our thoughts were bent on forming new plans for future enjoyments, but the moments I regret the most bitterly are those, when retiring from the surrounding crowd, we entered your silken apartments to enjoy our happiness in calmness and tranquillity. At this instant (midnight), I am at an Inn, writing by the dim light of one single taper in a room hung with dark tapestry, stunned by the noise of men drinking in the adjoining room; a dirty bed before me on which I must stretch my wearied limbs, but without any hope of closing my eyes, or forgetting for a moment my miseries. William — think of my situation and pity it. Adieu. I must carry this letter to Nice. There is no foreign post in this town.

Nice the 30th.

No sooner did I arrive but I enquired for my letters and was cruelly disappointed on finding none from you. I will not however render myself more miserable by evils, but hope that you are better, that you love me and anticipating that the packets are retarded by contrary winds. Next post may perhaps bring me some consolation. Never was I so much in need of it. The climate and situation/

-2-

situation of this place is lovely, and will I hope
reestablish my health, which is better than when I
left England. This place swarms with English.
Humphry Morris is of the number, and like a certain
Lord of our acquaintance never stirs without an
attendant Beauty. Adieu my William. Do not forget
me. The air I breathe is not more necessary to my
existence than the continuance of your affection.

(Unsigned).

(No Address).

Vii A

Nice. Jan: the 11th 1783.

At the receipt of your letter my lovely William, all
my pains and anxieties gave way to the pleasure of hearing
that you are better, and that you love me. There is not
a misery on earth that would not vanish before this
consoling assurance: yet when I think that I might have
possessed you here, and perhaps at this moment been at
your side, I am ready to fly distracted. If by remaining
in England you could have enjoyed in peace and security
the being you doat upon, your happiness would have
rendered me less miserable; but to know how you are
persecuted, how much you suffer, and how little you enjoy,
makes me regret most bitterly that you did not determine
to pass the winter here. Your health I am convinced
would have been the better for it. You can have no
notion of the loveliness of this climate: even at this
season, I am sitting at the open window, my table covered
with roses and carnations, and looking on the most
beautiful country imaginable. What pleasure I should
have felt in exploring it with you, in gathering wild
flowers on the cliffs that hang over the sea, and listen-
ing to the dashing waves. William, when shall I enjoy
these blessings. How much longer must I be deprived of
the only joy of my life? When these cruel effluxions
occur, the blackest melancholy takes possession of my
soul, I abhor the sight of human beings, and loath every
thing allied to mirth. Under pretext of illness, I
retire to my apartment, and there without interruption
retrace every happy hour I have spent with you. These
gleams of happiness are passed, they flew before me like
shining meteors, not a trace have they left. The inter-
mediate space is dark and gloomy as night. Write often.
Tell me you are happy. That alone can render my
existence supportable.

(Unsigned).

(No address).

Nice. Feb. the 25th.

It is impossible my dearest William to express the pleasure I receive from your letters, and the good accounts they give me of your health; how very happy should I be could I hear that you were so. This lovely climate is doing all it can do for me, and in spite of the pangs of the mind, those of the body decrease daily. I have but few wishes; they are all centered in you. Were I authorised to indulge the pleasing hope of seeing you here, my warmest dreams of happiness would be realized. I cannot however tempt you by the *beautiful objects* you might meet with, as I have literally not seen any human being worth looking at twice, and the more I see the more I am convinced that England is, in every respect but that of climate, the only country to reside in. No delicate soft-eyed K—'s are here seen wantoning in meads of flowers, but the parched turf is pressed by glowing, full formed children of the Sun. H— Morris whose character you know has been accused by an anonymous letter *d'avoir+coute+fleurettes* to my mother's coachman, a large, raw boned Swiss six feet high, totally unfit for Mr. Morris service, who, finding himself, perhaps for the first time perfectly innocent of the accusation, has lain the letter before the Senate and is taking every method to discover and punish the infamous accuser; what will be the result of this strange affair is yet unknown, but I will acquaint you of it when decided.

You say nothing of Mrs. P. Has she ceased her persecution or does she still feed Lady Margaret with delusive hopes? I wish to know every thing you do, every thing you think; I am interested in the most trifling circumstances, and forgetting for an instant the cruel distance that separates us, ask questions which must remain for months unanswered. Yet my thoughts, quick as air, traverse/

-2-

traverse the trackless space, and follow you through every
occupation of the day. I see your eyes opening on the
dawn,(and hear the sigh drawn by the recollection of your
Kitty(?) deleted); in the evening I see you stretched on
the turf, plunged in that pleasing melancholly, which that,
our favourite hour inspires: in short my William you are
ever present to my imagination, and even my dreams are full
of your image. There are moments I could wish not to love
you with so unbounded an affection, but when I reflect that
I am dear to you, and that we shall not always be separated,
my heart expands with joy. I glory in my affection, and
triumph in the possession of yours. Adieu my only Love.
Keep up my spirits by your letters and I will anticipate
future happiness.

(Unsigned) .

(No address) .

Marseille April the 24th

Tho' scarcely able to hold the pen, I cannot quit this
place without writing a few lines to my William. I am
hastening to Vichy where if the Waters should fail to
recover me, I must for ever give up the pleasing hope of
living for you. Every day - every hour, adds to my weakness
a universal languour and listlesness possesses me, and my
life is become a torment. Were it not for you how gladly
would I quit it'. I am fatigued with my journey, and going
to get into a warm bath, the only thing from which I find
some relief. Adieu my only Love In the midst of pain
and sickness, you are still the sole object towards which
tend all my hopes and wishes.

Unsigned.

Back page with address missing.

Lyons. May the 4th 1783.

Never was surprize equal to mine at the receipt of your
letter. It dropped from my hands and chilled me, as tho'
it were a blast from the Infernal regions. William William
what have you done. Cast a look into futurity and see, but
I will not reproach you. I will ever continue to be your
truest friend, and advise you now most seriously to turn all
your thoughts and affections towards the happy being you are
going to take to your arms. Forget what you once were to
remember what you now must be. Yet my William I beseech
you let me still retain some small share in your heart. You
know not what mine suffers on your account. I fancied your
letter was colder than usual. Your wife must detest me. She
will persuade you to abandon me, and I shall never more
behold you, but thro' the cold medium of a formal relationship.
How is that idea to be borne. The tortures of Hell are
pleasures to what I feel. O Memory Memory what a curse art
thou become'. Must hope be for ever excluded from thy pleasing
recollections, and must I look for happiness only in annihilation?
Yet if I thought you possessed it, I should be
content to suffer, but William, if you do, you must be
strangely altered. For Mercy's sake write immediately - 'tis
I that ask you for consolation. Tell me that I am not
entirely forgotten - that you sometimes cast a thought on a
being whose whole soul is devoted to you. Adieu - I am but
this instant arrived and the pen drops from my hand with
fatigue. Your letter has not served to recover me. O God
why do my senses, which seem ever on the point of quitting
me, still cling to this weak frame only to make it feel more
keenly. William - I love - I pity you more than I can
express.

(Unsigned).

(No Address).

Villa Pitt, May the 12th 1783.

Yes my William - I love - I adore you. No bosom ever
glowed with a purer and more disinterested affection than
have
that you, kindled in mine. I would resign with transport
the last breath of this weakened frame to render you happy.
Yet the assurances of your unabated affection attach me to
an existence devoted solely to you. How eagerly I dwell on
every expression of kindness - how luxuriously my soul imbibes
them. Much as you love your K - I doubt whether your ardour
is equal to mine. I am not surprized at your resolution of
quitting England the instant the fatal ceremony is performed.
It appears like flying from your torments, but William it has
the appearance only. You have espoused the reality and it
now
will follow you wherever you go. You may perhaps be happy.
I can neither foresee nor conceive it, but what have I done
to deserve being banished from your presence. What fear
can I excite - is not your mother contented - have not all
her schemes succeeded - is it in my power to rival her happy
favourite even supposing I had the inclination? No William,
she knows me not. All my wishes are centered in your
happiness. That must now depend in a great measure on the
being you have espoused. Far be it then from me to form a
breach between you. I dare not relate the agitation I was
thrown into at that part of your letter which mentions the
possibility of my seeing you. Ten thousand worlds would
i give for one instant of your presence, but if you have made
a promise to fly from me, and that by breaking thro' it you
incur the displeasure of your mother, leave me to suffer my
misery's alone; only do not forget me. My mother is in
terrors at the idea of my encountering Ly. M. I really
believe she fancies her eyes will dart daggers and poison
at every look. She has beseeched me to dissuade you from
coming to me, but I have made no promise, nor have I the
resolution even to conceal from you that the hope of seeing
you/

-2-

you once more would give me strength to brave even the
power of death. We set off for Vichy the 19th of this
month. I believe the waters will be of use to me, for
notwithstanding the miseries that surround me, my disorder
seems to lessen. Whilst I possess your love I cannot be
wholly indifferent to life, and as you wish it I will
endeavour to preserve it. How my heart bounds when I
think that you are approaching towards me. How I long
to hear every particular of your distress. How cruel
to tear us from each other - to have extorted such a
promise'. *(A line here deleted and indecipherable)*. Adieu.
Tell me whither you are tending your steps, and let me know
what I am to expect. I am in an agitation not to be described,
and dread almost as much as I wish to receive an answer.

*(Unsigned)*.

*(No address)*.

VII J

Vichy. June the 13th 1783.

William what will become of me - read the enclosed and
advise me how to act. I have copied the fatal letter
exactly, even the orthography is carefully preserved. Not
daring to postpone my answer to it till I had received yours
I have sent a kind of negative reply which will most probably
draw another letter from her requesting a more positive
answer. Must I William give up that confidential friendship
or must I hazard the displeasure of a father and a husband?
which forms the chief happiness of my life. Her credentials
are but too good. I am well convinced some of my letters to
you have been intercepted. What an alternative. Never were
my senses so cruelly bewildered. Advise me my only friend,
but if I must relinquish the happiness of seeing and writing
to you, flatter me with the hope that I shall preserve your
affection. Adieu I can no more.

(Unsigned).

(No address).

(No enclosure)

Villa Pitt. August the 2d. 1783.

I did not think it possible for me to receive a letter
from you, I could wish had never been written. That which
now lies before me is wet with the bitterest tears of
anguish I ever shed. You doubt my affection, and because
I cannot fly into your arms, you think I will not; since
when William do you suppose that I exist for myself, and
am no longer subject to the caprices of those I am doomed
to pass my days with? Entrusted by a husband to a mothers
care, I have only exchanged the matrimonial for the parental
chain. 'Tis true she loves me, but it is as she pretends,
that affection which obliges her to deny my request. You
know that some of her youthful actions have been censured,
and willing that I should profit by her experience, she
makes me shun the rosy path she trod, to follow the rugged
one of wordly decorum. Fame becomes dear when the pleasures
for which we neglected it are passed; have you never thought
in the prime of youth, sacrificed your inclinations to that
exacting Goddess? If not, your present situation is
perfectly happy. Think not however that prudence retains
me; could I persuade my mother to take me to Switzerland,
be assured neither that, nor the menaces of my most
inveterate enemies should deter me from following my inclin-
ations, but what can I do, - tell me, - must I to convince
you of the sincerity of my assurances sacrifice the esteem of
the world, the affection of my mother and my future peace?
If you have forgotten the proofs I have already given you of
my love, and exact these fresh ones, I am ready to give them,
but cannot hope to alter my mothers sentiments or obtain her
permission to visit Switzerland whilst you remain in it. Oh
William William'. if you knew all I suffer on your account
you would not so cruelly add to my miseries by your unjust
suspicions. You accuse me of saying nothing of my health
or/

-2-

or my occupations; whilst I am writing to you my pains cease,
and I am following the only occupation that interests me.
Some of my solitary hours are dedicated to the recollection
of past pleasures, cruelly embittered by the idea that they
are never to return; others are passed in looking thro' a
telescope at the Mont Blanc which I discover from my window.
I can see the valley that contains all I love, yet am forbidden
to approach it. During these moments the torments of
Tantalus do not equal mine. Comfort me my William - exert
not your well known power to torment me. Say that tho' I
cannot fly to you, yet you doubt not my affection. I can
receive no consolation by looking into futurity - the sunshine
of my life is passed - a dark settled cloud hangs over the
remainder of it. You pass your winter at Paris. I follow
my mother to Nice. What my future destination may be I neither
know nor care; if I must be absent from you, one part of the
globe is as good to vegetate in as another. The 13th of this
month I return to Vichy, as its waters have been of use to my health.
Adieu. Write soon, and for pity's sake say that you believe me.

(Unsigned).

(Addressed) - A Monsieur
Monsieur de Beckford
A Genève
en Suisse.

Vichy. September the 6th 1783.

To describe the transports my beloved William's letter
has occasioned is not in the power of language. Never
did I experience so heart felt a satisfaction. After
passing six tedious weeks without hearing from you, and
lamenting the loss of your affection which this cruel
silence served to confirm, think what I must have felt on
finding you restored to me, and affectionate as my most
sanguine wishes could desire. I am distracted with joy
and could find in my heart to break thro' all my prudent
resolutions, and fly into your arms did not your future
tranquillity restrain me. Never more will I be so unjust
to you, and cruel to myself, as to doubt your affection.
I possess it, and it is not in the power of Fate to render
me miserable. What a description you give of your Fête
and how I should have enjoyed your surprize could some
benevolent Genii have transported me there, at the moment
when you quitted the crowd to indulge those recollections,
in which I am so often totally absorbed. You have no
idea how gratefull I feel for your offer of coming to
Lyons, nor how eagerly I would run any risk to behold you
once more. I do not return to Villa Pitt till the end of
this month. If you were to come to Lyons I could see you
but for a very few hours at a time, as I am well persuaded
my mother would not dare invite you to her house. I am
at this place alone; it is but fifteen posts from Lyons.
Might you not journey on, and afford me the only pleasure
my soul pants after. Not a being on earth besides our-
selves and Marcia need be acquainted with it. If this
project meets with your approbation, and should succeed,
1/

-2-

I shall never more repine at the cruelty of my destiny,
but suffer with resignation and patience whatever future
ills it may have in store for me. I shall in a few hours
conversation with you take a dose of happiness which will
serve me to feed upon for years. I dare not indulge this
blessed idea, but am dying with impatience for your answer,
and dread that this letter should share the fate of some of
those which you have written. Direct your answer to me
here to save time, and send a duplicate of it to Lyons
by the usual direction; I cannot be so unlucky as to lose
them both. My direction here is, chez Mr. Georgson a
Vichy les Bains en Bourbonnois par St. Gerand. I am so
full of this scheme that I can think nor dream of nothing
else and am in terrors lest this letter should be detained
too long to admit of putting it in execution. To see you
after so long an absence, to learn a thousand things I
would give half my existence to know, is a pleasure I cannot
think of with any degree of compulsion. No further demands
or threats from your mother. I have promised nothing and
am at liberty to say how eagerly my soul longs for a sight
of you. (Poor kitty I cannot victimise her. I pity her
situation'. I .................... her of .... and tell
her that her idea is ever joined to yours in my thoughts.
I am flattered by .................... ).

These waters do me good, and your letter has (given) me new
life and spirit. I would sacrifice it all in the accomplish-
ment of the project which fills my imagination. Adieu my best
Love, second my impatience and write soon.

(Unsigned).

(Addressed)- A Monsieur

Monsieur de Beckford
A Genève
franche
en Suisse.

What is enclosed within brackets is deleted and where
dotted is indecipherable.

VII. M

Villa Pitt. September the 25th.

Come to Lyons my beloved William, and we shall contrive
to pass many happy hours together. My Mother's scruples
extend only from the setting to the rising Sun - provided we
do not sleep under the same roof, we may be together all day.
Villa Pitt is but four miles from Lyons. I hope you will
not think it very inconvenient to come there in the morning
and go back at night. Think what pleasure it will give me ?
I arrived last night. The Glocesters are at Lyons, and my
Mother obliged to attend them every where. Under protest
of illness and fatigue I escape this day's ennui, and shall
pass it alone in looking at the Swiss mountains and thinking
of you without interruption. I hear by Lady Kerry that you
have taken a house for the winter at Evian, and that you
intend going to the East Indies by land. If you should not
come let me know your projects. My Mother says "Why does he
not pass his winter at Nice?" Her daughter's heart re-echoes
the indiscreet wish, tho' her lips dare not utter it. Adieu
my only love. The post is going. When I think that I may
soon behold you, my transports are not to be described. Our
departure from this place is fixed for the 8th of next month.
Write soon. Keep me not long in the torture of suspense.

I have just learnt by my Mother that business requires
her passing a few days in the town of Lyons before her departure.
If you lodge at the Hotel d'York we shall be together. Come
as soon as you can. Think how many things we have to say to
each other, and how short a time to say them in. Perhaps we
may never again be so happy'.

(Unsigned and no address).

Villa Pitt. October the 3d 1783.

I am in a state of hope - fear, impatience and expectation that is not to be expressed. Your letter of the 29th is just brought me and I am in terrors lest mine should not reach you in time to permit your coming before our departure. You mention it not in yours. Yet you may by this time have received it. Perhaps you are on the road - that idea keeps me fastened to the window as if fascinated - every shadow that skims along I take to be yours - and every sound I hear seems that of your voice. Our departure is fixed for the 10th, but if you should come my mother has promised to defer it to the 13th. We are to be at the Hotel d'Yorck the 8th and might pass six days under the same roof. William - my arms are open to receive you - and I shall expire if I am disappointed. My mother no longer dreads your approach. She will keep our secret. Ask me not what are my plans for the Spring. I can think but of the present moment, and would give years of my existence to obtain the power of hastening that of our meeting.

Adieu my Love. I am too much agitated to write any longer. I love - I doat upon you more than ever.

(unsigned)

(No address).

Lyons. Thursday the 9th

Octr. 1783.

To morrow William I leave this place without having
seen you - and without any prospect of seeing you. This
long - long while - surely there is some strange fatality
prevents our meeting. Yet pardon me when I say that had
you chose we might have evaded it, and passed a few days
at least together in comfort. My mother had consented to
your coming. All my letters could not miscarry unless
some Deamon flew away with them. Had you set off immediate-
ly we might have met. What have you to fear - who has the
power to controul you? Ah William - were I as much mistress
of my actions as you are of yours I should long ere this
have been in your arms'. This disappointment is so much
the greater as I had, contrary to my usual prudent custom,
indulged the most sanguine hopes. My mother herself helped
to deceive me. She repeated every morning - this day will
certainly bring him'. But alas - they are all passed and I
have no shadow of hope left. You ask what are my schemes -
for all my motions depend on others - theirs I will let you
know. In April we come to Villa Pitt - pass some part of
the Summdr in Switzerland - go to Nice for the Winter, then
most probably return to England.

William (ten lines which follow are deleted and indeciper-
able). Could I but tempt you there I should wish for no
other Paradise, and relinquish all my hopes of a future one.
But what am I saying - and to whom do I speak? I forget
that we are no longer in those golden days when we dared
without fear utter every thought. Alas how changed'.
Suspicion envy and revenge are now laying in wait to fasten
upon us. I seem to hear the hiss of their serpents, and
feel/

-2-

feel their cold venom benumbing my heart. Think of
our situation this time two years - then William -
tell me whether you are happy? I am flattered by
Hamilton's constancy. Tell him so with my best Love,
and that the looks he was so partial to have recovered
the few charms they ever possessed. Why does he not
come abroad? It is time for him to travel. Adieu my
only Love. If you wish me to live give me some hopes of
seeing you. I hope to God this letter will reach you.
Burn it immediately for fear of accidents. Direct your
next to A Nice en Provence.

Friday the 10th.

Your letter is this instant brought me. I find the
Fates are seriously leagued against us, and begin to
fancy their malign influence will follow us throughout
our lives. They might however have spared that of the
poor innocent Dog which I am tempted to curse as did the
witty Duke of Buckingham - meeting one in the streets
that splashed his stockings or played him some dirty
trick - he got of his way very calmly exclaiming - I
wish you was married and settled in the country. You
are too domestick to feel (the) force of that curse.
But all joking apart this event is really unlucky both
on my account and that of Ly. M. I sincerely hope her
fright will be attended with no bad consequences and
that she may in due time bless the world with another
William. (Two and a half lines which follow are deleted
and indecipherable).

(Unsigned).

(Addressed)-

A Monsieur

Monsieur de Beckfort

A Geneve

en Suisse.

Marseilles. Oct. the 17th 1783.

My last letter was written in such haste and I was at
that moment so out of humour with you - myself, and the
whole world - that I fear the having let drop some expression
that may have displeased you. If I have pardon me in favour
of the motives that extorted them - sorrow and disappointment.
But why attempt to deceive me, my dearest William. Believe
me I know you too well to render it possible. Prudence and
the fear of displeasing Ly. M. and your mother, prevented
your coming to Lyons. Could you suppose so laudable a
motive would either displease or make me doubt your affection?
Tho' I might have lamented the hardness of my Fate I should
not have accused you of it; why then invent an excuse which,
with the greatest good will imaginable I really cannot bring
myself to be satisfied with? I suspected from the beginning
that your promise of coming to Lyons, tho' voluntary, would
never be accomplished. Determined to try its sincerity I
moved Heaven and Earth to obtain my mother's consent. I
succeeded, and the result has confirmed my opinion. Yet
you possess in such perfection the art of deceit and
persuasion that your letters staggered me, and in spite of
my reason, I was weak enough to indulge the fond hope of
being happy. Your desire of seeing me in Switzerland was
not feigned; all the blame in that case must have fallen upon
me, and you would have enjoyed in security the triumph of
receiving so evident and indiscreet a proof of affection from
a woman neither old nor ugly. That I would have given it
with transport you cannot doubt - the inmost recesses of my
soul have ever been opened to you - your image alone occupies
it - and I would incur the contempt of the universe to afford
you one moments real satisfaction.

1/

-2-

I know - I feel I never shall be happy. Your affections
are, and ought to be divided. Mine are ( and ought not to
be) all centered in you. If we ever meet, which I begin
to doubt - 'twill be in fear and trembling - the moments that
might be devoted to pleasure will be passed in lamenting
the uncertainty of their ever returning, and I shall only
taste the happiness I must never hope to possess. Yet, by
a strange caprice of Fate, I wish not to alter my sentiments.
I love to suffer on your account - and weakly cherish the
chains I ought to abhor. Shameful infatuation'. How unlike
what I ever experienced before. The voice of Honour - Fame -
and even Pride is silenced - my soul listens but to that of
Love. All I ask in return is your friendship and confidence -
with me lay aside all deceit - be to me what Nature has made
you and I shall be content. United, we might deceive the
whole world. Let us then for Heaven's sake remain true to
each other, and be persuaded there exists not a being more
sincerely and firmly attached to you than myself. Adieu
my Love. We are at this place for four days with the
Glocesters, who follow us incessantly to Nice.

(Unsigned).

(Addressed)-

A Monsieur

Monsieur de Beckfort

A Geneve

en Suisse.

Nice. Oct. the 26th 1783.

Ten years of my existence would I willingly give to
recall the fatal letter which has so justly incensed you
against me. Forgive me my William - forgive a woman
driven to desperation by the disappointment of her fondest
wishes and expectations. I do believe every thing you
affirm. Your power over me is absolute, and all I wish
is to convince you of the ardour and sincerity of my
affection. Why - notwithstanding all the proofs I have
received of yours am I ever so cruel to myself as to doubt
it? I believe that doubt inseparable from such a love
as mine. My imagination ever full of your image cannot
always represent it as I would (wish) to see it. Could
I express how wretched I have been on your account you
would pity and forgive me. The latter part of your
letter might again raise my expectations did I not keep
the strictest guard over them. They must be disappointed.
I am not doomed to be happy. If you really have any
thoughts of coming to Nice let not Mr. Lettice or any
of the wise ones deter you from it on account of the
dangers attending the journey. Robbers and ravishers you
need not fear - our purses and honours are entire. The
roads you may easily judge cannot be very bad, since my
mother has passed them twelve times in six years without
ever meeting with the smallest accident. The accomodations
are not so good as in England, but to a person who has
travelled in Switzerland they will appear comfortable. You
had better go by water from Lyons to the Pont St. Esprit if
the weather is fine tis the pleasantest and most expeditious
manner of travelling - from thence to Nismes and St. Remy
where there are some remains of antiquity well worth your
visiting. The roads are excellent. Towards the latter
part of the journey they are rough, but the romantick
beautys of the country will compensate for this disagreement,
and I can with truth assure you they are perfectly safe.

From/

-2-

From the Pont St. Esprit you may sleep at Nismes, the next
night at Orgon (St. Remy in the way) then at Aix - from Aix
to le Luc - from le Luc to Frejus - and from Frejus to Antibes
or Nice. I will get you good lodgings at Nice, provided you
let me know how many people you bring. My mother would be
delighted to see you and Marcia loves me too well not to
rejoice at my happiness. What care I for Scrag(Pewsey and
the whole clan of aunts and cousins you threaten me with'.
One day's conversation with you will amply repay me for all
that their utmost malice can suggest. But William your
near connexion with them renders it a matter of more
consequence, and if you have the least reason to apprehend
any persecution from rambling this way let not your compassion
for me tempt you to it. I should be unworthy your affection
were I capable of preferring my own happiness to yours. We
passed four days at Marseilles with my little Prince. (27) He is
lovely as an Angel, but wild and timid as a young fawn. Is it
possible that you still glow at the description of an Ivory
Idol? How I burn to be acquainted with a thousand things I
can learn from none but you'. I have fretted myself ill
again - the pain in my side is returned with a cough that
alarms my mother. I am perfectly easy about it. All I
wish is to see you once more. What do I possess in this
world worth regretting? Your affection might make it a
Paradise - were we not so unfortunately circumstanced. At
present I can never hope but for transient gleams of happiness,
and perhaps even those may be denied me. Adieu. Say you
forgive me, and that you are persuaded my unjust suspicions
proceeded only from an excess of affection much more distressing
to myself than to others'. We expect the Glocesters the 15th
of next month. We did not arrive till yesterday and I fear
thus your letter will have been long unanswered.

(Unsigned).

(Addressed) - A Monsieur

VII S.

Nice. Nov. the 10th 1783.

How will these cruel doubts and perplexities end -
and should the result turn out as I wish - what will
become of us. I foresee storms - persecutions and abuses
but want resolution to avoid them. I see the abyss - yet
an irresistible impulse drives me to it. Why was a degree
of perception into futurity granted us, since we are denied
the power of avoiding its miseries? I repeat it William
let not pity induce you to take a step that may draw them
down upon you, but I will say no more on that subject.
When I think of it my head turns round.

Poor Ly. M. how I pity her if she really feels the
horrors of jealousy. She is rather in a situation to
inspire it. Were she to see me now all her fears would
vanish and her triumph would be compleat. But just
recovered from a fever, the traces of that beauty you once
admired and she still dreads are scarcely perceptible. I
regret it not if your affection be founded as I flatter
myself it is, on sympathy and similarity of disposition.
I sometimes fancy my soul was formed for yours and accuse
the Fates of injustice for having seperated them. Had I
entered this strange existance a few years later, or you
a few years earlier, I might perhaps occupy Ly. M. place.
Never William shall I be reconciled to the idea of your
being in the arms of another. 'Tis like a bar of iron
dropped between me and happiness. (Kitty and four words
more which are indecipherable are deleted) - can there be
a more convincing proof of a future state than the few
comforts we find in this ? William if you stretch not
forth your hand to sustain me in the broad road we have
so long trodden together, I verily believe I shall become
holy - repent of my sins - and seek for consolation in
the narrow path that leads to everlasting life. Come
then/

-2-

then my lovely Deamon if you still wish me to follow
you, and by your presence blow up in my soul the dying
embers of Paganism. This place swarms with English.
If you come let me know in time the day of your arrival
that every thing may be ready for your reception. Do
you and Ly. M. occupy the same Room? Gods', what a
question'. Fool that I am. Why do I dread the
answer. What difference will it make in my situation -
can it be more wretched? Adieu my Love. The pain in
my side is better, but the fever has left me low and
weak.

(Unsigned).

(Addressed) - A Monsieur