Paris Jany. 19 1784.

Has the snow intruded upon your soft climate and are
you buried in it? What else can prevent my hearing from you
my beloved Louisa. Tell me, for I drag on a mournful, anxious
existence revived by the assurance of your having recovered
the ennuis and fatigues of your journey to Nice. I have been
here this fortnight - shivering all the dark, bleak day and
suppering out almost every cold and snowy night. At Mde. de
la Vallieresthere are low rooms and tolerable warmth both of
temperature and conversation. La Borde's new house remains
still as damp as a grotto - though he has blazing-fires and
blazing company, cordon bleus and cordons rouges and all sorts
of stars and gingambobs - Swedish Polish and Russian. Madame
de Luynes palace is a perfect glaciere. M. de Brissac's
with its immense gallery (just as the old Duc de Villars left
it) - little better - but who can describe the woes at this
season of most of these high places. Such fusty dining rooms
with a cool looking glazy stove in one corner - such lofty
antichambers with no stove at all, and such huge, square,
begilded and be-mirrored salons - with a single chimney peice
and twenty human screens relieving each other in perpetual
succession before it. At the Hotel de la Rochefoucald
respects
Freeziology in all shapes (sic) reigns paramount, and not
one atom of comfort or pleasantness is to be met with except
in the D. de Chabot's snug little apartments which are lined
from top to bottom with beautiful cabinet pictures, and exhale
an odour of old japan and spiced rose leaves perfectly
delectable. Monsieur le Duc himself is a little too musky
but extremely entertaining and as full of double refined
Versailles chit-chat, verses and epigrams as a richly scented,
embroidered pocket book. Lady Margaret has not had her share
lately of these fragrancies - having been confined a good deal
at/

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at home by a violent swelling which I trust she will get
rid of next June. Often do I cross myself and lifting
my eyes to Heaven exclaim God's will be done - - - - -

Though there is nominally peace in good old England -
the political waves run high, and the ins are out one
month and the outs are in the next, so I do nothing but
elect and re-elect Mr. Kenyon for Hindon - but feel no
vocation as yet to lift up my own voice in the land.
This glaring, flaring, noisy, racketing place, (Lucifers
own metropolis) teems as usual with every sort and kind
of amusement conceivable and inconceivable. The Opera
is in full roar and the Theatre Francais in full strut -
both, were never surpassed in pomposity. The old
Marechals dinner and evening parties are more crowded
than ever with ridiculous English people created for no
other purpose, one might almost imagine, than that of
making those, who have the happiness of fancying themselves
less ridiculous, laugh. Out of what kind of shells or
from what part of our coasts these - odd fish and queer
reptiles - these non-descripts have issued is impossible
for me to tell. Most of their names are as unknown to
me as their persons and to see the perfidious politeness -
the sly looks of scarcely concealed contempt with which
Anthony Storer presented a bevy of them last night at the
Hotel de Biron - was a high treat. He is still the finest
of the fine, and thought it part of that essence to enquire
most earnestly after you and to talk in raptures of the
magic of Fonthill. Few can appreciate the scenes he
launched out upon better than himself, - for he has a
discriminating eye, great refinement and is not only amusing
but/

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but amuseable. The business of the Embassy resting
a good deal at this moment upon his shoulders he has
not time to flutter about as gayly and unconcernedly
as he was wont, and is beginning to look sickly and
care-worn very different from that arch expression of
countenance and heedless lively manner with which, you
recollect, he kept skipping up and down the innumerable
stairs and gliding along the endless galleries of our
enchanted region - about which he talked a great deal
too much for the repose of my spirit. What he said
recalled the past so vividly that I absolutely abhorred
the present. In the midst of gaiety, splendour and
adulation, for it was the fashion to pay court to me,
a dark cloud of thought rolled over me, and I must have
appeared suddenly transfigured, for he started back and
could not help exclaiming Good God what acute feelings
you possess'. Could I have foreseen their intensity,
never would I have recurred to happy hours which you
appear to think are fleeted away for ever. I understand
myself - from melancholy experience - the corroding sorrow
which the absence of an object - so lovely, so gifted
as her - who I see occupies your thoughts at this moment -
must occasion. He spoke this in a manner and accompanied
by a look which convinced me he felt all he said. He
would have said more. I might also have been tempted
to say more than prudence warranted, but a fresh tide
of company pouring in, we were separated and I was not
sorry for it. I must keep more out of his way in future,
lest he should renew a subject which presses upon my
heart too closely. There is a sacredness about what
I feel towards you - Louisa - that admits of no
participation.

Fonthill July 14 1781.

Your letter came very opportunistly to revive my spirits -
which were sunk to the lowest ebb by some mournful intelligence
from Madé de Rosenberg: it found me alone in the saloon
lulled by the plaintive diapasons of the organ into a sort
of dreamy slumber during which a succession of melancholy
Phantoms seemed faintly to skim before me - the V. X. no
longer bold and imperious, but bathed in tears - the M. XX.
paler than death itself, leading her brother by the hand
with a still deeper sorrow impressed on his beautiful
countenance. You see what apparitions are sometimes
raised by musical incantation. Burton is a mighty
genius in this "terribile via". His compositions have
a cast of that wildness and energy I used to admire so
much in those of that moon-struck, wayward boy Mozart.
but alas! it is not even in the highest musical power to
rouse me from my present state of languid depression.
O these long Summer evenings how they consume my soul away!
The/

x Never shall I forget a scene which took place - most
appropriately one stormy night - at the C. palace. The
Vendramin upbraided me with loving her sister. I told
her I did not, but that my friendship for her brother was
unbounded. She answered with a convulsive gasp Respiro -
I have nothing to do with friendships, but if you dare
return my sisters frantic passion, I will be revenged - and
terribly.

xx She had attempted to remove her husband from this
troublesome world in order to ramble about it unshackled
with me - but by some mismanagement, not unusual in these
cases - had only succeeded in half poisoning herself.

xxx He passed some time at Fonthill, having been engaged
though quite a child - to give me - his junior by 4 or 5
years - lessons of composition.

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The gleam of a setting sun is the very light to pine by.
A mournful species of enthusiasm often drives me at this
hour to the vast desert plain which stretches itself
out beyond our little woody region of Fonthill. There
I ride pensively along, and course the shadows which every
fleeting cloud casts on the smooth hillocks. Vext as I
am, I almost wish that our attachments were as trackless
as these vapours. Night comes on, the sheep are quietly
penned, but I return to my fold as restless and ill-
contented as ever.

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 acquiescense of her sublime Mamma, that would
melt a stone, but the flint that enters into my composition
is not to be mollified - 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 éteint 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
fâeling 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".

September 8th 1781.

Yesterday, I dined at Wilton, and suffered myself
to be not a little amused by one of Lord Pembroke's
curious parties. Among the oddities he had collected
together, — who should I find but Lord Lothian
buckram'd up in a capital pair of stays with a "soupcon"
of rouge — looking so incomparably droll and talking so
originally that I laughed without moderation and made
others laugh too — till they were fairly exhausted. —
— Yes, my Louisa, we shall meet at Salisbury next
Sunday and attend what I really think divine service
in the glorious cathedral shall we not? Don't
disappoint me. I have promised that fido pastore
Benson Earle to take you to hear his new chaunt.
Burton, you know, is most partial to his simple
melodies which breathe, he says, all the juvenile
freshness of Spring. If they do — Heaven be praised
for I feel dried up. A musical dew of this kind would
be most soothing. Let it then fall on our unscientific
hearts and let us thank God for the mercy.

V.M

Wimpole St., Novr. 19

1781.

Last night the Opera began. Cybele in her appropriately turretted peruque sat bolt upright in my box to the positive terror of many beholders. Atys was received with transport, and sang "Reccagli quel acciaro" with a grandeur of expression that Capparelli, himself in the days of his greatest triumphs might have envied. The Goddess bitterly regretted your absence, and abused the auld Hag with a vengeance for having dared to abuse you - which it appears she did without mercy.

Music, I need not tell you, is going on in my dominions more enchantingly than ever. Bertoni is with me from noon till night - and I shall sing you certain airs when we meet that would dissolve the manliest soul in languid tenderness - that very style which drew down upon Pacchierotti last year at Venice all the thunders of the Gassone. Are you not ashamed said the stern, old, Patriarch of corrupting our youth in this manner with your childish, effeminate, love-sick warblings - "questo canto lascivo e putanino".

He was but too much in the right Louisa. Few more than ourselves have felt the influence of these corrupting melodies - the path into which they have enticed us glows with a genial warmth and is decked with flowers, but cold and dessolate may prove the desert to which it leads. We are surrounded with dangers. I see them. I know they exist, still we revel on in the sunshine as if no cloud could intervene. I cannot yet ascertain the exact nature of the plots against us which are hatching at this moment. From the loud cackling I hear/

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hear, both Aunt F. and Aunt E. are growing uncommonly
broody. Having joined the Despoina at Bath, a dreadful
tempest may be expected from that quarter. I seem
already to hear the shrill pipings and whistlings of an
approaching storm, and long to hide my head in your bosom.
Let us seize the planetary hour, my beloved Louisa. Let
us enjoy uncontrolled delights before they are declared
High Treason by an act of Peter and his allies in parlia-
ment assembled. Let me conjure you - leave no scheme
untried, no art unpractised to gain permission for coming
to Fonthill, where every preparation is going forwards
that our much admired and admiring Loutherbourg (for he
doats upon us both) in all the wildness of his fervid
imagination can suggest or contrive to give our favourite
apartments the strangeness and novelty of a fairy world.
This very morning he sets forth with his attendant genii,
and swears by one of his principal Imps (who bears, by the
bye, a most fearful cabalistic name) that in less than
three weeks from time present a mysterious something -
a something that eye has not yet seen or heart of man
conceived, shall be created (his own unhallowed words)
purposely for our especial delight and recreation.

Unsigned. No address.

In pencil in Beckford's handwriting.

vre.
Rome - ce 6 X

1780.

Me voici a Rome sur le chemin du grand opera Venitien - La tete
furoit de finales et de terfettos. Ah si je pouvez vous

transporter ici - sous ce beau ciel azure vous faire entendre
la veritable musique Italienne'. Les motets de Leo - les choeurs
de Palestrine'. Chez nous, on ne fait que marmotter quelques
paroles estropies entre les dents avec un accent destestable
et une froideur qui me petrifie. L'entousiasme heroique, la
pompe sublime que Pacchiarotti met dans son recitatif quand
il debite sur un Theatre d'Italie les belles tirades de
l'olimpiade et du Quinto Fabio - ne se rencontre pas ailleur.

Notre climat et nos facons peu encourageantes lui ont fait
une impression si triste que j'ose hardiment vous dire que
vous ne l'avez jamais entendu. Je vous montrerez ce qu'il
vient de m'écrire sur nos glacialites - a mon retour, mais
Dieu sait quand ce retour s'accomplira. Je ne l'arracherai
pas facilement de ce pays enchaînant. 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 j'irai lire
mes destinees chez mademoiselle de Crissacq- qui jadis recevez
les gens tres poliment dans son antre - - peutre ferai je
une tournee dans les enfers sous sa protection. Proserpine
chantait autre fois - je me mis laisse dire - et les furies aussi
dans leur terrible genre - temoin les imitations de leur
glarissamt ramage - au grand opera d'Athenes. Demandez
a notre Sibylle anglaise Ly. M. Duncan quand je dois vous
revoir. Sa perruque gorgonique est assurement oraculaire -
mais peutre vous etes dans ce moment a Stepleton vis a vis
de/

① Written in pencil in a different hand.

4

Fonthill July 6th 1781.

[Till] your letter [arrived], my dear Louisa, I was trembling lest you were relapsed into your former languid state and [had] endured the ennuis of Tunbridge in vain. Common place as it is in prospect [compared with your favourite rocks near Spa], I shall bless its waters if they but send you one half hour sooner to Fonthill. All that surrounds me here is [calm and] silent. My [arbitrary mother not having yet made her redoubted appearance] I stray uninterrupted from morn till eve and feel a kind of melancholy pleasure in being at liberty to pronounce your [dear] name [aloud in the free uncontaminated air, unreproached and unpersecuted]. The weather is reckoned marvellously fine for this country, yet - I ardently long after the Neapolitain breezes, and regret every day [more and more] the fragrant boschetto of Portici, and the thickets around the grotto of Pausilippo, [where I used to pass hour after hour in trying to discover the entrance of long hidden subterranean palaces]. My rambles, at present, would not be charmless - could I but take them under the genial influence of a still softer sky. This morning, however, I basked most complacently in the sun-shine stretched [out my whole listless length] on the side of a hill - purpled with thyme. When shall I see you again moving about the slopes in all the flow of your beautiful antique drapery? Write to me Louisa even when you have nothing new to communicate. Were I not every day to hear from you I believe - without exaggeration - I could most willingly lay myself down - once for all - and die. There are moments already when I think myself on the utmost verge of this/