As for the old hut you so justly abhorred,
and so kindly noticed--it is knocked down and its coarse name too,
Potlicko: we call it Cottage-o'-the-Park. Some recurrence to the
original derivation in soup season will not, however, be much amiss I
suppose."
"Amongst the company," says Moore, "was Mrs. John Kemble. She
mentioned an anecdote of Piozzi, who upon calling upon some old lady
of quality, was told by the servant, she was 'indifferent.' 'Is she
indeed?' answered Piozzi, huffishly, 'then pray tell her I can be as
indifferent as she;' and walked away."[1]
[Footnote 1: Moore's Memoirs, vol. iv. p. 329.]
Till he was disabled by the gout, his principal occupation was his
violin, and it was her delight to listen to him. She more than once
observed to the vicar, "Such music is quite heavenly." "I am in
despair," cried out the village fiddler, "I may now stick my fiddle
in my thatched roof, for a greater performer is come to reside in the
parish." The existing superstition of the country is that his spirit,
playing on his favourite instrument, still haunts one wing of
Brynbella. If he designed the building, his architectural taste does
not merit the praises she lavishes on it. The exterior is not
prepossessing; but there is a look of comfort about the house; the
interior is well arranged: the situation, which commands a fine and
extensive view of the upper part of the valley of the Clywd, is
admirably chosen; the garden and grounds are well laid out; and the
walks through the woods on either side, especially one called the
Lovers' Walk, are remarkably picturesque.
Pages:
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351