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. Altogether, Brynbella may
be fairly held to merit the appellation of a "pretty villa." The name
implies a compliment to Piozzi's country as well as to his taste; for
she meant it to typify the union between Wales and Italy in his and
her own proper persons. She says in the Conway Notes:

"Mr. Piozzi built the house for me, he said; my own old chateau,
Bachygraig by name, tho' very curious, was wholly uninhabitable; and
we called the Italian villa he set up as mine in the Vale of Cluid,
Brynbella, or the beautiful brow, making the name half Welsh and half
Italian, as _we_ were."

Dr. Burney, in a letter to his daughter, thus described the position
and feelings of the couple towards each other in 1808:

"During my invalidity at Bath I had an unexpected visit from your
Streatham friend, of whom I had lost sight for more than ten years.
She still looks very well, but is graver, and candour itself; though
she still says good things, and writes admirable notes and letters, I
am told, to my granddaughters C. and M., of whom she is very fond. We
shook hands very cordially, and avoided a