her little self, as
she called it, and spoke drolly of what she once was, as if speaking
of some one else; and one day, turning to him, she exclaimed: "No, I
never was handsome: I had always too many strong points in my face
for beauty." On his expressing a doubt of this, and hinting that Dr.
Johnson was certainly an admirer of her personal charms, she replied
that his devotion was at least as warm towards the table and the
table-cloth at Streatham.

[Footnote 1: "Piozziana; or Recollections of the late Mrs. Piozzi,
with Remarks. By a Friend." (The Rev. E. Mangin.) Moxon, 1833. These
reminiscences, unluckily limited to the last eight or ten years of
her life at Bath, contain much curious information, and leave a
highly favourable impression of Mrs. Piozzi.]

One day when he was ill, exceedingly low-spirited, and persuaded that
death was not far distant, she appeared before him in a dark-coloured
gown, which his bad sight, and worse apprehensions, made him mistake
for an iron-grey. "'Why do you delight,' said he, 'thus to thicken
the gloom of misery that surrounds me? is not here sufficient
accumulation of horror without anticipated mourning?'--'This is not
mourning, Sir!' said I, drawing the curtain, that the light might
fall upon the silk, and show it was a purple mixed with
green.--'Well, well!' replied he, changing his voice; 'you little
creatures should never wear those sort of clothes, however; they are
unsuitable in every way. What! have not all insects gay colours?'"

According to the author of "Piozziana," who became acquainted with
her late in life, "She was short, and though well-proportioned,
broad, and deep-chested. Her hands were muscular and almost coarse,
but her writing was, even in her eightieth year, exquisitely
beautiful; and one day, while conversing with her on the subject of
education, she observed that 'all Misses now-a-days, wrote so like
each other, that it was provoking;' adding, 'I love to see
individuality of character, and abhor sameness, especially in what is
feeble and flimsy.' Then, spreading her hand, she said, 'I believe I
owe what you are pleased to call my good writing, to the shape of
this hand, for my uncle, Sir Robert Cotton, thought it was too manly
to be employed in writing like a boarding-school girl; and so I came
by my vigorous, black manuscript.'"

It was fortunate that the hand-writing compensated for the hands; and
as she attached great importance to blood and race, th