Charles Dibdin tried to enshrine her in fitting verse, but abandoned the effort in despair, vowing that she was indeed of that company described by Milton: 

    “Who, as they sang, would take the prisoned soul
    And lap it in Elysium.”

The Bishop of Meath, in his unepiscopal enthusiasm, declared that she was “the link between an angel and a woman”; while Dr Charles Burney, supreme musician and father of the more famous Madame d’Arblay, wrote more soberly of her: 

“The tone of her voice and expression were as enchanting as her countenance and conversation.  With a mellifluous-toned voice, a perfect shake and intonation, she was possessed of the double power of delighting an audience equally in pathetic strains and songs of brilliant execution, which is allowed to very few singers.”

To her Horace Walpole also paid this curious tribute: 

     “Miss Linley’s beauty is in the superlative degree.  The
     king admires and ogles her as much as he dares to do in
     so holy a place as oratorio.”

Such are a few of the tributes, of which contemporary records are full, paid to the fair “Nightingale of Bath,” whom Gainsborough and Reynolds immortalised in two of their inspired canvases—­the latter as Cecilia—­her face almost superhuman in its beauty and the divine rapture of its expression—­seated at a harpsichord and pouring out her soul in song.

It was inevitable that a girl of such charms and gifts—­“superior to all the handsome things I have heard of her,” John Wilkes wrote, “and withal the most modest, pleasing and delicate flower I have seen”—­should have lovers by the score.  Every gallant who came to Bath, sought to woo, if not to win, her.  But Elizabeth Linley was no coquette; nor was she a foolish girl whose head could be turned by a handsome face or pretty compliments, or whose eyes could be dazzled by the glitter of wealth and rank.  She was wedded to her music, and no lover, she vowed, should wean her from her allegiance.  It was thus a shock to the world of pleasure-seekers at Bath to learn that the beauty, who had turned a cold shoulder to so many high-placed gallants, had promised her hand to an elderly, unattractive wooer called Long, a man almost old enough to be her grandfather.

That her heart had not gone with her hand we may be sure.  We know that it was only under the strong compulsion of her father that she had given her consent; for Mr Long had a purse as elongated as his name, and to the eyes of the poor singing-master his gold-bags were irresistible.  Her elderly wooer loaded his bride-to-be with costly presents; he showered jewels on her, bought her a trousseau fit for a Queen; and was on the eve of marrying her, when—­without a word of warning, it was announced that the wedding, to which all Bath had been excitedly looking forward, would not take place!