A Season at Harrogate / In a Series of Poetical Epistles, from Benjamin Blunderhead, Esquire, to His Mother, in Derbyshire. With Useful and Copious Notes, Descriptive of the Objects Most Worthy of Attention in the Vicinity of Harrogate

Pope.
That admirable production of Mr. Anstey's the New Bath Guide, may justly be considered the parent of a numerous progeny of watering place bagatelles, each of which has some resemblance to its father, though not one of them can boast the wit, humour, or poetical talent which so eminently distinguishes those celebrated letters.
The youngest of this race is now presented to the Public with that timidity which arises from conscious imperfection, devoid of the fear which rivalry has endeavoured to excite, and persecution may seek to perpetuate. Neither nurtured by patronage nor dandled by fashion, neither supported by rank nor allied to literary honours, this child of obscurity is cast on the world in a helpless, yet not hopeless state, for the good man's smile has illumed its cradle, and it possesses that confidence derived from purity of intention, and that humility which disarms malice, and draws the sting of criticism.
B. HOFLAND.
High Harrogate ,
December 1, 1811.
Low Harrogate, July 20th .
&c. &c. &c.
Low Harrogate, July 24th .
Oh! how my dear mother shall pen, ink, and paper Convey to your mind a true sense of the vapour, Which hov'ring around this new Acheron serves, To torture and wound your olfactory nerves, And gives you presentiment piercing and strong, Of its pungent effects when receiv'd on the tongue. Of rotten eggs, brimstone, and salts make a hash, And 'twill form something like this delectable mash Nothing else in this world I will wager a pasty, So good in effect, ever tasted so nasty. But ah! tis the pencil of Bunb'ry alone, By which the sweet stream and its pow'rs can be shewn, Nor does the whole kingdom afford I am sure, One scene like this well for a caricature, All ages, and sexes, all ranks, and degree, All forms, and all sizes distorted you see, Some grinning, some splutt'ring, some pulling wry faces, In short 'tis a mart for all sorts of grimaces, But all you conceive, of age, infancy, youth, In contortion and whim must fall short of the truth, One screws up his lips like the mouth of a purse, While his neighbour's fierce grin gives the threat of a curse, And a third gasping begs with his eyes turn'd to heaven, That his stomach will keep what so lately was given But feeling the rebel will spurn at his pray'r, Throws the rest of his bumper away in despair. But woe to the wight of more delicate notions, When he sees how the well-women deal out their potions, This levelling tribe of a democrat race, From the red nos'd postillion, up to her Grace Feeds each from one glass, without washing, or rincing, And the sybil but laughs if you make any wincing, From the modest who issue from cheap Mrs. Binns' To the great ones who drive from High Harrogate Inns, Where a difference far more essential is found, From the sick, to the well, the same cup travels round, From breath that would poison a Hottentot king To breath that is sweeter than violets in spring, But as sulphur prohibits all sorts of infection, The rational say there's no proper objection, 116 To mingling en masse with all sorts of diseases, Tho' the stomach may make what objection she pleases. Now turn my dear mother with me and survey This company blended of grave and of gay, See Alderman Gobble, and Counsellor Puffing, Who came to this well as a penance for stuffing, And poor Captain Brandylove come to recruit, Swears the Cognac grape was the forbidden fruit, Here gentlemen jockies who ride into fevers, And surfeits obtain from their noble endeavours, Such as Timothy Twig'em Esquire of our town, And my Lord Spatterdashit that peer of renown, And Sir Gilbert O'Fetlock with coach driving coat, With many more whips of distinction and note, Come swarming around just to take off their glasses, Make matches for horses, and bets upon asses. But here come a group whose deplorable faces, E'en surfeit itself would illumine with graces, See poor Major Liverless come from Bombay, To send his sharp bile and black jaundice away, And gripe the contractor, who ruin'd his health, While he sold (silly booby) his conscience for wealth For Escarides every physician will tell, There's no med'cine on earth like the Harrogate well, But the worm which gnaws gripe will ne'er yield to its mixture, 'Tis lodg'd in the heart an indelible fixture, But truce to my preaching—who makes his approach In such dashing array, and so splendid a coach? 'Tis the great Doctor Solomon stooping to take, A dose of this water by way of a freak, 148 Tho' all the world knows that his own balmy bottle, (More warm to the heart and more sweet to the throttle) Not only cures patients but makes 'em so merry, One spoonful is worth a whole bottle of sherry. All hail to Britannia! her plentiful hive, Has taught many bees like this doctor to thrive, But from all I can learn not one quack shares her honey, More deserving than this, since he's free with his money, Easy come easy go is his motto I'm told, Tho' his daughters are portion'd with ingots of gold But I scorn upon men any more to descant, For the Blunderheads always were very gallant, And if beauty and fashion e'er claim'd admiration, From the heart of a man since the days of creation, I'm sure at this time there's the very best reason, To exult in the beauty that blooms here this season, E'en now on parade I delighted behold, Five elegant sisters of exquisite mould, There too are the C—tt—rs sweet innocent creatures, With peace in their bosoms and love in their features And the beautiful L—nds and the L—kes too appear Like goddesses dropt from a delicate sphere; Yet mid the assemblage M—cd—nald we trace, No charmer that equals thy form or thy face, Tho' W—m—ld such majesty dwells in thy mien, And in W—ts—n's mild eyes such true sweetness is seen, That really my muse is perplex'd to declare, How one can excel where so many are fair, Oh woman! dear woman! without you all nature, Would be to my mind like a draught of this water, And may he whose cold heart and dull head would disprove, The magic of beauty the solace of love, And seek from rude man your soft claims to dissever, Be condemn'd without mercy to drink it for ever, Ye are stars of the night! ye are gems of the morn! Ye are dew-drops whose lustre illumines the thorn! And rayless that night is—that morning unblest, Where no beam in your eye lights up bliss in the breast, And the sharp thorn of sorrow sinks deep in the heart Till the sweet lip of woman assuages the smart, 'Tis her's o'er the couch of misfortune to bend, In fondness a lover, in firmness a friend, And prosperity's hour be it ever confest, From woman receives both refinement and zest, And adorn'd by the bays or enwreath'd with the willow Her smile is our meed, and her bosom our pillow. But ah! my good mother this subject I find, Has quite run away with my paper and mind, For in themes so bewitching so many thoughts pop in The mania of scribbling finds no place to stop in, But in praising the ladies you can't think me rude, So adieu till my next—'tis high time to conclude.