LETTER IX.
High Harrogate, August 30th.
Dear mother I've so much to say in my letter,
Tho' the last was too long I fear this wo'nt be better,
And someway I never know how to begin,
When I've got a great many fine things to bring in;
Nor can I with truth to our mutual relief,
Declare in the first place I mean to be brief,
For I know to my sorrow no Blunderhead yet,
Could ever the talent of brevity get,
So I still must go on with my doggerel chatter,
And your pardon implore for "extraneous matter."
You must know all this summer 't has been much the rage,
For High Harrogate parties new scenes to engage,
Leaving Studley and Hackfall and huge Brimham rocks,
And assemble like swallows in emigrant flocks,
Unmindful what terrible roads they must jolt on,
To view the fine grounds and the ruins of Bolton,
And yesterday morn a large party set out,
To partake the delights of this picturesque rout.
Fair Fenton, sweet Agnes, and lovely Latouche,
Were all drove by Sir George in his splendid barouche,
And if ever I envy'd a man so before,
I will leave you to judge—but I now say no more.
The rest in a chariot, and curricles went,
And set off pretty early by general consent,
At the Blubber-house Inn we all gladly alighted,
By the sight of an excellent breakfast invited,
Which enabled us all to endure future jumbling,
And substitute laughter for hunger, and grumbling,
When arrived at the bridge the first glimpse of the scene,
Majestic yet simple, tho' grand yet serene,
Gave presentiment sweet of the pleasure before us,
And our hearts with the music of nature kept chorus,
We just stopp'd at the Inn to enquire for a guide,
And while saunt'ring around till this want was supplied,
A Skipton chaise pass'd; whence a stranger look'd out,
To see what so many gay folks were about;
But the moment the form of his visage appear'd,
What a shriek of delight from his consort was heard,
'Tis he! 'tis my Henry! no more could she say,
On the bosom of Agnes just fainting she lay,
While the gallant Latouche from his vehicle sprung,
And in speechless delight o'er his Ellinor hung;
While adown his brown face roll'd the gracefullest tear,
Which the hero could shed or the lover hold dear,
'Twas a moment of bliss so intense in delight,
It concenter'd whole ages of joy in its flight,
And as Ellinor's eyes in transported amaze,
Again, and again, on her Henry would gaze,
The Elysium of extacy glow'd in their beam,
The world was forgot, and past sorrow a dream.
And think ye that Agnes unmov'd could behold,
A scene where the bosom's best feeling's were told?
Ah no! in her cheeks heightened blushes I read,
Sensibility's whisper that moment had sped, 1050
And told her when hearts thus congenial could meet,
Earth knows no communion more pure or more sweet,
I hail'd the blest omen, and watch'd for the hour,
Which should lead our wild wanderings to solitude's bow'r,
But long had we travers'd the ruins and grove,
Ere my lips dar'd to utter one word of my love
For such trembling anxiety hung on my breast,
Even now I scarce know what I falt'ring confest,
But this I well know that my falt'ring confession,
Was deem'd by the fair one no flagrant transgression,
Tho' her words were but few yet her charming confusion,
Assur'd me forgiveness beyond all delusion,
And this young bud of hope ere the sun was gone down,
By her kindness became a fair blossom full blown
Oh morning of rapture! oh day of delight!
Oh evening full gemm'd with the spangles of night!
If e'er I forget the dear moments ye gave me,
May the world be my guide—may her follies enslave me,
May the blossom of hope from my bosom dissever,
And may Agnes be lost to my wishes for ever——
Do you ask me of Bolton its rocks, woods, and plains,
Where beauty enthron'd in sublimity reigns?
Where the Wharfe ever lovely, capricious, romantic,
Or murmuring glides or impetuously frantic,
Now spreads o'er the plain in majestic repose,
Now rending the rocks as a cataract flows?
Or enquire of the Priory whose ruins sublime,
Shew beauties more soft from the pressure of time,
And as their fine forms moulder gently away,
Awake veneration and love from decay?
Of Bardon's fine tow'r which proudly excelling,
The Genius of Craven might choose for his dwelling,
(For Genii and Fairies alone should be found,
To people the regions celestial around, 1084
While a Demon of darkness might howl o'er the Strid,
And lash the fierce torrent that roar'd as he chid,)
Yes this is the region for fancy to soar,
Meditation to rove and devotion adore,
For the painter's whole soul to exist in his eye,
And the poet's on pinions new plumag'd to fly!
But alas tho' each charm I could quickly discover,
Yet expect no description but one from a lover,
If to tell of the Abbey's grey stones I begin,
I shall surely contrast them with Agnes's skin;
From the rock herbage-crown'd all bespangled with dew,
I shall start to her eye's melting orbit of blue;
Nor a wave of the river can flow wildly simple,
But Agnes will rise with her smile and her dimple,
So aware of my weakness I make no pretension,
To give you description supply'd by invention,
But I've bought a whole set of fine prints which will prove,
That Bolton is meet for the birth place of love.
And in them I will shew you dear mother, those places,
The smiles of my fair one illum'd with new graces,
And when I'm so blest (may the time quickly come,)
To bring the sweet maid to a Derbyshire home,
These pictures hung round the old hall shall display,
How dear to my heart are the scenes they pourtray,
And Agnes methinks "nothing loth" will behold,
The spot where my passion first dar'd to unfold,
And fondly will point to that bank where the willow,
Re-murmur'd my vows as it bent to the billow.—
"Dear Bolton adieu!" we all cried while returning,
"Whoe'er left thy glen's lovely vale without mourning."
When just as we spoke the fair rectory rose,
Like the dwelling of peace in the lap of repose,
We started with pleasure astonish'd to find,
Such a Paradise close on the Eden behind,
There Pomona's rich clusters hung sportively round,
And Flora's gay carpet enamell'd the ground.
As enchanted we gaz'd the kind owner appearing,
Address'd us with manners politely endearing,
And much we regretted the shadows of eve,
Oblig'd us reluctantly soon to take leave. 1124
Dinner quickly dispatch'd—to the Captain of course,
My seat I resign'd and then borrow'd a horse,
Be assur'd the barouche was most duly attended,
And from dangers (that came not) most bravely defended,
So courageous I felt, that 'twas really a pity,
We never encounter'd one troop of banditti,
No fright of the horses induc'd them to try,
Just to leap o'er a bridge tho' so many were nigh,
As the roads that would shake her 'twas folly to fly at,
I was forc'd to ride on most provokingly quiet,
In hopes that some future occasion will prove,
My prowess, and gallantry, equal my love.
This morning I rose with the dawning of day,
On Agnes to think and contrive what to say,
And after some planning and much hesitation,
To her father I spoke on this weighty occasion:
And I gratefully own that the worthy old Squire,
Was as kind to my hopes as my heart could desire;
He confess'd 'twas his foible to value old blood,
And declar'd that my race was both ancient and good,
'Fore the conquest he reckon'd some fifteen or twenty,
And when it took place there were Blunderheads plenty,
In the days of King Stephen 'tis known how they flourish'd,
And the wars of the Roses the pedigree nourish'd,
In Harry the eighth's time 'twas easy to trace,
The parliament owed its support to our race,
Tho' Elizabeth liked us not yet it was plain,
We came pretty handsomely in the next reign;
And continued in pow'r thro' succeeding confusion,
Till sadly eclips'd by the proud revolution,
And altho' since that period somewhat declining,
He trusted the time would return for our shining,
Tho' 'tis true that the Regent disclaims our alliance,
From his fondness for freedom, for arts, and for science.
In short he appear'd both so learned and kind,
He's the wisest and best of old men to my mind,
But adieu my dear mother I'm now on the wing,
With Agnes to taste the Chalybeate spring.
&c. &c. &c.