LETTER V.
Rippon, August 6th.
As soon as Aurora came sun-rob'd and flaunting,
Our party arose to continue their jaunting,
But think not our hurry to run after pleasure,
Could make us forget a good breakfast to treasure,
Tho' we talk'd of fine colouring, site and vertû,
Yet we gave the hot rolls and the muffins their due;
And even those misses, "who died to be moving,"
Bare martyrdom well while the toast they were proving;
Our wisdom and foretl ought admit no denial,
Since our strength was about to experience a trial;
For a medical work in the very first chapter,
Declares that "exhaustion arises from rapture,"
And that 'vessels well laden may prove the occasion,
Of giving the head a complete gravitation,' 444
Ye Naiads and Wood-nymphs, ye Sylphs, and ye Gnomes,
Who flirt on the sun-beams, or languish in tombs,
Who skim o'er the foam on the flow'r wave your pinion,
The brilliant machinery of pages Darwinian.
Oh would that your legions so tiny and taper,
Would light on my pen and illumine my paper;
Oh then might I sing lovely Hackfall thy praises,
And paint all the beauties I found in thy mazes,
Those mazes where nature and art have combin'd,
To spread all the charms they together could find.
'Tis fairy land all, yet majestic and great,
Where Solitude sweetly reposes in state,
And smiles on her mansion with features so mild,
We conceive her most pleas'd where the scene is most wild;
Here gurgles the Eure, thro' a thousand meanders,
And unrivall'd cascades swell the stream as it wanders,
Affording such pictures for light, form, and shade,
As Claude might have gaz'd on, or Roussin pourtray'd,
Or Wilson who gave to his country a name,
To rival the proudest possessors of fame.
But alas my poor muse to this subject must knuckle,
Since her song never reaches to more than a chuckle.
Her flame is unlit, and unfledg'd is her wing,
Untun'd too her lyre, for it has but one string;
Therefore 'tis in vain, I sit down to my desk,
To paint the sublime, or the true picturesque,
For my muse is unworthy poor ignorant Vandal,
To pipe on the genius of Hackfall's old sandal.
So imagine dear mother whatever you please,
Of rocks, rivers, waterfalls, temples, and trees,
And now with the grotto, the dell, and the dingle,
Sweet Masham must rise and its sylvan scene mingle;
While Swinton appears in the far distant shade,
By Danby and taste, a new paradise made.
While thus you're employ'd, I'll my pegasus whip on,
For once more the dinner is waiting at Rippon. 482
With tongues like the lark, and with cheeks like the ruby,
See the Unicorn send us all merry to Newby,
Where we saw a fine gall'ry of gods, and a goddess,
Dressed quite à la mode, with short coats and strait boddice.
An empress in robes, and likewise a hero,
Caligula's bust, and a scarified Nero;
I believe they were all very ancient and fine,
For our connoisseur party cried "charming! divine!"
Talk'd much of contour and the taste of the Greeks,
Said the art was now lost or but found in antiques;
But just to refute the false blame of the scorner,
I pointed to two modern boys in a corner,
Who proved without saying a word in their favour,
Our sculptors make cupids as lovely as ever.
Having view'd the sarcophagus too and admir'd it,
The tapestry came next as the ladies desir'd it;
But fine as I thought it, I soon was withdrawn,
By a glance of the family crossing the lawn;
For in that I saw beauty enough I am sure,
To enchant and delight the most nice amateur,
Nor was it the less to my untutored notion, 498
'Cause glowing with life and completed by motion;
But I said not a word, (tho' 'twas hard to refrain,)
Lest the dead should be call'd up in judgment again.
At Rippon next morning we went to the Minster,
But no lady amongst us or matron or spinster,
Propos'd the fam'd Needle of Wilfred to enter,
Tho' all to the Bone-house were willing to venture;
Where one lectur'd shrewdly on Gall's craniology,
And turn'd o'er the skulls without fear or apology;
But so pretty she look'd as she handed them round,
No doubt can I have but her learning's profound;
So chang'd are the ladies since your day good mother,
They are all literati, in one way or other;
But in all my life long, I ne'er saw so much on't,
As during this journey when each gave a touch on't,
At Fountains they spoke of memento and data,
And dirtied their hands to examine the strata.
At Hackfall they seized on the weeds and the grasses,
To determine the genus and settle the classes;
Spoke much of alembics and oxygen gas,
Nor suffered a stone unexamined to pass;
Unmindful meantime of the scene that was nigh,
To awake the full heart and entrance the fond eye,
And to gaze on a speck when a world was before 'em,
Seem'd foolish to me tho' so much I adore 'em;
And I could'nt help thinking good madam between us,
Philosophy's seldom the study of Venus;
'Tis hers the bright flame of the poet to swell,
Lead the gay mystic dance or resound the sweet shell,
To guide the soft pencil with delicate finger,
And scatter life's roses whilst o'er them we linger,
Concentring the charms we should never dispart,
The gifts of the mind with the truth of the heart.
But no longer I'll venture this subject to dash on,
Since I know the dear creatures but follow the fashion,
Nor should I have dar'd just to touch on this thistle,
But just to wind up my long winded epistle. 536
&c. &c. &c.