LETTER VII.
High Harrogate, August 16th.
You'll rejoice my kind mother to hear once again,
I've been shooting with pleasure and health in my train,
The Major and I went a sporting together,
Traversing whole regions of sweet mountain heather,
And brought back such a number of very fine grouse
They charm'd all the ladies and pleas'd all the house,
But unluckily just in the bar while I stopp'd,
To present Mrs. Goodlad the fruits I had cropp'd,
A fine powder'd Cockney just took up my gun,
Crying "shooting dear sar must be wery good fun,
"Pray vitch is the lock sar? and vitch is the handle?"
When off went the piece like the snuff of a candle,
My unfortunate fingers at once caught the powder,
While the poor little Londonite felt at his shou'der
I could'nt help laughing in spite of my smart,
To see how he trembled and shook to the heart,
Declaring "'pon honour 'tvas wery absurd,
"That the gun should go off vithout saying a vord."
The ladies sweet creatures all full of compassion,
Put my hand in a sling which they said was the fashion,
And who would not gladly put up with a scar,
To pass for a vet'ran just come from the war?
So in order to make of the matter the best,
I prepared for the ball tho' I grinn'd while I drest,
For that night to the Granby the people were flying
And you know my dear mother I dance while I'm dying.
In fact we enjoy'd a most excellent ball,
And a very fine supper to finish it all,
Where elegance, plenty, and order presided,
A trio that ought to be never divided. 698
Lady A——hb——rt—n lovely and young was
the grace, With her three pretty sisters who gladden'd the place,
The H——pb—ne was there—a Minerva restor'd
As at Athens she reign'd not less lov'd than ador'd,
With a partner I met whose dancing quite charm'd me,
While her wit and good humour delighted, inform'd me,
Yes indeed lovely Sw—nt—n I ne'er shall forget,
The pleasure you gave in our short tête a tête.
Mrs. —— was there, once a very great beauty,
She conceives to remain such is doubtless her duty,
For by washes, and rouges, false eyebrows and hair,
The thefts of old time she contrives to repair,
Whilst whalebone and buckram combine with great pain,
What too freely he gives in due limits to rein,
Was this lady well read in the Proverbs, she'd know,
That a season for all things is found here below,
And "a time to be old" if employed as it ought,
May have blessings "the time to be young" never brought,
This leads me to mention (by association)
No people go better to church in the nation
Than we Harrogate folks, for many go here,
Never seen in such places before I much fear,
We go jostling and crowding for seats and quite free
Turn out the possessors sans céremonie, 722
And should the poor wretches presume but to grumble,
Look down with contempt and so bid them be humble,
But though on our entrance we flounder and flout,
Be assur'd we are better before we go out,
For so many fine preachers are heard in this place,
'Twould be shameful indeed if this were not the case;
Besides the good Pastor[6] whose locks are grown grey,
In leading his Harrogate flock the right way.
Last night as I happen'd to ride on the Down,
Some thunder I heard and the sky 'gan to frown;
So expecting a shower my way I soon bent,
To a mean looking cottage to 'scape the descent;
And o'ertook the poor owner decrepid and sickly,
Who strove but in vain, to move forward more quickly;
So I said "honest fellow your toiling refrain,
You may yet reach your cottage untouch'd by the rain."
When struck by my voice he turn'd round to reply,
I saw with much pain the tears stand in his eye,
"I have two little girls Sir, should tempest come on,
"Most sorely they'll grieve that their daddy is gone;
"But their mother will sooth them," "their mother,"! he cried,
And his anguish gush'd forth in keen agony's tide. 743
Alarm'd and distress'd by the wound I had given,
I dismounted and leaving my pony with Stephen,
Attended the mourner whose words weak and faint
Were rather the language of woe than complaint,
Tho' worn with disease and by mis'ry opprest,
Yet one sorrow 'bove all gave a pang to his breast,
The heart that was widow'd all evils could bear,
For sorrow is sunk in the gulph of despair!
"Many men have good wives Sir but one like my own,
I doubt even great men too seldom have known,
"When robb'd by disease of our means of subsistence,
"Her care and industry kept want at a distance;
"Her tenderness sooth'd while her labour sustain'd me,
"Nor a word pass'd her lips Sir, that ever yet pain'd me,
"To her all my burden of suffering was given,
"And it sunk her to earth while it rais'd her to Heaven,"
'Twas simplicity's tale which no words could adorn,
And I wept o'er the being thus 'reft and forlorn,
Ere I ventur'd to offer that kind of relief,
Which could sooth but one source of his manifold grief.
It was sympathy's proof and I wish for no other,
That however divided still man is man's brother;
But judge my emotion on ent'ring the cot,
Where once love and innocence hallow'd the spot,
To see love and innocence burst on my sight,
In a form more endearing and beauty more bright,
'Twas my Cumberland maiden embracing each child
Like the Angel of pity that wept as she smil'd,
She had heard the poor babes as they wander'd around,
Lament their dear mammy laid deep in the ground,
And stole from her party tho' splendid and gay,
To wipe their sad tears and to show them their way,
Now I gaz'd!—my heart throbb'd! while a kind of devotion
Rose at once to my tongue and obstructed its motion,
May I ne'er lose the sense of that sacred sensation
Or forget her blue eyes more divine emanation!
In folly's light moment in solitude's hour,
Still dear be its memory, resistless its pow'r,
And if ever false pleasure to guilt should allure me,
May a glance on this scene from perdition secure me.
Whatever each thought was reveal'd but in looks,
And I trust that for once they were legible books,
Which fairly translated read this way I deem,
Our compassion is mutual, be such our esteem,
We walk'd home together a road long and dreary,
But my heart trod in air, nor did Agnes seem weary,
And her mother declares she'll go with us to-morrow
To visit and comfort these children of sorrow,
And tho' with the Major engaged to my cost,
To take my revenge for some trifles I've lost;
And sweet Lady Shufflecut vow'd I should take,
A hand at her table, yet all I'll forsake,
For one gentle smile from that excellent being,
Of all this world's pleasures is best worth the seeing,
And would she but smile in the way that I want her,
The wealth of the Indies for that smile I'd banter;
But adieu, my dear mother, I cannot dissemble,
That my hopes, and my fears, put me all in a tremble.
&c. &c. &c.