LETTER I.
To Mrs. Blunderhead,
Low Harrogate, July 20th.
'Tis now forty years and dear mother you know it,
Since my great Uncle[1] Simkin set up for a poet,
And I'll venture to say that not one in the nation,
From that day to this caus'd so much admiration,
But tho' I ne'er hope on his humour to hit,
Much less catch his genius or glow with his wit,
Or blend with simplicity satire so keen,
That it laugh'd away sin, while it laugh'd away spleen,
Yet since there are many more folks in our times,
Than were found about his, who make verses and rhymes,
I don't see a reason why I should not try,
To spread my poor fins and to swim with the fry,
You know Drewry of Derby would never refuse,
My sonnets, and stanzas, a place in the news,
Besides a great name's a great matter we know,
James Thompson our schoolmaster always said so,
And thought it the best of a hundred good reasons,
Why he should write verses as fine as 'The Seasons'
Now I being last of the Blunderhead race,
As a casuist this doctrine most warmly embrace,
And hope my dear mother the parson and you,
Whilst conning my letters will give me my due,
And say to reward all my labour and pains,
He is just like his uncle save wanting his brains.
But a truce to this subject of grave declamation,
My spirit's not suited to sage dissertation,
To anatomists leaving the state of my skull,
To critics their right of pronouncing me dull,
I shall merely go on with my gossiping rhyme,
To tell you my method of killing my time,
And open as well as I can all the merit,
This place of resort is allow'd to inherit. 32
When first I arriv'd here I didn't well know,
If at Harrogate High, or at Harrogate Low,
I should place myself snugly, but after some chatter,
With those who were knowing, I fix'd on the latter
So now my good madam behold me sat down,
With a number of invalid folks at the Crown,
But what way invalid to unfold I'm not able,
Unless 'tis with cramming at Thackwray's good table,
Who with turbot, and ven'son, and poultry, and beef,
To the sick with their hunger gives instant relief,
But as to the crop-sick I very much question,
If here they find help for diseas'd indigestion,
The sight of these good things to me was unpleasant,
For you know I am ticklish and qualmish at present
But the Company laugh and declare I shall soon eat,
Three pounds of good food, tho' I now live on spoonmeat,
And in order to bring me about very quickly,
Some good looking dames neither sighing nor sickly,
Advis'd me most kindly the very first night,
To consult with a doctor as soon as 'twas light,
Then take of the water a plentiful dose,
Said they "the well's nigh" so I find by my nose,
"But pray gentle ladies declare in a trice,
"The doctor of whom I must ask this advice?" 56
This question once put t'would surprise you dear mother,
How they answer'd at once each more loud than the other,
"There's not one of them all that my fancy so takes"
"Cried a lady in black" "as my good Doctor Jaques,"
Says the next "Mr. Richardson's wonderful clever,
Tho' so busy dear heart there's no catching him ever,"
Cries a third "if you really want medical skill,
Mr. Wormald will cure you if any man will,"
"And I know" "said a fourth" "that whatever may ail ye,
"You're sure of relief if you see Doctor Cayley."
Afraid of offending each charming adviser,
By a pref'rence that said "ma'am your neighbour is wiser,"
I obey'd the loud mandate of Gen'ral O'Flurry,
And this morning consulted with one Doctor Murray
Who sans ruffles, sans wig, and sans avis supercilious,
Has pronounc'd on my case and declares I am bilious,
In my next dearest mother some news I will tell,
Of these wonderful waters when drank at the well
So wishing you ne'er may have need of such liquor
Conclude me yours truly—with love to the vicar.
&c. &c. &c.
LETTER II.
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.