A Season at Harrogate Part 1

A Season at Harrogate.

by Barbara Hofland.

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 p.r.o.nouncing 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 p.r.o.nounc'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.

[Footnote 1: Simkin Bl--nd--rh----d Esq. Author of the New Bath Guide.]

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 s.e.xes, 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 b.u.mper 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 gla.s.s, 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 ma.s.se_ 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 n.o.ble endeavours, Such as Timothy Twig'em Esquire of our town, And my Lord Spatterdas.h.i.t 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 gla.s.ses, Make matches for horses, and bets upon a.s.ses.

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 b.o.o.by) 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 G.o.ddesses dropt from a delicate sphere; Yet mid the a.s.semblage 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 l.u.s.tre 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 a.s.suages 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.

&c. &c. &c.

LETTER III.

_Low Harrogate, July 30th._

With pleasure dear mother commence I this letter To tell you already I find myself better, To the praise of the well be it known I am able, To pick up my crumbs with the best at the table, And now think the landlord a very wise man, For placing thereon all the dishes he can, No longer fastidious or squeamish or dainty, I like all I see and rejoice that there's plenty, But since I wrote last by my doctor's prescription, I've had a warm bath of which take my description Fair Derwent how oft in thy pure limpid wave, Delighted I lov'd in full freedom to lave, While on thy green banks in soft herbage reposing, The swains and their flocks, were contentedly dosing And the landscape around, and above the blue sky Shed new life on the heart while they solac'd the eye Little thought I in those days so sunny and smiling, What a different thing was a Harrogate boiling, And astonish'd I saw when I came to my doffing[2], A tub of hot water made just like a coffin, In which the good woman who tended the bath, Declar'd I must lie down as straight as a lath, Just keeping my face above water that so, I might better inhale the fine fume from below, "But mistress," 'quoth I in a trembling condition,'

"I hope you'll allow me one small requisition, Since scrophula, leprosy, herpes, and scurvy, Have all in this coffin been roll'd topsy-turvy, 232 In a physical sense I presume it is meet, That each guest should be wrapt in a clean winding sheet,"

"Oh no! my good sir for whatever's your case, You can never catch any thing bad in this place, And that being settled on solid foundation, We Harrogate bath-women spurn innovation."

So caviller like I submitted to pow'r, And was coddled in troth for the third of an hour.

But that very same night to atone for it all, I figur'd away the first man at the ball, For the president being both idle and l.u.s.ty, Conceiv'd that his pow'rs "a la danse" were grown rusty, And consign'd all his rights in this gay exhibition, To myself as a man of more able condition, But oh! how it griev'd me dear mother to find, So very few beaux were to dancing inclin'd; Constellations of beauty all night shone in vain, Condemn'd as fix'd stars unremov'd to remain, Whose influence benignant ne'er reach'd from their sphere, To warm the cold heels of the gentlemen here, Captain--r--r consider'd a man of high ton, All dancing declin'd till the ball was just done, And then he made shift just to drawl on his legs, As a lame Chelsea pensioner does when he begs, But in spite of his ennui and indolent air He dances _divinely_ the ladies declare. 258 Of these tho' a great many caper'd away, Yet many sat still who were lovely as they, Fair F--z--r was there, and the beautiful P--k--r With the elegant H--tt--n as lovely tho' darker, The gay A--x--nd--r and R--g--rs the pretty, And M--w--r the graceful, and B--ley the witty.

Some came from the Granby and some from the Dragon, But these are all belles that our own house may brag on, For at present the Crown is much fuller than any, Tho' the Inns at High Harrogate boast a good many The Crescent our neighbour is full to o'erflowing, And numbers I see to the White Hart are going.

As bad as the times are John Bull makes a shift, To give the gay world an effectual lift, And so long as these places can live by their trading We may smile at Napoleon's threats of invading.

The place of all places for lounging away, In amus.e.m.e.nt and style the first half of the day, Is at each of the Libraries[3]; where you may find, Books, music, fine prints, in short all things combin'd, Which those who have taste are delighted to cherish And those who have none yet affect much to relish, Politicians, and ladies, bucks, authors, and peers, The busy all eyes, and the idle all ears, 284 May here every morning be seen in perfection, Like the books, or the news, just laid out for inspection, So to Wilson's I go every morning inquiring, "What arrivals there are?"----and the papers desiring, And look with a deep and significant phiz, For Peninsula news, or a boxing match quiz, Nay at times I converse on a poem or play, And utter no less 'cause I've nothing to say, Rememb'ring in all kinds of difficult cases, To make out my meaning by shrugs and grimaces, Thus a man without reading may give an opinion, And s.n.a.t.c.h for an hour dilletanti dominion, From what sources great critics may judge I can't tell But I always find mine are produc'd at the well, When my breakfast eats good and the waters agree Capel Loft's sugar-candy's not sweeter than me, This morning I dazzled the minds of the crowd, By p.r.o.nouncing Lord Byron "a poet" aloud, Of Strangford and Moore then condemned the sweet flummery, Talk'd of Southey the chaste, and the matchless Montgomery, Call'd Campbell the elegant, Wordsworth the wild And the great Walter Scott Inspiration's own child; Then prais'd the sweet bard tho' unknown be his name, Who gave Talavera's dread battles to fame, Thus 'mongst reading-room gents I set up for a judge, And an eulogist too (when the waters will budge) But if on my stomach they happen to rest, With such critical spleen is my humour opprest, Whether minister, gen'ral, or author I seize on, Be a.s.sur'd that I charge him at least with high-treason, And it then would surprise ye to hear me debate, On the faults of the war and the crimes of the state, On wonderful plans for complete reformation, And fearful predictions for folks of high station, Then too the grand censor on writers I sit, And fulminate laws 'gainst pretenders to wit, 320 Or deeply regret these degenerate times, Produce prose without sense, without poetry rhymes Step on to consider the faults of the stage And conclude there's not one decent thing in the age.

Thus as sung my great uncle "our evil, and good, "By few is conceiv'd, and by few understood,"

If unwisely we praise, or unfeelingly blame Now shudd'ring with ague, now burning with flame, Tho' ignorance gener'lly causes this fault, Yet _here_ 'tis the mixture of sulphur and salt Which nine times in ten will improve on our nature As it clears a complexion or softens a feature, And that without doubt you'll allow is the reason, Why so many matches are made here each season, And who knows dear ma'am but this wonderful water May gain me a sweet wife and yourself a dear daughter?

And at Robey's likewise ev'ry morning I'm shown Since not to know _him_, would prove I was unknown Banker, Jeweller, Friseur, and Toyman, his trade is He's all things for the beaux and still more for the ladies, But no wonder they like him so much in this place, For good temper and honesty dwell in his face, And his shop is so stor'd with all things that are pretty, He has skimm'd the first cream from Pall Mall and the city.

But from pictures of lounges I'll now give you rest, For the dinner bell rings and I am not half drest.

&c. &c. &c.

[Footnote 2: Doffing, undressing, _vide_ Johnson--a word much used in Derbyshire.]

[Footnote 3: Wilson's, and Hargroves.]

LETTER IV.

_Rippon, August 5th._

Since I wrote to you last my dear mother I've been To see all the lions which are to be seen Around this gay place--where 'tis much in the fashion, Small parties to form for this sweet recreation, So we lately set out on a very fine day, Our respects to the beauties of Knaresbro' to pay, 342 But a painter alone to your eye can disclose, A view of the scene as before us it rose, Presenting a coup d'oeil so simple and sweet, Yet so grand, so sublime, and in fact so complete, That I fancied the river as winding around, Was enclosing the spot as if consecrate ground And this castle crown'd scene will ne'er rise to my mind, Without claiming a sigh that I've left it behind, Thro' a beautiful grove we were led to be shewn, The fam'd Dropping-Well which turns all things to stone, Yet in silver ton'd tinkling the Naiad departs, Like ladies whose tears only harden their hearts.

From thence to the cell[4] of a saint we ascended, By sage antiquarians most highly commended, Then climb'd to the Fort where an honest old pair, Would give you more pleasure than any thing there Tho' their mutual labours have spread o'er the soil, Astonishing proofs of their patience and toil.

We trac'd the bold ruins still proudly sublime, Which yielding to man have found mercy from time, And adorn the sweet scenes they were rais'd to protect, With picturesque beauty more fine from defect; Delighted to find wheresoever we roved "His[5] Honour of Scriven" revered and beloved As e'er his forefathers have been in those ages, When the smile of the lord was more priz'd than his wages, When the sire of the land in the heart of each va.s.sal Found a bulwark more strong than the walls of his castle---- From Knaresbro' to Plumpton our party proceeded A spot that no trav'ller should pa.s.s by unheeded, 374 'Tis a miniature landscape redeem'd from the waste As a species of show-box by nature and taste, Of small rocks and small groves and a pretty small lake, Where small parties aquatic excursions may take, And fancy they view in perspective the sh.o.r.es, Where Loch Lomond smiles or Geneva deplores.-- So well my first jaunt had agreed with my mood, That I went to see Harewood the first day I cou'd, 380 But here my description must certainly fail as, I have not one talent for painting a palace, But to draw the proud mansion and bring it to view Will surely dear mother be needless to you, Since at Chatsworth we Derbyshire folks have all been, You will judge I am certain of all that I mean, When I tell you groves, gardens, fine water, and hall, Seem the gift of good Genii to spangle this ball.

To Studley far-fam'd for its beauty we went 389 And gaz'd on those beauties with placid content, Tho' some of the amateurs fancied that art, In planning these grounds had o'er acted her part, But who hallow'd Fountains thy threshold shall pa.s.s And remember the ponds with their tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of gra.s.s?

No! rapt in the scene which presents contemplation, Such objects of interest and deep veneration, We gaze on the arch whence the ivy descending, Usurps the rich shrine where the lamp was once pending, Where the wild currant blooms and the mountain ash bows, There knelt the great abbot and offer'd his vows, 400 And where the green beech his proud branches displays Sweet incense ascended with anthems of praise.