i8si METRICAL EPISTLE TO SALTER 189 



the stately ruins ; scarcely anything remaining but part 

 of the great church-tower, the gateway, some of the 

 smaller buildings, now a farm-house, and these beauti 

 ful walls. To-night I heard the Shakespearian word 

 &quot;pudder&quot; used for the first time in conversation. Old 

 Mr. Brown of the Colesleys said, &quot; It will be a fine day 

 to-morrow, if the thunder does not pudder up,&quot; pro 

 nouncing the dd as Ik. It tells a singular story to 

 see many of the old farms surrounded by moats in 

 these parts. 



The weather during part of the time in Derby 

 shire was excessively warm, and made field-work 

 somewhat trying, as the following characteristic letter 

 will show : 



ASHBOURNE, DERBYSHIRE, 

 $oth June 1851. 



MY DEAR SALTER Where you may be I know 

 not, whether above or below ground, recent or fossil. 

 . . . Here we are burned up with fervent heat, and 

 our souls are melted within us. Ginger-beer o days is 

 the only drink, and we dine at twelve o clock at night 

 with bitter beer and soda-water. Our noses are 

 flames of fire, and our lips breathe smoke as a 

 furnace. Oh for the dim cellars of the Museum, 

 and a pint of cool stout with an oyster! Then 

 should our throats be opened, and our lungs sing 

 aloud like a game-cock. Hip-hip-hurrah for Lord 

 S , who is not quite so bad as he s ugly. With 

 a shout for Sir Henry, the Gov nor, and a prayer 

 that his legs may grow stouter ; Stout as the legs 

 of strong Samson, who bore off the gates of a city, 

 Easy as Salter would carry a trayful of shells oolitic 

 Up the high gallery - stairs, where calamites ever 



