1 8s i METRICAL EPISTLE TO S ALTER 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 

 " pudder " used for the first time in conversation. Old 

 Mr. Brown of the Colesleys said, " It will be a fine day 

 to-morrow, if the thunder does not pudder up,'' pro- 

 nouncing the dd as th. 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, 

 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 



