LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
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Memoir of Francis Hodgson
Bishop Samuel Butler to Francis Hodgson, 1 July 1826

Vol. 1 Contents
Chapter I.
Chapter II. 1794-1807.
Chapter III. 1807-1808.
Chapter IV. 1808.
Chapter V. 1808-1809.
Chapter VI. 1810.
Chapter VII. 1811.
Chapter VIII. 1811.
Chapter IX. 1811.
Chapter X. 1811-12.
Chapter XI. 1812.
Chapter XII. 1812-13.
Chapter XIII. 1813-14.
Vol. 2 Contents
Chapter XIV. 1815-16.
Chapter XV. 1816-18.
Chapter XVI. 1815-22.
Chapter XVII. 1820.
Chapter XVIII. 1824-27.
Chapter XIX. 1827-1830
Chapter XX. 1830-36.
Chapter XXI. 1837-40.
Chapter XXII. 1840-47.
Chapter XXIII. 1840-52.
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Kirkby Lonsdale: July 1, 1826.

My dear friend,—I went from your house to Norton, where I stayed a day, then to Mr. Walker’s of Eastwood, near Rotherham, and thence to Col. Fullarton’s of Thryburgh. At half-past ten at night, I visited the keep of Conisborough Castle, without having an interview with Cedric’s or Athelstane’s ghosts; but their accompanying spirits, the owls, sang a fine chorus. I spent a day at Barmborough, and proceeded from Doncaster (without having seen the race-course) to Skipton in Craven, where I saw Skipton Castle, and thence proceeded to the magnificent scenery of Bolton Abbey, and three miles up the Wharf, through romantic woods, to the celebrated Strid, where the river contracts itself to a width of only four feet, but of enormous depth, and about which and some white doe of Rylstone, I am told, Wordsworth has prosed with his usual 1 . . . Hence I returned to Skipton, and

1 The expressions here used are not sufficiently complimentary to justify repetition.

proceeded to Helafield Peel (which, being translated into English, means the fortress in the field of Hela), where the father of one of my pupils, and his ancestors have resided, I believe, almost ever since the worship of Hela was known in Scandinavia. Yesterday I rode a black horse (one of Hela’s progeny) about twenty-four miles, to see some of the wonders of Craven, such as Gordale, Malham Cave, and Malham Tara—all curious in their way, but nothing so curious as my riding such a distance (more than I have ridden in the last six years collectively) and not being much fatigued. This morning I set off with the intention of reaching Ambleside, but have only proceeded two stages to this place, where I am spell-bound, neither horse nor chaise being to be had, on account of that detestable
Lawyer Brougham (quem Dii deæque perdant), with his perfectly useless opposition to the Lowthers of Appleby. I am truly out of humour. I hate Wordsworth, for daring to write about such a place as Bolton Abbey. . . . I hate Brougham, for interrupting the posting of His Majesty’s subjects on their lawful business, etc. . . .

Yours truly,
S. B.