as a short half-mile distant from the principal part
of the town, from that part where was situated the mansion of the lord
of the manor, Sir Crisp Gascoigne. One morning the coachman and the
footman took a conjunct walk to a public-house kept by a man of the name
Palethorp; they took me with them: it was before I was breeched. They
called for a pot of beer; took each of them a sip, and handed the pot to
me. On their requisition, I took another; and when about to depart, the
amount was called for. The two servants paid their quota, and I was
called on for mine. _Nemo dat quod non habet_--this maxim, to my no
small vexation, I was compelled to exemplify. Mr. Palethorp, the
landlord, had a visage harsh and ill-favored, and he insisted on my
discharging my debt. At this very early age, without having put in for
my share of the gifts of fortune, I found myself in the state of an
insolvent debtor. The demand harassed me so mercilessly that I could
hold out no longer: the door being open, I took to my heels; and as the
way was too plain to be missed, I ran home as fast as they could carry
me. The scene of the terrors of Mr. Palethorp's name and visitation, in
pursuit of me, was the country-house at Barking; but neither was the
town-house free from them; for in those terrors, the servants possessed
an instrument by which it was in their power at any time to get rid of
my presence. Level with the kitchen--level with the landing-place in
which the staircase took its commencement--were the usual offices. When
my company became troublesome, a sure and continually repeated means of
exonerating themselves from it was for the footman to repair to the
adjoining subterraneous apartments, invest his shoulders with some
strong covering, and concealing his countenance, stalk in with a hollow,
menacing, and inarticulate tone. Lest that should not be sufficient, the
servants had, stuck by the fireplace, the portraiture of a hobgoblin, to
which they had given the name of Palethorp. For some years I was in the
condition of poor Dr. Priestley, on whose bodily frame another name, too
awful to be mentioned, used to produce a sensation more than mental.

LETTER FROM BOWOOD TO GEORGE WILSON (1781)

SUNDAY, 12 o'clock.

Where shall I begin?--Let me see--The first place, by common right, to
the ladies. The ideas I brought with me respecting the female part of
this family are turned quite topsy-turvy, and unfortunately they are not
yet cleared up