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Brother Lightfoote's Journal The Recollections of an Eighteenth-Century Gentleman of the Craft
The season of Lent is, appropriately, gloomy, but Lightfoote’s spirits were further depressed by the long and arduous journey from London. The farther from the capital one journeys in this country, the more difficult journeying becomes and thus a destination as distant as Hereford seems to recede before the weary journeyman, particularly one with an empty belly, for I have forsworn second helpings for the fast. I arrived, after five days of purgatory amidst the potholes, to be greeted by a boy with boils and a note from my classmate, informing me that, as he was in the process of moving house, I was to be billeted at The Cantelupe Inn. This did little to lighten my mood but worse, far worse, was to come. I called for my trunk to be passed down to discover that, due to some confusion at Tewkesbury, my bags had gone to Bath. I voiced my displeasure, loudly and at length, and was assured by the coachman that my belongings would be restored to me ‘post haste’ – this without a trace of irony! Picture poor Lightfoote, far from home, hatter and hosier, in the clothes he stood up in, which, by this time, were more than capable of standing up on their own: a poor candidate in a state of dankness; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief… My pustulant, prospective porter (whose yoke was now easy, his burthen light) piped up with a possible solution. He assured me that he knew of a shop in the market-square where I would find garments, suitable for a gentleman, made ready and readily available. I doubted the veracity of Master Sebaceous’s proclamations in every particular, but what else could I do, stranded and stinking, in Hereford, on Maundy Thursday, but blindly follow my encrusted conductor? He led me to a pawnbroker’s. To my amazement I was offered an entire wardrobe of the finest quality, including a coat by Bilgori and four shirts from Hampson’s, obviously the property, formerly, of a man of substance. I left the premises better dressed than I’d left home and but three and a tanner worse off. I made the figure up to a round four shillings by rewarding my spotty saviour with sixpence on arrival at my place of temporary residence. The Cantelupe Inn is situated midway between the cathedral and the cattle market and what with the bells on one side and the bulls on the other there is little peace to be had in it. Its saving grace on this occasion was that it is Ethelbert’s meeting place, so I wouldn’t have to worry about finding my way to the lodge or, more importantly, finding my way back on Saturday night! Evening was drawing on when I received another note from my elusive host, borne by the same stippled stripling as before, explaining, at length, that he was still in the throes of moving and would not be able to sup with me, much to his regret. He looked forward to seeing me, in the cathedral, for the performance of Messiah on the following evening, seats having been reserved for us in the stalls. I hate to dine alone and so I decided to invite the pimpled page to enlist in the Lightfoote Brigade for a frontal assault on a side of the best beef in England and the putting down of a local rebellion that had been fermenting for some time in the cider vats. The verrucous volunteer once more proved himself an hero, twice excusing himself to puke in the yard and twice returning to the fray. I learned that his name was Fox but that his friends called him Pox. (I wonder, recalling
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