The very grotesque figure which adorns this page represents Cornelius Caton, landlord of the “White Lion,” Richmond, about the middle of last century. Beginning life as a potboy, he rose through various stages till he became landlord of the house. He was almost a dwarf, and his whimsical character and unfailing good humour brought him much custom. The illustration is taken from a very rare print. The portrait of an old Cumberland landlord of the hard-drinking days is drawn in the following ballad, which was written by some wandering bard, in the album kept at the “Rising Sun,” Pooley Bridge:— {195} Will Russell was a landlord bold, A noble wight was he, Right fond of quips and merry cranks, And every kind of glee. Full five and twenty years agone, He came to Pooley Height, And there he kept the Rising Sun, And drunk was every night. No lord, nor squire, nor serving man, In all the country round, But lov’d to call in at the Sun, Wherever he was bound. To hold a crack with noble Will, And take a cheerful cup Of brandy, or of Penrith ale, Or pop, right bouncing up. But now poor Will lies sleeping here, Without his hat or stick, No longer rules the Rising Sun, As he did well when quick. Will’s honest heart could ne’er refuse To drink with ev’ry brother: Then let us not his name abuse— We’ll ne’er see sic another. But let us hope the gods above, Right minded of his merits, Have given him a gentle shove Into the land of spirits. ’Tis then his talents will expand, And make a noble figure, In tossing off a brimming glass, To make his belly bigger. Adieu, brave landlord, may thy portly ghost Be ever ready at its heavenly post; And may thy proud posterity e’er be Landlords at Pooley to eternity. {196} Rather profane the last verse; but, perhaps, not more so than the epitaph on one Matilda Brown:— Here lies the body of Matilda Brown, Who while alive was hostess of the Crown. Her son-in-law keeps on the business still, Patient, resigned to the Eternal Will. At King’s Stanley, in Gloucestershire, is the following epitaph to another hostess, one Ann Collins:— ’Twas as she tript from cask to cask, In at a bung-hole quickly fell, Suffocation was her task, She had no time to say farewell. [Illustration: The George Inn, Salisbury.]