Shakspeare.
The village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff is situated at a small distance from the South Foreland, and about a mile from the high road half way between Dover and Deal. It was formerly of some consequence, on account of its fair for the encouragement of traders, held in the precincts of its priory, which, on the dissolution of the monastic establishments by Henry VIII., losing its privilege, or rather its utility, (for the fair is yet held,) the village degenerated into an irregular group of poor cottages, a decent farm-house, and an academy for boys, one of the best commercial school establishments in the county of Kent. The church, though time has written strange defeatures on its mouldering walls, still bears the show of former importance; but its best claim on the inquisitive stranger is the evening toll of its single bell, which is generally supposed to be the curfew, but is of a more useful and honourable character. It was established by the testament of one of its inhabitants in the latter part of the seventeenth century, for the guidance of the wanderer from the peril of the neighbouring precipices, over which the testator fell, and died from the injuries he received. He bequeathed the rent of a piece of land for ever, to be paid to the village sexton for tolling the bell every evening at eight o’clock, when it should be dark at that hour.
The cliffs in the range eastward of Dover to the Foreland are the most precipitous, but not so high as Shakspeare’s. They are the resort of a small fowl of the widgeon species, but something less than the widgeon, remarkable for the size of its egg, which is larger than the swan’s, and of a pale green, spotted with brown; it makes its appearance in May, and, choosing the most inaccessible part of the precipice, deposits its eggs, two in number, in holes, how made it is difficult to prove: when the young bird is covered with a thin down, and before any feathers appear, it is taken on the back of the parent, carried to the sea, and abandoned to its own resources, which nature amply supplies means to employ, in the myriads of mackerel fry that at that season colour the surface of the deep with a beautiful pale green and silver. This aquatic wanderer is said to confine its visit to the South Foreland and the seven cliffs at Beachy-head, and is known by the name of Willy. Like the gull, it is unfit for the table, but valuable for the downy softness of its feathers.
It was in this range of Dover cliffs that Joe Parsons, who for more than forty years had exclusively gathered samphire, broke his neck in 1823. Habit had rendered the highest and most difficult parts of these awful precipices as familiar to this man as the level below. Where the overhanging rock impeded his course, a rope, fastened to a peg driven into a cliff above, served him to swing himself from one projection to another: in one of these dangerous attempts this fastening gave way, and he fell to rise no more. Joe had heard of Shakspeare, and felt the importance of a hero. It was his boast that he was a king too powerful for his neighbours, who dared not venture to disturb him in his domain; that nature alone was his lord, to whom he paid no quittance. All were free to forage on his grounds, but none ventured. Joe was twice wedded; his first rib frequently attended and looked to the security of his ropes, and would sometimes terrify him with threats to cast him loose; a promise of future kindness always ended the parley, and a thrashing on the next quarrel placed Joe again in peril. Death suddenly took Judith from this vale of tears; Parsons awoke in the night and found her brought up in an everlasting roadstead: like a true philosopher and a quiet neighbour, Joe took his second nap, and when day called out the busy world to begin its matin labour, Joe called in the nearest gossip to see that all was done that decency required for so good a wife. His last helpmate survives her hapless partner. No one has yet taken possession of his estate. The inquisitive and firm-nerved stranger casts his eyes below in vain: he that gathered samphire is himself gathered. The anchored bark, the skiff, the choughs and crows, the fearful precipice, and the stringy root, growing in unchecked abundance, bring the bard and Joe Parsons to remembrance, but no one now attempts the “dreadful trade.”
K. B.
[101] Poems and Translations from Schiller.
The doge of Venice, accompanied by the senators, in the greatest pomp, marries the sea every year.
Those who judge of institutions by their appearance only, think this ceremony an indecent and extravagant vanity; they imagine that the Venetians annually solemnize this festival, because they believe themselves to be masters of the sea. But the wedding of the sea is performed with the most noble intentions.
The sea is the symbol of the republic: of which the doge is the first magistrate, but not the master; nor do the Venetians wish that he should become so. Among the barriers to his domination, they rank this custom, which reminds him that he has no more authority over the republic, which he governs with the senate, than he has over the sea, notwithstanding the marriage he is obliged to celebrate with her. The ceremony symbolizes the limits of his power, and the nature of his obligations.
To read an inscription on a silver coin which, by much wear, is become wholly obliterated, put the poker in the fire; when red hot, place the coin upon it, and the inscription will plainly appear of a greenish hue, but will disappear as the coin cools. This method was practised at the Mint to discover the genuine coin when the silver was last called in.
For the Table Book.
[Emeugarde, daughter of Jacques de Tournay, Lord of Croiton, in Provence, becoming enamoured of a Troubadour, by name Enguilbert de Marnef, who was bound by a vow to repair to the Camp of the Crusaders in Palestine, besought him on the eve of his departure to suffer her to accompany him: de Marnef at first resolutely refused; but at length, overcome by her affectionate solicitations, assented, and was joined by her the same night, after her flight from her father’s chastel, in the garb of a guild brother of the joyeuse science.
Chronique de Poutailler]
J. J. K.
In 1593, it was reported that a Silesian child, seven years old, had lost all its teeth, and that a golden tooth had grown in the place of a natural double one.
In 1595, Horstius, professor of medicine in the university of Helmstadt, wrote the history of this golden tooth. He said it was partly a natural event, and partly miraculous, and that the Almighty had sent it to this child, to console the Christians for their persecution by the Turks.
In the same year, Rullandus drew up another account of the golden tooth.
Two years afterwards, Ingosteterus, another learned man, wrote against the opinion which Rullandus had given on this tooth of gold. Rullandus immediately replied in a most elegant and erudite dissertation.
Libavius, a very learned man, compiled all that had been said relative to this tooth, and subjoined his remarks upon it.
Nothing was wanting to recommend these erudite writings to posterity, but proof that the tooth was gold—a goldsmith examined it, and found it a natural tooth artificially gilt.
“There are but two classes of persons in the world—those who are hanged, and those who are not hanged: and it has been my lot to belong to the former.”
There is a pathetic, narrative, under the preceding title and motto in “Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,” of the present month, (April, 1827.) It is scarcely possible to abridge or extract from it, and be just to its writer. Perhaps the following specimen may induce curiosity to the perusal of the entire paper in the journal just named.
“I have been hanged, and am alive,” says the narrator. “I was a clerk in a Russia broker’s house, and fagged between Broad-street Buildings and Batson’s coffee-house, and the London-docks, from nine in the morning to six in the evening, for a salary of fifty pounds a-year. I did this—not contentedly—but I endured it; living sparingly in a little lodging at Islington for two years; till I fell in love with a poor, but very beautiful girl, who was honest where it was very hard to be honest; and worked twelve hours a-day at sewing and millinery, in a mercer’s shop in Cheapside, for half a guinea a-week. To make short of a long tale—this girl did not know how poor I was; and, in about six months, I committed seven or eight forgeries, to the amount of near two hundred pounds. I was seized one morning—I expected it for weeks—as regularly as I awoke—every morning—and carried, after a very few questions, for examination before the lord mayor. At the Mansion-house I had nothing to plead. Fortunately my motions had not been watched; and so no one but myself was implicated in the charge—as no one else was really guilty. A sort of instinct to try the last hope made me listen to the magistrate’s caution, and remain silent; or else, for any chance of escape I had, I might as well have confessed the whole truth at once. The examination lasted about half an hour; when I was fully committed for trial, and sent away to Newgate.
“The shock of my first arrest was very slight indeed; indeed I almost question if it was not a relief, rather than a shock, to me. For months, I had known perfectly that my eventual discovery was certain. I tried to shake the thought of this off; but it was of no use—I dreamed of it even in my sleep; and I never entered our counting-house of a morning, or saw my master take up the cash-book in the course of the day, that my heart was not up in my mouth, and my hand shook so that I could not hold the pen—for twenty minutes afterwards, I was sure to do nothing but blunder. Until, at last, when I saw our chief clerk walk into the room, on new year’s morning, with a police officer, I was as ready for what followed, as if I had had six hours’ conversation about it. I do not believe I showed—for I am sure I did not feel it—either surprise or alarm. My ‘fortune,’ however, as the officer called it, was soon told. I was apprehended on the 1st of January; and the sessions being then just begun, my time came rapidly round. On the 4th of the same month, the London grand jury found three bills against me for forgery; and, on the evening of the 5th, the judge exhorted me to ‘prepare for death;’ for ‘there was no hope that, in this world, mercy could be extended to me.’
“The whole business of my trial and sentence passed over as coolly and formally as I would have calculated a question of interest, or summed up an underwriting account. I had never, though I lived in London, witnessed the proceedings of a criminal court before; and I could hardly believe the composure and indifference—and yet civility—for there was no show of anger or ill-temper—with which I was treated; together with the apparent perfect insensibility of all the parties round me, while I was rolling on—with a speed which nothing could check, and which increased every moment—to my ruin! I was called suddenly up from the dock, when my turn for trial came, and placed at the bar; and the judge asked, in a tone which had neither severity about it, nor compassion—nor carelessness, nor anxiety—nor any character or expression whatever that could be distinguished—‘If there was any counsel appeared for the prosecution?’ A barrister then, who seemed to have some consideration—a middle aged, gentlemanly-looking man—stated the case against me—as he said he would do—very ‘fairly and forbearingly;’ but, as soon as he read the facts from his brief, ‘that only’—I heard an officer of the gaol, who stood behind me, say—‘put the rope about my neck.’ My master then was called to give his evidence; which he did very temperately—but it was conclusive. A young gentleman, who was my counsel, asked a few questions in cross-examination, after he had carefully looked over the indictment: but there was nothing to cross-examine upon—I knew that well enough—though I was thankful for the interest he seemed to take in my case. The judge then told me, I thought more gravely than he had spoken before—‘That it was time for me to speak in my defence, if I had any thing to say.’ I had nothing to say. I thought one moment to drop down upon my knees, and beg for mercy; but, again—I thought it would only make me look ridiculous; and I only answered—as well as I could—‘That I would not trouble the court with any defence.’ Upon this, the judge turned round, with a more serious air still, to the jury, who stood up all to listen to him as he spoke. And I listened too—or tried to listen attentively—as hard as I could; and yet—with all I could do—I could not keep my thoughts from wandering! For the sight of the court—all so orderly, and regular, and composed, and formal, and well satisfied—spectators and all—while I was running on with the speed of wheels upon smooth soil downhill, to destruction—seemed as if the whole trial were a dream, and not a thing in earnest! The barristers sat round the table, silent, but utterly unconcerned, and two were looking over their briefs, and another was reading a newspaper; and the spectators in the galleries looked on and listened as pleasantly, as though it were a matter not of death going on, but of pastime or amusement; and one very fat man, who seemed to be the clerk of the court, stopped his writing when the judge began, but leaned back in his chair, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, except once or twice that he took a snuff; and not one living soul seemed to take notice—they did not seem to know the fact—that there was a poor, desperate, helpless creature—whose days were fast running out—whose hours of life were even with the last grains in the bottom of the sand-glass—among them! I lost the whole of the judge’s charge—thinking of I know not what—in a sort of dream—unable to steady my mind to any thing, and only biting the stalk of a piece of rosemary that lay by me. But I heard the low, distinct whisper of the foreman of the jury, as he brought in the verdict—‘Guilty,’—and the last words of the judge, saying—‘that I should be hanged by the neck until I was dead;’ and bidding me ‘prepare myself for the next life, for that my crime was one that admitted of no mercy in this.’ The gaoler then, who had stood close by me all the while, put his hand quickly upon my shoulder, in an under voice, telling me, to ‘Come along!’ Going down the hall steps, two other officers met me; and, placing me between them, without saying a word, hurried me across the yard in the direction back to the prison. As the door of the court closed behind us, I saw the judge fold up his papers, and the jury being sworn in the next case. Two other culprits were brought up out of the dock; and the crier called out for—‘The prosecutor and witnesses against James Hawkins, and Joseph Sanderson, for burglary!’
“I had no friends, if any in such a case could have been of use to me—no relatives but two; by whom—I could not complain of them—I was at once disowned.—There was but one person then in all the world that seemed to belong to me; and that one was Elizabeth Clare! And, when I thought of her, the idea of all that was to happen to myself was forgotten—I covered my face with my hands, and cast myself on the ground; and I wept, for I was in desperation.—She had gone wild as soon as she had heard the news of my apprehension—never thought of herself, but confessed her acquaintance with me. The result was, she was dismissed from her employment—and it was her only means of livelihood.
“She had been every where—to my master—to the judge that tried me—to the magistrates—to the sheriffs—to the aldermen—she had made her way even to the secretary of state! My heart did misgive me at the thought of death; but, in despite of myself, I forgot fear when I missed her usual time of coming, and gathered from the people about me how she was employed. I had no thought about the success or failure of her attempt. All my thoughts were—that she was a young girl, and beautiful—hardly in her senses, and quite unprotected—without money to help, or a friend to advise her—pleading to strangers—humbling herself perhaps to menials, who would think her very despair and helpless condition, a challenge to infamy and insult. Well, it mattered little! The thing was no worse, because I was alive to see and suffer from it. Two days more, and all would be over; the demons that fed on human wretchedness would have their prey. She would be homeless—pennyless—friendless—she would have been the companion of a forger and a felon; it needed no witchcraft to guess the termination.——
“We hear curiously, and read every day, of the visits of friends and relatives to wretched criminals condemned to die. Those who read and hear of these things the most curiously, have little impression of the sadness of the reality. It was six days after my first apprehension, when Elizabeth Clare came, for the last time, to visit me in prison! In only these short six days her beauty, health, strength—all were gone; years upon years of toil and sickness could not have left a more worn-out wreck. Death—as plainly as ever death spoke—sat in her countenance—she was broken-hearted. When she came, I had not seen her for two days. I could not speak, and there was an officer of the prison with us too: I was the property of the law now; and my mother, if she had lived, could not have blest, or wept for me, without a third person, and that a stranger, being present. I sat down by her on my bedstead, which was the only place to sit on in my cell, and wrapped her shawl close round her, for it was very cold weather, and I was allowed no fire; and we sat so for almost an hour without exchanging a word.——
*****
“She was got away, on the pretence that she might make one more effort to save me, with a promise that she should return again at night. The master was an elderly man, who had daughters of his own; and he promised—for he saw I knew how the matter was—to see Elizabeth safe through the crowd of wretches among whom she must pass to quit the prison. She went, and I knew that she was going for ever. As she turned back to speak as the door was closing, I knew that I had seen her for the last time. The door of my cell closed. We were to meet no more on earth. I fell upon my knees—I clasped my hands—my tears burst out afresh—and I called on God to bless her.”——
The mental and bodily sufferings of the condemned man in his cell, his waking dreams, and his dead sleep till the morning of execution, though of intense interest in the narrative, are omitted here that the reader may at once accompany the criminal to the place of execution.——
“I remember beginning to move forward through the long arched passages which led from the press-room to the scaffold. I saw the lamps that were still burning—for the daylight never entered here: I heard the quick tolling of the bell, and the deep voice of the chaplain reading as he walked before us—
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, shall live. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!’
“It was the funeral service—the order for the grave—the office for those that were senseless and dead—over us, the quick and the living——
“I felt once more—and saw! I felt the transition from these dim, close, hot, lamp-lighted subterranean passages, to the open platform and steps at the foot of the scaffold, and to day. I saw the immense crowd blackening the whole area of the street below me. The windows of the shops and houses opposite, to the fourth story, choked with gazers. I saw St. Sepulchre’s church through the yellow fog in the distance, and heard the pealing of its bell. I recollect the cloudy, misty morning; the wet that lay upon the scaffold—the huge dark mass of building, the prison itself, that rose beside, and seemed to cast a shadow over us—the cold, fresh breeze, that, as I emerged from it, broke upon my face. I see it all now—the whole horrible landscape is before me. The scaffold—the rain—the faces of the multitude—the people clinging to the house-tops—the smoke that beat heavily downwards from the chimneys—the waggons filled with women, staring in the inn-yards opposite—the hoarse low roar that ran through the gathered crowd as we appeared. I never saw so many objects at once so plainly and distinctly in all my life as at that one glance; but it lasted only for an instant.
“From that look, and from that instant, all that followed is a blank——”
To what accident the narrator owes his existence is of little consequence, compared with the moral to be derived from the sad story.—“The words are soon spoken, and the act is soon done, which dooms a wretched creature to an untimely death; but bitter are the pangs—and the sufferings of the body are among the least of them—that he must go through before he arrives at it!”
In the narrative there is more than seems to be expressed. By all who advocate or oppose capital punishment—by every being with a human heart, and reasoning powers—it should be read complete in the pages of “Blackwood.”
*
Blind Willie, the Newcastle Minstrel.
Newcastle Song.
William Purvis, or, as he is generally styled, blind Willie, is a well-known character, and native of Newcastle, where he has resided since his infancy. He was born blind, and is the son of Margaret Purvis, who died in All Saints’ workhouse, February 7, 1819, in her hundredth year.
Willie is, indeed, as the ingenious Mr. Sykes calls him in his “Local Records,” a “famous musician,” for he has long been celebrated for his minstrelsy throughout the northern counties, but more particularly so in Northumberland. In Newcastle, Willie is respected by all—from the rudest to the gentlest heart all love him—children seize his hand as he passes—and he is ever an equally welcome guest at the houses of the rich and the hovels of the pitmen. The hoppings of the latter are cheered by the soul-inspiring sound of his viol: nay, he is, I may truly say, a very particle of a pitman’s existence, who, after a hard day’s labour, considers it a pleasure of the most exquisite nature to repair to some neighbouring pot-house, there to enjoy Willie’s music, and listen to the rude ballads he is in the habit of composing and singing to the accompaniment of his own music. Poor Willie! may he live long and live happy. When he dies many a tear will fall from eyes that seldom weep, and hearts that know little of the more refined sensations of our nature will heave a sigh. Willie will die, but not his fame will die. In many of those humorous provincial songs, with which Newcastle abounds more than any other town I am acquainted with—the very airs as well as the words of which possess a kind of local nationality—“Blind Willie” is the theme. These songs are the admiration of all who know how to appreciate genuine humour; several of them have been sung for years, and I venture to prophecy, will be sung by future generations.
Among the characters who have noticed “Willie” may be mentioned the present duke of Northumberland, sir Matthew White Ridley, the late Stephen Kemble, Esq. and the admirable comedian Matthews. Sir Matthew White Ridley is a most particular favourite with “Willie,” and it is no uncommon occurrence to hear Willie, as he paces along the streets of Newcastle, muttering to himself “Sir Maffa! sir Maffa! canny sir Maffa! God bless sir Maffa!”
One of Willie’s greatest peculiarities is thus alluded to by Mr. Sykes:—“He has travelled the streets of Newcastle time out of mind without a covering upon his head. Several attempts have been made, by presenting him with a hat, to induce him to wear one, but after having suffered it for a day or two it is thrown aside, and the minstrel again becomes uncovered, preferring the exposure of his pate to the ‘pelting of the pitiless storm.’” The likeness that accompanies this notice is from a large quarto engraving, published at Newcastle, and will doubtless be acceptable to numerous readers of that populous district wherein blind Willie is so popular.
IN
1722.
1822.
1722.
1822.
G.[102]
[102] The Times.
For the Table Book.
——On a cool delightful evening which succeeded one of the scorching days of last summer, I sallied forth for a walk in the neighbourhood of the city of ——. Chance led me along a path usually much frequented, which was then covered thick with the accumulated dust of a long drought; it bore the impression of a thousand busy feet, of every variety of form and size; from the first steps of the infant, whose nurse had allowed it to toddle his little journey to the outstretched arms of her who was almost seated to receive him, to the hobnailed slouch of the carter, whose dangling lash and dusty jacket annoyed the well-dressed throng. But three pair of footsteps, which were so perfect that they could not long have preceded my own, more than all, attracted my attention; those on the left certainly bore the impress of the delicately formed foot of a female; the middle ones were shaped by the ample square-toed, gouty shoe of a senior; and those on the right were as certainly placed there by the Wellington boot of some dandy; they were extravagantly right and left, the heel was small and high, for the middle of the foot did not tread on earth.—My imagination was instantly at work, to tenant these “leathern conveniences;” the last-mentioned I felt so certain were inhabited by an officer of the lancers, or an hussar who had witnessed Waterloo’s bloody fight, that I could almost hear the tinkle of his military spur. I pictured him young, tall, handsome, with black mustachios, dark eyes, and, as the poet says,
The strides were not so long as a tall man would make, but this I accounted for by supposing they were accommodated to the hobbling gait of the venerable gentleman in the centre, who I imagined “of the old school,” and to wear one of those few self-important wigs, which remain in this our day of sandy scratches. As these powdered coverings never look well without a three cocked hat, I had e’en placed one upon it, and almost edged it with gold lace, which, however, would not do—it had rather loo much of by-gone days:—to my “mind’s eye” he was clothed in a snuff-coloured suit, and one of his feet, which was not too gouty to admit of a leather shoe, had upon it a large silver buckle. My “high fancy” formed the lady a charming creature, sufficiently en bon point, with an exceedingly genteel figure; not such as two parallel lines would describe, but rather broad on the shoulders, gently tapering to the waist, then gradually increasing in a delicately flowing outline, such as the “statue that enchants the world” would exhibit, if animated and clothed in the present fashionable dress; her voice, of course, was delightful, and the mild expression of her face to be remembered through life—it could not be forgotten; in short, she was as Sterne says, “all that the heart wishes or the eye looks for in woman.” My reverie had now arrived at its height, my canvass was full, my picture complete, and I was enjoying the last delicate touches of creative fancy, when a sudden turn in the road placed before me three persons, who, on a moment’s reflection, I felt constrained to acknowledge as the authors of the footsteps which had led me into such a pleasing delusion; but—no more like the trio of my imagination, than “Hyperion to a satyr!” The dandy had red hair, the lady a red nose, and the middle man was a gouty sugar-baker; all very good sort of people, no doubt, except that they overthrew my aerial castle. I instantly retraced my steps, and was foolish enough to be sulky, nay, a very “anatomie of melancholy;” till a draught of “Burton’s” liquid amber at supper made me friends with the world again——
Eta.
About the middle of the sixteenth century, the eldest son of Lamond, of Cowel, in Argyleshire, was hunting the red deer in Glenfine. At the same time the only son of Macgregor, of Glenstrae, the chief of that once powerful clan, was on a similar excursion in the same place, which was the boundary between the extensive territories of these two great families. Young Lamond had pierced a prime hart with an arrow; and the noble animal, galled by the shaft, which stuck in the wound, plunged into the river, and bent his course into Macgregor’s country. He was followed by Lamond, who outran all his companions. It unfortunately fell out, that a hart had been wounded by the young Macgregor at the same time, among his own hills. The two deer crossed each other in their flight, and the first that fell was claimed by both the hunters. The youths, flushed by the ardour of the chase, and totally unknown to each other, hotly disputed. They were armed, as was the fashion of those days, and fought, and the young Macgregor fell. Lamond cut his way through the attendants, but was keenly pursued. Having wonderful fleetness of foot, he made his way forward; and ignorant of the country and of the people, and almost exhausted with thirst, hunger, anguish, and fatigue, rushed into the house of Macgregor of Glenstrae, on whose mercy he threw himself, telling him that he had slain a man. Macgregor received him, and had given him refreshment, when the pursuers arrived, and told the unfortunate man the woful tale—that his son had fallen—his only child—the last of his ancient race—the hope of his life—the stay of his age. The old man was at this period left surrounded by enemies crafty and powerful—he, friendless and alone. The youth was possessed of every virtue that a father’s heart could wish; his destroyer was now in his hands; but he had pledged his promise for his safety, and that pledge must be redeemed. It required all the power and influence of the aged chief to restrain the fury of his people from slaying young Lamond at the moment; and even that influence, great as it was, could only protect him, on an assurance that on the next morning his life should be solemnly sacrificed for their beloved Gregor.
In the middle of the night, Macgregor led Lamond forth by the hand, and, aware of his danger, himself accompanied him to the shore of Lochfine, where he procured a boat, made Lamond enter it, and ordered the boatmen to convey him safely across the loch into his own country. “I have now performed my promise,” said the old man, “and henceforth I am your enemy—beware the revenge of a father for his only son!”
Before this fatal event occurred, the persecution against the unfortunate Macgregors had commenced, and this sad accident did not contribute to diminish it. The old laird of Glenstrae struggled hard to maintain his estate and his independence, but his enemies prevailed against him. The conduct of young Lamond was grateful and noble. When he succeeded to the ample possessions of his ancestors, he beseeched old Macgregor to take refuge under his roof. There the aged chief was treated as a father, and ended his days.
This is a drunken sort of game.—The queff, or cup, is filled to the brim, then one of the company takes a pair of dice, and cries “Hy-jinks,” and throws. The number he casts points out the person that must drink; he who threw beginning at himself number one, and so round, till the number of the person agree with that of the dice, (which may fall upon himself, if the number be within twelve,) then he sets the dice to him, or bids him take them. He on whom they fall is obliged to drink, or pay a small sum of money as forfeit; then he throws and so on: but if he forgets to cry “Hy-jinks” he pays a forfeiture. Now, he, on whom it falls to drink, gets all the forfeited money in the bank, if he drinks, and orders the cup to be filled again, and then throws. If he errs in the articles, he loses the privilege of drawing the money. The articles are (1 drink;) 2 draw; 3 fill; 4 cry “Hy-jinks;” 5 count just; 6 choose your double man; viz. when two equal numbers of the dice is thrown, the person whom you choose must pay double forfeit, and so must you when the dice is in his hand.
A rare project this, and no bubble I can assure you, for a covetous fellow may save money, and get himself as drunk as he can desire in less than an hour’s time.[103]
S. S. S.
[103] Notes on Allan Ramsay’s Elegy upon Maggy Johnston.
There was at Amadan a celebrated academy. Its first rule was framed in these words:—
“The members of this academy shall think much—write little—and be as mute as they can.”
A candidate offered himself—he was too late—the vacancy was filled up—they knew his merit, and lamented their disappointment in lamenting his own. The president was to announce the event; he desired the candidate should be introduced.
He appeared with a simple and modest air, the sure testimony of merit. The president rose, and presented a cup of pure water to him, so full, that a single drop more would have made it overflow; to this emblematic hint he added not a word but his countenance expressed deep affliction.
The candidate understood that he could not be received because the number was complete, and the assembly full; yet he maintained his courage, and began to think by what expedient, in the same kind of language, he could explain that a supernumerary academician would displace nothing, and make no essential difference in the rule they had prescribed.
Observing at his feet a rose, he picked it up, and laid it gently upon the surface of the water, so gently that not a drop of it escaped. Upon this ingenious reply, the applause was universal; the rule slept or winked in his favour. They presented immediately to him the register upon which the successful candidate was in the habit of writing his name. He wrote it accordingly; he had then only to thank them in a single phrase, but he chose to thank them without saying a word.
He figured upon the margin the number of his new associates, 100; then, having put a cipher before the figure 1, he wrote under it—“their value will be the same”—0100.
To this modesty the ingenious president replied with a politeness equal to his address: he put the figure 1 before the 100, and wrote, “they will have eleven times the value they had—1100.”
For the Table Book.
By a standing law of this “ugly club,” their club-room must always be the ugliest room in the ugliest house of the town. The only furniture allowed in this room is a number of chairs, contrived with the worst taste imaginable; a round table made by a back-woodsman; and a Dutch looking-glass, full of veins, which at one glance would make even a handsome man look a perfect “fright.” This glass is frequently sent to such gentlemen as doubt their qualifications, and neglect or decline to take up their freedom in the club.
When an ill-favoured gentleman first arrives in the city, he is waited upon, in a civil and familiar manner, by some of the members of the club, who inform him that they would be glad of his company on the next evening of their meeting; and the gentleman commonly thanks the deputation for the attention of the club, to one so unworthy as himself, and promises to consider the matter.
It sometimes happens, that several days elapse, and the “strange” gentleman thinks no more of the club. He has perhaps repeatedly looked into his own glass, and wondered what, in the name of sense, the club could have seen in his face, that should entitle him to the distinction they would confer on him.
He is, however, waited upon a second time by the most respectable members of the whole body, with a message from the president, requesting him not to be diffident of his qualifications, and earnestly desiring “that he will not fail to attend the club the very next evening—the members will feel themselves highly honoured by the presence of one whose appearance has already attracted the notice of the whole society.”
“Zounds!” he says to himself on perusing the billet, “what do they mean by teasing me in this manner? I am surely not so ugly,” (walking to his glass,) “as to attract the notice of the whole town on first setting my foot upon the wharf!”
“Your nose is very long,” cries the spokesman of the deputation. “Noses,” says the strange gentleman, “are no criterion of ugliness: it’s true, the tip-end of mine would form an acute angle with a base line drawn horizontally from my under lip; but I defy the whole club to prove, that acute angles were ever reckoned ugly, from the days of Euclid down to this moment, except by themselves.”
“Ah, sir,” answers the messenger, “how liberal has nature been in bestowing upon you so elegant a pair of lantern jaws! believe me, sir, you will be a lasting honour to the club.”
“My jaws,” says the ugly man in a pet, “are such as nature made them: and Aristotle has asserted, that all her works are beautiful.”
The conversation ends for the present. The deputation leaves the strange gentleman to his reflections, with wishes and hopes that he will consider further.
Another fortnight elapses, and the strange gentleman, presuming the club have forgotten him, employs the time in assuming petit-maître airs, and probably makes advances to young ladies of fortune and beauty. At the expiration of this period, he receives a letter from a pretended female, (contrived by the club,) to the following purport:—
“My dear sir,
“There is such a congeniality between your countenance and mine, that I cannot help thinking you and I were destined for each other. I am unmarried, and have a considerable fortune in pine-barren land, which, with myself, I wish to bestow upon some deserving man; and from seeing you pass several times by my window, I know of no one better entitled to both than yourself. I am now almost two years beyond my grand climacteric, and am four feet four inches in height, rather less in circumference, a little dropsical, have lovely red hair and a fair complexion, and, if the doctor do not deceive me, I may hold out twenty years longer. My nose is, like yours, rather longer than common; but then to compensate, I am universally allowed to have charming eyes. They somewhat incline to each other, but the sun himself looks obliquely in winter, and cheers the earth with his glances. Wait upon me, dear sir, to-morrow evening.
“Yours till death, &c.
“M. M.”
“What does all this mean?” cries the ugly gentleman, “was ever man tormented in this manner! Ugly clubs, ugly women! imps and fiends, all in combination to persecute me, and make my life miserable! I am to be ugly, it seems, whether I will or not.”
At this critical juncture, the president of the club, who is the very pink of ugliness itself, waits upon the strange gentleman, and takes him by the hand. “My dear sir,” says he, “you may as well walk with me to the club as not. Nature has designed you for us, and us for you. We are a set of men who have resolution enough to dare to be ugly; and have long let the world know, that we can pass the evening, and eat and drink together with as much social glee and real good humour as the handsomest of them. Look into this Dutch glass, sir, and be convinced that we cannot do without you.”
“If it must be so, it must,” cries the ugly gentleman, “there seems to be no alternative; I will even do as you say!”
It appears from a paper in “The American Museum” of 1790, that by this mode the “ugly club” of Charleston has increased, is increasing, and cannot be diminished. According to the last accounts, “strange” gentlemen who do not comply with invitations to join the club in person are elected “honorary” members, and their names enrolled nolens volens.
P. N.