HELL BRIDGE.
There is a narrow pass between the mountains in the neighbourhood of Bendearg, in the Highlands of Scotland, which, at a little distance, has the appearance of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a tremendous chasm: but on nearer approach it is seen to be a wall of nature’s own masonry, formed of vast and rugged bodies of solid rock, piled on each other as if in giant sport of architecture. Its sides are in some places covered with trees of a considerable size; and the passenger who has a head steady enough to look down, may see the eyrie of birds of prey beneath his feet. The path across is so narrow, that it cannot admit of persons passing, and indeed none but natives attempt the dangerous route, though it saves a circuit of three miles; yet it sometimes happens that two travellers meet, owing to the curve formed by the pass preventing a view over it from either side, and, in that case, one person lies down while the other creeps over his body. One day, a highlander walking along the pass, when he had gained the highest part of the arch, observed another coming leisurely up, and being himself one of the patrician order, called to him to lie down; the person addressed disregarded the command, and the highlanders met on the summit. They were Cairn and Bendearg, of two families in enmity to each other. “I was first at the top,” said Bendearg, “and called out first; lie down, that I may pass over in peace.” “When the Grant prostrates himself before the M‘Pherson,” answered the other, “it must be with a sword through his body.” “Turn back then,” said Bendearg, “and repass as you came.” “Go back yourself, if you like it,” replied Grant; “I will not be the first of my name to turn before the M‘Phersons.” They then threw their bonnets over the precipice, and advanced with a slow and cautious pace closer to each other—both were unarmed. Preparing for a desperate struggle, they planted their feet firmly on the ground, compressed their lips, knit their brows, and fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood prepared for an onset. They both grappled at the same moment; but, being of equal strength, were unable to shift each other’s position, and stood fixed on the rock with suppressed breath, and muscles strained to the “top of their bent,” like statues carved out of the solid stone. At length M‘Pherson, suddenly removing his right foot so as to give him greater purchase, stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with him by main strength, till they both leaned over the precipice, looking into the terrible abyss. The contest was doubtful, for Grant had placed his foot firmly on an elevation at the brink, and had equal command of his enemy, but at this moment M‘Pherson sunk slowly and firmly on his knee, and, while Grant suddenly started back, stooping to take the supposed advantage, whirled him over his head into the gulf. M‘Pherson himself fell backwards, his body partly hanging over the rock, a fragment gave way beneath him, and he sunk further, till, catching with a desperate effort at the solid stone above, he regained his footing. There was a pause of death-like stillness, and the bold heart of M‘Pherson felt sick and faint. At length, as if compelled by some mysterious feeling, he looked down over the precipice. Grant had caught with a death-like gripe by the rugged point of a rock—his enemy was almost within his reach. His face was turned upward, and there was in it horror and despair—but he uttered no word or cry. The next moment he loosed his hold, his brains were dashed out before the eyes of his hereditary foe: the mangled body disappeared among the trees, and his last heavy and hollow sound arose from the bottom. M‘Pherson returned home an altered man. He purchased a commission in the army, and fell fighting in the wars of the Peninsula. The Gaelic name of the place where this tragedy was acted signifies “Hell Bridge.”
Clubs
AT BIRMINGHAM.
The whole British empire may be justly considered as one grand alliance, united for public and private interest; and this vast body of people is subdivided into an infinity of smaller fraternities, for individual benefit.
Perhaps there are hundreds of these societies in Birmingham, under the name of “clubs;” some of them boast the antiquity of a century, and by prudent direction have acquired a capital, at accumulating interest. Thousands of the inhabitants are connected; nay, to be otherwise is rather unfashionable, and some are people of sentiment and property.
Among a variety of purposes intended by these laudable institutions, the principal one is that of supporting the sick. Each society is governed by a code of laws of its own making, which have at least the honour of resembling those of the legislature; for words without sense are found in both, and we sometimes stumble upon contradiction.
The poor-rates, enormous as they appear, are softened by these brotherly aids; they tend also to keep the mind at rest, for a man will enjoy the day of health, with double relish, when he considers he has a treasure laid up for that of sickness. If a member only of a poor family be sick, the head still remains to procure necessaries; but if that head be disordered, the whole source of supply is dried up.
The general custom is to meet at a public house every fortnight, spend a trifle, and each contribute sixpence, or any stated sum, to the common stock. The landlord is always treasurer, or father, and is assisted by two stewards, annually or monthly chosen.
As honour and low life are not always found together, we sometimes see a man, who is idle, wish the society may suppose him sick, that he may rob them with more security; or, if a member hang long “upon the box,” his brethren seek a pretence to expel him. On the other hand, we frequently observe a man silently retreat from the club, if another falls upon the box, and fondly suppose himself no longer a member; or if the box be loaded with sickness, the whole club has been known to dissolve, that the members might rid themselves of the burden. The Court of Requests finds an easy remedy for these evils, at a trifling expense.
The charity of the club is often extended beyond the grave, and terminates with a present to the widow.
Philosophers tell us, “There is no good without its kindred evil.” This amiable body of men, marshalled to relieve disease, has one small alloy, and perhaps but one. As liquor and labour are inseparable, the imprudent member is apt to forget to quit the club-room when he has spent his necessary two-pence, but continues there, to the injury of his family.
One of these institutions is the “Rent Club,” where, from the weekly sums deposited by the members, a sop is regularly served up twice a year, to prevent the growlings of a landlord.
In the “Breeches Club” every member ballots for a pair, value a guinea, promised of more value by the maker. This club dissolves when all the members are served.
The intentions of the “Book Club” are well known to catch the productions of the press as they rise.
The “Watch Club” has generally a watchmaker for its president, is composed of young men, and is always temporary.
If a tailor be short of employment, he has only to consult a landlord over a bottle, and by their joint powers, they give birth to a “Clothes Club,” where every member is supplied with a suit to his taste, of a stipulated price. These are chiefly composed of bachelors, who wish to shine in the eyes of the fair.
A bricklayer stands at the head of the “Building Club,” where every member perhaps subscribes two guineas per month, and each house, value about one hundred pounds, is balloted for as soon as erected. As a house is a weighty concern, every member is obliged to produce two bondsmen for the performance of covenants.
I will venture to pronounce another, the “Capital Club;” for when the contributions amount to fifty pounds, the members ballot for this capital, to bring into business, here also securities are necessary. It is easy to conceive the two last clubs are extremely beneficial to building and to commerce.
The last I shall enumerate is the “Clock Club.” When the weekly deposits of the members amount to about four pounds, they cast lots who shall be first served with a clock of that value, and continue the same method till the whole club is supplied; after which, the clock-maker and landlord cast about for another set, who are chiefly young housekeepers. Hence the beginner ornaments his premises with furniture, the artist finds employment with profit, and the publican empties his barrel.[276]
[276] Hutton’s History of Birmingham.