Old Glass and How to Collect it

by J. Sydney Lewis

This was by no means an uncommon occurrence in wayside inns of the seventeenth century, the spectators often betting upon the result.

At the annual “Vinis” of the Mock Corporation of Hanley, Staffs, the initiation of a member included the drinking of a yard of port, while the freeman of Stoke-on-Trent had as a preliminary to admission to dispose of a yard of ale.

To “floor the long glass” at Eton is also an accomplishment which many never achieve.

I have seen many fine specimens, notably one belonging to my old friend, Mr John George Mortlock of Cambridge; but it is rare to find them undamaged, the involuntary jerk of the victim who finds the liquid splashing into his face being usually fatal to the unwieldy glass.

Another similar example is furnished by such glasses as that shown in Fig. 37. On the one side it is marked “King,” on the other “Tinker.” The “innocent” invited to drink was asked to choose from which side he would drink, and, prompted by loyalty, vanity, or pure folly, he was almost certain to drink with the king rather than the tinker. But artfully concealed in the band of decoration round the rim was a series of small holes, through which, when the glass was tilted, the liquor ran, soaking the drinker’s waistcoat instead of finding its way down his throat.

Possibly the old coaching glasses may fitly find a place in this connection. They are without feet, the stem ending in a bulb which was often cut. When, in the old coaching days, the vehicle pulled up at a wayside inn, the landlord brought out his tray with the glasses inverted upon it. They were filled from the bottle and emptied at once—the idea being that as the drink would have to be consumed at once, there was no need to make the glass so that it could be set down while the liquor was only partly consumed. These are now rare, and to discover one would be a great achievement for the ordinary collector.

One may also mention the singing glasses, which were made to vibrate to a certain musical note, and so would repeat the note when sounded or sung, just as the string of a piano or violin will do. This, of course, was a great mystery to unscientific persons, but is susceptible of a very simple explanation. Evelyn was greatly puzzled over the phenomenon. Certain glasses, he remarked, “made an echo to the voice, but were so thin that the very breath broke them.” The fact is, of course, that the glass broke through the intensity of its own vibration, just as a pane of glass in a church window will sometimes break when the organ is used. The note played having the same period of vibration as the pane of glass, the latter vibrates in unison with it, and if the note is continued for sufficiently long, the vibration becomes so intense as to break the pane. It is for an exactly similar reason that a regiment of soldiers breaks step when marching over a bridge, for fear that the rhythm of the march might chance to coincide with the period of vibration of the bridge, and so set up rhythmic movements which might weaken the structure.

Such glasses are distantly allied to the musical glasses which, when filled up to a certain point, produce a musical note when the bowl is thrown into vibration by the finger or a violin bow. By filling such glasses to different heights, it is possible to produce a complete scale, and so to play any desired tune.

Other freak glasses take the form of boots—some of these are quite elaborate, the lacing being imitated in glass-work, as also were spurs, straps, etc. The “boot” glass used to express the popular execration of Lord Bute has been already referred to in the chapter on Commemorative Glasses. Then there are cocked hats, various birds and beasts, all highly inconvenient for the purpose for which a glass is intended, but all associated with some idea, family crest, or particular superstition. There are glasses from which, though apparently full, it is impossible to drink; there are others, with tiny electric bulbs in the base, which light up on the pressure of a button, irradiating the contents with a glow of light and adding I know not what meretricious attraction to the contents. These, I need hardly say, are modern, and have no real place among Old English glass. One I remember was formed at the base into the semblance of an eye, with the legend “Eye-water,” a description of the probable contents, which, it is to be feared, was borne out neither by their destination nor their character—unless, indeed, they were of so potent a nature as to bring the water into the bibber’s eyes.

Another curious example had engraved upon the inside of the bottom the figure of the gallows-tree, with its ghastly fruit, and the grim legend “The last drop.” Whether the maker was a humorist or a temperance reformer anxious to point his moral in the most effective way, I am unable to decide.