Is now fast falling into forgetfulness, though there was a time when he was hailed by Granta’s choicest spirits, as one who never failed to “set the table in a roar.” Poor Jemmy! I shall never forget the manner in which he, by one of those straightforward, not-to-be-mistaken flashes of wit, silenced a brow-beating Radical Huntingdon attorney, at a Reform-meeting in Cambridge market-pace. Jemmy was a native of Cambridge, and was the son of a former chapel-clerk of Trinity College, who gave him an excellent classical education, and had him articled to an eminent solicitor, with fine talents and good prospects. But though Jemmy was “a cunning man with a hard head,” such as his profession required, he had a soft heart,—fell in love with a pretty girl. That pretty girl, it is said, returned his passion, then proved faithless, and finally coquetted and ran off with a “gay deceiver,” a fellow-commoner of Trinity College,—optically dazzled, no doubt, with the purple robe and silver lace, for Jemmy was a fine, sensible-looking man. Poor Jemmy! he was too good for the faithless hussy; he took it to heart, as they say, and, unfortunately, took to drinking at the same time. He soon became too unsettled, both in mind and habits, to follow up his profession with advantage, and he became a bon-vivant, a professed wit, with a natural turn for facete, and the cram-man of the more idle sons of Granta, who delighted in his society in those days when his wits were unclouded, nor did the more distinguished members of the university then disdain to hail him to their boards. For many years Jemmy lived to know and prove that “learning is most excellent;” and having a good classical turn, he lived by writing Themes and Declarations for non-reading Cantabs, for each of which Jemmy expected the physician’s mite, and, like them, might be said to thrive by the Guinea Trade. It is, no doubt, true, that some of his productions had college prizes awarded to them, and that, on one occasion, being recommended to apply for the medal, he indignantly answered, “It is no credit to be first in an ass-race!” Notwithstanding, Jemmy’s in-goings never equalled his out-goings, and many a parley had Jemmy with his empty purse. It was no uncommon thing for him to pass his vacations in quod—videlicet jail—for debts his creditors were well aware he could not pay; but they well knew also that his friends, the students, would be sure to pay him out on their return to college. These circumstances give occasion for the publication of the now scarce caricatures of him, entitled, “Term-time,” and “Non-term.” In the first he is represented spouting to one of his togaed customers, in the latter he appears cogitating in “durance vile.” Besides these, numerous portraits of Jemmy have been put forth, for the correctness of most of which we, who have “held our sides at his fair words,” can vouch. A full-length is extant in Hone’s Every-Day Book, in the Gradus ad Catabrigiam is a second; and we doubt not but our friend Mason, of Church-Passage, Cambridge, could furnish a collector with several. Poor Jemmy! he has now been dead several years. His latter days were melancholy indeed. To the last, however, Jemmy continued to sport those distinctive marks of a man of ton, a spying-glass and an opera-hat, which so well became him. Latterly he became troublesome to his best friends, not only levying contributions at will, but by saying hard things to them, sparing neither heads of college, tutors, fellows, students, or others whose names were familiar to him. On one occasion, oblivious with too much devotion to Sir John, as was latterly his wont, his abuse caused him to be committed to the tread-mill—sic transit—and after his term of exercise had expired, meeting a Cantab in the street whose beauty was even less remarkable than his wit, he addressed our recreant with, “Well, Jemmy, how do you like the tread-mill?” “I don’t like your —— ugly face,” was the response. Jemmy’s recorded witticisms were at one time as numberless as the stars, and in the mouth of every son of Granta, bachelor or big-wig; now some only are remembered. He one day met Sir John Mortlock in the streets of Granta, soon after he had been knighted; making a dead pause, and looking Sir John full in the face, Jemmy improvised—
“The king, by merely laying sword on,
Could make a knight of Jemmy Gordon.”
At another time, petitioning a certain college dignitary for a few shillings to recover his clothes, pledged to appease his thirst, he said, on receiving the amount, “Now, I know that my redeemer liveth.”
Jemmy, in his glorious days, had been a good deal patronised by the late Master of Trinity College, Bishop Mansel, like himself a wit of the first water. Jemmy one day called upon the bishop, during the time he filled the office of Vice-Chancellor, to beg half-a-crown. “I will give you as much,” said the Bishop, “if you can bring me a greater rogue than yourself.” Jemmy made his bow and departed, content with the condition, and had scarcely half crossed the great court of Trinity, when he espied the late Mr. B., then one of the Esquire Bedels of the University, scarcely less eccentric than himself. Jemmy coolly told him that the Vice-Chancellor wanted to see him. Into the Lodge went our Bedel, followed close by Jemmy. “Here he is,” said Jemmy, as they entered the Bishop’s presence, arcades ambo, at the same instant. “Who?” inquired the Bishop. “You told me, my Lord,” said Jemmy, “to bring you a greater rogue than myself, and you would give me half-a-crown, and here he is.” The Bishop enjoyed the joke, and gave him the money. A somewhat
SIMILAR STORY IS TOLD OF AN OXFORD WAG,
In Addison’s Anecdotes, stating, that about the beginning of the eighteenth century, when it was more the fashion to drink ale at Oxford than at present, a humorous fellow of merry memory established an ale-house near the pound, and wrote over his door, “Ale sold by the pound!” As his ale was as good as his jokes, the Oxonians resorted to his house in great numbers, and sometimes stayed there beyond the college hours. This was made a matter of complaint to the Vice-Chancellor, who was desired to take away his license by one of the Proctors. Boniface was summoned to attend accordingly, and when he came into the Vice-Chancellor’s presence, he began hawking and spitting about the room. This the Vice-Chancellor observed, and asked what he meant by it? “Please your worship,” said he, “I came here on purpose to clear myself.” The Vice-Chancellor imagining that he actually weighed his ale, said, “They tell me you sell ale by the pound; is that true?” “No, an’ please your worship.” “How do you, then?” “Very well, I thank you, sir,” said the wag, “how do you do?” The Vice-Chancellor laughed and said, “Get away for a rogue; I’ll say no more to you.” The fellow went out, but in crossing the quod met the proctor who had laid the information against him. “Sir,” said he, addressing the Proctor, “the Vice-Chancellor wants to speak with you,” and they went to the Vice-Chancellor’s together. “Here he is, sir,” said Boniface, as they entered the presence. “Who?” inquired the Vice. “Why, sir,” he rejoined, “you sent me for a rogue, and I have brought you the greatest that I know of.” The result was, says the author of Terræ-Filius (who gives a somewhat different version of the anecdote,) that Boniface paid dear for his jokes: being not only deprived of his license, but committed to prison.
CAMBRIDGE FROLICS.
I recollect once being invited, with another Cantab, to bitch (as they say) with a scholar of Bene’t Coll. and arrived there at the hour named to find the door sported and our host out. We resolved, however, not to be floored by a quiz, and having gained admission to his rooms per the window, we put a bold face upon matters, went straight to the buttery, and ordered “coffee and muffins for two,” in his name. They came of course; and having feasted to our heart’s content, we finished our revenge by hunting up all the tallow we could lay hands on, which we cut up to increase the number, and therewith illuminated his rooms and beat a retreat as quick as possible. The College was soon in an uproar to learn the cause for such a display, and we had the pleasure of witnessing our wag’s chagrin thereat from a nook in the court. This anecdote reminds me of one told of himself and the late learned physician, Dr. Battie, by Dr. Morell. They were contemporary at Eton, and afterwards went to King’s College, Cambridge, together. Dr. Battie’s mother was his jackall wherever he went, and, says Dr. Morell, she kindly recommended me and other scholars to a chandler at 4s. 6d. per dozen. But the candles proved dear even at that rate, and we resolved to vent our disappointment upon her son. We, accordingly, got access to Battie’s room, locked him out, and all the candles we could find in his box we lighted and stuck up round the room! and, whilst I thrummed on the spinnet, the rest danced round me in their shirts. Upon Battie’s coming, and finding what we were at, he “fell to storming and swearing,” says the Doctor, “till the old Vice-Provost, Dr. Willymott, called out from above, ‘Who is