When the plague was last at Newcastle, the inhabitants are said to have sent for the Lee Penny, and given a bond for a large sum in trust for the loan; and that they thought it did so much good, that they offered to pay the money, and keep the Lee Penny, but the owner would not part with it. A copy of this bond is alleged to have been among the family papers, but supposed to have been spoiled, with many more, by rain getting into the charter-room, during a long minority, and no family residing at Lee.
A remarkable cure is alleged to have been performed about a century ago, on a lady Baird, of Sauchtonhall, near Edinburgh, “who, having been bit by a mad dog, was come the length of a hydrophobia; upon which, having sent to beg the Lee Penny might be sent to her house, she used it for some weeks, drinking and bathing in the water it was dipped in, and was quite recovered.”[297]
Good reasons are assigned for rejecting the story of Locard having been the bearer of the heart of Robert Bruce; and there are some ludicrous instances of wonderful cures performed in the north of England on credulous people, by virtue of water wherein the Lee Penny was reputed to have been dipped, and yet neither the water nor the Lee Penny had crossed the Tweed.
[297] Gentleman’s Magazine, Dec. 1787, from whence these particulars, and the engraving of the Lee Penny, are derived. Further accounts of it from correspondents will be acceptable.
For the Table Book.
THE DEVIL’S PUNCH-BOWL.[298]
You,—Mr. Editor,—Have journeyed from London to Portsmouth, and must recollect Hindhead—you will, therefore, sympathize with me:—the luxury of riding round the rim of the Devil’s Punch-Bowl is over! Some few years back the road, on one side, was totally undefended against casualties of any description—overturning the coach into the bowl (some three or four hundred yards deep)—the bolting of a horse—or any other delightful mishap which could hurl you to the bottom—all is over! They—(the improvers of roads, but destroyers of an awful yet pleasing picture,)—have cut a new road about fifty or sixty feet below the former, and raised a bank, four feet high, round the edge, so that an accident is almost impossible, and no such chance as a roll to the bottom will again occur! The new road is somewhat shorter than the old—the effect completely spoiled—the stone to perpetuate the murder of the sailor unheeded[299]—the gibbet unseen—and nothing left to balance the loss of these pleasing memorials, but less labour to the horses, and a few minutes of time saved in the distance! Eighteen years since, the usual stoppage, and “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll have the goodness to alight, and walk up, you’ll oblige,” took place. At the present time you are galloped round, and have scarcely time to admire the much-spoken-of spot.
The last time I passed the place, on the Independent, when conversing on the subject, our coachee, Robert (or Bob, as he delights to be called) Nicholas, related an anecdote of an occurrence to himself, and which tells much of the fear in which passing the Devil’s Punch-Bowl was once held. You shall have it, as nearly as I can recollect it:—