JOSSY WITH WHIPS. A PARISH CHARACTER.
Reading edition
JOSEPH ROBINSON, better known by the name of "Jossy with Whips," was a well-known character in the parish of Orton in Westmorland. He had his regular rounds, which he constantly travelled; and his accustomed houses, where his never-failing alms was duly received by this self-instituted collector.
Some are still living who can recollect the harmless idiot and all his singular accoutrements. He never appeared without six or eight whips in his hands: a little stick, with a piece of string attached to the end of it, would any time supply honest Joseph with an excellent whip. A piece of an old coat, tied to his body with a hayband, was his usual upper garment; his legs were usually covered with haybands, tier above tier; and a profusion of hemp strings, in his opinion, adorned his person. These simple ornaments were to Joseph as dear and as honourable as the red and blue ribbons which are so anxiously struggled for by his fellows in the higher walks of life. In his hat he wore a fox's brush and peacock feathers, thus aping the fancied splendour of eastern magnificence.
Jossy was a quiet, inoffensive being; and the farmers through all the south of Westmorland would as soon have thought of neglecting any of their just debts, as of refusing the accustomed donation made to him. An out-house was his usual place of lodging; and habit had rendered this so natural to him, that a bed never entered his circumscribed ideas.
After Joseph, like his intelligent fellow-mortals, had been consigned to his "narrow house," a young man, in the parish of Orton, composed the following elegy to his memory:—
"Beneath this lowly, grass-encircled spot, Lie the remains of Joseph of the Knot. Death, grisly tyrant, no distinction shows 'Twixt him who all, and him who nothing knows. Yes, ye! ye mighty sons of boasted wit! All—all, like Joseph, must to death submit. Though on his fingers many a ring he bore, And round his brow the gaudy honours wore, For him his plumes although the peacock shed, And reynard's brush graced Joseph's hoary head; Though armed with whips he constantly appeared, Death mocked his honours, nor his armour feared. But ah! despise not Joseph's humble lot— His life so mean—his death so soon forgot: In the last day—that great decisive day, When death shall yield his temporary prey— By lords, by kings, his fate may be desired— Where nothing's given, nothing is required."