It has been from time immemorial the
heathenish custom to sacrifice the greatest fool of the family to the
prosperity and naval superiority of the country, and, at the age of
fourteen, I was selected as the victim. If the custom be judicious, I
had no reason to complain. There was not one dissentient voice, when it
was proposed before all the varieties of my aunts and cousins, invited
to partake of our new-year's festival. I was selected by general
acclamation. Flattered by such an unanimous acknowledgment of my
qualification, and a stroke of my father's hand down my head which
accompanied it, I felt as proud, and, alas! as unconscious as the calf
with gilded horns, who plays and mumbles with the flowers of the garland
which designates his fate to every one but himself. I even felt, or
thought I felt, a slight degree of military ardour, and a sort of vision
of future grandeur passed before me, in the distant vista of which I
perceived a coach with four horses and a service of plate. It was,
however, driven away before I could decipher it, by positive bodily
pain, occasioned by my elder brother Tom, who, having been directed by
my father to snuff the candles, took the opportunity of my abstraction
to insert a piece of the still ignited cotton into my left ear. But as
my story is not a very short one, I must not dwell too long on its
commencement. I shall therefore inform the reader, that my father, who
lived in the north of England, did not think it right to fit me out at
the country town, near to which we resided; but about a fortnight after
the decision which I have referred to, he forwarded me to London, on the
outside of the coach, with my best suit of bottle-green and six shirts.
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