February 10.

The Martyr’s Stone at Hadleigh in Suffolk.

Besides the rude inscription on this old stone, as it is represented in theengraving, there is another on a neat monument erected by the side of the original in 1818. The lines are as follows: they were supplied by the Rev. Dr. Hay Drummond, rector of Hadleigh.

Mark this rude Stone, where Taylor dauntless stood,Where Zeal infuriate drank the Martyr’s blood:Hadleigh! that day, how many a tearful eyeSaw the lov’d Pastor dragg’d a Victim by;Still scattering gifts and blessings as he past“To the blind pair” his farewell alms were cast;His clinging flock e’en here around him pray’d“As thou hast aided us, be God thine aid;”Nor taunts, nor bribes of mitred rank, nor stake,Nor blows, nor flames, his heart of firmness shake;Serene—his folded hands, his upward eyes,Like Holy Stephen’s, seek the opening skies;There, fix’d in rapture, his prophetic sightViews Truth dawn clear, on England’s bigot night;Triumphant Saint! he bow’d, and kiss’d the rod,And soar’d on Seraph-wing to meet his God.

Rowland Taylor was “a doctor in both the civil and canon lawes, and a right perfect divine.” On induction to his benefice, he resided with his flock, “as a good shepherd abiding and dwelling among his sheep,” and “not only was his word a preaching unto them, but all his life and conversation was an example of unfained christian life, and true holinesse: he was void of all pride, humble and meeke as any child, so that none were so poore, but they might boldly, as unto their father, resort unto him; neither was his lowlinesse childish or fearfull; but, as occasion, time, and place required, he would be stout in rebuking the sinfull and evil doers, so that none was so rich, but he would tell him plainly his fault, with such earnest and grave rebukes as became a good curate and pastor.” He continued in well-doing at Hadleigh during the reign of king Edward VI. till the days of queen Mary, when one Foster, a lawyer, and one John Clerk, of Hadley, “hired one Averth, parson of Aldam, a right popish priest, to come to Hadley, and there to give the onset to begin again the popish masse: to this purpose they builded up, with all haste possible, the altar, intending to bring in their masse again about the Palme Munday.” The altar was thrown down in the night, but on the following day it was replaced, and the Aldam priest entered the church, attended by Foster and Clerk, and guarded by men with swords and bucklers. Dr. Taylor, who was in his study, and ignorant of this irruption, hearing the church bells ring, repaired thither, and found the priest, surrounded by his armed force, ready to begin mass, against whom he was unable to prevail, and was himself thrust, “with strong hand, out of the church.” Two days afterwards, he was summoned by Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, to come before him at London, and answer complaints. His friends counselled him to fly, but Taylor determined to meet his enemies, “and, to their beards, resist their false doings.” He took his departure amidst their weeping, “leaving his cure with a godly old priest named sir Richard Yeoman, who afterwards, for God’s truth, was burnt at Norwich.” On his appearance, bishop Gardiner, who was also lord chancellor, reviled him, “calling him knave, traitor, heretike, with many other villainous reproaches.” Taylor listened patiently: at last he said, “My lord, I am neither traitor nor heretike, but a true subject, and a faithfull christian man; and am come, according to your commandment, to know what is the cause that your lordship hath sent for me?” The bishop charged upon him that he was married. “Yea,” quoth Taylor, “that I thank God I am, and have had nine children, and all in lawful matrimony; and blessed be God that ordained matrimony.” Then the bishop charged him with having resisted the priest of Aldam in saying mass at Hadleigh. Taylor also admitted this, and, after stout dispute, was committed to the king’s bench, where he spent his time in praying, reading the scriptures, writing, preaching, and exhorting the prisoners to repentance and amendment of life. There he found “master Bradford,” whom he comforted by his courage. While imprisoned, he was cited to appear “in the Arches at Bow church,” and was carried thither, and “deprived of his benefice because he was married.” On the 20th of January, 1555, Taylor was again taken before Gardiner and other bishops. He gives a long account of his disputations with them on that and like occasions. They urged him, and others with him, to recant: the prisoners refused, and “then the bishops read sentence of death upon them.”

After condemnation, Dr. Taylor was “bestowed in the Clinke till it was toward night, and then he was removed to the counter by the Poultry.” On the 4th of February, Bonner, bishop of London, came to the counter to degrade him; first wishing him to return to the church ofRome, and promising him to sue for his pardon. Whereunto Taylor answered, “I woulde you and your fellowes would turne to Christ; as for me I will not turn to Antichrist.” “Well,” quoth the bishop, “I am come to degrade you, wherefore put on these vestures.” “No,” quoth doctor Taylor, “I will not.” “Wilt thou not?” said the bishop. “I shall make thee, ere I goe.” Quoth doctor Taylor, “You shall not, by the grace of God.” Then Bonner caused another to put them on his back; and when thus arrayed, Taylor, walking up and down, said, “How say you, my lord, am I not a goodly fool? How say you, my masters; if I were in Cheap, should I not have boys enough to laugh at these apish toys, and toying trumpery?” The bishop proceeded, with certain ceremonies, to his purpose, till at the last, when, according to the form, he should have struck Taylor on the breast with his crosier, the bishop’s chaplain said, “My lord, strike him not, for he will sore strike again.” Taylor favoured the chaplain’s suspicion. “The cause,” said he, “is Christ’s; and I were no good christian if I would not fight in my master’s quarrel.” It appears that “the bishop laid his curse upon him, but struck him not;” and after all was over, when he got up stairs, “he told master Bradford (for both lay in one chamber) that he had made the bishop of London afraid; for, saith he, laughingly, his chaplain gave him counsell not to strike with his crosier-staff, for that I would strike again; and by my troth, said he, rubbing his hands, I made him believe I would doe so indeed.”

Thus was Taylor still cheerful from rectitude. In the afternoon his wife, his son, and John Hull his servant, were permitted to sup with him. After supper, walking up and down, he impressively exhorted them, with grave advice, to good conduct and reliance on Providence. “Then they, with weeping tears, prayed together, and kissed one the other; and he gave to his wife a book of the church service, set out by king Edward, which in the time of his imprisonment he daily used; and unto his sonne Thomas he gave a latine booke, containing the notable sayings of the old martyrs, gathered out ofEcclesiastica Historia; and in the end of that booke he wrote his testament and lastvale.” In this “vale,” dated the 5th of February, he says to his family, “I goe before, and you shall follow after, to our long home. I goe to the rest of my children. I have bequeathed you to the onely Omnipotent.” In the same paper he tells his “dear friends of Hadley, to remain in the light opened so plainely and simply, truly, throughly, and generally in all England,” for standing in which he was to die in flames.

In the morning at two o’clock, the sheriff of London with his officers brought him, without light, from the counter to Aldgate. His wife, suspecting that he would be carried away thus privately, had watched, from the time they had parted, within the porch of St. Botolph’s church, having her daughter Mary with her, and a little orphan girl named Elizabeth, whom the honest martyr had reared from three years old to her then age of thirteen: and when the sheriff and his company came nigh to where they stood, the child Elizabeth cried, “O my dear father! Mother, mother, here is my father led away.” The darkness being so great that the one could not see the other, his wife cried, “Rowland, Rowland, where art thou?” Taylor answered, “Dear wife! I am here,” and he stayed; and the sheriff’s men would have forced him, but the sheriff said, “Stay a little, my masters, I pray you, and let him speak to his wife.” Then he took his daughter Mary in his arms, and he, and his wife, and the orphan girl kneeled and prayed; and the sheriff, and many who were present, wept; and he arose and kissed his wife, and shook her by the hand, and said, “Farewell, my dear wife, be of good comfort, for I am quiet in my conscience; God shall stir up a father for my children.” He had three others, besides his daughter Mary and the young Elizabeth. He then kissed Mary, and then Elizabeth, and he bade them, also, farewell and enjoined them to stand steadfast in their faith. His weeping wife said, “God be with thee, dear Rowland, I will, with God’s grace, meet thee at Hadleigh.” Then he was led on to the Woolsack inn, at Aldgate, where he was put in a chamber, under the custody of four yeomen of the guard and the sheriff’s men. Here his wife again desired to see him, but was restrained by the sheriff, who otherwise treated her with kindness, and offered her his own house to abide in; but she preferred to go to her mother’s, whither two officers conducted her, charging her mother to keep her within till their return.

Meantime so soon as Taylor enteredthe chamber he prayed; and he remained at the inn until the sheriff of Essex was ready to receive him. At eleven o’clock the inn gates were shut, and then he was put on horseback within the gates. When they arrived outside, Taylor saw his son Thomas standing against the rails, in the care of his man John Hull; and he said, “Come hither, my son Thomas.” John Hull lifted the child up, and set him on the horse before his father; and Taylor put off his hat, and spoke a sentence or two to the people in behalf of matrimony, and then he lifted up his eyes and prayed for his son, and laid his hat on the child’s head, and blessed him. This done he delivered the child to John Hull, whom he took by the hand, and he said to him, “Farewell, John Hull, the faithfullest servant that ever man had.” Having so said, he rode forth with the sheriff of Essex and the yeomen of the guard to go to his martyrdom in Suffolk.

When they came near to Brentwood, one Arthur Taysie, who had been servant to Taylor, supposing him free, took him by the hand and said, “Master Doctor, I am glad to see you again at liberty;” but the sheriff drove him back. At Brentwood, a close hood was put over Taylor’s face, with holes for his eyes to look out at, and a slit for his mouth to breathe through. These hoods were used at that place to be put on the martyrs that they should not be known, and that they should not speak to any one, on the road to the burning-places.

Yet as they went, Taylor was so cheerful, and talked to the sheriff and his guards in such wise, that they were amazed at his constancy. At Chelmsford they met the sheriff of Suffolk, who was there to carry him into his county. At that time he supped with the two sheriffs. The sheriff of Essex laboured during supper to persuade him to return to queen Mary’s religion, telling him that all present would use their suit to the queen for his pardon, nor doubted they could obtain it. The sheriff reminded him, that he had been beloved for his virtues, and honoured for his learning; that, in the course of nature, he was likely to live many years; and that he might even be higher esteemed than ever; wherefore he prayed him to be advised: “This counsel I give you,” said the sheriff, “of a good heart and good will towards you;” and, thereupon he drank to him; and the yeomen of the guard said, “In like manner, upon that condition, master Doctor, we all drink to you.” When they had so done, and the cup came to Taylor, he staid awhile, as studying what he might say, and then answered thus: “Master sheriff, and my masters all, I heartily thank you for your good will. I have hearkened to your words and marked well your counsels; and to be plain with you, I do perceive that I have been deceived myself, and am likely to deceive a great many of their expectation.” At these words they were exceedingly glad. “Would ye know my meaning plainly?” he said. “Yea, good master Doctor,” answered the sheriff, “tell it us plainly.” “Then,” said Taylor, “I will tell you:” and he said, that, as his body was of considerable bulk, and as he thought, if he had died in his bed, it would have been buried in Hadleigh church-yard, so he had deceived himself; and, as there were a great many worms there abiding, which would have mealed handsomely upon him, so they, as well as himself, were deceived; “for” said he, “it must be burnt to ashes, and they will thereby lose their feeding.” The sheriff and his company were thereupon astonished at him, as being a man without fear of death, and making a jest of the flames. During their progress, many gentlemen and magistrates were admitted to see him, and entreated him, in like manner, but he remained immovable.

Thus they drew near to Hadleigh: and when they rode over Hadleigh bridge, a poor man with his five small children awaited their coming. When they saw Taylor, they all fell down on their knees and held up their hands, and cried aloud, “God help and succour thee, as thou hast many a time succoured me and my poor children.” The streets of Hadleigh were crowded on each side by men and women, of the town and country, sorely weeping, and with piteous voices loudly bewailing the loss of their pastor, praying that he might be strengthened and comforted in his extremity, and exclaiming, “What shall become of this wicked world!” Taylor said, “I have preached to you God’s word and truth, and am come to seal it with my blood.” When he came to the almshouses, he put some money, that had been bestowed on him during his imprisonment, into a glove, and this he is said to have given to the poor almsmen as they stood at their doors, to see their wonted benefactor pass. At thelast of the almshouses he inquired, “Is the blind man, and blind woman, that dwelt here, alive?” He was answered, “Yes; they are there, within.” Then he threw glove and all in at the window, and so rode forth towards the field of his death.

Coming where a great multitude were assembled, he asked, “What place is this, and what meaneth it that so much people are gathered hither?” It was answered, “This is Aldham common, the place where you must suffer.” He said, “Thanked be God, I am even at home.” Then he alighted from his horse, and with both his hands rent the hood from his head. His hair was unseemly, for Bonner, when he degraded him, had caused it to be clipped in manner of a fool’s. At the sight of his ancient and reverend face, and his long white beard, the people burst into tears, and prayed for him aloud. He would have spoken to them, but whenever he attempted, one or other of the yeomen of the guard thrust a tipstaff into his mouth.

Then he desired licence to speak, of the sheriff; but the sheriff refused him, and bade him remember his promise to the council: “Well,” quoth Taylor, “promise must be kept.” What the promise was is unknown. Seating himself on the ground he called to one in the crowd, “Soyce, I pray thee come and pull off my boots, and take them for thy labour; thou hast long looked for them, now take them.” Then he arose, and putting off his underclothes, them also he bestowed. This done, he cried with a loud voice, “Good people! I have taught you nothing but God’s holy word, and those lessons that I have taken out of God’s blessed book, the Holy Bible; and I am come hither this day to seal it with my blood.” One Holmes, a yeoman of the guard, who had used him cruelly all the way, then struck him a violent blow on the head “with a waster,” and said, “Is that the keeping of thy promise, thou heretick?” Whereupon Taylor knelt on the earth and prayed, and a poor, but faithful woman, stepped from among the people to pray with him: the guards would fain have thrust her away, they threatened to tread her down with their horses, but she was undismayed, and would not remove, but remained and prayed with him. Having finished his devotions he went to the stake, and kissed it, and placed himself in a pitch-barrel which had been set for him to stand in; and he stood with his back upright against the stake, and he folded his hands together, and he lifted his eyes towards heaven, and he prayed continually. Then they bound him with chains, and the sheriff called one Richard Donningham, a butcher, and commanded him to set up the faggots, but he said, “I am lame, sir, and not able to lift a faggot.” The sheriff threatened to send him to prison, but the man refused to obey his command notwithstanding. Then the sheriff appointed to this labour one Mullcine of Carsey, “a man for his virtues fit to be a hangman.” Soyce, a very drunkard, a man named Warwick, and one Robert King, “a deviser of interludes.” These four set up the faggots, and prepared for making ready the fire, and Warwick cast a faggot at the martyr, which lit upon his head and wounded his face, so that the blood ran down. Taylor said, “O, friend! I have harm enough, what needed that?” Then, while he repeated the psalmMiserere, in English, sir John Shelton struck him on the mouth: “You knave,” said he, “speak Latin; or I will make thee.” At last they set the faggots on fire, and Taylor, holding up both his hands, called on God, crying, “Merciful Father of Heaven! for Jesus Christ our saviour’s sake, receive my soul into thy hands!” He stood, during his burning, without crying or moving, till Soyce struck him on the head with a halberd, and the brains falling out, the corpse fell down into thefire.[60]

While some may deem this narrative of Rowland Taylor’s conduct too circumstantial, others perhaps may not so deem. It is to be considered as exemplifying the manners of the period wherein the event occurred, and may at least be acceptable to many. It will assuredly be approved by a few who regard inflexible adherence to principle, at the hazard of death itself, as preferable to a conscience-consuming subserviency, which, while it truckles to what the mind judges to be false, depraves the heart, and saps the foundations of public virtue.

Mean Temperature 39·05.

[60]Acts and Monuments.

1818. On this day died in London, captain Thomas Morris, aged 74, a man of highly cultivated mind, who was born in its environs, and for whom when young a maternal uncle, of high military rank, procured an ensigncy. He beat for recruits at Bridgewater, and enlisted the affections of a Miss Chubb of that town, whom he married. He was ordered with his regiment to America, where he fought by the side of general Montgomery.

Captain Morris at one time was taken by the Indians, and condemned to the stake; at the instant the women and children were preparing to inflict its tortures, he was recognised by an old sachem, whose life he had formerly saved, and who in grateful return pleaded so powerfully in his behalf, that he was unbound and permitted to return to his friends, who had given him up for lost. He published an affecting narrative of his captivity and sufferings; yet he was so attached to the Indian mode of life, that he used to declare they were the only human beings worthy of the name ofMEN. On his return from America to England, he quitted the army and gave himself to literary studies, and the conversation of a few enlightened friends. In the midst of “the feast of reason, and the flow of soul,” he often sighed for the grand imagery of nature, the dashing cataracts of Columbia, the wild murmurs of rivers rolling through mountains, woods, and deserts. Having met with some disappointments which baffled his philosophy, he sought a spot for retirement, and found it in a nursery garden, at Paddington. Here in a small cottage, he compared Pope’s translation of Homer with the original, in which he was assisted by Mr. George Dyer, a gentleman well qualified for so pleasing a task. In this pursuit he passed some years, which he declared were the happiest of his life.

With partiality for the dead languages, he was sensible to the vigour and copiousness of his own: he translated Juvenal into English, and enriched it with many notes, but it was never printed. He published a little poem, entitled “Quashy, or the Coal-black Maid,” a pathetic West India story. He lived in the style of a gentleman, and left a handsome sum to his children.

Mean Temperature 39·92.

1763. William Shenstone, the poet, died at his celebrated residence the Leasowes, near Hagley, in Worcestershire. He was born at Hales Owen, Shropshire, in 1714.

Mean Temperature 40·00.

The communion service of the church of England for the Sundays in Lent, was extracted from the offices appointed for these Sundays by the missal of Sarum, excepting the collect for the first Sunday, which was composed by the compilers of the liturgy, and also excepting the gospel for the second Sunday.

Mean Temperature 38·37.

Valentine’s Eve.

1826. Hilary term ends. Cambridge term begins.

For the Every-Day Book.

At Swaffham in Norfolk it is customary to send valentines on this evening. Watching for a convenient opportunity, the door is slyly opened, and the valentine, attached to an apple or an orange, is thrown in; a loud rap at the door immediately follows, and the offender, taking to his heels, is off instantly. Those in the house, generally knowing for what purpose the announcing rap was made, commence a search for the juvenile billet doux: in this manner, numbers are disposed of by each youth. By way of teasing the person who attends the door, a white oblong square, the size of a letter, is usually chalked on the step of the door, and, should an attempt be made to pick it up, great amusement is thus afforded to some of the urchins, who are generally watching.

Mean Temperature 38·10.

OLD CANDLEMAS DAY.

Referring to vol. i. from p. 215 to 230, for information concerning the origin of this festival of lovers, and the manner wherein it is celebrated, a communication is subjoined concerning a custom now observed in Norfolk.

For the Every-Day Book.

Independent of the homage paid to St. Valentine on this day at Lynn, (Norfolk,) it is in other respects a red-letter day amongst all classes of its inhabitants, being the commencement of its great annual mart. This mart was granted by a charter of Henry VIII., in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, “to begin on the day next after the feast of the purification of the blessed virgin Mary, and to continue six days next following,” (though now it is generally prolonged to a fortnight.) Since the alteration of the style, in 1752, it has been proclaimed on Valentine’s day. About noon, the mayor and corporation, preceded by a band of music, and attended by twelve decrepit old men, called from their dress “Red coats,” walk in procession to proclaim the mart, concluding by opening the antiquated, and almost obsolete court of “Piepowder.” Like most establishments of this nature, it is no longer attended for the purpose it was first granted, business having yielded to pleasure and amusement. Formerly Lynn mart and Stourbridge (Stirbitch)fair,[61]were the only places where small traders in this and the adjoining counties, supplied themselves with their respective goods. No transactions of this nature now take place, and the only remains to be perceived, are the “mart prices,” still issued by the grocers. Here the thrifty housewives, for twenty miles round, laid in their annual store of soap, starch, &c., and the booth of “Green” from Limehouse, was for three generations the emporium of such articles; but these no longer attend. A great deal of money is however spent, as immense numbers of persons assemble from all parts. Neither is their any lack of incitements to unburthen the pockets: animals of every description, tame and wild, giants and dwarfs, tumblers, jugglers, peep-shows, &c., all unite their attractive powers, in sounds more discordant than those which annoyed the ears of Hogarth’s “enraged musician.”

The year 1796 proved particularly unfortunate to some of the inhabitants of Marshland who visited the mart. On the evening of February 23, eleven persons, returning from the day’s visit, were drowned by the upsetting of a ferryboat; and on the preceding day a man from Tilney, going to see the wild beasts, and putting his hand to the lion’s mouth, had his arm greatly lacerated, and narrowly escaped being torn to pieces.

In the early part of the last century, an old building, which, before the reformation, had been a hall belonging to the guild of St. George, after being applied to various uses, was fitted up as a theatre, (and by a curious coincidence, where formerly had doubtless been exhibited, as was customary at the guild feasts, religious mysteries and pageants of the catholic age, again was exhibited the mysteries and pageants of the protestant age,) during the mart and a few weeks afterwards; but with no great success, as appears by an anecdote related of the celebrated George Alexander Stevens. Having in his youthful days performed here with a strolling company, who shared amongst them the receipts of the house, after several nights’ performance to nearly empty benches, while performing the part of Lorenzo, in Shakspeare’s “Merchant of Venice,” he thus facetiously parodied the speech of Lorenzo to Jessica, in the fifth act, as applicable to his distressed circumstances:

“Oh Jessica! in such a night as this we came to town,And since that night we’ve shar’d but half a crown;Let you and I then bid these folks good night,For if we longer stay, they’ll starve us quite.”

This neglect of the drama is not, however, to be attributed to the visitors or the inhabitants at the present day, a very elegant and commodious theatre having been erected in 1814, at a considerable expense, in another part of the town. But even here, a fatality attends our catholic ancestors, indicative of the instability of all sublunary affairs. The theatre has been erected on the site of the cloisters and cemetery of the grey friars’ monastery, the tall, slender tower of which is still standing near, and is the only one remaining out of ten monasteries found in Lynn at the dissolution; where, but for the lustful rapacity of that tyrannical “defender of the faith,” Henry VIII., this sacred asylum of our departed ancestors would not have been profaned, nor their mouldering particles disturbed, by a building as opposite to the one originally erected, as darkness is to light. Thus time, instead of consecrating, so entirely obliterates our veneration for the things of yesterday, that the reflecting mind cannot forbear to exclaim with the moralist of old,—“Sic transit gloria mundi.”

David Love, of Nottingham,Aged 74, A. D. 1824.“Here’s David’s likeness for his book,All those who buy may at it look,As he is in his present state,Now printed from a copper-plate.”

David Love, of Nottingham,Aged 74, A. D. 1824.

“Here’s David’s likeness for his book,All those who buy may at it look,As he is in his present state,Now printed from a copper-plate.”

These lines are beneath the portrait from whence the aboveengravingis taken. It is a very faithful likeness of David Love, only a little too erect:—not quite enough of the stoop of the old man of 76 in it,—but it is a face and a figure which will be recognised by thousands in Nottingham and Nottinghamshire. The race of the old minstrels has been long extinct;—that of the ballad-singers is fast following it—yet David is both one and the other. He is a bard and a caroller,—a wight who has wandered over as many hills and dales as any of the minstrels and troubadours of old;—a man who has sung, when he had cause enough for crying—whohas seen many ups and downs, and has seldom failed to put his trials and hardships into rhyme. He is the poet of poverty and patience—teaching experience. He has seen the

“huts where poor men lie”

all his life; yet he has never ceased to chant as he proceeded on his painful pilgrimage, like the “nightingale with a thorn in her breast.” It is true, he does not carry his harp to accompany his strains, but he carries his life, “The Life, Adventures, and Experience of David Love, written by Himself. Fifth edition:” and well doth it deserve both its title and sale. A curious, eventful story of a poor man’s it is. First he is a poor parent-deserted lad; then he has wormed himself into good service, and afterwards into a coal-pit, where he breaks his bones and almost crushes out life; then he is a traveller, a shopkeeper, a soldier fighting against the Highland rebels; he falls in love, gets into wedlock and a workhouse, is never in despair, and never out of trouble; with a heart so buoyant, that, like a cork on a boisterous flood, however he might be plunged into the depths, he is sure to rise again to the surface, and in all places and cases still pours out his rhymes—pictures of scenes around him, strange cabins and strange groups, love verses, acrostics, hymns, &c.

“I have composed many rhymes,On various subjects, and the times,And call’d the trials of prisoners’ crimesThe cash to bring;When old I grew, composed hymns,And them did sing.”

So David sped, and so he speeds now in his 77th year, only that his travels have left him finally fixed at Nottingham. His wars and his loves have vanished; his circle of action has annually become more and more contracted; till, at length, the town includes the whole field of his perambulations, and even that is almost more than his tottering frame can traverse. Yet there he is! and the stranger who visits Nottingham will be almost sure to see him, as represented in theprint, crossing the market-place, with a parcel of loose papers in his hand;—a rhyming account of the last Goose Fair, a flood, an execution, oroneof David’s own marriages,—for be it known to thee, gentle reader, that DavidLovehas been a true son of the family of theLoves. He has not sung his amatory lays for naught; he has captivated the hearts of no less than three damsels, and he has various and memorable experience in wives.

David, like many of our modern geniuses, is a Scotchman. He tells us that he was born near Edinburgh, but the precise place he affects not to know. The fact is, he is not very strong in his faith that, as he has tasted the sweets of a parish, he cannot be removed, and thinks it best to keep his birth-place secret: but the spot is Torriburn, on the Forth, the Scotch Highgate. David “has been to mair toons na Torriburn,” as the Scotch say, when they intimate that they are not to be gulled.

After sustaining many characters in the drama of life whilst yet very young, a schoolmaster among the rest, he fairly flung himself and his genius upon the world, and rambled from place to place in Scotland, calling around him all the young ears and love-darting eyes by his original ballads. It was a dangerous life, and David did not escape scatheless.

“At length so very bold I grew,My songs exposed to public view,And crowds of people round me drew,I was so funny;From side to side I nimbly flewTo catch the money.”

And he caught not only money, but matrimony,—and such a wife! alas! for poor David!

“As she always will rule the roast,I’d better be tied to a post,And whipped to death,Than with her tongue to be so tossed,And bear her wrath.She called me both rogue and fool,And over me she strove to rule;I sat on the repenting stool—There tears I shed;Sad my complaint, I said, O dool!That e’er I wed.”

The next step evidently enough was enlisting, which he did into the duke of Buccleugh’s regiment; where, he says, he distinguished himself by writing a song in compliment of the regiment and its noble commander, concluding with,

“Now, at the last, what do you thinkOf the author, David Love?”

And whenever the duke and the officers saw him, they were sure to point, and say, “What do you think of the author, David Love?” These seem to have been David’s golden days. Notonly—

“One hand the pen, and one the sword did wield,”

but he was also an actor of plays for the amusement of the officers. However, his discharge came, and adventures crowded thickly upon him. He traversed England in all directions, married a second and a third time, figured away in London and Edinburgh, and finally in Nottingham, with ballads and rhymes of his own composing; saw the inside of a prison, was all but hanged for his suspicious and nomadic poverty, and after all, by his own showing, is now to be classed with the most favoured ofmortals:—

“I am now 76 years of age, and I both see and hear as well as I did thirty years ago. My wife is aged about fifty, and has been the space of a year in tolerable health. She works hard at her silk-wheel, to assist me; is an excellent housewife; gossips none: cleanly in cooking, famous at washing, good at sewing, marking, and mending her own and children’s clothes. For making markets none can equal her. Consults me in every thing, to find if I think it right, before she proceeds to buy provisions, or clothes; strives to please me in every thing; and always studies my welfare, rejoicing when I am in health, grieved when I am pained or uneasy. She is my tender nurse to nourish me, my skilful doctress to administer relief when I am in sickness or in pain; in short, a better wife a poor man never had.”

Truly, David, I think so too! A happy man art thou to be possessed of such an incomparable helpmate; and still happier that, unlike many a prouder bard, thou art sensible of thy blessings.

To show that although our minstrel often invokes the muse to paltry subjects for paltry gains, yet he can sometimes soar into a higher region, I give thefollowing:—

THE CHILD’S DREAM.The substance thereof being founded on factI’ll tell you who I saw last night,As I lay sleeping on my bed;A shining creature all in light,To me she seemed a heavenly maid.I meet her tripping o’er the dew,Fine as a queen of May, mamma;She saw, she smiled, she to me flew,And bade me come away, mamma.I looked, I loved, I blushed awhile,Oh! how could I say no, mamma?She spoke so sweet, so sweet did smile,I was obliged to go, mamma.For love my tender heart beguiled,I felt unusual flames, mamma;My inward fancy turned so wild,So very strange my dream, mamma.Indeed I was, I know not how,Oh had you only been with me;Such wonders opened to my view,As few but holy angels see.Methought we wandered in a grove,All green with pleasant fields, mamma;In joyful measures on we move,As music rapture yields, mamma.She took me in her snow-white hand,Then led me through the air, mamma.Far higher above sea and land,Than ever eagles were, mamma.The sea and land, with all their store,Of rivers, woods, and lofty hills,Indeed they did appear no moreThan little streams or purling rills.I sought my dear papa’s estate,But found it not at all, mamma;The world in whole seemed not so greatAs half a cannon-ball, mamma.We saw the sun but like a star,The moon was like a mustard seed;Like Elias in his fiery car,All glorious winged with light’ning speed.Swift as our thoughts, oh joyful day.We glanced through all the boundless spheres;Their music sounding all the way,Heaven sweetly rushing in our ears,Now opens, and all we saw beforeWere lost entirely to our view;The former things are now no more,To us all things appeared new.No death is there, nor sorrow there,E’er to disturb the heavenly bliss,For death, sin, hell, and sorrow are,Entirely lost in the abyss.With wintry storms the ground ne’er pinesClothed in eternal bloom, mamma;For there the sun of glory shines,And all the just with him, mamma.I saw my sister Anna there,A virgin in her youthful prime;More than on earth her features fair,And like the holy angels’ fine.Her robe was all a flowing streamOf silver dipt in light, mamma,But ah! it ’woke me from my dream,It shone so strong and bright, mamma.

THE CHILD’S DREAM.The substance thereof being founded on fact

I’ll tell you who I saw last night,As I lay sleeping on my bed;A shining creature all in light,To me she seemed a heavenly maid.I meet her tripping o’er the dew,Fine as a queen of May, mamma;She saw, she smiled, she to me flew,And bade me come away, mamma.I looked, I loved, I blushed awhile,Oh! how could I say no, mamma?She spoke so sweet, so sweet did smile,I was obliged to go, mamma.For love my tender heart beguiled,I felt unusual flames, mamma;My inward fancy turned so wild,So very strange my dream, mamma.Indeed I was, I know not how,Oh had you only been with me;Such wonders opened to my view,As few but holy angels see.Methought we wandered in a grove,All green with pleasant fields, mamma;In joyful measures on we move,As music rapture yields, mamma.She took me in her snow-white hand,Then led me through the air, mamma.Far higher above sea and land,Than ever eagles were, mamma.The sea and land, with all their store,Of rivers, woods, and lofty hills,Indeed they did appear no moreThan little streams or purling rills.I sought my dear papa’s estate,But found it not at all, mamma;The world in whole seemed not so greatAs half a cannon-ball, mamma.We saw the sun but like a star,The moon was like a mustard seed;Like Elias in his fiery car,All glorious winged with light’ning speed.Swift as our thoughts, oh joyful day.We glanced through all the boundless spheres;Their music sounding all the way,Heaven sweetly rushing in our ears,Now opens, and all we saw beforeWere lost entirely to our view;The former things are now no more,To us all things appeared new.No death is there, nor sorrow there,E’er to disturb the heavenly bliss,For death, sin, hell, and sorrow are,Entirely lost in the abyss.With wintry storms the ground ne’er pinesClothed in eternal bloom, mamma;For there the sun of glory shines,And all the just with him, mamma.I saw my sister Anna there,A virgin in her youthful prime;More than on earth her features fair,And like the holy angels’ fine.Her robe was all a flowing streamOf silver dipt in light, mamma,But ah! it ’woke me from my dream,It shone so strong and bright, mamma.

I’ll tell you who I saw last night,As I lay sleeping on my bed;A shining creature all in light,To me she seemed a heavenly maid.

I meet her tripping o’er the dew,Fine as a queen of May, mamma;She saw, she smiled, she to me flew,And bade me come away, mamma.

I looked, I loved, I blushed awhile,Oh! how could I say no, mamma?She spoke so sweet, so sweet did smile,I was obliged to go, mamma.

For love my tender heart beguiled,I felt unusual flames, mamma;My inward fancy turned so wild,So very strange my dream, mamma.

Indeed I was, I know not how,Oh had you only been with me;Such wonders opened to my view,As few but holy angels see.

Methought we wandered in a grove,All green with pleasant fields, mamma;In joyful measures on we move,As music rapture yields, mamma.

She took me in her snow-white hand,Then led me through the air, mamma.Far higher above sea and land,Than ever eagles were, mamma.

The sea and land, with all their store,Of rivers, woods, and lofty hills,Indeed they did appear no moreThan little streams or purling rills.

I sought my dear papa’s estate,But found it not at all, mamma;The world in whole seemed not so greatAs half a cannon-ball, mamma.

We saw the sun but like a star,The moon was like a mustard seed;Like Elias in his fiery car,All glorious winged with light’ning speed.

Swift as our thoughts, oh joyful day.We glanced through all the boundless spheres;Their music sounding all the way,Heaven sweetly rushing in our ears,

Now opens, and all we saw beforeWere lost entirely to our view;The former things are now no more,To us all things appeared new.

No death is there, nor sorrow there,E’er to disturb the heavenly bliss,For death, sin, hell, and sorrow are,Entirely lost in the abyss.

With wintry storms the ground ne’er pinesClothed in eternal bloom, mamma;For there the sun of glory shines,And all the just with him, mamma.

I saw my sister Anna there,A virgin in her youthful prime;More than on earth her features fair,And like the holy angels’ fine.

Her robe was all a flowing streamOf silver dipt in light, mamma,But ah! it ’woke me from my dream,It shone so strong and bright, mamma.

With this specimen of David’s poetical faculties, I leave him to the kind consideration of the well disposed.

January, 1826.

M. T.

Mean Temperature 37·42.

[61]In 1510, a suit at law took place between Lynn and Cambridge respecting the toll of Stirbitch fair; the precise ground of the dispute and the termination are not stated.

Ember weeks are those in which the Ember days fall. A variety of explanations have been given of the wordEmber, but Nelson prefers Dr. Marechal’s, “who derives it from the Saxon word importing,a circuitorcourse; so that these fasts being not occasional, but returning every year in certain courses, may properly be said to be Ember days, because fasts in course.” The Ember days are the Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday after the first Sunday in Lent, and after the 13th of December. It is enjoined by the xxxi. canon of the church, “that deacons and ministers be ordained, or made, but only on the Sundays immediately following these Emberfeasts.”[62]

1731. Their majesties king George II. and the queen, being desirous of seeing “the noble art of printing,” a printing press and cases were put up at St. James’s palace on the 15th of February, and the duke (of York) wrought at one of the cases, to compose for the press a little book of his own writing, called “The Laws of Dodge-Hare.” The two youngest princes, likewise, composed their names, &c., under the direction of Mr. S. Palmer, a printer, and author of the “History of Printing,” which preceded Mr. Ames’s more ablework.[63]

Mean Temperature 39·22.

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