May. We went to Mrs, Browne's, where sir W. Pen and I were godfathers, and Mrs. Jordan and Shipman godmothers. And there before and after the christening we were with the woman above in her chamber. I did give the midwife 10s, and the nurse 5s. and the maid 28. But forasmuch I expected to give the name to the child but did not, I forbore then to give my plate, which I had in my pocket, namely, six spoons and a porringer of silver. July. A messenger brought me word that my uncle was dead. I rode over and found my uncle's corps in a coffin, standing upon joynt-stools in the chimney in the hall, but it began to smell, and so I caused it to be set forth in the yard all night, and watched by my aunt. In the morning my father and I read the will; after that done we went about getting things, as ribands and gloves, ready for the burial, which in the afternoon was done; we served the people with wine and other things. November. To church, and heard a simple fellow upon the praise of church musique, and exclaiming against men's wearing their hats on in church. Civet cats, parrots, and apes, sent as presents to ladies; and gentlemen lighted home by link-boys. Pepys. The faire and famous comedian, Roxalana, was taken to be the earle of Oxford's misse, as at this time they began to call lewd women. Dined at Chaffinch's house warming. 1663. October. To Guildhall; we went up and down to see the tables. By and by the lord mayor came into the hall to dinner, with the other great lords, bishops, &c. I set near Creed. We had plenty of good wine, but it was very unpleasing that we had no napkins, or knives, nor change of trenchers, and drunk out of earthern pitchers and wooden dishes. 1664. Home to bed, having got a strange cold in my head, by flinging off my hat at dinner. To my lord chancellor's (sir Orlando Bridgman, lord keeper,) in the garden, where we conversed above an hour, walking up and down, and he would have me walk with my hat on. 1665. At this time I have two tierces of claret, two quarter casks of canary, and a smaller vessel of sack; a vessel of tent, another of Malaga, and another of white wine, all in my own cellar, 1666. February. This morning came up to my wife's bedside little Will Mercer to be her valentine; and brought her name writ upon blue paper in gold letters, done by himself very prettily. But I am also this year my wife's valentine, and it will cost me 51. I find that Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my valentine, she having drawn me. But here I do first observe the fashion of drawing of mottos, as well as names: my wife's motto was "Most courteous, most fair;" mine I have forgot. One wonder I observed to-day, that there was no musique in the morning to call up our new married people, which was very mean methinks. 1667. June. Find my wife making tea, a drink which her potticary tells her is good for her cold and defluxions. A flaggon of ale and apples drunk out of a wood cup as a Christmas draught. 1669. May. My wife got up by 4 o'c. to go to gather May Dew, which Mrs. Turner hath taught her is the only thing in the world to wash her face with. Pepys. 1671. To lord Arlington's, where we found M'lle Querouaille; it was universally reported, that the fair lady was bedded often here; and the stocking flung after the one of these nights to the king, who was manner of a married bride; however, 'twas with confidence believed she was first made a misse, as they call these unhappy creatures, with solemnity at this time. 1683. I went with others into the duchess of Portsmouth's dressing-roome within her bedchamber, where she was in her morning loose garment, her maids combing her, newly out of her bed, his majesty and gallants standing about her. 1685. January 25, Sunday. Dr. Dove preached before the king. I saw this evening such a scene of profuse gaming, and bines, as I had never seen before, luxurious the king in the midst of his three concudallying and prophaneness. February 6. The king died. I can never phanenesse, gaming, and all dissoluteness, forget the inexpressible luxury and proand, as it were, total forgetfulness of God, (it being Sunday evening,) which this day sitting and toying with his concubines se'nnight I was witnesse of. The king Portsmouth, Cleavland, and Mazarine, &c. and a French boy singing love songs; and other dissolute persons were at basset whilst about twenty of the great courtiers in gold before them. round a large table, a bank of at least 2000 Evelyn. Accompanying the portrait and papers of George Bloomfield, copied and referred to in the preceding sheet of the Table Book, was a drawing, taken in October last, of Robert Bloomfield's birth-place. An engraving of it is here presented, in order to introduce the following memorandum drawn up by George Bloomfield, and now lying before me in his hand-writing, viz. "THE POETICAL FREEHOLD. "February 4, 1822, was sold at Honington Fox, the old cottage, the natal place of Robert Bloomfield, the Farmer's Boy. "My father, a lively little man, precisely five feet high, was a tailor, constantly employed in snapping the cat, that is, he worked for the farmers at their own houses, at a shilling per day and his board. He was a gay knight of the thimble, and as he wore a fashionable coat with a very narrow back, the villagers called him George Narrowback. My mother they called Mrs. Prim. She was a spruce, neat body, and was the village school-dame. Her father found the money, and my father bought the cottage in the year 1754. He VOL. II.-54. Το died in the year 1766, and, like many other landed men, died intestate. My mother married again. When I came of age she showed me the title-deeds, told me I was heir-at-law, and hoped she should finish her days there. I promised her she should; but time rolled, and at length my wife, after two years of affliction with the dropsy, died, and left me with five infant children, head and ears in debt. secure the cottage to my mother, I persuaded my brother Robert to buy the title, and give all my brothers and sisters their shares and me mine, and this money paid my debts. The Farmer's Boy was now the proprietor; but it was a poor freehold, for he did all the repairs, and my mother paid no rent. After my mother's death, Isaac lived in it upon the same terms,-too poor to pay rent or be turned out. Isaac. died, and left nine children. Bob kept the widow in the place, did all the repairs, and she, also, paid nothing. At length the bankruptcies and delays of the London booksellers forced Bob to sell!- The late noble duke of Grafton gave my mother a gravestone. This is all To MR. THOMAS WISSET, OF SAPISTON, PSALM SINGER, PARISH CLERK, and SEXTON, &c. &c. Respectfully I would impart, In language most befitting, With care and trouble smitten. I've lost the best of wives, d'ye see, But while her happiness I trace, My children's clothes to rags are worn, Kind Providence, defend 'em. Dear Tom, thou art St. Andrew's clerk, Make some fond woman to me fly, She still with love may charm me. To darn our clothes from morn to night, Would some kind dame but hear my plaint, Dear Tom, may all thy joys increase, When singing here on earth shall cease, Prefixed to some MS. verses, written by George Bloomfield in 1808, is the subjoined account of the occasion that awakened his muse. "THE APRIL FOOL. "When on the wrong side of fifty I married a second time! My best friends declared it was madness to risk a second family, &c. &c. We married 7th of February, 1807. Early in 1808 it was dis covered I should have an increase, and Charles Blomfield, Esq. asked me when it would happen. I answered, in April. 'Sure,' says he, 'it won't happen on the First!'-I felt the force of the remarkthe probability of my being an April Fool -and wrote the following lines, and sest them to Mr. B., from whom I received a note enclosing another, value one pound. The note said, 'My daughters are foolish enough to be pleased with your April Fool, and I am so pleased to see them pleased, I send the enclosed, &c.' Trifles like these are only of importance as traits of the individual. The next is abstracted from a letter to an overseer, with whom George Bloomfield necessarily cor responded, as may be surmised from the contents. To Mr. HAYWARD, Thetford. Bury St. Edmund's, Nov. 23, 1819. Sir,-When a perfect stranger to you, you treated me with great condescension and kindness, I therefore enclose some lines I wrote and addressed to the guardians of the poor in this town. They have assessed all such persons as are not legally settled here to the poor and church rates, and they have assessed me full double what I ought to pay. What renders it more distressing, our magistrates say that by the local act they are restrained from interfering, otherwise I should have been exempt, on account of my age and poverty So I sent my rhymes, and Mr. Gall, one of the guardians, sent for me, and gave me a piece of beef, &c. I had sold the on's coat I had that was worth a shilling, and was prepared to pay the first seven shillings and sixpence, but the guardians seem to think, (as I do.) that I can never go on paying they are confident the gentlemen of St. Peter's parish will pay it for me bade me wait a fortnight, &c. The pressure of the times is so great that the poor blame the rich, and the rich blame the poor. -There is a figure in use called the hyperbole; thus we sometimes say of old man, "he is one foot in the grave, and t'other out." I might say I am one foot in Thetford workhouse, and t'other out.The scripture tells me, that the providence of God rules over all and in all places, consequently to me a workhouse is, on my own account, no such very dreadful thing; but I have two little girls whom I dread to imprison there. I trust in Providence, and hope both rich and poor will see better days. Your humble servant, GEORGE BLOOMFIELD. Among George Bloomfield's papers is the following kind letter to him, from his brother Robert. The feeble, tremulous handwriting of the original corroborates its expressions of illness, and is a sad memorial of the shattered health of the author of the Farmer's Boy, three years before his death. "Shefford, July 18, 1820. "Dear brother George, "No quarrel exists-be at ease. I have this morning seen your excellent letters to your son, and your poem on the Thetford Waters, and am with my son and daughter delighted to find that your spark seems to brighten as you advance in years. You think that I have been weak enough to be offended-there has been no such thing! I have been extremely unwell, and am still a poor creature, but I now force myself to write these few words to thank you for the pleasure you have just given me. "My son, or my daughter, shall write for me soon. "Yours unalterably, Brother, and Brother Bard, "ROB. BLOOMFIELD." It may be remembered that Giles, the "Farmer's Boy," was Robert Bloomfield himself, and that his master, the "Farmer," was Mr. W. Austin of Sapiston. In reference to his home at the farm Robert wrote, of himself, "the ploughman smiles, And oft the joke runs hard on sheepish Giles, Farmer's Boy. The son of the benevolent protector of Robert in his childhood sunk under misfortune, and George records the fact by the following lines, written in 1820:— THE UNFORTUNATE FARMER. When Giles attuned his song in rural strains, He sang of Sap'ston s groves, her meads, and plains; Described the various seasons as they roll'd, George Bloomfield subjoins, in explanation, on these lines," My reading in the Bury paper of the 6th of Dec. 1820, an advertisement of an assignment for the benefit of creditors of the effects of Mr. Willian Austin, gave rise to the above. Mr. A. was the young master of Giles, when Giles was the Farmer's Boy; and the admirers of rural poetry, as well in the new as the old world, have been made acquainted with the Austin family by means of the poem of that name. Mr. A. held the farm near thirty years, and 'twas the same that his grandfather till'd. He has ten children, some of them very young. He has been by some accused of imprudence: but the heavy poor-rates, (he paid 361. last year,) the weight of a numerous family, and the depreciation of the price of produce, were the principal causes of his fall. He has been a most indulgent father, a kind master, and a good neighbour." Twenty years after writing the lines to the "Psalm-singer, Parish Clerk, and Sexton" of Sapiston, George again berhymed him. Preceding the effusion, is the following MEMORANDUM. "My old friend Wisset has now entered his eighty-third year, and is blind, and therefore cannot write; but he sent his kind regards to me by a young man, and bade him repeat four lines to me, The young man forgot the lines, but he said they were about old age and cold winter. I sent him the following: DEAR OLD BROther Bard, Now clothed with snow is hill and dale, And all the streams with ice are bound 1 How chilling is the wintry gale! How bleak and drear the scene around! Yet midst the gloom bright gleams appear, Hope kindly whispers in the ear 'Tis thus, old friend, with you and me Life's Spring and Summer both are flown, The marks of wintry age we see, Our locks to frosty white are grown. O let us then our voices raise, For favours past due homage bring; Till God proclaims a glorious Spring. January 23, 1823. The MSS. from whence the present selections have been hastily made, were accompanied by a letter from George Bloomfield, written nearly a month ago. They were delayed by the person who transmitted the parcel till the opportunity of noticing them in this work had almost passed. All that could be done in an hour or two is before the reader; and no more has been aimed at than what appears requisite to awaken sympathy and crave assistance towards an aged and indigent brother of the author of the Farmer's Boy. George's present feelings will be better represented by his own letter than by extracting from it. 2, High Baxter Street, Bury St. Edmond's, Dec. 5th, 1827. TO MR. HONE, Sir,-A gentleman desires me to write to you, as editor of the Table Book, it being his wish that a view which he sent of the little cottage at Honington should appear in that very curious work. The birth-place of Robert Bloomfield I think may excite the interest of some of your readers; but, sir, if they find out that you correspond with a superannuated cold water poet, your work will smell of poverty. Lord Byron took pains to flog two of my brothers, as poachers on the preserves of the qualified proprietors of literature. It is hought, if he had not been wroth with the Edinburgh Reviewers, these poor poachers might have escaped; they, like me, had neither birth nor education to entitle them to a qualification. If, sir, you ever saw an old wall blown down, or, as we have it here in the country, if the wall"fall of its own accord," you may have observed that the first thing the workmen do, is to pick out the whole bricks into one heap, the bats into another, and the rubbish into a third. Thus, sir, if in what falls from me to you, you can find any whole bricks, or even bats, that may be placed in your work, pick them out; but I much fear all will be but rubbish unfit for your purpose, So much has been said, in the books published by my brothers, of "the little taifor's four little sons," who once resided in the old cottage, that I cannot add much that is new, and perhaps the little I have to relate will be uninteresting. But I think the great and truly good man, the late duke of Grafton, ought to have been more particularly mentioned. Surely, after near thirty years, the good sense and benevolence of that real nobleman may be mentioned. When in my boyhood, he held the highest office in the state that a subject can fill, and like all that attain such preeminence, had his enemies; yet the more Junius and others railed at him, the more I revered him. He was our "Lord of the Manor," and as I knew well his private character, I had no doubt but he was "all of a piece." I have on foot joined the foxchase, and followed the duke many an hour, and witnessed his endearing condescension to all who could run and shout. When Robert became known as the Farmer's Boy, the duke earnestly cautioned him on no account to change his habits of living, but at the same time encouraged him in his habits of reading, and kindly gave him a gratuity of a shilling a day, to enable him to employ more time in reading than heretofore. This gratuity was always paid while the duke lived, and was continued by the present duke till Robert's death. Could poor Robert have kept his children in their old habits of living, he might have preserved some of the profits arising from his works, but he loved his children too tenderly to be a niggard; and, besides, he received his profits at a time when bread was six or seven shillings per stone: no wonder that with a sickly family to support, he was embarrassed. The duke likewise strongly advised him not to write too much, but keep the ground he had gained, &c. As hereditary sealer of the writs in the Court of King's Bench, the duke gave Robert the situation of under sealer, but his health grew so bad he was obliged to give it up; he held it several months, however, and doubtless many a poor fellow went to coop under Robert's seal. It was peculiarly unfortunate he could not keep his place, for I think Mr. Allen, the master-sealer, did not live above two years, and it is more than probable the duke would have made Robert mastersealer, and then he would have had sufficient income. The duke's condescension and kindness to my mother was very great, he learned her real character, and called on |