He was a member of the church there, and was one of the judges who sat on the trial of King Charles I. His name stands last on the list of those who signed the warrant for that monarch’s execution. Corbet fled into Holland at the Restoration, with Colonels Okey and Barkstead. George Downing—a name ever infamous—had been Colonel Okey’s chaplain. He became a Royalist at the Restoration, and was despatched as Envoy Extraordinary into Holland, where, under a promise of safety, he trepanned the three persons above named into his power, and sent them over to England to suffer death for having been members of the Commission for trying King Charles I. For this service he was created a baronet. The King sent an order to the Sheriffs of London on April 21, 1662, that Okey’s head and quarters should have Christian burial, as he had manifested some signs of contrition; but Barkstead’s head was directed to be placed on the Traitor’s Gate in the Tower, and Corbet’s head on the bridge, and their quarters on the City gates.
Foremost amongst the noted women of the Independent Church must be mentioned Sarah Martin, of whose life a sketch appeared in the
Edinburgh Review as far back as 1847. A life of her was also published by the Religious Tract Society. Sarah, who joined the Yarmouth church in 1811, was born at Caistor. From her nineteenth year she devoted her only day of rest, the Sabbath, to the task of teaching in a Sunday-school. She likewise visited the inmates of the workhouse, and read the Scriptures to the aged and the sick. But the gaol was the scene of her greatest labours. In 1819, after some difficulty, she obtained admission to it, and soon seems to have acquired an extraordinary influence over the minds of the prisoners. She then gave up one day in the week to instruct them in reading and writing. At length she attended the prison regularly, and kept an exact account of her proceedings and their results in a book, which is now preserved in the public library of the town. As there was no chaplain, she read and preached to the inmates herself, and devised means of obtaining employment for them. She continued this good work till the end of her days in 1843, when she died, aged fifty-three. A handsome window of stained glass, costing upwards of £100, raised by subscription, has been placed to her memory in the west window of the north aisle of St. Nicholas Church. But
her fame extends beyond local limits, and is part of the inheritance of the universal Church. It was in Mr. Walford’s time that Sarah Martin commenced her work. Mr. Walford tells us, in his Autobiography, that the Church had somewhat degenerated in his day, that the line of thought was worldly, and not such as became the Gospel. It is clear that in his time it greatly revived, and, even as a lad, the intelligence of the congregation seemed to lift me up into quite a new sphere, so different were the merchants and ship-owners of Yarmouth from the rustic inhabitants of my native village. In this respect, if I remember aright, the family of Shelley were particularly distinguished. One dear old lady, who lived at the Quay, was emphatically the minister’s friend. She had a nice house of her own and ample means, and there she welcomed ministers and their wives and children. It is to be hoped, for the sake of poor parsons, that such people still live. I know it was a great treat to me to enjoy the hospitality of the kind-hearted Mrs. Goderham, for whose memory I still cherish an affectionate regard. To live in one of the best houses on the Quay, and to lie in my bed and to see through the windows the masts of the shipping, was indeed to a boy a treat.
A little while ago I chanced to be at Norwich, when the thought naturally occurred to me that I would take a run to Yarmouth—a journey quickly made by the rail. In my case the journey was safely and expeditiously accomplished, and I hastened once more to revisit the scenes and associations of my youth. Alas! wherever I went I found changes. A new generation had arisen that knew not Joseph. The wind was howling down the Quay; the sand was blown into my mouth, my nose, my ears; I could scarcely see for the latter, or walk for the former; but, nevertheless, I made my way to the pier. Only one person was on it, and his back was turned to me. As he stood at the extreme end, with chest expanded, with mouth wide open, as if prepared to swallow the raging sea in front and the Dutch coast farther off, I thought I knew the figure. It was a reporter from Fleet Street and he was the only man to greet me in the town I once knew so well. Yes; the Yarmouth of my youth was gone. Then a reporter from Fleet Street was an individual never dreamt of. And so the world changes, and we get new men, fresh faces, other minds. The antiquarian Camden, were he to revisit Yarmouth, would not be a little astonished at what he would see. He wrote: ‘As
soon as the Yare has passed Claxton, it takes a turn to the south, that it may descend more gently into the sea, by which means it makes a sort of little tongue or slip of land, washt on one side by itself, on the other side by the sea. In this slip, upon an open shore, I saw Yarmouth, a very neat harbour and town, fortified both by the nature of the place and the contrivance of art. For, though it be almost surrounded with water, on the west with a river, over which there is a drawbridge, and on either side with the sea, except to the north, where it is joined to the continent; yet it is fenced with strong, stately walls, which, with the river, figure it into an oblong quadrangle. Besides the towers upon these, there is a mole or mount, to the east, from whence the great guns command the sea (scarce half a mile distant) all round. It has but one church, though very large and with a stately high spire, built near the north gate by Herbert, Bishop of Norwich.’ In only one respect the Yarmouth of to-day resembles that of Camden’s time. Then the north wind played the tyrant and plagued the coast, and it does so still.
CHAPTER VII.
the norfolk capital.
Brigg’s Lane—The carrier’s cart—Reform demonstration—The old dragon—Chairing M.P.’s—Hornbutton Jack—Norwich artists and literati—Quakers and Nonconformists.
Many, many years ago, when wandering in the North of Germany, I came to an hotel in the Fremden Buch, of which (Englishmen at that time were far more patriotic and less cosmopolitan than in these degenerate days) an enthusiastic Englishman had written—and possibly the writing had been suggested by the hard fare and dirty ways of the place: