Her maiden name was Manby, and she was twice married. By her first husband, who lies buried near this spot, she was mother of six children; the youngest of whom was Robert Bloomfield, the pastoral Poet. In her household affairs she was a pattern of cleanliness, industry, and good management. By her kind, her meek, her inoffensive behaviour, she had conciliated the sincere good will of all her neighbours and acquaintance; nor amid the busy cares of time was she ever forgetful of Eternity. But her religion was no hypocritical service, no vain form of words; it consisted in loving God and keeping his commandments, as they have been made known to us by Jesus Christ.
Reader, go thou and do likewise.
If ever I was proud of any thing it was of my mother, nor do I think, strong as is the praise in the above, it is overdone. For solid strength of intellect she surpassed all her sons, and had more real practical virtues than all of them put together. Kind Providence spared her to bless me till I was far on the wrong side of fifty.
I must say a word or two on her sons, because Capel Loftt, Esq., in his preface to my brother Nat’s poems, has said too much about them, viz. “Beyond question, the brothers of this family are all extraordinary men.” Now, sir, as I am the oldest of these brothers, I will tell first of myself. I wrote a little poem, when near seventy, on the “Thetford Spa;” but dreading those snarling curs, the critics, forebore to affix my name to it. Mr. Smith, of Cambridge, printed it gratuitously; but as soon as it was discovered I was the author, my acquaintance styled me the cold water poet. I think my title will do very well. Brother Nathaniel wrote some poems; unluckily they were printed and published here at Bury, and the pack of critics hunted down the book. Nat has had thirteen children, and most of them are living, and so is he. Brother Isaac was a machinist. John Boys, Esq. gave him in all twenty pounds, but he died a young man, and left his self-working pumps unfinished. Eight of his children are living.
The old cottage sold to Robert had been in the family near fourscore years. It proved a hard bargain to Robert; my mother and Isaac occupied the cottage, and could not pay rent; and after the death of my mother, poor Robert was in distress and sold it:—the lawyers would not settle the business, and Robert died broken-hearted, and never received sixpence!
The lawyers constantly endeavour to make work for the trade. I believe it to be true, as some say, that we are now as much law-ridden as we were priest-ridden some ages ago. I like Charlotte Smith’s definition of the Law Trade. Orlando, in the “Old Manor House,” says to Carr, the lawyer, “I am afraid you are all rogues together;” Carr replies, “More or less, my good friend;—some have more sense than others, and some a little more conscience—but for the rest, I am afraid we are all of us a little too much professional rogues: though some of us, as individuals, would not starve the orphan, or break the heart of the widow, yet, in our vocation, we give all remorse of that sort to the winds.” My last account from Robert’s family says, the lawyers have not yet settled the poor old cottage!
Nat and I only survive of the little tailor’s “extraordinary” children—quite past our labour, and destitute of many comforts we used to enjoy in youth. We have but one step farther to fall, (i.e.) into the workhouse! Yet in the nature of things it cannot be long ere death will close the scene. We have had our day, and night must come. I hope we shall welcome it as heartily as Sancho in Don Quixote did sleep, “Blessed be he who first invented sleep, it covers a man all over like a cloak.”
I shall indeed be agreeably disappointed if any one should bestow any thing upon Nat, or
Sir, your humble obedient servant,
Geo. Bloomfield.
George Bloomfield is in his seventy-third year, and surely this fact, with the contents of the preceding columns, will be sufficient to excite commiseration in feeling and liberal minds. Mr. Faux, a respectable resident at Thetford, in Norfolk, is represented to me as being his friend. George Bloomfield’s own address at Bury St. Edmund’s is prefixed to his letter above. Either to Mr. Faux for him, or to himself direct, the remittance of a little money immediately would be highly serviceable. Something, however, beyond that is clearly requisite, and his statement of his brother Nathaniel’s equal necessities should be considered at the same time. There are names dignified by rank and talents in the list of individuals who admire the works of Robert Bloomfield, and should this sheet fall into their hands it is natural to presume that some of them may seek out and assist his surviving brothers in sorrowing old age. This, however, may not happen, and is not therefore to be relied upon.