ELIZABETH GLOVER, who died Dec. 27th, 1803.
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,