On one of the hottest of our summer days I chanced to fall into conversation with an elderly decayed tradesman, living in a house erected for such as he. “Are you comfortable?” I said.

“Well,” was the reply, “we do our best to make ourselves as comfortable as we can.”

I was struck with the good sense of his answer. Ah, thought I, as we parted, how much happier we would all be if we did as the decayed tradesman did. The conversation took place opposite the grand Abbey-gate of the ancient town of Bury St. Edmunds. No Englishman should wander off to the Continent until he has first visited Bury St. Edmunds, a town full of busy life, peopled with more than 16,000 inhabitants, which rejoices in a rich historic past, and which, especially if you are there on a market-day, strikes the stranger as a place of immense activity and bustle. It is eighty-three miles from Liverpool-street, and you can see all its lions—and they are very numerous—in a day. On the eastern ridge of it—as Carlyle wrote in Past and Present—still runs, long, black, and massive, a range of monastic ruins. Its chief claim to fame is that it was the burial place of the young Saxon king known as Edmund, who, in 870, was cruelly murdered by the Danes at Hoxne, not far off. After the lapse of many years, the body was brought to Bury, where it was placed in the renowned Abbey, which owes much of its greatness to Edward the Confessor, and which for more than six hundred years remained one of the chief ecclesiastical centres of mediÆval England. Piety, wealth, and superstition did much for the place. Its churchyard is one of the most picturesque in all the land. Its churches are marvels of beauty, and one of them contains the tomb of Mary Tudor, Queen of France, and third daughter of Henry VII. of England. Bury is famous as being the spot where the Barons met before enforcing the signature of Magna Charta by King John, who, on his return from France in 1214, met the nobles at Bury, and confirmed on oath a charter restoring the laws enacted by Edward the Confessor, and abolishing the arbitrary Norman code. You have to pay sixpence to visit the Abbey grounds, which are left in good order, and which ought to be thrown open to the public; but many people will not grudge the money when they come to the spot where is an inscription denoting that Cardinal Langton and the Barons swore at the altar that they would obtain from King John the satisfaction of Magna Charta, and another, close by, giving the names and titles of the twenty-five Barons who thus met. A few yards off are the ruins of the refectory where was held the Parliament which decided on the impeachment of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. Many Parliaments were held at Bury; many kings and queens and mighty personages came there. It had its martyrs—like Coping, who was hanged for not believing the Prayer-book, and Lawes, an innocent clergyman, who, with forty others, was condemned and executed for witchcraft. The Jews, also, were very badly treated when, as usual, they were charged with the murder of a Christian child. The house where the chief Jew lived is still to be seen near the Market Place. It is now utilised by the police, who will shortly be removed to a finer building which is being erected in the neighbourhood.

According to Carlyle, Bury St. Edmunds “is still a prosperous, rising town; beautifully diversifying with its clean brick houses, ancient clean streets, the general grassy face of Suffolk looking out right pleasantly from its hill-slope towards the rising sun.” The earliest reliable records tell of its foundation about 631 by Siegbert, King of the East Anglians. Many of the monks of the Abbey did good service to literature,—such as John Lydgate, who conducted a school of rhetoric there. In its Grammar School many distinguished men were educated,—such as Archbishop Sancroft, John Gauden (Bishop of Worcester), John Warren (Bishop of Bangor), Thomas Thurlow (Bishop of Durham), Tomline (Bishop of Winchester), Blomfield (Bishop of London), Lord Cranworth, Lord Keeper Guildford, Sir Thomas Hanmer (Speaker of the House of Commons and the first editor of Shakespeare), Baron Alderson, and Chief Baron Reynolds. One of its masters, the late Dr. Donaldson, was referred to on one occasion as one of the most learned men in Europe. There are many scholastic establishments in the town. One of the most successful in our time is the East Anglian School, founded by the Wesleyans, and carried on by them in a handsome block of buildings occupying a commanding site.

As was to be expected, the town is Churchy, and its politics are Conservative. The Salvationists, I am told, are doing well, and I have boyish memories of a fat man of the name of Elven, who was rather a leading man among the Suffolk Baptists; but what I was chiefly impressed with was his size. The family of the late Crabbe Robinson, one of the first of “our foreign correspondents,” was long distinguished in Bury St. Edmunds. One of his brothers was Mayor several times. They were all connected with the Presbyterian church in the place; one of Lady Howley’s, kept alive by a scanty endowment—not much matter as things are. The present worthy minister is a vegetarian, and has a large garden in which he grows his vegetables. If he is succeeded by a flesh-eating parson, I fear at the present price of butcher’s meat the latter will have rather a hard time of it. It is interesting to note that the celebrated Ouida was born in Bury St. Edmunds, and that Robertson, of Brighton, commenced his career here as an articled clerk to a local solicitor.

Blomfield, grandfather of the Bishop of London, kept a school here, and Crabbe Robinson was one of his pupils. The preacher at that time at the Independent chapel was Mr. Waldegrave. Crabbe Robinson describes him as “an ignorant, noisy, ranting preacher; he bawled loud, thumped the cushion, and sometimes cried; he was, however, a kind man, and of course he was a favourite of mine.” As an illustration of the state of religion among the Independents a hundred years ago, it is curious to notice Robinson’s mother’s experience, which he quotes. “There was no allusion to the Trinity,” he writes, “in it, or any other disputed doctrine. Indeed, the word belief scarcely occurs. The one sentiment which runs throughout is a consciousness of personal unworthiness, with which are combined a desire to be united to the Church, and a reliance on the merits of Christ.” One of the great men who lived later on at Bury was Capel Lofft, a gentleman of good family, an author also on an infinity of subjects. Capel Lofft is chiefly remembered now as the earliest patron of the poet Blomfield. He was acting as Magistrate at Bury, and was a leader among the Liberals of the place. Another distinguished East Anglian, who lived near Bury at that time was the celebrated agricultural writer, Arthur Young. It was to Bury Madame de Genlis fled for safety on the outbreak of the French Revolution. The celebrated Pamela escaped with her. Another French refugee who found temporary shelter at Bury was the Duke de Liancourt. It was he who brought the news of the capture of the Bastille to the unfortunate Louis, who exclaimed, “Why, that is a revolt.” “Sire,” answered Liancourt, “it is not a revolt—it is a revolution.” A Miss Bude, of Bury, who afterwards became the wife of Clarkson, the philanthropist, Mr. Robinson mentions as “the most eloquent woman I have ever known, with the exception of Madame de StaËl.” It was at Bury that Robinson, who had been called to the bar, made his debut. At his first dinner with the barristers at the Angel Inn, among the company was Hart, one of the most remarkable men of the circuit. He was originally a preacher among the Calvinistic Methodists. It was said to him once, “Mr. Hart, when I hear you in the pulpit I wish you were never out of it; when I see you out of it, I wish you were never in it.” Bury Gaol had acquired some celebrity for the superior way in which its criminal population were looked after.

Bury St. Edmunds may claim to have given shelter to the immortal Daniel Defoe. He had been in the pillory before the Royal Exchange, in London, near the Conduit at Cheapside, and the third day at Temple Bar. He was the hero of the people, who garlanded him with flowers, repeating as they did so, with special gusto, the lines:—

Tell them the men that placed him here
Are scandals to the times,
Are at a loss to find his guilt,
And can’t commit his crimes.

But his imprisonment ruined him financially, his brick works at Tilbury failing through his absence. On the intercession of Harley, he was released early in August, 1704, and at once retired to Bury St. Edmunds to avoid the public gaze, and to recruit his health. He was not idle there, for he issued pamphlets within a month, besides his reviews. The chapel where he attended yet remains. The old Presbyterian Chapel in Churchgate Street must have been erected when he was there. It is a fine old-fashioned red-brick building, where Rev. Mr. Kennard at present preaches to a rather scanty congregation.

But the modern inhabitants of Bury do not come up to the high literary standard of their predecessors, such as Richard D’Aunger Vyle, tutor to Edward III.; Jocelin of Brakeland, whose chronicle of the monastery is referred to as vividly personifying the religious life of the middle ages; and John Lydgate, who took charge of the School of Rhetoric in the town, and wrote numerous poems, such as the Storie of Thebes, The Troy Book, and London Lickpenny, one of our earliest satires. Nor must we forget Richard Byfield, one of Tyndal’s friends, who was formerly Chamberlain for the Monastery. Richard de Bury, Chancellor to Edward III., and author of the Philobiblion, deserves honourable mention here as a native of the town. Fielding, in his Amelia, sends one of his characters to Bury for recovery of health, and describes it as a gay and busy town. Mrs. Inchbald, whose history reads like a romance, was born in a small farm-house at Standingfield, close by Bury St. Edmunds. The mother, Mrs. Simpson, had a strong taste for the theatre, and her family loved acting quite as much as she did. They all diligently attended the Bury Theatre—even the rehearsals. The actors and actresses were looked up to, almost worshipped, and when the theatre was closed the chief amusement of the family consisted in reading aloud the scenes which had been enjoyed so heartily. The unmarried son left the farm for the stage, and Elizabeth longed to do the same. Before reaching the age of thirteen, she frequently declared that she would rather die than live any longer without seeing the world. When a few years older, and ripe in maiden charms, she made her way to London, married an actor, and became an actress; wrote her simple story which yet finds readers, and died in the sixty-eighth year of her age, after she had burnt her memoirs, which would have been well worth reading, and for which she had been offered a thousand guineas. Another well-known name connected with Bury was that of Calamy, the elder, a rigid Presbyterian, who, about 1630, was one of the town lecturers at Bury. Subsequently he became Rector of Aldersmanbury, London, and one of the Assembly of Divines, and frequently preached before Parliament. He lived to see London in ashes, the sight of which broke his heart. His son Edmund was born at Bury, became a distinguished preacher, was ejected, and formed a congregation in Currier’s Hall, near Cripplegate, London. His son, who was likewise a leading London preacher, was the editor of the Abridgement of Mr. Baxter’s History of His Life and Times, and left behind him An Historical Account of My Own Life, a valuable contribution to the annals of his times published in 1829.

There is an anecdote of Rowland Hill, the eccentric preacher, in connection with Bury, too good to be omitted. He had come to preach at the Congregational Chapel, and, there being no railway then, had travelled in his own carriage, and with his own horses. Very properly he was anxious about the accommodation provided for the latter. The minister, Mr. Dewhirst, told him that he need be under no apprehension on that score, as he had a horse-dealer, a member of his church, who would look after them. “What!” said Rowland Hill, in astonishment, “a horse-dealer a member of a Christian Church! who ever heard of such a thing?” Evidently at that time horse-dealers had a somewhat doubtful reputation. Is it not delightful to think how much honester they are now?

Politically Bury St. Edmunds is extinct. It returned two members since 1292. Formerly the constituency consisted only of the Corporation. In 1832 it was enlarged so as to embrace the resident Freemen and the ten-pound householders, and it was the custom for the Duke of Grafton and the Marquis of Bristol each to return a member. Field-Marshal Conway, the friend of Horace Walpole, was the most distinguished man Bury St. Edmunds ever returned to Parliament. It is an anomaly that gives Bury the right to return the one member left it by recent legislation. But we rejoice in anomalies. For instance, look at Ireland. Ireland is inferior to the great metropolis, either in regard to population or property, but Ireland rejoices in nearly double the number of legislators it sends to the Imperial Parliament.