CHAPTER NINE
William SOMERS, the imposter of
Nottingham, a native of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, is noted for his connexion with the
infamous John DARREL, minister of Mansfield, afterwards assistant minister of
St. Mary’s, Nottingham. The impositions which these wretches practised in 1597
and subsequently, at Nottingham, were – affected possession of an evil spirit,
or spirits, by SOMERS, and the ejection of the same by DARREL.
At the latter part of the
seventeenth, and the beginning of the eighteenth century, flourished Vin. EYRE.
He was a patriot, and yet a good son; an electioneering agent, and still never
accepted a bribe; the ruler of the mob, yet not a mercenary hireling; a
stocking needlemaker and a poor man, yet a stern and unyielding tory. He
possessed much natural ability, and was remarkable for filial devotion to his
aged mother. The manner of his death was singular. At the election of 1728 he
exerted himself in an extraordinary manner for the man of his choice, saw him
placed at the head of the poll and chaired, then lay down & died. He was
buried in St. Peter’s churchyard, where a rude tombstone tells his little
story.
Mr. ROUSE is known chiefly in
connexion with Parliament street, formerly called Back side. Being in no wise
attached to the name of the street in which he resided, he caused a number of
boards to be stuck up at the most conspicuous corners and passages, informing
those who could read that they were in Parliament street: hence the name of
that thorough-fare. He entertained an idea that rhubarb was a universal panacea
for the ills which afflict the human constitution; and in one of his mad fits
he offered himself as a candidate to represent the borough in parliament,
treating his adherents to ale, purl and an occasional dose of rhubarb !
Mrs. WATERHILL, an eccentric
widow of good property, died at her house on the High pavement on the 1st
of February, 1775, aged 79 years. She thought the Sabbath ought to be observed
on Saturday, and consequently, went with the greatest regularity to St. Mary’s
church on that day, dressed in her best apparel, firmly refusing to transact
business. She also attended service on Sunday, but wore her ordinary dress, and
filled up the rest of the day in sewing and other secular employment.
James BURNE, the ventriloquist,
more commonly knows as “Shelford Tommy,” though a native of Ireland, and a bird
of passage, spent the greater part of his life in Nottingham, where he was at
the zenith of his popularity about 1790. His ventriloquial capabilities gained
for him an easy living. It is related that Tommy’s wanton exercise of his gifts
once threw a country girl, at the Weekday cross, into fits, and Tommy for a
time into Bridewell.
“Jockey JOHN” died in St. Mary’s
workhouse in December, 1797. This pauper had resided in the house a
considerable time, and had always been regarded as a male and the father of a
family, several illegitimate children having been sworn to him. On being
laid out the body was discovered to be that of a woman. She had formerly been a
groom in the service of Sir Harry HARPER, and figured on the turf under the
cognomen of “Jockey JOHN.”
Sophia HYATT, the mysterious “Little
White Lady,” whose story is so beautifully told by Washington IRVING, in his “Newstead,”
was accidently run over in the Maypole yard, Nottingham, by POTTER the
Loughborough carrier, on the 21st of September, 1825. She was very
deaf. The fore-horse knocked her down, and the cart wheel went over her back
killing her instantly. This poor lady was an enthusiastic admirer of BYRON, and
spent several years in pensive solitude amongst the gardens and grounds of
Newstead Abbey. “Like a phantom she came,” and no one knew what had been her
home, or who were her relatives. Her remains were interred in Hucknall
churchyard, as close as possible to the vault containing the ashes of the last
lord of Newstead.
Kitty HUDSON, whom many still
remember as the Arnold post, was born at that village in 1765, and when six
years of age was left with her grandfather, Mr. WHITE, the sexton of St. Mary’s,
Nottingham. Here a young woman resided in the capacity of servant, who used to
reward Kitty with a stick of toffy for every “mouthful” of pins she procured in
sweeping the pews and aisles of the church. The poor child followed this
practice till she could neither eat, drink, nor sleep, without pins or needles
in her mouth. Often she got out of bed to supply herself with them, that she
might induce sleep. To such an extent did she carry the strange practice here
it was discovered by her friends, that her double teeth had almost disappeared.
At length she began to perceive a constant numbness in her limbs and a great
inability to sleep. After various medical applications, she was removed to the
General Hospital. Between the time of her admission and June 12, 1755, when she
was finally “dismissed cured,” she underwent a most astonishing series of
operations. Great numbers of pins, needles, and pieces of carious bone were
extracted from her feet, legs, arms, and other parts of her body, while both
her breasts were removed with the knife. While in the Infirmary, a young man
named GODDARD, who “had sweet-hearted her from a child,” happened to be an
out-patient for a complaint in his head, through which he lost an eye. He used
to cheer her by saying he would marry her if she lost all her limbs, provided
her life was spared; and she afterwards said, it was the kindness of this young
man, and her attachment to him, which enabled her to bear up under her
protracted sufferings. Six months after her discharge from the Infirmary, she
was married to the faithful GODDARD, to whom she bore nineteen children. It is
supposed she died in Derbyshire, whither she went on her husband’s death.
George WRIGHT, “a peddling
broker,” and a Primitive Methodist, died at an advanced age, on the 15th
of August, 1806. His dwelling he denominated “Paradise,” and many people
frequented it to see a handsome polished mahogany coffin, designed for his own
occupancy, which he kept in the house-place. The inscription on the plate was “George
WRIGHT, died when it pleased God.”
David LOWE was born 1750, at
Torriburn, on the Forth, in Scotland. He was brought up as a miner, but
enlisted in the Duke of Buccleugh’s regiment of South Fencibles. He afterwards
took “the pack,” travelling through various parts of England and Scotland with
stationery and books. Having a knack at stringing rhymes together, he gained
his livelihood through a long course of years by seizing upon the topic of the
hour, and making it the subject of a ballad or song - “all his own composing” – which he sold in the streets. These
compositions were not without an occasional touch of nature, and were often
highly popular. In the humorous description of his marriage to his second wife,
at Nottingham, he says:
“When first to Nottingham I came,
I found it was a town of fame;
This place I loved exceeding well,
As here I many books did sell.”
His “Child’s Dream” is a poem
of great beauty, and is sufficient to secure for “Old David’s” memory a sincere
regard from all the lovers of true poetry. His recitation of this piece in the
streets of Nottingham, was, we have been told, exceedingly affecting, and many
a passer-by who lingered to hear the uncouth minstrel went away with a tear-dimmed
eye. David published his own “Life, Adventures, and Experience,” which went
through five large editions.
Benjamin MAYO, the “Old
General,” was born at Nottingham, about the year 1779. The glory of “Ben” was
always at its meridian on Mickleton Monday. Before the jury commenced the
annual survey of the liberties of the town, the General was accustomed to trot
away with several hundred boys at his heels, in something like military order,
to secure the sacred and inviolable rights of a holiday for every schoolboy in
the town. A couple of urchins, with shining morning faces, would lead the way
to their own schoolmaster, who was seated probably amidst the few children
whose parents had refused to grant a holiday, and who therefore dared not “play
truant.” While the “devoted Decius” in miniature parleyed with the master, down
would drop pens, books, and pencils, to the increasing cry at the door of “Out
! Out ! Out !” Frequently did the liberating army commit serious damage to the
schools which held out against the besiegers; but alas ! that one so devoted to
the cause of liberty should have been so easily corrupted, a bribe of twopence
would induce the commander-in-chief to withdraw his faithful followers. During
the greater part of his career, opposition to the General was rare; but
latterly the masters did not capitulate so readily. One individual successfully
resisted a three hours’ siege, whose premises for years bore indelible marks of
the mud with which they were pelted; but ever afterwards that master was triumphant.
The General, deeming the “hold” impregnable, desisted from his attacks. His
army being, after some tough exertions, emancipated from scholastic thraldom,
Ben was accustomed to march forward with the “surveying council.” The
obstructions which the worthy burgesses were content to note in a book the General
and his forces were accustomed to remove at once; and, after a fierce contest
probably with some angry dame, the door-scraper, or whatever it might be, was
borne off with triumphant shouts. At mid-day the General drew up his forces in
front of the Castle lodge, and demanded admittance into the castle yard – a summons
always evaded by the distribution of cakes and gingerbread. After the scramble
for the precious sweets, which were thrown, one by one, over the gate, Ben’s
popularity rapidly waned. Hundreds soon melted into scores. At one o’clock he
was alone. In memory of his departed greatness, however, he never deigned to
work for the rest of the day. For several weeks preceding the advent of
Mickleton Monday the important question would be put to the General. “When will
be Mickleton Monday ?” “I don’t know yet,” he would reply, “the mayor hasn’t
axed me what day’ll suit me.” On the following Saturday he would say, “The
mayor’s sent his respex to know if I’d let it be Mickleton Monday next week,
and I sent my respex and I’d come.”
In his early days Ben was a
flying stationer, and vender of “horrid murder” sheets, and “correct card-lists
of the races.” He was a harmless idiot, and during the most of his life was an
inmate of St. Peter’s poor-house in Broad marsh. During the greater part of his
career he never wore a covering to his head. Rain, wind, or snow seemed not to
affect him till he had attained his sixtieth year, when he donned a military
cap. Many anecdotes of the “Old General” are still current among the good folk
of Nottingham. Once, when public attention was directed to the Duke of York,
Ben ran excitedly through the town, crying “Here’s the grand and noble speech
as the Duke of York made yesterday,” excusing himself to those who purchased
the blank sheet of paper which he held in his hand by saying that “The duke
said nowt !” One day, Ben having found a sixpence, a claimant presented
himself, and said he had lost one. “Had your sixpence a hole in it ?” asked
Ben. “Yes,” was the ready reply. “This hasn’t, so it’s not yourn,” was the
equally prompt rejoinder. Ben died in the Union workhouse on the 12th
of January, 1843, aged 64.
Jeremiah BRANDRETH, “the
Nottingham Captain,” is said to have been a native of Wilford. He entered the army,
and subsequently, with his wife and three children, resided at
Sutton-in-Ashfield. His face and figure pointed him out as the fitting captain
of a band of mountain banditti; his eye was black and piercing; daring and
decision were stamped on every feature; and at the age of six-and-twenty he
possessed a commanding influence among his fellows. In 1817 he was betrayed
into the leadership of an insurrection by one Oliver, a spy of the government.
On the failure of the movement BRANDRETH escaped to Bulwell, and took refuge in
the house of a friend, who basely delivered him to the magistrates for a reward
of £50. In October following the ring-leaders of the insurrection who had been
apprehended were arraigned at Derby by virtue of a special commission.
BRANDRETH, TURNER, LUDLAM, George WEIGHTMAN, and nineteen others, were left for
execution as traitors; the rest, to their surprise, were liberated. WEIGHTMAN
was reprieved; BRANDRETH, TURNER, and LUDLAM were executed; the nineteen others
had their sentences commuted to transportation.
“Ned DAWSON,” who was drowned
in the Nottingham canal in September, 1828, at the age of 78 years, was one of those
eccentrics who indulged in the revolting whim of providing their own coffin
before death. A staunch tory, Ned had the coffin painted “true blue.” It served
his a as cupboard twenty years. On his birthday he would try on his best suit,
and extend himself in the coffin to see it is still fitted. Evacuating his
quarters, the coffin, was lined with substantial viands, would then be carried
in state on the shoulders of his associates, Ned following as chief mourner,
with an enormous pitcher of ale in his hand.
“The blue-lined coffin holds his dust, now
dead,
In which the living DAWSON kept his bread.”
“Jackey PEET,” a half idiotic
person of some notoriety in the town, died in 1828, at the age of 60 years. His
usual employment was striking the great hammer at a whitesmith’s. His chief
peculiarity was his powerful predilection for superfluous decorations of the
person. Sometimes he would be seen with a large brass embossed lion’s head, a
furniture ornament, stuck as a brooch in his shirt front; but his especial
delight were his buttons. This the wanton and malicious well know; and the exclamation
“I’ll have a button, Jackey,” would cause him to start off like a dog with a
kettle at its tail; while, if a button were touched, he would be thrown into
convulsions of rage. He was also noted for his insatiable appetite, and his
death arose from over-eating at the races.
John WHEATLEY, of Lincoln
street, was one of the peculiar order of eccentric characters whose singular
mode of anticipating death seems unfortunately to have been common in this
locality. Some time before his death, which occurred in September, 1838, this
aged man obtained a coffin, and, storing it with choice wines, deposited it in
his bed room. Thence he removed it to an enclosed space in the General
Cemetery, in which he had a vault dug. He there, however, imbibed such copious
draughts of wine that we was driven from the place, and thus made to cease from
his revolting dissipation.
Thomas DARKER, of Darker’s
court, Broad marsh, on the 12th of February, 1847, closed a
miserable career at the age of 66 years. He was a bachelor, the descendant of
an ancient and wealthy family; and, though possessed of ample means, was as
parsimonious in his habits as Daniel DANCER. For more than fifty years he
immured himself in a wretched attic room, into which no person was admitted. On
one occasion a brother of the miserable man had the temerity to enter, but
Tommy threatened to shoot him, and the intruder had to withdraw immediately. When
any person wanted him on business he held his head out at the door and
conducted the correspondence on the stairs. He cooked, mended, cleaned, and did
the household work himself. Every night, between eleven and twelve o’clock, he
ventured into the yard for a fresh supply of water. His household expenses were
not supposed to exceed two shilling a week. Fire was to him a luxury not to be
enjoyed; and his dress was as defective as that of a mendicant. His death was
caused by a derangement of the system induced by a decision of the magistrates,
ordering him to cover securely the mouth of an old well, which had become
dangerous. Driven to madness, he died at the Lunatic Asylum after a few days of
intense suffering. Gold and valuable securities were afterwards found secreted
in the apartment in which the miser had spent his life.
“The RESURRECTIONIST” was for
many years a familiar, if not a very pleasing, object in the streets of
Nottingham. He held the office of gravedigger in St. Mary’s parish in the time
of the resurrectionists, and was discovered to be in league with the
sacrilegious wretches engaged in the revolting traffic. Afterwards he became a
hanger-on at the coach offices; was distinguished by his abject and filthy
appearance, and matter head of hair unprotected by any covering; and never lost
the name of “The Resurrectionist.”
Peter CONROY, better known as “Blind
Peter,” a hawker of street literature and self-constituted bellman for the lower
districts of the town, has long been a popular personage in our streets. During
the agitations of the Chartists, Peter was employed to announce their meetings,
and at one of these gatherings on Mapperley plain the luckless bellman was
among a party apprehended by the military. It is related that on days when the
town has been obscured in dense fogs he has reaped a rich harvest by conveying
the bewildered wanderers in the streets to their homes.
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