There had been an insurrection in Norfolk and Suffolk. It was the chronic malady of our constitution at that time to be always suffering from “breakings-out.” As many lying reports thereof reached the City, as if London enjoyed, as we do now, electric telegraphs, “own correspondents,” and unpurchasable newspapers rather interested in the stocks. Indeed, truth was as perilous as gunpowder. Thus, the Bailiff of Rumford had kissed his wife in the morning ere he came to London market. He was standing at his stall in the latter place, running his fingers through samples of corn, when “Sir Stephen,” a priest, asked, “What news?” “Well,” said the Bailiff, “men are rising, even in Essex. Thank God, all is quiet however, my way.” Now Sir Stephen was a casuist; and he had a case and an accident, by which he argufied a conclusion in no time that the Bailiff was a traitor. “Men are rising even in Essex, thank God!—be that thy speech, then, naughty traitor? Have him away to the Sheriff!” The market having been dull, the standers-by were delighted to find something wherewith to enliven it. They would not listen to the offered explanations of the bewildered Bailiff; he _must_ be a rebel; and they hoped for a fine day for the hanging. The poor fellow was examined, tried, pronounced guilty upon the deposition of the priest, and sentenced to be hanged, opposite Stow’s house. The convict entered a meek protest against being put in so painful a state of suspense, which they promised to attend to after the ceremony. Well, the man was put to death, and it was a most fortunate thing that Stow, the tailor, was there to see it. He beheld the composure of the victim, believed his denial of guilt; and when he heard him proclaimed as a traitor, he was struck with the fact, that, if such proclamations were the documentary ground-work of history, the latter was very pretty reading indeed for those who loved fiction. He forthwith removed to Lime-street Ward, where he undertook to repair records as well as what he had hitherto put his hand to. For nearly half a century he passed his days, and good portion of his nights, in the search after that most ticklish of virgins to catch—historical truth. The natural consequences ensued. He did not make money as an author, and he starved as a tailor. Tailor and author! double the ordinary woe of men! The little he made at his trade he devoted to the purchase of books useful to him in his profession.