CHAPTER II.
IN THE VILLAGE.
Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip himself of allhis worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing, he ceased not to put histrust in the Lord, and continued to sit among his books, neverasking whence came the food provided for him. I think, indeed, sowrapt was he in thought, that he knew not. As for procuring thedaily food, my mother it was who found out the way.
Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know whata busy and populous county is that of Somerset. Apart from theshipping and the great trade with Ireland, Spain, and the WestIndies carried on from the Port of Bristol, we have our greatmanufactures of cloth, in which we are surpassed by no country inthe world. The town of Taunton alone can boast of eleven hundredlooms always at work making Sagathies and Des Roys; there aremany looms at Bristol, where they make for the most part Druggetsand Cantaloons; and there are great numbers at that rich andpopulous town of Frome Selwood, where they manufacture the SpanishMedleys. Besides the cloth-workers, we have, in addition, ourknitted-stocking trade, which is carried on mostly at Glastonburyand Shepton Mallet. Not only does this flourishing trade make themasters rich and prosperous (it is not uncommon to find a masterwith his twenty--ay, and his forty--thousand pounds), but it fillsall the country with work, so that the towns are frequent, populous,and full of everything that men can want; and the very villages arenot like those which may be seen in other parts, poor and squalid,but well-built and comfortable.
Every cottage has its spinning-wheel. The mother, when she is notdoing the work of the house, sits at the wheel; the girls, when theyhave nothing else to do, are made to knit stockings. Every weekthe master-clothier sends round his men among the villages, theirpackhorses laden with wool; every week they return, their packsladen with yarn, ready for the loom.
There is no part of England where the people are more prosperousand more contented. Nowhere are there more towns, and all thriving;nowhere are the villages better built; nor can one find anywhereelse more beautiful churches. Because the people make good wagesthey are independent in their manners; they have learned thingssupposed to be above the station of the humble; most of them in thetowns, and many in the villages, are able to read. This enables themto search the Scriptures, and examine into doctrine by the lightof their own reason, guided by grace. And to me, the daughter of aNonconforming preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many ofthem should have become stiff and sturdy Nonconformists. This wasseen in the year 1685, and, again, three years later, when a greaterthan Monmouth landed on the western shores.
My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would earn, by anywork of his own, the daily bread of the household, bravely followedthe example of the women in the village. That is to say, she setup her spinning-wheel, and spent all the time that she could sparespinning the wool into yarn; while she taught her little boy firstand afterwards her daughter--as soon as I was old enough to managethe needles--to knit stockings. What trade, indeed, could herhusband follow save one--and that, by law, prohibited? He could notdig; he could not make anything; he knew not how to buy or sell; hecould only study, write, and preach. Therefore, while he sat amonghis books in one room, she sat over her wheel in the other, workingfor the master-clothiers of Frome Selwood. It still makes my heartto swell with pity and with love when I think upon my mother, thusspending herself and being spent, working all day, huckstering withthe rough pack-horsemen more accustomed to exchange rude jests withthe rustics than to talk with gentlewomen. And this she continuedto do year after year, cheerful and contented, so that her husbandshould never feel the pinch of poverty. Love makes us willing slaves.
My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was troubled aboutfood. He paid no heed at all to what he ate, provided that it wassufficient for his needs; he would sup his broth of pork and turnipsand bread, after thanks rendered, as if it were the finest dish inthe world; and a piece of cold bacon with a hot cabbage would be afeast for him. The cider which he drank was brewed by my mother fromher own apples; to him it was as good as if it had been Sherris orRhenish. I say that he did not even know how his food was providedfor him; his mind was at all times occupied with subjects so loftythat he knew not what was done under his very eyes. The hand of God,he said, doth still support His faithful. Doubtless we cannot lookback upon those years without owning that we were so supported. Butmy mother was the Instrument; nay, my father sometimes even comparedhimself with satisfaction unto the Prophet Elijah, whom the ravensfed beside the brook Cherith, bringing him flesh and bread in themorning and flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my fatherthought that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner.
Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not been forthe charity of our friends. Many a fat capon, green goose, sideof bacon, and young grunter came to us from the Manor House, withtobacco, which my father loved, and wine to comfort his soul; yea,and clothes for us all, else had we gone barefoot and in rags. Inthis way was many an ejected Elijah at that time nourished andsupported. Fresh meat we should never have tasted, any more thanthe humblest around us, had it not been for our good friends at theManor House. Those who live in towns cannot understand how frugaland yet sufficient may be the fare of those who live in the countryand have gardens and orchards. Cider was our drink, which we madeourselves; we had some sweet apple-trees, which gave us a stock ofrussets and pippins for winter use; we had bees (but we sold most ofour honey at Sherborne market); our garden grew sallets and onions,beans and the like; skim milk we could have from the Manor House forthe fetching; for breakfast we had bread and milk, for dinner breadand soft cheese, with a lettuce or an apple; and bread or bread andbutter for supper. For my father there was always kept a piece ofbacon or fat pork.
Our house was one of the cottages in the village: it is a stonehouse (often I sit down to look at it, and to remember those daysof humility) with a thick thatch. It had two rooms below and twogarrets above. One room was made into a study or library for myfather, where also he slept upon a pallet. The other was kitchen,spinning room, parlour, all in one. The door opened upon the garden,and the floor was of stone, so that it was cold. But when Barnabybegan to find the use of his hands he procured some boards, which helaid upon the stones, and so we had a wooden floor; and in winteracross the door we hung a blanket or rug to keep off the wind.
The walls were whitewashed, and over all my mother had writtentexts of Scripture with charcoal, so that godly admonition was everpresent to our eyes and minds. She also embroidered short textsupon our garments, and I have still the cradle in which I was laid,carved (but I do not know by whose hand) with a verse from the Wordof God. My father used himself, and would have us employ, the wordsof the Bible even for the smaller occasions of daily use; nor wouldhe allow that anything was lawful unless it was sanctioned by theBible, holding that in the Word was everything necessary or lawful.Did Barnaby go shooting with Sir Christopher and bring home arabbit?--Lo! David bade the children of Israel teach the use of thebow. Did my mother instruct and amuse me with riddles?--She had thewarrant of Scripture for it in the example of Samson. Did she singPsalms and spiritual songs to while away the time and make her workless irksome and please her little daughter?--In the congregationof Nehemiah there were two hundred forty-and-five singing men andsinging women.
My father read and expounded the Bible to us twice a day--morningand evening. Besides the Bible we had few books which we couldread. As for my mother, poor soul, she had no time to read. And asfor me, when I grew older I borrowed books from the Manor House orMr. Boscorel. And there were 'Old Mr. Dod's Sayings' and 'PlainDirections by Joseph Large' always on the shelf beside the Bible.
Now, while my father worked in his study and my brother Barnabyeither sat over his lesson-book, his hands rammed into his hair, asif determined to lose nothing, not the least scrap of his portion(yet knowing full well that on the morrow there would be not aword left in his poor unlucky noddle, and once more the whip), mymother would sit at her wheel earning the
daily bread. And, when Iwas little, she would tell me, speaking very softly, so as not todisturb the wrestling of her husband with a knotty argument, allthe things which you have heard--how my father chose rather povertythan to worship at the altar of Baal; and how two thousand piousministers, like-minded with himself, left their pulpits and wentout into the cold for conscience' sake. So that I was easily ledto think that there were no Christian martyrs and confessors moreexcellent and praiseworthy than these ejected ministers (which stillI believe). Then would she tell me further of how they fared, andhow the common people do still reverence them. There was the historyof John Norman, of Bridgwater; Joseph Chadwick, of Wrenford; FelixHowe, of West Torrington; George Minton, and many others. She alsoinstructed me very early in the history of the Protestant uprisingover the best half of Europe, and showed me how, against fearfulodds, and after burnings and tortures unspeakable, the good peopleof Germany, the Netherlands, and Great Britain won their freedomfrom the Pope, so that my heart glowed within me to think of thegreat goodness and mercy which caused me to be born in a Protestantcountry. And she instructed me, later, in the wickedness of KingCharles, whom they now call a martyr, and in the plots of thatKing, and Laud his Archbishop, and how King and Archbishop wereboth overthrown and perished when the people arose and would bearno more. In fine, my mother made me, from the beginning, a Puritan.As I remember my mother always, she was pale of cheek and thin, hervoice was gentle; yet with her very gentleness she would make theblood to run quick in the veins, and the heart to beat.
How have I seen the boys spring to their feet when she has talkedwith them of the great civil war and the Revolution! But always softand gentle; her blue eyes never flashing; no wrath in her heart;but the truth, which often causeth righteous anger, always upon hertongue.
One day, I remember, when I was a little girl playing in the garden,Mr. Boscorel walked down the village in his great silken gown, whichseemed always new, his lace ruffs, and his white bands, lookinglike a Bishop at least, and walking delicately, holding up his gownto keep it from the dust and mud. When he spoke it was in a softvoice and a mincing speech, not like our plain Somersetshire way.He stopped at our gate, and looked down the garden. It was a summerday, the doors and windows of the cottage were open; at our windowsat my father bending over his books, in his rusty gown and blackcap, thin and lank; at the door sat my mother at her wheel.
'Child,' said the Rector, 'take heed thou never forget in thine agethe thing which thou seest daily in thy childhood.'
I knew not what he meant.
'Read and mark,' he said; 'yea, little Alice, learn by heart whatthe Wise Man hath said of the good woman: "She layeth her handsto the spindle ... she maketh fine linen and selleth it ... sheeateth not the bread of idleness.... Let her works praise her in thegates."'