IN THE VILLAGE.
Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip himself of all
his worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing, he ceased not to put his
trust in the Lord, and continued to sit among his books, never
asking whence came the food provided for him. I think, indeed, so
wrapt was he in thought, that he knew not. As for procuring the
daily food, my mother it was who found out the way.
Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know what
a busy and populous county is that of Somerset. Apart from the
shipping and the great trade with Ireland, Spain, and the West
Indies carried on from the Port of Bristol, we have our great
manufactures of cloth, in which we are surpassed by no country in
the world. The town of Taunton alone can boast of eleven hundred
looms always at work making Sagathies and Des Roys; there are
many looms at Bristol, where they make for the most part Druggets
and Cantaloons; and there are great numbers at that rich and
populous town of Frome Selwood, where they manufacture the Spanish
Medleys. Besides the cloth-workers, we have, in addition, our
knitted-stocking trade, which is carried on mostly at Glastonbury
and Shepton Mallet. Not only does this flourishing trade make the
masters rich and prosperous (it is not uncommon to find a master
with his twenty--ay, and his forty--thousand pounds), but it fills
all the country with work, so that the towns are frequent, populous,
and full of everything that men can want; and the very villages are
not 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 not
doing the work of the house, sits at the wheel; the girls, when they
have nothing else to do, are made to knit stockings. Every week
the master-clothier sends round his men among the villages, their
packhorses laden with wool; every week they return, their packs
laden with yarn, ready for the loom.
There is no part of England where the people are more prosperous
and more contented. Nowhere are there more towns, and all thriving;
nowhere are the villages better built; nor can one find anywhere
else more beautiful churches. Because the people make good wages
they are independent in their manners; they have learned things
supposed to be above the station of the humble; most of them in the
towns, and many in the villages, are able to read. This enables them
to search the Scriptures, and examine into doctrine by the light
of their own reason, guided by grace. And to me, the daughter of a
Nonconforming preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many of
them should have become stiff and sturdy Nonconformists. This was
seen in the year 1685, and, again, three years later, when a greater
than Monmouth landed on the western shores.
My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would earn, by any
work of his own, the daily bread of the household, bravely followed
the example of the women in the village. That is to say, she set
up her spinning-wheel, and spent all the time that she could spare
spinning the wool into yarn; while she taught her little boy first
and afterwards her daughter--as soon as I was old enough to manage
the needles--to knit stockings. What trade, indeed, could her
husband follow save one--and that, by law, prohibited? He could not
dig; he could not make anything; he knew not how to buy or sell; he
could only study, write, and preach. Therefore, while he sat among
his books in one room, she sat over her wheel in the other, working
for the master-clothiers of Frome Selwood. It still makes my heart
to swell with pity and with love when I think upon my mother, thus
spending herself and being spent, working all day, huckstering with
the rough pack-horsemen more accustomed to exchange rude jests with
the rustics than to talk with gentlewomen. And this she continued
to do year after year, cheerful and contented, so that her husband
should never feel the pinch of poverty. Love makes us willing slaves.
My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was troubled about
food. He paid no heed at all to what he ate, provided that it was
sufficient for his needs; he would sup his broth of pork and turnips
and bread, after thanks rendered, as if it were the finest dish in
the world; and a piece of cold bacon with a hot cabbage would be a
feast for him. The cider which he drank was brewed by my mother from
her own apples; to him it was as good as if it had been Sherris or
Rhenish. I say that he did not even know how his food was provided
for him; his mind was at all times occupied with subjects so lofty
that he knew not what was done under his very eyes. The hand of God,
he said, doth still support His faithful. Doubtless we cannot look
back upon those years without owning that we were so supported. But
my mother was the Instrument; nay, my father sometimes even compared
himself with satisfaction unto the Prophet Elijah, whom the ravens
fed beside the brook Cherith, bringing him flesh and bread in the
morning and flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my father
thought that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner.
Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not been for
the charity of our friends. Many a fat capon, green goose, side
of bacon, and young grunter came to us from the Manor House, with
tobacco, which my father loved, and wine to comfort his soul; yea,
and clothes for us all, else had we gone barefoot and in rags. In
this way was many an ejected Elijah at that time nourished and
supported. Fresh meat we should never have tasted, any more than
the humblest around us, had it not been for our good friends at the
Manor House. Those who live in towns cannot understand how frugal
and yet sufficient may be the fare of those who live in the country
and have gardens and orchards. Cider was our drink, which we made
ourselves; we had some sweet apple-trees, which gave us a stock of
russets and pippins for winter use; we had bees (but we sold most of
our honey at Sherborne market); our garden grew sallets and onions,
beans and the like; skim milk we could have from the Manor House for
the fetching; for breakfast we had bread and milk, for dinner bread
and soft cheese, with a lettuce or an apple; and bread or bread and
butter for supper. For my father there was always kept a piece of
bacon or fat pork.
Our house was one of the cottages in the village: it is a stone
house (often I sit down to look at it, and to remember those days
of humility) with a thick thatch. It had two rooms below and two
garrets above. One room was made into a study or library for my
father, 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 Barnaby
began to find the use of his hands he procured some boards, which he
laid upon the stones, and so we had a wooden floor; and in winter
across the door we hung a blanket or rug to keep off the wind.
The walls were whitewashed, and over all my mother had written
texts of Scripture with charcoal, so that godly admonition was ever
present to our eyes and minds. She also embroidered short texts
upon 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 Word
of God. My father used himself, and would have us employ, the words
of the Bible even for the smaller occasions of daily use; nor would
he allow that anything was lawful unless it was sanctioned by the
Bible, holding that in the Word was everything necessary or lawful.
Did Barnaby go shooting with Sir Christopher and bring home a
rabbit?--Lo! David bade the children of Israel teach the use of the
bow. Did my mother instruct and amuse me with riddles?--She had the
warrant of Scripture for it in the example of Samson. Did she sing
Psalms and spiritual songs to while away the time and make her work
less irksome and please her little daughter?--In the congregation
of Nehemiah there were two hundred forty-and-five singing men and
singing women.
My father read and expounded the Bible to us twice a day--morning
and evening. Besides the Bible we had few books which we could
read. As for my mother, poor soul, she had no time to read. And as
for me, when I grew older I borrowed books from the Manor House or
Mr. Boscorel. And there were 'Old Mr. Dod's Sayings' and 'Plain
Directions by Joseph Large' always on the shelf beside the Bible.
Now, while my father worked in his study and my brother Barnaby
either sat over his lesson-book, his hands rammed into his hair, as
if determined to lose nothing, not the least scrap of his portion
(yet knowing full well that on the morrow there would be not a
word left in his poor unlucky noddle, and once more the whip), my
mother would sit at her wheel earning the daily bread. And, when I
was little, she would tell me, speaking very softly, so as not to
disturb the wrestling of her husband with a knotty argument, all
the things which you have heard--how my father chose rather poverty
than to worship at the altar of Baal; and how two thousand pious
ministers, like-minded with himself, left their pulpits and went
out into the cold for conscience' sake. So that I was easily led
to think that there were no Christian martyrs and confessors more
excellent and praiseworthy than these ejected ministers (which still
I believe). Then would she tell me further of how they fared, and
how the common people do still reverence them. There was the history
of John Norman, of Bridgwater; Joseph Chadwick, of Wrenford; Felix
Howe, of West Torrington; George Minton, and many others. She also
instructed me very early in the history of the Protestant uprising
over the best half of Europe, and showed me how, against fearful
odds, and after burnings and tortures unspeakable, the good people
of Germany, the Netherlands, and Great Britain won their freedom
from the Pope, so that my heart glowed within me to think of the
great goodness and mercy which caused me to be born in a Protestant
country. And she instructed me, later, in the wickedness of King
Charles, whom they now call a martyr, and in the plots of that
King, and Laud his Archbishop, and how King and Archbishop were
both overthrown and perished when the people arose and would bear
no 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, her
voice was gentle; yet with her very gentleness she would make the
blood to run quick in the veins, and the heart to beat.
How have I seen the boys spring to their feet when she has talked
with them of the great civil war and the Revolution! But always soft
and gentle; her blue eyes never flashing; no wrath in her heart;
but the truth, which often causeth righteous anger, always upon her
tongue.
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, which
seemed always new, his lace ruffs, and his white bands, looking
like a Bishop at least, and walking delicately, holding up his gown
to keep it from the dust and mud. When he spoke it was in a soft
voice and a mincing speech, not like our plain Somersetshire way.
He stopped at our gate, and looked down the garden. It was a summer
day, the doors and windows of the cottage were open; at our window
sat my father bending over his books, in his rusty gown and black
cap, thin and lank; at the door sat my mother at her wheel.
'Child,' said the Rector, 'take heed thou never forget in thine age
the 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 what
the Wise Man hath said of the good woman: "She layeth her hands
to the spindle ... she maketh fine linen and selleth it ... she
eateth not the bread of idleness.... Let her works praise her in the
gates."'