"He would be on the mountain's top, without the toil and travail of the
climbing."--Tupper.
SELWICK HALL, LAKE DERWENTWATER, OCTOBER YE FIRST, MDLXXIX.
It came about, as I have oft noted things to do, after a metely deal of
talk, yet right suddenly in the end.
Aunt _Joyce_, _Milly_, _Edith_, and I, were in the long gallery. We had
been talking a while touching olden times (whereof Aunt _Joyce_ is a
rare hand at telling of stories), and _Mother's_ chronicle she was wont
to keep, and hath shown us, and such like matter. When all at once
quoth _Edith_--
"Why should not _we_ keep a chronicle?"
"Ay, why not?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, busied with her sewing.
_Milly_ fell a-laughing.
"Dear heart, _Edith_, and what should we put in a chronicle?" saith she.
"`_Monday_, the cat washed her face. _Tuesday_, it rained.
_Wednesday_, _Nell_ made a tansy pudding. _Thursday_, I lost my temper.
_Friday_, I found it again. _Saturday_, _Edith_ looked in the mirror,
and Aunt _Joyce_ made an end of a piece of sewing.' Good lack, it shall
be a rare jolly book!"
"Nay, I would never set down such stuff as that," answered _Edith_.
"Why, what else is there?" saith _Milly_. "We have dwelt hither ever
since we were born, saving when we go to visit Aunt _Joyce_, and one day
is the very cut of an other. Saving when Master _Stuyvesant_ came
hither, nought never happened in this house since I was born."
"Would'st love better a life wherein matters should happen, _Milly_?"
saith Aunt _Joyce_, looking up at her, with a manner of face that I
knew. It was a little mirthful, yet sorrowful withal.
"Ay, I would so!" quoth she.
"Child," Aunt _Joyce_ makes answer, "`happy is the man that hath no
history.'"
"But things do happen, _Milly_," saith _Edith_. "Thou hast forgot
_Anstace_ her wedding."
"_That_ something happening!" pouts _Milly_. "Stupid humdrum business!
Do but think, to wed a man that dwelleth the next door, which thou hast
known all thy life! Why, I would as lief not be wed at all, very nigh."
"It seemed to suit _Anstace_," puts in _Edith_.
"Aught should do that."
"Ay," saith Aunt _Joyce_, something drily, "`godliness is great riches,
if a man be content with that he hath.'" [Note 1.]
"Easy enough, trow, when you have plenty," quoth _Milly_.
"Nay, it is hardest then," saith she. "`Much would have more.'"
"What wist Aunt _Joyce_ thereabout?" murmurs _Milly_, so that I could
just hear. "She never lacked nought she wanted."
"Getting oldish, _Milly_, but not going deaf, thank God," saith Aunt
_Joyce_, of her dry fashion. "Nay, child, thou art out there. Time was
when I desired one thing, far beyond all other things in this world, and
did not get it."
"Never, _Aunt_?"
"Never, _Milly_." And a somewhat pained look came into her face, that
is wont to seem so calm.
"What was it, Aunt _Joyce_, sweet heart?"
"Well, I took it for fine gold, and it turned out to be pinchbeck,"
saith she. "There's a deal of that sort of stuff in this world."
Methought _Milly_ feared to ask further, and all was still till _Edith_
saith--
"Would you avise us, Aunt _Joyce_, to keep a chronicle, even though
things did not happen?"
"Things will happen, trust me," she made answer. "Ay, dear maids,
methinks it should be profitable for you."
"Now, Aunt _Joyce_, I would you had not said that!"
"Why, _Milly_?"
"By reason that things which be profitable be alway dry and gloomsome."
"Not alway, _Lettice Eden's_ daughter."
I could not help but smile when Aunt _Joyce_ said this. For indeed,
_Mother_ hath oft told us how, when she was a young maid like _Milly_,
she did sorely hate all gloom and sorrowfulness, nor could not abide for
to think thereon. And _Milly_ is much of that turn.
"Then which of us shall keep the grand chronicle?" saith _Edith_, when
we had made an end of laughing.
"Why not all of you?" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "Let each keep it a month
a-piece, turn about."
"And you, Aunt _Joyce_?"
"Nay, I will keep no chronicles. I would not mind an' I writ my
thoughts down of the last page, when it was finished."
"But who shall read it?" said I.
"There spake _Nell_!" quoth _Milly_. "`Who shall read it?' Why, all
the world, for sure, from the Queen's Majesty down to Cat and Kitling."
These be our two serving-maids, _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, which _Milly_ doth
affect dearly to call Cat and Kitling. And truly the names come pat,
the rather that _Kate_ is tall and big, and fair of complexion, she
being _Westmoreland_ born; while _Caitlin_, which is _Cumberland_ born,
is little and wiry, and of dark complexion. "The Queen's Majesty shall
have other fish to fry, I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And so shall
_Kate_ and _Caitlin_,--if they could read."
"But who is to make a beginning of this mighty chronicle?" saith
_Edith_. "Some other than I, as I do trust, for I would never know what
to set down first."
"Let _Nell_ begin, then, as she is eldest of the three," quoth Aunt
_Joyce_.
So here am I, making this same beginning of the family chronicle. For
when _Father_ and _Mother_ heard thereof, both laughed at the first, and
afterward grew sad. Then saith _Mother_--
"Methinks, dear hearts, it shall be well for you,--at the least, an' ye
keep it truly. Let each set down what verily she doth think."
"And not what she reckons she ought to think," saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Then, _Father_, will it please you give us some pens and paper?" said
I. "For I see not how, elsewise, we shall write a chronicle."
"That speech is right, _Nell_!" puts in _Milly_.
"Why, if we dwelt on the banks of the _Nile_, in _Egypt_," saith
_Father_, "reeds and bulrushes should serve your turn: or, were ye old
_Romans_, a waxen tablet and iron stylus. But for _English_ maidens
dwelling by Lake _Derwentwater_, I count paper and pens shall be
wanted--and ink too, belike. Thou shalt have thy need supplied,
_Nell_!"
And as this morning, when he came into the parlour where we sat
a-sewing, what should _Father_ set down afore me, in the stead of the
sheets of rough paper I looked to see, but this beautiful book, all full
of fair blank paper ready to be writ in,--and an whole bundle of pens,
with a great inkhorn. _Milly_ fell a-laughing.
"Oh dear, dear!" saith she. "Be we three to write up all those?
Verily, _Father_, under your good pleasure, but methinks you should pen
a good half of this chronicle yourself."
"Nay, not so much as one line," saith he, "saving those few I have writ
already on the first leaf. Let _Nell_ read them aloud."
So I read them, as I set them down here, for without I do copy them,
cannot I put in what was said.
"_Fees and Charges of the Chronicle of Selwick Hall_.--_Imprimis, to be
writ, turn about, by a month at each, by Helen, Milisent, and Editha
Louvaine_."
_Milly_ was stuffing her kerchief into her mouth to let her from
laughing right out.
"_Item, the said Helen to begin the said book_.
"_Item, for every blot therein made, one penny to the poor_."
"Oh, good lack!" from _Milly_.
"I care not, so _Father_ give us the pennies," from _Edith_.
"I reckon that is what men call a dividing of labour," saith _Father_ in
his dry way. "I to pay the pennies, and _Edith_ to make the blots.
Nay, my maid: the two must come of one hand."
"Then both of yours, _Father_," saith _Milly_, saucily.
"_Item, for every unkind sentence touching an other, two pence to the
poor_."
"Lack-a-daisy!" cries _Milly_; "I shall be ruined!"
"Truth for once," quoth Aunt _Joyce_.
"I am sorry to hear it, my maid," saith _Father_.
"_Item, for every sentence disrespectful to any in lawful authority over
the writer thereof, sixpence to the poor_."
"_Father_," quoth _Milly_, "by how much mean you to increase mine income
while this book is a-writing?"
_Father_ smiled, but made no further answer.
"_Item, for a gap of so much as one week, without a line herein writ,
two pence to the poor_."
"That is it which shall work my ruin," saith _Edith_, a-laughing.
"Therein art thou convict of laziness," quoth _Father_.
"_Item, on the ending of the said book, each of them that hath writ the
same shall read over her own part therein from the beginning: and for so
many times as she hath gainsaid her own words therein writ, shall
forfeit each time one penny to the poor_."
"That will bring both _Edith_ and me to beggary," quoth _Milly_, "Only
_Nell_ shall come off scot-free. _Father_, have you writ nought that
will catch her?"
"_Item, the said book shall, when ended, but not aforetime, be open to
the reading of Aubrey Louvaine, Lettice Louvaine, Joyce Morrell, and
Anstace Banaster_."
"And none else? Alack the day!" saith _Milly_.
"I said not whom else," quoth _Father_. "Be that as it like you."
But I know well what should like me,--and that were, not so much as one
pair of eyes beyond. _Milly_, I dare reckon--but if I go on it shall
cost me two pence, so I will forbear.
"Well!" saith _Edith_, "one thing will I say, your leave granted,
_Father_: and that is, I am fain you shall not read my part till it be
done. I would lief be at my wisest on the last page."
"Dear heart! I look to be wise on no page," cries _Milly_.
"Nay," said I, "I would trust to be wise on all."
"There spake our _Nell_!" cries _Milly_. "I could swear it were she,
though mine eyes were shut close."
"This book doth somewhat divert me, _Joyce_," quoth _Father_, looking at
her. "Here be three writers, of whom one shall be wise on each page,
and one on none, and one on the last only. I reckon it shall be
pleasant reading."
"And I reckon," saith Aunt _Joyce_, "they shall be reasonable true to
themselves an' it be thus."
"And I," saith _Milly_, "that my pages shall be the pleasantest of any."
"_Ergo_," quoth _Father_, "wisdom is displeasant matter. So it is,
_Milly_,--to unwise folks."
"Then, _Father_, of a surety my chronicling shall ill please you," saith
she, a-laughing.
_Father_ arose, and laid his hand upon _Milly's_ head as he passed by
her.
"The wise can love the unwise, my maid," saith he. "How could the only
wise God love any one of us else?"
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE II.
_Milly_ saith, and _Edith_ likewise, that I must needs set down somewhat
touching all us,--who we be, and how many, and our names, and such like.
Truly, it seemeth me somewhat lost labour, if none but ourselves are to
read the same. But as _Milly_ will have it the Queen's Majesty and all
her Council shall be highly diverted thereby (though little, as
methinks, they should care to know of us), I reckon, to please these my
sisters, I must needs do their bidding.
We therefore, that dwell in _Selwick_ Hall, be Sir _Aubrey Louvaine_,
the owner thereof (that is _Father_), and Dame _Lettice_ his wife, and
us their daughters, _Helen, Milisent_, and _Editha_. Moreover, there is
Aunt _Joyce Morrell_, that dwelleth in _Oxfordshire_, at _Minster
Lovel_, but doth once every five year tarry six months with us, and we
with her the like: so that we see each the other once in every two or
three years. 'Tis but a week Aunt _Joyce_ hath been hither, so all the
six months be to run. And here I should note she is not truly our aunt,
but _Father's_ cousin, her mother being sister unto his mother: but
_Father_ had never no brother nor sister, and was bred up along, with
these his cousins, Aunt _Joyce_ and Aunt _Anstace_, after whom mine
eldest sister hath her name: but Aunt _Anstace_ hath been dead these
many years, afore any of us were born. I would I had known her; for to
hear them talk of her,--_Father_, and _Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_,--I
could well-nigh think her an angel in human flesh. Now, wherefore is
it, for I have oft-times marvelled, that we speak more tenderly and
reverently of folk that be dead, than of the living? Were I to die a
young maid, should _Milly_ (that loves to mock me now) tell her children
henceforward of their Aunt _Helen_, as though she had been somewhat
better than other women? May-be. If we could only use folks we love,
while they do live, with the like loving reverence as we shall do after
they be dead, if we overlive them! Wherefore do we not so? We do seem
for to forget then all that we loved not in them. Could we not essay to
do the same a little sooner?
And when _Milly_ cometh hither in her reading, as sure as her name is
_Milisent_, shall she say,--"Now, Mistress _Nell_, there you go,
a-riding your high horse of philosophy! Prithee, keep to common earth."
Beside those I have named, in the house dwelleth Mynheer _Floris
Stuyvesant_, a _Dutch_ gentleman that did flee from his country when the
persecution was in _Holland_, eleven years gone: and _Father_, which had
a little known him aforetime when he made the grand tour, did most
gladly welcome him hither, and made him (of his own desire) governor to
_Ned_ and _Wat_, our brothers. These our brothers dwell not now at
home, for _Wat_ is squire unto my very good Lord of _Oxenford_, that is
_Father's_ kinsman: and _Ned_ is at sea with Sir _Humphrey Gilbert_. We
therefore see them but rarely. Then, beyond, there is likewise in the
house Mistress _Elizabeth Wolvercot_, that is a cousin of _Mother_, whom
all we do alway call Cousin _Bess_; she dwelleth with us at all times.
Also be _Kate_ and _Caitlin_, of whom I have aforetime spoken: and old
_Matthias_, our serving-man; and the boy, _Adam_ o' Bill's o' old
Mall's.
And here I should note that once were two of us more, _Aubrey_ and
_Julian_: of whom _Aubrey_ died a babe, three years afore I was born,
and _Julian_ a little maid of eleven years, between _Milly's_ birth and
_Edith's_. I mind her well, for she was two years elder than I, so that
I was nine years old when she departed; but _Milly_, that was only
three, cannot remember her.
Our eldest of all, _Anstace_, is wife unto Master _Henry Banaster_, and
dwelleth (as _Milly_ saith) next door, he having the estate joining
_Father's_ own. She hath two children, _Aubrey_, that is of seven
years, and _Cicely_, that is four; beside her eldest, _Lettice_, which
did decease in the cradle.
I reckon I have told all now, without I name the cows, which be _Daisy_,
and _Molly_, and _Buttercup_, and _Rose_, and _Ladybird_, and _June_;
and the great house-dog, which is _Clover_; and the cat, which is a
_Spanish_ cat [a tortoise-shell cat, then a rarity], her name _Hermosa_
(the which _Ned_ gave her, saying a _Spanish_ cat should have a
_Spanish_ name, and _Hermosa_ signifieth beautiful in that tongue), but
_Caitlin_ will make it _Moses_, and methinks she is called _Moses_ more
than aught else. She hath two kits, that be parti-coloured like
herself, their names (given of _Milly) Dan_ and _Nan_.
And now I feel well-nigh sure I have said all.
Nay, and forgat the horses! _Milly_ will laugh at me, for she dearly
loveth an horse. We have six riding-horses, with two baggage-horses,
but only four of them have names,--to wit, _Father's_, that is
_Favelle_, because he is favel-colour [chestnut]; and _Mother's,
Garnet_; and mine, _Cowslip_; and the last, that _Milly_ or _Edith_ doth
commonly ride when we journey, is called _Starlight_.
And now I have verily told every thing.
(_At this point the handwriting of the chronicle changes_.)
'Tis not yet my turn to write, but needs must, or it shall cause me to
split in twain with laughter. Here is our _Nell_, reckoning three times
o'er that she hath told all, and finding somewhat fresh every time, and
with all her telling, hath set down never a note of what we be like, nor
so much as the colour of one of our eyes. So, having gat hold of her
chronicle, I shall do it for her. I dare reckon she was feared it
should cost her two pence each one. But nothing venture, nothing have;
and _Mother_ laid down that we should write our true thoughts. So what
I think shall I write; and how to make _Father's_ two pence rhyme with
_Mother's_ avisement, I leave to Mistress _Nell_ and her philosophy.
_Father_ is a gentleman of metely good height, and well-presenced, but
something heavy built: of a dark brown hair, a broad white brow, and
dark grey eyes that be rare sweet and lovesome. Of old time was he
squire of the body unto my right noble Lord of _Surrey_, that was
execute in old King _Henry's_ days. Moreover, he is of far kin (yet not
so far, neither) unto my most worthy Lord of _Oxenford_. Now, sithence
I am to write my thoughts, I must say that I would _Father_ had a better
nose. I cannot speak very truth and set down that I did ever admire
_Father's_ nose. But he hath good white teeth, and a right pleasant
smile, the which go far to make amends for his nose.
_Mother_ was right fair when she was a young maid, and is none so ill
now. She is graceful of carriage, very fair of complexion, and hath the
sweetest, shining golden hair was ever seen. Her eyes be pale grey
[blue], right like the sky.
Of us three maids, _Edith_ is best-favoured, and all that see her do say
she is right the very picture of _Mother_, when she was young. Next her
am I; for though I say it, I am a deal fairer than either _Anstace_ or
_Nell_, both which favour [resemble] _Father_, though _Nell_ is the
liker, by reason she hath his mind as well as his face. Now, _Nell_ is
all ways slower than _Edith_ and me, and nothing like so well-favoured.
But for beauty, the least I did ever see in any man is in Mynheer
_Stuyvesant_, which hath a flat nose and a stoop in the shoulders, and
is high and thin as a scarecrow. Cousin _Bess_ is metely well,--she is
rosy and throddy [plump]. For Aunt _Joyce_, I do stand in some fear of
her sharp speeches, and will say nought of her, saving that (which she
can not deny) she hath rosy cheeks and dark brown hair (yet not so dark
as _Father's_), and was, I guess, a comely young maid when she were none
elder than we. As for _Ned_ and _Wat, Ned_ is the better-favoured, he
having _Mother's_ nose and the rest of him _Father_; but _Wat_ (which
favoureth _Mother_ of his colouring, yet is not so comely) a deal the
courtlier.
Now when they shall all come to read this same, trow, shall they know
their own portraits? or shall they every one cry out, "This is not me!"
So now I leave the rest to Mistress _Helen_, till it shall come to me
next month, when I will say what I think yet again.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE V.
(_In Helen's handwriting_.)
Dear heart, but what hath _Milly_ been a-doing! I could not think last
night where was my book, but I was rare sleepy, and let it a-be. And
here this morrow do I find a good two pages all scribbled o'er of
_Milly's_ writing. Well! 'tis not my fault, so I trust shall not be my
blame.
And it is true, as _Milly_ saith, that she is better-favoured than I.
As for _Anstace_, I wis not, only I know and am well assured, that I am
least comely of the four. But she should never have writ what she did
touching _Father's_ nose, and if it cost me two pence, that must I say.
I do love every bit of _Father_, right down to the tip of his nose, and
I never thought if it were well-favoured or no. 'Tis _Father_, and that
is all for me. And so should it be for _Milly_,--though it be two pence
more to say so.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE VI.
We had been sat at our sewing a good hour this morrow,--that is,
_Mother_, and Aunt _Joyce_, and we three maids,--when all at once
_Milly_ casts hers down with a sigh fetched from ever so far.
"Weary of sewing, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_ with a smile.
"Ay--no--not right that, _Mother_," quoth she. "But here have I been
this hour gone, a-wishing I had been a man, till it seemed me as if I
could not abide for to be a woman no longer."
"The general end of impossible wishes," saith _Mother_, laughing a
little.
"Well!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_, a-biting off her thread, "in all my wishing
never yet wished I that."
"Wherefore is it, _Milly_?" saith _Mother_.
"Oh, a man has more of his own way than a woman," _Milly_ makes answer.
"And he can make some noise in the world. He is not tied down to stupid
humdrum matters, such like as sewing, and cooking, and distilling, and
picking of flowers, with a song or twain by now and then to cheer you.
A man can preach and fight and write books and make folk listen."
"I misdoubt if thou art right, _Milly_, to say that a man hath the more
of his own way always," saith _Mother_. "Methinks there be many women
get much of that."
"Then a man is not tied down to one corner. He can go and see the
world," saith _Milly_.
"In short," quoth Aunt _Joyce_, "the moral of thy words, Milly,
is--`Untie me.'"
"I wish I were so!" mutters _Milly_.
"And what should happen next?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.
"Why, I reckon I could not do much without money," answereth _Milly_.
"Oh, grant all that," quoth Aunt _Joyce_,--"money, and leave, and all
needed, and Mistress _Milisent_ setting forth to do according to her
will. What then?"
"Well, I would first go up to _London_," saith she, "and cut some figure
in the Court."
Aunt _Joyce_ gave a dry little laugh.
"There be figures of more shapes than one, _Milly_," saith she.
"Howbeit--what next?"
"Why, then, methinks, I would go to the wars."
"And bring back as many heads, arms, and legs, as thou tookest thither?"
"Oh, for sure," saith _Milly_. "I would not be killed."
"Just. Very well,--Mistress _Milisent_ back from the wars, and covered
with glory. And then?"
"Well--methinks I would love to be a judge for a bit."
"Dry work," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "And then a bishop?"
"Ay, if you will."
"And then?"
"Why, I might as well be a king, while I went about it."
"Quite as well. I am astonished thou hast come thither no sooner. And
then?"
"Well,--I know not what then. You drive one on, Aunt _Joyce_.
Methinks, then, I would come home and see you all, and recount mine
aventures."
"Oh, mightily obliged to your Highness!" quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "I had
thought, when your Majesty were thus up at top of the tree, you should
forget utterly so mean a place as _Selwick_ Hall, and the contemptible
things that inhabit there. And then?"
"Come, I will make an end," saith _Milly_, laughing. "I reckon I should
be a bit wearied by then, and fain to bide at home and take mine ease."
"And pray, what hindereth that your Grace should do that now?" saith
Aunt _Joyce_, looking up with a comical face.
"Well, but I am not aweary, and have no aventures to tell," _Milly_
makes answer.
"Go into the garden and jump five hundred times, _Milly_, and I will
warrant thee to be aweary and thankful for rest. And as to aventures,--
eh, my maid, my maid!" And Aunt _Joyce_ and _Mother_ smiled one upon
the other.
"Now, _Mother_ and _Aunt_, may I say what I think?" cries Milly.
"Prithee, so do, my maid."
"Then, why do you folks that be no longer young, ever damp and chill
young folks that would fain see the world and have some jollity?"
"By reason, _Milly_, that we have been through the world, and we know it
to be a damp place and a cold."
"But all folks do not find it so?"
"God have mercy on them that do not!"
"Now, _Aunt_, what mean you?"
"Dear heart, the brighter the colour of the poisoned sweetmeat, the more
like is the babe to put in his mouth."
"Your parable is above me, Aunt _Joyce_."
"_Milly_, a maiden must give her heart to something. The Lord's word
unto us all is, Give Me thine heart. But most of us will try every
thing else first. And every thing else doth chill and disappoint us.
Yet thou never sawest man nor Woman that had given the heart to God,
which could ever say with truth that disappointment had come of it."
"I reckon they should be unready to confess the same," saith she.
"They be ready enough to confess it of other things," quoth Aunt
_Joyce_. "But few folks will learn by the blunders of any but their own
selves. I would thou didst."
"By whose blunders would you have me learn, _Aunt_?" saith _Milly_ in
her saucy fashion that is yet so bright and coaxing that she rarely gets
flitten [scolded] for the same.
"By those of whomsoever thou seest to blunder," quoth she.
"That must needs be thee, _Edith_," saith _Milly_ in a demure voice.
"For it standeth with reason, as thou very well wist, that I shall never
see mine elders to make no blunders of no sort whatever."
"Thou art a saucy baggage, _Milly_," quoth Aunt _Joyce_. "That shall
cost thee six pence an' it go down in the chronicle."
"Oh, 'tis not yet my turn for to write, _Aunt_. And I am well assured
_Nell_ shall pay no sixpences."
"Fewer than thou, I dare guess," saith Aunt _Joyce_. "Who has been to
visit old _Jack Benn_ this week?"
"Not I, _Aunt_," quoth _Edith_, somewhat wearily, as if she feared Aunt
_Joyce_ should bid her go.
"Oh, I'll go and see him!" cries _Milly_. "There is nought one half so
diverting in all the vale as old _Jack_. _Aunt_, be all _Brownists_ as
queer as he?"
"Nay, I reckon _Jack_ hath some queer notions of his own, apart from his
_Brownery_," quoth she. "But, _Milly_,--be diverted as much as thou
wilt, but let not the old man see that thou art a-laughing at him."
"All right, _Aunt_!" saith _Milly_, cheerily. "Come, _Nell_. _Edith_
shall bide at home, that can I see."
So _Milly_ and I set forth to visit old _Jack_, and _Mother_ gave us a
bottle of cordial water, and a little basket of fresh eggs, for to take
withal.
He dwells all alone, doth old _Jack_, in a mud cot part-way up the
mountain, that he did build himself, ere the aches in his bones 'gan
trouble him, that he might scantly work. He is one of those queer folk
that call themselves _Brownists_, and would fain have some better
religion than they may find at church. _Jack_ is nigh alway reading of
his Bible, but never no man could so much as guess the strange meanings
he brings forth of the words. I reckon, as Aunt _Joyce_ saith, there is
more _Jack_ than _Brownist_ in them.
We found _Jack_ sitting in the porch, his great Bible on his knees. He
looked up when he heard our voices.
"Get out!" saith he. "I never want no women folk."
'Tis not oft we have fairer greeting of _Jack_.
"Nay, truly, _Jack_," saith _Milly_ right demurely. "They be a rare bad
handful,--nigh as ill as men folk. What thou lackest is eggs and
cordial water, the which women can carry as well as jackasses."
She held forth her basket as she spake.
"Humph!" grunts old _Jack_. "I'd liever have the jackasses."
"I am assured thou wouldst," quoth _Milly_. "Each loveth best his own
kind."
Old _Jack_ was fingering of the eggs.
"They be all hens' eggs!"
"So they be," saith _Milly_. "I dare guess, thou shouldst have loved
goose eggs better."
"Ducks'," answereth old _Jack_.
"The ducks be gone a-swimming," saith she.
I now drew forth my bottle of cordial water, the which the old man took
off me with never a thank you, and after smelling thereto, set of the
ground at his side.
"What art reading, _Jack_?" saith _Milly_.
"What _Paul's_ got to say again' th' law," quoth he. "'Tis a rare ill
thing th' law, Mistress _Milisent_. And so be magistrates, and
catchpolls [constables] and all the lawyer folk. Rascals, Mistress
_Milisent_,--all rascals, every man Jack of 'em. Do but read _Paul_,
and you shall see so much."
"Saith the Apostle so?" quoth _Milly_, and gave me a look which nigh
o'erset me.
"He saith `the law is not given unto a righteous man,' so how can they
be aught but ill folk that be alway a-poking in it? Tell me that,
Mistress. If `birds of a feather will flock together,' then a chap
that's shaking hands every day wi' th' law mun be an ill un, and no
mistake."
"Go to, _Jack_: it signifies not that," _Milly_ makes answer. "Saint
_Paul_ meant that the law of God was given for the sake of ill men, not
good men. The laws of _England_ be other matter."
"Get out wi' ye!" saith _Jack_. "Do ye think I wis not what _Paul_
means as well as a woman? It says th' law, and it means th' law. And
if he'd signified as you say, he'd have said as th' law wasn't given
again' a righteous man, not to him. You gi'e o'er comin' a-rumpagin'
like yon."
For me, I scarce knew which way to look, to let me from laughing. But
_Milly_ goes on, sad as any judge.
"Well, but if lawyers be thus bad, _Jack_--though my sister's husband is
a lawyer, mind thou--"
"He's a rascal, then!" breaks in _Jack_. "They're all rascals, every
wastrel [an unprincipled, good-for-nothing fellow] of 'em."
"But what fashion of folk be better?" saith _Milly_. "Thou seest,
_Jack_, we maids be nigh old enough for wedding, and I would fain know
the manner of man a woman were best to wed."
"Best let 'em all a-be," growls _Jack_. "Women's always snarin' o' men.
Women's bad uns. Howbeit, you lasses down at th' Hall are th' better
end, I reckon."
"Oh, thank you, _Jack_!" cries _Milly_ with much warmth. "Now do tell
me--shall I wed with a chirurgeon?"
"And take p'ison when he's had enough of you," quoth _Jack_. "Nay,
never go in for one o' them chaps. They kills folks all th' day, and
lies a-thinkin' how to do it all th' night."
"A soldier, then?" saith _Milly_.
"Hired murderers," saith _Jack_.
"Come, _Jack_, thou art hard on a poor maid. Thou wilt leave me ne'er a
one. Oh, ay, there is the parson."
"What!" shrieks forth _Jack_. "One o' they _Babylonian_ mass-mongers?
Hypocrites, wolves in sheep's clothing a-pretending for to be shepherds!
Old _'Zekiel_, he's summut to say touching them. You get home, and
just read his thirty-fourth chapter; and wed one o' them wastrels at
after, if ye can! Now then, get ye forth; I've had enough o' women. I
telled ye so."
"Fare thee well, _Jack_," quoth _Milly_ in mocking tribulation. "I see
how it is,--I shall be forced to wed a lead-miner."
I was verily thankful that _Milly_ did come away, for I could bear no
longer. We ran fast down the steep track, and once at the bottom, we
laughed till the tears ran down. When we were something composed, said
I--
"Shall we look in on old _Isaac Crewdson_?"
"Gramercy, not this morrow," quoth _Milly_. "_Jack's_ enough for one
day. Old _Isaac_ alway gives me the horrors. I cannot do with him atop
of _Jack_."
So we came home. But if _Milly_ love it not, then will I go by myself
to see old _Isaac_, for he liketh me well.
SELWICK HALL, OCTOBER YE IX.
Aunt _Joyce_ went with me yesterday to see _Isaac_. We found him of the
chimney-corner, whence he seldom stirreth, being now infirm. Old _Mary_
had but then made an end of her washing, and she was a-folding the clean
raiment to put by. I ran into the garden and gathered sprigs of
rosemary, whereof they have a fine thriving bush.
"Do tell me, _Mall_," said I, "how thou orderest matters, for to have
thy rosemary thrive thus? Our bush is right stunted to compare withal."
"I never did nought to it," quoth old _Mall_, somewhat crustily. She is
_Jack Benn's_ sister, and truly they be something like.
"Eh, Mistress _Nell_, dunna ye know?" saith _Isaac_, laughing feebly.
"Th' rosemary always thrives well where th' missis is th' master. Did
ye never hear yon saying?"
"Shut up wi' thy foolish saws!" saith _Mall_, a-turning round on him.
"He's a power of proverbs and saws, Mistress _Nell_, and he's for ever
and the day after a-thrustin' of 'em in. There's no wit i' such work."
"Eh, but there's a deal o' wit in some o' they old saws!" _Isaac_ makes
answer, of his slow fashion. "Look ye now,--`_Brag's_ a good dog, but
_Holdfast's_ better'--there's a true sayin' for ye. Then again look
ye,--`He that will have a hare to breakfast must hunt o'er night.' And
`A grunting horse and a groaning wife never fails their master.' Eh,
but that's true!" And old _Isaac_ laughed, of his feeble fashion, yet
again.
"There be some men like to make groaning wives," quoth _Mall_, crustily.
"They sit i' th' chimney-corner at their ease, and put ne'er a hand to
the work."
"That is not thy case, _Mall_," saith Aunt _Joyce_, cheerily. "So long
as he were able, I am well assured _Isaac_ took his share of the work.
And now ye be both infirm and stiff of the joints, what say ye to a good
sharp lass that should save your old bones? I know one that should come
but for her meat,--a good stirring maid that should not let the grass
grow under her feet. What sayest, _Mall_?"
"What, me?" saith _Mall_. "Eh, you'd best ask th' master. I am none
th' master here, howso the rosemary may thrive. I would say she should
ne'er earn the salt to her porridge; but I'm of no signification in this
house, as I well wis. You'd best ask o' them as is."
"Why, then, we mun gi'e th' porridge in," quoth _Isaac_. "Come, _Mall_,
thou know'st better, lass."
But old _Mary_, muttering somewhat we might not well hear, went forth to
fetch in a fresh armful of linen from the hedge.
"What hath put her out, _Isaac_?" asks Aunt _Joyce_.
"Eh, Mistress _Joyce_, there's no telling!" saith he. "'Tis not so much
as puts her in. She's easy put out, is _Mall_: and 'tis no good on
earth essaying to pull her in again. You'd best let her be. She'll
come in of hersen, when she's weary of threapin'." [Grumbling,
fault-finding.]
"I reckon thou art weary first, most times," saith _Aunt_.
"Well! I've ay kept a good heart up," quo' he. "`The still sow eateth
all the draff,' ye ken. I've bore wi' _Mall_ for fifty year, and it
comes easier than it might to an other man. And the Lord has bore wi'
me for seventy odd. If He can bear wi' me a bit longer, I reckon I can
wi' _Mall_."
Aunt _Joyce_ smiled on old _Isaac_ as she rose up.
"Ay, Goodman, that is the best way for to take it," saith she. "And
now, _Nell_, we must hurry home, for I see a mighty black cloud o'er
yonder."
So we home, bidding God be wi' ye to old _Mall_, in passing, and had but
a grunt in answer: but we won home afore the rain, and found _Father_
and _Mynheer_ a-talking in the great chamber, and _Mother_ above, laying
of sweet herbs in the linen with _Edith_.
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Note 1. Passages from the New Testament are quoted from Cranmer's or
the Geneva version, both then in common use.