II
Of My Family, Friends, Neighbours, and Enemies
It would appear most fitting to the proper usages that, before going further, I should tell you something about our family and the mode of life we kept in my younger days, and also some particulars of our neighbours and friends, and likewise of our enemies, of whom you will hear no little before this history closes. And to begin with my own family first—we Dales are of an ancient race, and have lived at Dale’s Field certainly since the time of the Conquest, and, I doubt not, even before that. That we are proud of our ancient birth and of the fact that age after age we have tilled our own land, goes without saying. It is, I think, an innocent pride, and not of the nature of that vainglory which we are commanded as good Christians to eschew.
There were four of us in family at Dale’s Field: my father, John Dale; my mother, Susannah Dale; my sister Lucy, and myself. To speak of my father first. He was a great man, a man of tall stature and broad shoulders, and his face was of the colour of a rising sun, red and healthy, and tanned with exposure to wind and rain and summer heat. A right hearty man he was, and was never known to refuse his meals. A healthy appetite, indeed, he always had, as most men have who, like him, are out of their beds and about their business ere ever Sol hath risen from the eastern horizon. Up and about was he at five in summer and six in winter, and would roundly rate any man that came to stall or stable a minute later than those hours. For he himself was abed by nine o’ the clock, and could not understand why a man wanted more than eight hours’ sleep. Once up, he would bustle about from stable to mistal, from barn to rickyard, urging on his men with cheery voice or honest scolding—for he was a scrupulously fair master, and praised or blamed as need arose—and seeing the day’s labour fairly commenced, until half-past seven, when breakfast was served in our great kitchen, and master and men sat down together. A custom, indeed, it hath always been in our family, and one which I have religiously preserved, for all under the roof to eat together, according to their various station of life. Thus my father and mother sat at a cross-table with Lucy and myself, and the men were placed in order at long tables set out on either side of the great kitchen. Nor did the meat served at our table differ from that served at our servants’, for it was my father’s opinion that master and man, who shared the toils of the land, should also share the produce thereof, wherefore no man of ours was ever stinted of beef or beer or bread.
My father’s mode of life was as simple and regular as well could be. After breakfast—whereat he always drank no more than a quart of small ale, holding that no one should drink much liquor before noon—he went forth to ride round his fields, mounted on a little white mare named Dumpling, which was an animal of exceeding strength though low stature. How many miles he had ridden upon Dumpling, I know not; yet Jack Drumbleforth, our parson’s son, did once compute it at some thousands. Nor was Jack far out in his reckoning, for my father and Dumpling were used to turn out of the yard as the kitchen clock struck nine, and did not appear again until noon, the intervening hours being passed in riding up one field and down another, or in cantering along the road to Darrington to give an order to blacksmith or carpenter. After dinner in the great kitchen, my father would smoke a pipe in my mother’s parlour, and drink a glass of strong waters, and maybe fall asleep for the space of half an hour, after which he would arise and shake himself, and go forth and mount Dumpling once more and ride out amongst his men. And at suppertime he would talk to my mother of the day’s doings and the weather, and would then smoke more tobacco—which habit was then becoming popular—and drink ale out of his own silver flagon, and at nine o’clock would lock up his house and go to bed, where he slept, as he himself hath often said, without dream or even turning over, until the cocks began to crow in the yard outside.
Upon Saturdays it was my father’s custom, having eaten a larger breakfast than usual, to attire himself in his second-best suit of clothes, and make ready to ride into Pontefract market. There were times when my mother went with him, and then the light cart was brought out of the shed, and Dobbin, the brown horse, harnessed in the shafts, for Dumpling would never abide other gear than a saddle. When my father went alone, however, Dumpling was extra well groomed, and wore the new bridle and stirrups, and the two departed about ten o’clock, my father carrying little bags of wheat or barley samples in his pockets, to show to them that dealt in such matters. Other produce which went to market, or stock like cattle or sheep, was taken thither by Jacob Trusty or Timothy Grass earlier in the morning. All day long would my father remain at market, dining at the farmers’ ordinary, and when business was done remaining an hour longer to drink with his friends and acquaintance. Nevertheless, he always strove to arrive at his home ere night fell, for the road was here and there of a lonely nature, and there were dangerous characters abroad.
Once, indeed, coming home from Pontefract market, my father did light upon an adventure which had been like to put an end to him forever. It chanced that Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, had that day driven four-and-twenty young beasts to market, and there my father speedily sold them to Richard Myles, the butcher, who paid him for the same openly in the street. And as they were counting the money my father took notice of two evil-looking men, habited like north-country cattle-drovers, who hung about in the crowd and cast longing glances at Dick Myles’s bag of money. Howbeit, he lost sight of them and thought no more upon the matter. But riding homewards, between the crossroads at Darrington and Dale’s Field, and being come to the great plantation which occurs ’twixt the milestones, two men mounted did suddenly ride out of the trees, and commanded him to halt and deliver. Whereupon, Dumpling, responding, shot out like an arrow and flew homewards, and my father, bending low over her shoulders, heard two bullets whistle above his head. And the men following hard, it became a question whether or not they would come up to him before Dale’s Field was reached. More than one shot did they fire, but Dumpling galloped fast, and outstripped the taller brutes ridden by the highwaymen. But when the yard gate was reached the pursuers were almost upon them, and if it had not been that my mother heard the unwonted clatter of Dumpling’s feet, my father had been slain at his own door. Howbeit, she, hearing the commotion, opened the house-door, and my father leaping off, entered, bringing Dumpling with him, and barred the door behind them. And while Dumpling and my mother, the one trembling and all of a lather, and the other frightened and fearful, stood in the great kitchen, my father took down his fowling-piece and ran upstairs, and there from a little window did let fly at the men to such purpose that one of them screamed and reeled, and both rode off as hard as their brutes could carry them. And the next morning there was blood on the paving of the yard, so that we judged that the villains had received more than they ever wished to have.
As for my mother, Susannah Dale, she was the daughter of Master Richard Challoner, the corn-miller of Ackworth, who left her a tidy portion at his death. She was a tall, fine woman, well suited to marry such a man as my father, of whom, indeed, she cherished a great affection, as he did of her, both thinking there was no such husband or wife in all the land. A capital housewife she was, and had a manner of preserving plums which was famous for twenty miles around, so that it became usual to say of a fresh-looking old man or woman that he or she was as well conserved as Mistress Dale’s damsons. For the other matters which appertain to good housewifery she had a natural turn, and found great occasion of delight in curing hams and flitches, and rearing poultry of various sorts, in making up butter into curious devices, and in seeing that the apples, pears, plums, apricots, and gooseberries were properly attended to. There was never a weed in the kitchen garden, and she would never have slept at night if she had not previously seen with her own eyes that the hen-roost and pigeon-cote were secured from the foxes, who are always prowling round to see what they can pick up. Nor was there ever a weakly calf that she did not nurture with new milk, feeding it with spoon or quill until it seemed likely to do for itself. As for sewing, and mending, and making of new garments, she was indefatigable at it, and had always her knitting in her hand as she sat by the wood fire in her parlour, which was an exceeding pleasant apartment where all the conserves were kept, and the white table-linen and napery, of which she had much store, and the six silver forks given to her by her father at her marriage, with other matters, over which she loved to keep a vigilant watch. Also in that chamber there was a deep window-seat, filled with plants in scarlet-coloured pots, which she watered and tended every morning. And over against my mother’s chair, in which no one else ever sat, there was fixed an oaken shelf, made by our carpenter, which held certain books, her own property, out of which she read much. There was the Bishop’s Bible, and King James’s Bible, which they had just begun to sell, and there was Mr. Francis Quarles’ Pentalogia, or the Quintessence of Meditation, and Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicle, and Purchas, His Pilgrimage, and Pattenham’s Art of English Poesie, and the Compleat Farrier, out of which my mother was wont to read a cure for horse or cow temporarily afflicted, and there was Mr. William Shakespeare’s Plays, and Master Latimer’s Sermons on the Ploughers, and various others, all of which she read, being a great scholar in her way. But my father read little, save a chapter in the Bible every Sunday night; nevertheless, he was a great admirer of my mother’s learning, and did often say that there was no clerk in the archdiocese of York who knew more of book-craft than she did. And, indeed, she did often divert us in the long winter evenings by reading to us out of Mr. Shakespeare’s folio, which she accomplished in a manner so remarkable that we were moved to tears or laughter as the case might be, over the woes or humours of Hamlet and Ophelia, Romeo and Juliet, Sir John Falstaff and Mrs. Page. At these times my father would get so interested that he would conceive the matter to be real, and if there came a fight or an argument would shout forth his counsel to the side he favoured.
Although our situation at Dale’s Field was somewhat lonely and retired, we were not without company. For the village of Darrington, as I have already told you, lieth but a mile and three-quarters along the highway, and to Darrington Church we were accustomed to proceed every Sunday morning, wet or fine, hot or cold, throughout the year, my father holding that attendance upon Divine service was good preparation for the coming week. A pleasant walk indeed it was in summer, between the tall hedgerows and under the shadow of the ancient trees that line the roadside, and we were accustomed to look forward to it. Upon reaching the village we were used to meet with a stream of villagers going churchwards, with some of whom, our acquaintances, we fell in, discoursing of various matters until we came to the churchyard, where the people always fell into groups to wait the arrival of the vicar. A pretty sight it was the old, worn church in the background, the groups of boys round the ancient sundial over against the porch, the farmers in their best, chatting soberly about the harvest prospects, their wives discoursing domestic affairs, the young maidens, very gay as to their garments, smiling and whispering amongst themselves, and the young men eyeing the maidens. Then there were old men and old women, who came slowly up the paths and blessed everybody they spoke to, and somewhere about the porch hovered the parish constable, with his appurtenances of office, striking terror into the hearts of all who were naughtily disposed. And high above these groups sounded the music of the bells, of which there are three. These, we always thought, did use to say, “Come to church, come to church, come to church,” but Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, said that they inquired, “Who beats us, who beats us, who beats us?” However, they made fine jangling music, and could be heard right away at Dale’s Field, ere ever we set out down the road.
At five minutes to eleven two of the bells ceased ringing, and the third rang all alone until the hour. Then did latecomers, hearing the solitary bell, hurry their movements, and then did the Reverend Nathaniel Drumbleforth, our parson, come through the vicarage garden and approach the churchyard. A fine figure, too, he made of a Sunday morning, being habited in cassock, and gown, and bands, and wearing his best silver buckles and four-cornered cap, and the bow he would make to the assembled groups, as he passed between them, was as fine as anything you can see at court. To be sure, he was a college man, and had much learning, and had, it was even said, once written a learned work, so that it was only likely he should excel in courtliness. And when he had greeted us all and we him, he led the way into church and put his surplice on, and went into the reading-desk, and Thomas Cludde, the sexton, made ready to give due answer, and the bell ceased ringing above, and the service began with “Rend your hearts and not your garments.”
As for myself, in my younger days I was chiefly occupied during the time of Divine service in thinking about other matters. For there were matters which did more easily claim a lad’s attention than the reading and discoursing of Parson Drumbleforth, such as the performance of the village musicians, who sat in the chancel and played hymn tunes, and the flying about of the swallows and sparrows, who came in through the open windows and twittered in the beams overhead. Likewise, in summer and spring, there came to our ears from the meadows outside the humming of bees and countless insects, who were flitting from flower to flower, mingled with the lowing of cattle and occasional neighing of horses. These things necessarily distracted my attention—to wit, I used to wonder if there were eggs or fledglings in the swallow’s nest which I could see under the arch of the chancel, or if the sparrows were still building in the tower, or if that were Farmer Denby’s roan cow that mooed so loudly under the western window. To the musicians I gave great heed, for their performance was considered very fine. There was amongst them a violin, first and second, and a double bass, a couple of flutes, and a serpent, and when they were minded to exert themselves they made a brave show, and the hymns went trippingly.
When Parson Drumbleforth ascended the pulpit and gave forth his text, our churchwardens were used to take up their rods of office and leave the church for a visit to the two alehouses. This indeed is a time-honoured observance, and one that no churchwarden worthy the name will ever forego. For the churchwarden, bearing in mind that every able-bodied man should, in duty to God and the king, present himself at Divine office, must, when sermon begins, assume his rod and go forth to see that no idler tarrieth drinking and carousing in the taverns. It hath been said by persons of a suspicious nature that the wardens are not above taking a mug of small ale themselves when on these visits, but that is neither here nor there, for their vocation is one of much arduous duty, and small ale hurteth no man. However, when they have visited the inns and haled forth any that linger there, they return to the church, where the parson is just finishing his discourse, and do assist, if need be, in whatever matter is to be attended to.
Very often, upon a Sunday, one or other of our neighbours at Darrington would accompany us home to Dale’s Field, and share our dinner, remaining afterwards to smoke a pipe of tobacco with my father. And about once a week came Parson Drumbleforth to sup with us, and discourse upon the crops and news from London, which were great occasions, and served to relieve the monotony in which we had otherwise lived. Then, too, there were always farmers, or drovers, or cattle-dealers upon the road, and these would come in for half an hour and refresh themselves, so that we were not without news of the great world, which was also communicated to us by the passing coaches, post-chaises, and chariots continually hastening to or from London and York. Now and then my mother would take Lucy and myself, and pay a visit of ceremony to some farmer’s wife at Darrington or Wentbridge, upon which occasions we were used to play with the children of the house, and explore their orchards and gardens, and buildings, though we never saw any so good as our own at Dale’s Field.
As for enemies, we had none save the Watsons of Castle Hill, who were yeomen like ourselves, and had been on the land and in deadly feud with the Dales for many a century. Never did a Dale speak to a Watson unless provoked thereto by anger or wrong done, and then the word was as oft as not accompanied by a blow. And the cause of dispute was this—between our land and that of the Watsons lay a broad strip of moorland, over which each family claimed a right, to the exclusion of the other. When, as often happened for years, neither house strove to take possession of the debatable piece of ground, matters were quiet between them, but when one drove thereon a herd of cattle or flock of sheep, then arose a conflict and hot argument, and heads were broken. So it had continued to be for many a generation, and so it was when I came into the world, so that people made the matter a proverb, and spoke of far removed things as being as widely separated as a Dale and a Watson. But out of that ancient feud and the ill blood and evil passions it engendered much misery was to result, as I shall show ere this story be brought to an end.