The Revolution in Tanner’s Lane

but the deacons at Tanner’s Lane, being nearly all either farmers or connected with the land, were also Protectionist, and Mr. Broad had a hard time of it. For himself, he expressed no opinion; but once, at a deacons’ meeting, when it looked as if some controversy would arise, he begged Brother Allen to remember that, though we might be wise as serpents, we were also commanded to be harmless as doves. There was a small charity connected with the chapel, which was distributed, not in money, but in bread, and Brother Allen, not being able to contain himself, had let fall a word or two about the price of bread which would have raised a storm if Mr. Broad had not poured on the troubled waters that oil of which he was a perfect reservoir.

George did his best to instruct his wife in the merits of the controversy, and when he found anything in his newspaper read it aloud to her.

“You see, Priscilla,” he said one evening, “it stands to reason that if foreign corn pays a duty, the price of every quarter grown here is raised, and this increased price goes into the farmer’s or landlord’s pocket: Why should I, or why should my men, pay twopence more for every loaf to buy Miss Wootton a piano?”

“Really, George, do you mean to say that they are going to buy Miss Wootton a piano?”

“My dear, I said that when they buy a loaf of bread twopence out of it goes to buy Miss Wootton’s piano!” repeated George, laying an emphasis on every word. “I did not mean, of course, that they put their twopences in her pocket. The point is, that the duty enables Wootton to get more for his corn.”

“Well,” said Priscilla triumphantly, “I can tell you she is not going to have a piano. She’s going to have a little organ instead, because she can play tunes better on an organ, and it’s more suitable for her; so there’s an end of that.”

“It doesn’t matter whether it is an organ or piano,” said George, “the principle is the same.”

“Well, but you said a piano; I don’t think the principle is the same. If I were she I would sooner have the piano.”

A shade of perplexed trouble crossed George’s face, and some creases appeared in his forehead; but he smoothed them away and laid down his paper.

“Priscilla, put away your work for a moment and just listen.”

Priscilla was making something in the shape of netting by means of pins and a long loop which was fastened under her foot.

“I can listen, George; there is no occasion to put it away.”

“Well then,” he answered, placing both his elbows on the table, and resting his face upon them, “all corn which comes into this country pays a duty⁠—that you understand. Consequently it cannot be sold here for less than sixty shillings a quarter. Of course, if that is the case, English wheat is kept up to a higher price than it would fetch it there was no duty. Therefore bread is, as I calculate, about twopence a loaf dearer than it ought to be. And why should it be? That’s what I want to know.”

“I believe,” said Priscilla, “we might save a good bit by baking at home.”

“Yes, yes; but never mind that now. You know that foreign corn pays a duty. You do know that?”

“Yes,” said Priscilla, because there was nothing else to be said.

“Well, then, you must see that, if that be so, farmers can obtain a higher price for English corn.”

Poor Priscilla really did her best to comprehend. She stopped her knitting for a moment, put her knitting-pin to her lips, and answered very slowly and solemnly “Ye‑es.”

“Ah; but I know when you say ‘Ye‑es’ like that you do not understand.”

“I do understand,” she retorted, with a little asperity.

“Well then, repeat it, and let us see.”

“No, I shall not.”

“Dear Priscilla, I am not vexed: but I only wanted to make it quite plain to you. The duty on foreign corn is a tax in favour of the farmer, or perhaps the landlord, just as distinctly as if the tax-collector carried the coin from our till and gave it them.”

“Of course it is quite plain,” she responded, making a bold stroke for her life. “Of course it is quite plain we are taxed”⁠—George’s face grew bright, for he thought the truth had dawned upon her⁠—“because the farmers have to pay the duty on foreign corn.”

He took up his newspaper, held it open so as to cover his face, was silent for a few minutes, and then, pulling out his watch, declared it was time to go to bed. She gathered up her netting, looked at him doubtfully as she passed, and went upstairs.

The roof of George’s house had a kind of depression or well in the middle of it, whence ran a rainwater pipe, which passed down inside, and so, under the floor, to the soft-water cistern. A bad piece of construction, thought he, and he wished, if he could have done so, to improve it; but there was no way of altering it without pulling the whole place to pieces. One day, a very short time after the talk about Free Trade, a fearful storm of rain broke over Cowfold, and he was startled by Ellen, his servant, running into the shop and telling him that the staircase was flooded, and missis wanted him at once. He put on his coat and was off in a moment. When he got there Priscilla met him at the door crying, and in a great fright. The well up aloft was full of water, and it was pouring in torrents through the little window. It had gone through the floor of the bedroom and into the dining-room, pulling down with it about half the ceiling, which lay in a horrid mess upon the dining table and the carpet, George saw in an instant what was the matter. He ran up