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
