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
