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+ <title>The Project Gutenberg eBook
+Tales Of the Ridings by F. W. Moorman
+ </title>
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Tales of the Ridings
+
+Author: F. W. Moorman
+
+Commentator: C. Vaughan
+
+Release Date: April 14, 2006 [EBook #18173]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE RIDINGS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush
+
+</pre>
+
+<h1 style="text-align: center;">TALES OF THE RIDINGS</h1>
+
+<div style="text-align: center;">
+BY<br>
+
+F. W. MOORMAN 1872 - 1919<br>
+
+LATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE LEEDS UNIVERSITY<br>
+
+Editor of "Yorkshire Dialect Poems"<br>
+
+<br>
+
+WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR<br>
+
+By Professor C. VAUGHAN<br>
+
+<br>
+
+LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREET<br>
+
+1921<br>
+
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents:</h2>
+
+<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --><br>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#MEMOIR"><b>MEMOIR</b></a><br>
+
+<a href="#A_LAOCOON_OF_THE_ROCKS"><b>A LAOCOON OF
+THE ROCKS</b></a><br>
+
+<a href="#THROPS_WIFE"><b>THROP'S WIFE</b></a><br>
+
+<a href="#IT_MUN_BE_SO"><b>"IT MUN BE SO"</b></a><br>
+
+<a href="#THE_INNER_VOICE"><b>THE INNER VOICE</b></a><br>
+
+<a href="#BA"><b>B.A.</b></a><br>
+
+<a href="#CORN-FEVER"><b>CORN-FEVER</b></a><br>
+
+</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="MEMOIR" id="MEMOIR"></a>MEMOIR</h2>
+
+<p>Frederic Moorman came of a stock which, on both sides, had
+struck deep
+roots in the soil of Devon. His father's family, which is believed to
+have sprung ultimately from "either Cornwall or Scotland"—a
+sufficiently wide choice, it may be thought—had for many
+generations
+been settled in the county.(1) His mother's—her maiden name
+was Mary
+Honywill—had for centuries held land at Widdicombe and the
+neighbourhood, in the heart of Dartmoor. He was born on 8th September
+1872, at Ashburton, where his father, the Rev. A. C. Moorman, was
+Congregational minister; and for the first ten years of his life he was
+brought up on the skirts of the moor to which his mother's family
+belonged: drinking in from the very first that love of country sights
+and sounds which clove to him through life, and laying the foundation
+of
+that close knowledge of birds and flowers which was an endless source
+of
+delight to him in after years, and which made him so welcome a
+companion
+in a country walk with any friend who shared his love of such things
+but
+who, ten to one, could make no pretence whatever to his knowledge.</p>
+
+<p>In 1882, his father was appointed to the ministry of the
+Congregational
+Church at Stonehouse, in Gloucestershire; and Frederic began his formal
+schooling at the Wyclif Preparatory School in that place. The country
+round Stonehouse—a country of barish slopes and richly wooded
+valleys—is perhaps hardly so beautiful as that which he had
+left and
+whose memory he never ceased to cherish. But it has a charm all its
+own,
+and the child of Dartmoor had no great reason to lament his removal to
+the grey uplands and "golden valleys" of the Cotswolds.</p>
+
+<p>His next change must have seemed one greatly for the worse. In
+1884 he
+was sent to the school for the sons of Congregational ministers at
+Caterham; and the Cotswolds, with their wide outlook over the Severn
+estuary to May Hill and the wooded heights beyond, were exchanged for
+the bald sweep and the white chalk-pits of the North Downs. These too
+have their unique beauty; but I never remember to have heard Moorman
+say
+anything which showed that he felt it as those who have known such
+scenery from boyhood might have expected him to do.</p>
+
+<p>After some five years at Caterham, he began his academical
+studies at
+University College, London; but, on the strength of a scholarship, soon
+removed to University College, Aberystwyth (1890), where the
+scenery—sea, heron-haunted estuaries, wooded down to the very
+shore,
+and hills here and there rising almost into mountains—offered
+surroundings far more congenial to him than the streets and squares of
+Bloomsbury.</p>
+
+<p>In these new surroundings, he seems to have been exceptionally
+happy,
+throwing himself into all the interests of the place, athletic as well
+as intellectual, and endearing himself both to his teachers and his
+fellow-students. His friendship with Professor Herford, then Professor
+of English at Aberystwyth, was one of the chief pleasures of his
+student
+days as well as of his after life. Following his natural bent, he
+decided to study for Honours in English Language and Literature, and at
+the end of his course (1893) was placed in the Second Class by the
+examiners for the University of London, to which the Aberystwyth
+College
+was at that time affiliated. Those who believe in the virtue of infant
+prodigies—and, in the country which invented Triposes and
+Class Lists,
+it is hard to fix any limit to their number—will be
+distressed to learn
+that, in the opinion of those best qualified to judge of such matters,
+he was not at that time reckoned to be of "exceptionally scholarly
+calibre." Perhaps this was an omen all the better for his future
+prospects as a scholar.</p>
+
+<p>It is a wholesome practice that, when the cares of
+examinations are once
+safely behind him, a student should widen his experience by a taste of
+foreign travel. Accordingly, in September, 1893, Moorman betook himself
+to Strasbourg, primarily for the sake of continuing his studies under
+the skilful guidance of Ten Brinck. The latter, however, was almost at
+once called to Berlin and succeeded by Brandl, now himself of the
+University of Berlin, who actually presided over Moorman's studies for
+the next two years, and who thought, and never ceased to think, very
+highly both of his abilities and his acquirements. It was only natural
+that Moorman should make a pretty complete surrender to German ideals
+and German methods of study. It was equally natural that, in the light
+of subsequent experience, his enthusiasms in that line should suffer a
+considerable diminution. He was not of the stuff to accept for ever the
+somewhat bloodless and barren spirit which has commonly dominated the
+pursuit of literature in German universities.</p>
+
+<p>Into the social life of his new surroundings he threw himself
+with all
+the zest that might have been expected from his essentially sociable
+nature: making many friendships—that of Brandl was the one he
+most
+valued—and joining—in some respects,
+leading—his fellow-students in
+their sports and other amusements. His first published work, in fact,
+was a translation of the Rules of Association Football into German; and
+he may fairly be regarded as the godfather of that game on German soil.
+Nor was this the end of his activities. During the two years he spent
+at
+Strasbourg he acted as Lektor in English to the University, so
+gaining—and gaining, it is said, with much
+success—his first
+experience in what was to be his life's work as a teacher.</p>
+
+<p>On the completion of his course at Strasbourg, where he
+obtained the
+degree of Ph.D. in June 1895,(2) he returned to Aberystwyth, now no
+longer as student but as Lecturer in the English Language and
+Literature
+under his friend and former teacher, Professor Herford. There he
+remained for a little over two years (September, 1895, to January,
+1898), gradually increasing his stores of knowledge and strengthening
+the foundations of the skill which was afterwards to serve him in good
+stead as a teacher. During that time he also became engaged to the
+sister of one of his colleagues, Miss Frances Humpidge, whom he had
+known for some years and whose love was to be the chief joy and support
+of his after life.</p>
+
+<p>As a matter of prudence, the marriage was postponed until his
+prospects
+should be better assured. The opportunity came sooner than could have
+been expected. In January, 1898, he was appointed to the lectureship in
+his subject—a subject, such is our respect for literature,
+then first
+handed over to an independent department—in the Yorkshire
+College at
+Leeds; and in August of the same year he was married. Four children,
+three of whom survived and the youngest of whom was twelve at the time
+of his death, were born during the earlier years of the marriage.</p>
+
+<p>The life of a teacher offers little excitement to the
+onlooker; and all
+that can be done here is to give a slight sketch of the various
+directions in which Moorman's energies went out. The first task that
+lay
+before him was to organise the new department which had been put into
+his hands, to make English studies a reality in the college to which he
+had been called, to give them the place which they deserve to hold in
+the life of any institution devoted to higher education. Into this task
+he threw himself with a zeal which can seldom, if ever, have been
+surpassed. Within six years he had not only put the teaching of his
+subject to Pass Students upon a satisfactory basis; he had also laid
+the
+foundations of an Honours School able to compete on equal terms with
+those of the other colleges which were federated in the then Victoria
+University of the north. It was a really surprising feat for so young a
+man—he was little over twenty-five when
+appointed—to have accomplished
+in so short a time; the more so as he was working single-handed: in
+other words, was doing unaided the work, both literary and linguistic,
+which in other colleges was commonly distributed between two or three.
+And I speak with intimate knowledge when I say that the Leeds students
+who presented themselves for their Honours Degree at the end of that
+time bore every mark of having been most thoroughly and efficiently
+prepared.</p>
+
+<p>In 1904, six years after Moorman's appointment to the
+lectureship, the
+Yorkshire College was reconstituted as a separate and independent
+university, the University of Leeds; and in the rearrangement which
+followed, an older man was invited to come in as official chief of the
+department for which Moorman had hitherto been solely responsible. This
+invitation was not accepted until Moorman had generously made it clear
+that the proposed appointment would not be personally unwelcome to him.
+Nevertheless, it was clearly an invidious position for the new-comer:
+and a position which, but for the exceptional generosity and loyalty of
+the former chief of the department, would manifestly have been
+untenable. In fact, no proof of Moorman's unselfishness could be more
+conclusive than that, for the nine years during which the two men
+worked
+together, the harmony between them remained unbroken, untroubled by
+even
+the most passing cloud. Near the close of this time, in recognition of
+his distinction as a scholar and of his great services to the
+University, a separate post, as Professor of the English Language, was
+created for him.</p>
+
+<p>During the whole of his time at Leeds, his knowledge of his
+subject,
+both on its literary and linguistic side, was constantly deepening and
+his efficiency, as teacher of it, constantly increasing. With so keen a
+mind as his, this was only to be expected. It was equally natural that,
+as his knowledge expanded and his advice came to be more and more
+sought
+by those engaged in the study of such matters, he should make the
+results of his researches known to a wider public. After several
+smaller
+enterprises of this kind,(3) he broke entirely fresh ground with two
+books, which at once established his right to be heard in both the
+fields for which he was professionally responsible: <i>Yorkshire
+Place
+Names</i>, published for and by the Thoresby Society in 1911; and
+a study
+of the life and poetry of Robert Herrick, two years later. The former,
+if here and there perhaps not quite rigorous enough in the tests
+applied
+to the slippery evidence available, is in all essentials a most solid
+piece of work: based on a wide and sound knowledge of the linguistic
+principles which, though often grossly neglected, form the
+corner-stone,
+and something more, of all such inquiries; and lit up with a keen eye
+for the historical issues—issues reaching far back into
+national
+origins which, often in the most unexpected places, they may be made to
+open out. The latter, to which he turned with the more zest because it
+led him back to the familiar setting of his native county—to
+its moors
+and rills and flowers, and the fairy figures that haunted
+them—is a
+delightful study of one of the most unique of English poets(4); a
+study,
+however, which could only have been written by one who, among many
+other
+things, was a thorough-paced scholar. Many
+qualities—knowledge,
+scholarship, love of nature, a discerning eye for poetic
+beauty—go to
+the making of such a book. Their union in this <i>Study</i>
+serves to show
+that, great as was Moorman's authority in the field of language, it was
+always to literature, above all to poetry, that his heart went
+naturally
+out. The closing years of his life were to set this beyond doubt.</p>
+
+<p>It would be absurd to close this sketch of Moorman's
+professional
+activities without a reference, however slight, to what was, after all,
+one of the most significant things about them. No man can, in the full
+sense, be a teacher unless, in some way or other, he throws himself
+into
+the life and interests of his students. And it was among the
+secrets—perhaps the chief secret—of Moorman's
+influence as a teacher
+that, so far from being mere names in a register, his students were to
+him always young people of flesh and blood, in whose interests he could
+share, whose companion he delighted to be, and who felt that they could
+turn to him for advice and sympathy as often as they were in need. No
+doubt his own youthfulness of temper, the almost boyish spirits which
+seldom or never flagged in him, helped greatly to this result; but the
+true fountain of it all lay in his ingrained unselfishness. The same
+power was to make itself felt among the classes for older students
+which
+he held in the last years of his life.</p>
+
+<p>To fulfil all these academical duties in the liberal spirit,
+which was
+the only spirit possible to Moorman, might well have been expected to
+exhaust the energies of any man. Yet, amidst them all, he found time to
+take part, both as lecturer and as trusted adviser, in the activities
+of
+the Workers' Educational Association, attending summer meetings and,
+during the last five or six winters of his life, delivering weekly
+lectures and taking part in the ensuing discussions, at Crossgates, one
+of the outlying suburbs of Leeds. To the students who there, year by
+year, gathered round him he greatly endeared himself by his power of
+understanding their difficulties and of presenting great poetry in a
+way
+that came home to their experience and imagination. His growing
+sympathy
+with the life of homestead and cottage made this a work increasingly
+congenial to him; and, as a lecturer, he was perhaps never so happy, in
+all senses of the word, as when, released from the "idols of the
+lecture-room," he was seeking to awake, or keep alive, in others that
+love of imaginative beauty which counted for so much in his own life
+and
+in his discharge of the daily tasks that fell upon him: speaking freely
+and from his heart to men and women more or less of his own age and his
+own aspirations; "mingling leadership and <i>camaraderie</i>
+in the happy
+union so characteristic of him," and "drawing out the best endeavours
+of
+his pupils by his modest, quietly effective methods of teaching and,
+above all, by his great, quiet, human love for each and all."(5)</p>
+
+<p>It is clear that such work, however delightful to him, meant a
+considerable call upon his time and strength: the more so as it went
+hand in hand with constant labours on behalf of the Yorkshire Dialect
+Society, for which he was the most indefatigable of
+travellers—cycling
+his way into dale after dale in search of "records"—and of
+which, on
+the death of his friend, Mr Philip Unwin, he eventually became
+president. Nor was this all. During the last seven years or so of his
+life the creative impulse, the need of embodying his own life and the
+lives of those around him in imaginative form was constantly growing
+upon him, and a wholly new horizon was opening before him.</p>
+
+<p>At first he may have thought of nothing more than to produce
+plays
+suitable for performance either by the students of the University or by
+young people in those Yorkshire dales with which his affections were
+becoming year by year increasingly bound up. But, whatever the
+occasion,
+it soon proved to be no more than an occasion. He swiftly found that
+imaginative expression not only came naturally to him, but was a deep
+necessity of his nature; that it gave a needed outlet to powers and
+promptings which had hitherto lain dormant and whose very existence was
+unsuspected by his friends, perhaps even by himself. <i>The May
+King</i>,
+<i>Potter Thompson</i>, the adaptation of the <i>Second
+Shepherds' Play</i> from
+the fifteenth-century <i>Towneley Mysteries</i> followed
+each other in swift
+succession; and the two first have, or will shortly have, been
+performed
+either by University students or by school children of "the
+Ridings."(6)
+This is not the place to attempt any critical account of them. But
+there
+are few readers who will not have been struck by the simplicity with
+which the themes—now pathetic, now humorous, now
+romantic—are handled,
+and by the easy unconsciousness with which the Professor wears his
+"singing robes."</p>
+
+<p>The same qualities, perhaps in a yet higher degree, appear in
+the
+dialect poems, written during the last three years of his life: <i>Songs
+of the Ridings</i>. The inspiration of these was less literary;
+they sprang
+straight from the soil and from his own heart. It was, no doubt, a
+scholarly instinct which first turned his mind in this direction: the
+desire of one who had studied the principles of the language and knew
+every winding of its historical origins to trace their working in the
+daily speech of the present. He has told us so himself, and we may
+readily believe it. But, if he first came to the dales as learner and
+scholar, he soon found his way back as welcome visitor and friend. The
+more he saw of the dalesmen, the more his heart went out to them: the
+more readily, as if by an inborn instinct, did he enter into their
+manner of life, their mood and temper, their way of meeting the joys
+and
+sorrows brought by each day as it passed. And so it was that the
+scholar's curiosity, which had first carried him thither, rapidly gave
+way to a feeling far deeper and more human. His interest in forms of
+speech and fine shades of vowelling fell into the background; a simple
+craving for friendly intercourse, inspired by a deep sense of human
+brotherhood, took its place. And <i>Songs of the Ridings</i>(7)
+is the
+spontaneous outgrowth of the fresh experience and the ever-widening
+sympathies which had come to him as a man. The same is true of <i>Tales
+of
+the Ridings</i>, published for the first time in the following
+pages.</p>
+
+<p>The last five years of his life (1914-1919) had, to him as to
+others,
+been years of unusual stress. Disqualified for active service, he had
+readily undertaken the extra work entailed by the departure of his
+younger colleagues for the war. He had also discharged the
+semi-military
+duties, such as acting on guard against enemy aircraft, which fell
+within his powers; and, both on the outskirts of Leeds and round his
+Lytton Dale cottage, he had devoted all the time he could spare to
+allotment work, so as to take his share—it was, in truth,
+much more
+than his share—in increasing the yield of the soil. All this,
+with a
+host of miscellaneous duties which he voluntarily shouldered, had put
+an
+undue strain upon his strength. Yet, with his usual buoyancy, he had
+seemed to stand it all without flagging; and even when warned by the
+army medical authorities that his heart showed some weakness, he had
+paid little heed to the warning, had certainly in no way allowed it
+either to interfere with his various undertakings or to prey upon his
+spirits.</p>
+
+<p>The Armistice naturally brought some relief. Among other
+things, it
+opened the prospect of the return of his colleagues and a considerable
+lightening both of his professional and of his manifold civic duties.
+He
+was, moreover, much encouraged—as a man of his modest, almost
+diffident, nature was bound to be—by the recognition which <i>Songs
+of
+the Ridings</i> had brought from every side: not least from the
+dalesmen,
+for whom and under whose inspiration they were written. And all his
+friends rejoiced to think that a new and brighter horizon seemed
+opening
+before him. Those who saw him during these last months thought that he
+had never been so buoyant. They felt that a new hope and a new
+confidence had entered into his life.</p>
+
+<p>These hopes were suddenly cut off. He had passed most of
+August and the
+first week of September (1919) at his cottage in Lytton Dale, keeping
+the morning of his birthday (8th September), as he always delighted to
+do, with his wife and children. In the afternoon he went down to bathe
+in the river, being himself an excellent swimmer, and wishing to teach
+his two younger children an art in which he had always found health and
+keen enjoyment. He swam across the pool and called on his daughter to
+follow him. Noticing that she was in some difficulty, he jumped in
+again
+to help her, but suddenly sank to the bottom, and was never seen alive
+again. An angler ran up to help from a lower reach of the stream, and
+brought the girl safely to land. Then, for the first time learning that
+her father had sunk, he dived and dived again in the hope of finding
+him
+before it was too late. But the intense cold of the water baffled all
+his efforts, and the body was not recovered until some hours later. It
+is probable that the chill of the pool had caused a sudden failure of
+Moorman's heart—a heart already weakened by the excessive
+strain of the
+last few years—and it is little likely that, after he had
+once sunk, he
+could ever have been saved.</p>
+
+<p>The death of Moorman called forth expressions of grief and of
+grateful
+affection, so strong and so manifestly sincere as to bring something of
+surprise even to his closest friends. Much more surprising would they
+have been to himself. They came from every side, from lettered and
+unlettered, from loom and dale, from school and university. Nothing
+could prove more clearly how strong was the hold he had won upon all
+who
+knew him, how large the place he filled in the heart of his colleagues
+and the county of his adoption. It was a fitting tribute to a literary
+achievement of very distinctive originality. It was also, and above
+all,
+a tribute, heartfelt and irrepressible, to the charm of a singularly
+bright and winning spirit: to a life which had spent itself, without
+stint and without one thought of self, in the service of others.</p>
+
+<p>Endnotes (were footnotes):</p>
+
+<p>(1) To this family is believed to have belonged John Moreman,
+Canon and
+eventually Dean of Exeter (though he died, October, 1554, "before he
+was
+presented to the Deanery"), of whom an account will be found in
+Prince's
+<i>Worthies of Devon</i> (ed. 1701, pp. 452-453), as well
+as in Wood's
+<i>Athenoe</i> and <i>Fasti Oxonienses</i> and
+Foxe's <i>Book of Martyrs</i>. He was
+"the first in those days to teach his parishioners to say the Lord's
+Prayer, the Belief and the Commandments in the English tongue" (whether
+the contrast is with Latin or Cornish, for he was then Vicar of
+Menynhed, in East Cornwall, does not appear). He was imprisoned, as a
+determined Catholic, in Edward VI.'s reign, but "enlarged under Queen
+Mary, with whom he grew into very great favour," and was chosen to
+defend the doctrine of Transubstantiation before the Convocation of
+1553.</p>
+
+<p>(2) His thesis for this degree, on <i>The
+Interpretation of Nature in
+English Poetry from Beowulf to Shakespeare</i>, was published in
+1905.</p>
+
+<p>(3) He published editions of <i>The Faithful Shepherdess</i>,
+<i>The Knight of
+the Burning Pestle</i> and <i>The Two Noble Kinsmen</i>
+in 1897, and an
+elaborately critical edition of Herrick's <i>Poems</i>, in
+completion of his
+<i>Study</i>, in 1915. He also contributed the chapter on
+"Shakespeare's
+Apocrypha" to the <i>Cambridge History of English Literature</i>;
+and for
+many years acted as English editor of the <i>Shakespeare Jahrbuch</i>.</p>
+
+<p>(4) Dean Bourne, the parish to which Herrick was not very
+willingly
+wedded, is within five miles of Ashburton, Moorman's birthplace.</p>
+
+<p>(5) The words in inverted commas are quoted from the records
+of the
+Class, kindly communicated by the secretary, Mr Hind. It is difficult
+to
+imagine anything stronger than the expressions of affectionate respect
+which recur again and again in them. I add one more, from the pen which
+wrote the second quotation: "So quiet, yet so pervading, was his love
+that each felt the individual tie; and our class, so diverse in spirit,
+thought and training, has never heard or uttered an angry word. We felt
+it would be acting disloyally to hurt anyone whom he loved."</p>
+
+<p>(6) <i>The May King</i>, written in 1913, has
+been twice acted by school
+children, once in the open air, once in the large hall of the
+University. <i>Potter Thompson</i>, written in 1911-1912,
+was acted by
+students of the University in 1913 and is at present in rehearsal for
+acting by pupils of the Secondary School of Halifax. The Towneley
+<i>Shepherds' Play</i> was acted with slight modifications
+by University
+students, under Moorman's guidance, in 1907. His adaptation of it,
+written in 1919, has not yet been acted, but was written in the hope
+that some day it might be. It may be added that he was largely
+responsible for a very successful performance of Fletcher's <i>Elder
+Brother</i> by the University students in 1908.</p>
+
+<p>(7) First published serially in <i>The Yorkshire Weekly
+Post</i> of
+1917-1918.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="A_LAOCOON_OF_THE_ROCKS" id="A_LAOCOON_OF_THE_ROCKS"></a>A LAOCOON OF THE ROCKS</h2>
+
+<p>The enclosure of the common fields of England by hedge or
+wall, whereby
+the country has been changed from a land of open champaigns and large
+vistas to one of parterres and cattle-pens, constitutes a revolution in
+the social and economic life of the nation. Though extending over many
+years and even centuries, this process of change reached its height in
+the latter half of the eighteenth and the early nineteenth century, and
+thus comes into line with the industrial revolution which was taking
+place in urban England about the same time. To some, indeed, the
+enclosure of the open fields may appear as the outward symbol of that
+enwalling of the nation's economic freedom which transformed the
+artisan
+from an independent craftsman to a wage-earner, and made of him a link
+in the chain of our modern factory system. To those economists who
+estimate the wealth of nations solely by a ledger-standard, the
+enclosure of the common fields has seemed a wise procedure; but to
+those
+who look deeper, a realisation has come that it did much to destroy the
+communal life of the countryside. Be that as it may, it is beyond
+question that to the ancient and honoured order of shepherds, from
+whose
+ranks kings, seers and poets have sprung, it brought misfortune and
+even
+ruin.</p>
+
+<p>Among the shepherds of the eastern slopes of the Pennine Hills
+few were
+better known in the early years of the nineteenth century than
+Peregrine
+Ibbotson. A shepherd all his life, as his father and grandfather had
+been before him, he nevertheless belonged to a family that had once
+owned wide tracts of land in Yorkshire. But the Ibbotsons had fought on
+the losing side in the Pilgrimage of Grace, and the forfeiture of their
+lands had reduced them to the rank of farmers or shepherds. But the
+tradition of former greatness was jealously preserved in the family; it
+lived on in the baptismal names which they gave to their children and
+fostered in them a love of independence together with a spirit of
+reserve which was not always appreciated by their neighbours. But the
+spirit of the age was at work in them as in so many other families in
+the dale villages. Peregrine's six sons had long since left him alone
+in
+his steading on the moors: some had gone down to the manufacturing
+towns
+of the West Riding and had prospered in trade; others had fought, and
+more than one had fallen, in the Napoleonic wars. Peregrine, therefore,
+although seventy-six years of age and a widower, had no one to share
+roof and board with him in his shepherd's cottage a thousand feet above
+the sea.</p>
+
+<p>Below, in the dale, lay the villages with their clustered
+farmsteads and
+their square-towered churches of Norman foundation. Round about his
+steading, which was screened by sycamores from the westerly gales, lay
+the mountain pastures, broken by terraces of limestone rock. Above,
+where the limestone yields place to the millstone, were the high moors
+and fells, where grouse, curlews and merlins nested among the heather,
+and hardy, blue-faced sheep browsed on the mountain herbage.</p>
+
+<p>It was Peregrine's duty to shepherd on these unenclosed moors
+the sheep
+and lambs which belonged to the farmers in the dale below. Each farmer
+was allowed by immemorial custom to pasture so many sheep on the moors
+the number being determined by the acreage of his farm. During the
+lambing season, in April and May, all the sheep were below in the
+crofts
+behind the farmsteads, where the herbage was rich and the weakly ewes
+could receive special attention; but by the twentieth of May the flocks
+were ready for the mountain grass, and then it was that Peregrine's
+year
+would properly begin. The farmers, with their dogs in attendance, would
+drive their sheep and lambs up the steep, zigzagging path that led to
+Peregrine's steading, and there the old shepherd would receive his
+charges. Dressed in his white linen smock, his crook in his hand, and
+his white beard lifted by the wind, he would take his place at the
+mouth
+of the rocky defile below his house. At a distance he might easily have
+been mistaken for a bishop standing at the altar of his cathedral
+church
+and giving his benediction to the kneeling multitudes. There was
+dignity
+in every movement and gesture, and the act of receiving the farmers'
+flocks was invested by him with ritual solemnity. He gave to each
+farmer
+in turn a formal greeting, and then proceeded to count the sheep and
+lambs that the dogs had been trained to drive slowly past him in single
+file. He knew every farmer's "stint" or allowance, and stern were his
+words to the man who tried to exceed his proper number.</p>
+
+<p>"Thou's gotten ower mony yowes to thy stint, Thomas Moon," he
+would say
+to a farmer who was trying to get the better of his neighbours.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, Peregrine, I reckon I've nobbut eighty, and they're lile
+'uns at
+that."</p>
+
+<p>"Eighty's thy stint, but thou's gotten eighty-twee; thou can
+tak heam
+wi' thee twee o' yon three-yeer-owds, an' mind thou counts straight
+next
+yeer."</p>
+
+<p>Further argument was useless; Peregrine had the reputation of
+never
+making a mistake in his reckoning, and, amid the jeers of his fellows,
+Thomas Moon would drive his two rejected ewes with their lambs back to
+his farm.</p>
+
+<p>When all the sheep had been counted and driven into the pens
+which they
+were to occupy for the night the shepherd would invite the farmers to
+his house and entertain them with oatcakes, Wensleydale cheese and
+home-brewed beer; meanwhile, the conversation turned upon the past
+lambing season and the prospects for the next hay harvest. When the
+farmers had taken their leave Peregrine would pay a visit to the pens
+to
+see that all the sheep were properly marked and in a fit condition for
+a
+moorland life. Next morning he opened the pens and took the ewes and
+lambs on to the moors.</p>
+
+<p>For the next ten months they were under his sole charge,
+except during
+the short periods of time when they had to be brought down to the
+farms.
+The fay harvest began. Then, on the first of September, they returned to
+the
+dale in order that the ram lambs might be taken from the flocks and
+sold
+at the September fairs. Once again, before winter set in, the farmers
+demanded their sheep of Peregrine in order to anoint them with a salve
+of tar, butter and grease, which would keep out the wet. For the rest
+the flocks remained with Peregrine on the moors, and it was his duty to
+drive them from one part to another when change of herbage required it.</p>
+
+<p>The moors seemed woven into the fabric of Peregrine's life,
+and he
+belonged to them as exclusively as the grouse or mountain linnet. He
+knew every rock upon their crests and every runnel of water that
+fretted
+its channel through the peat; he could mark down the merlin's nest
+among
+the heather and the falcon's eyrie in the cleft of the scar. If he
+started a brooding grouse and the young birds scattered themselves in
+all directions, he could gather them all around him by imitating the
+mother's call-note. The moor had for him few secrets and no terrors. He
+could find his way through driving mist or snowstorm, knowing exactly
+where the sheep would take shelter from the blast, and rescuing them
+from the danger of falling over rocks or becoming buried in snowdrifts.
+The sun by day and the stars by night were for him both clock and
+compass, and if these failed him he directed his homeward course by
+observing how the cotton-grass or withered sedge swayed in the wind.</p>
+
+<p>Except when wrapped in snow, the high moors of the Pennine
+range present
+for eight months of the year a harmony of sober colours, in which the
+grey of the rocks, the bleached purple of the heather blossom and the
+faded yellows and browns of bent and bracken overpower the patches of
+green herbage. But twice in the course of the short summer the moors
+burst into flower and array themselves with a bravery with which no
+lowland meadow can compare. The first season of bloom is in early June,
+when the chalices or the cloud-berry and the nodding plumes of the
+cottongrass spring from an emerald carpet of bilberry and ling. These
+two flowers are pure white, and the raiment of the moors is that of a
+bride prepared to meet her bridegroom, the sun. By July the white has
+passed, and the moors have assumed once more a sombre hue. But August
+follows, and once again they burst into flower. No longer is their
+vesture white and virginal; now they bloom as a matron and a queen,
+gloriously arrayed in a seamless robe of purple heather.</p>
+
+<p>Such were the surroundings amid which Peregrine Ibbotson had
+spent three
+quarters of a century, and he asked for nothing better than that he
+should end his days as a Yorkshire shepherd. But now a rumour arose
+that
+there was a project on foot to enclose the moors. The meadows and
+pastures in the valley below had been enclosed for more than
+half-a-century, and this had been brought about without having recourse
+to Act of Parliament. The fields had been enclosed by private
+commission; the farmers had agreed to refer the matter to expert
+arbitrators and their decisions had been accepted without much
+grumbling. The dalesmen were proud of their freehold property and were
+now casting their eyes upon the moorland pastures above. They agreed
+that the sheep would crop the grass more closely if confined by walls
+within a certain space, and the fees paid to the shepherd for his
+labour
+would be saved; for each farmer would be able to look after his own
+sheep. But what weighed with them most was the pride of individual
+possession compared with which the privilege of sharing with their
+neighbours in communal rights over the whole moor seemed of small
+account. Moreover, stones for walling were plentiful, and the
+disbanding
+of the armies after the French wars had made labour cheap.</p>
+
+<p>At first Peregrine refused to believe the rumour; the moors,
+he argued
+with himself, had always been commons and commons they must remain. Yet
+the rumour persisted and gradually began to work like poison in his
+mind. He was too proud to mention the matter to the farmers when they
+came up for the autumn salving of the sheep, but a constraint in their
+manner deepened his suspicions, and all through the winter a pall of
+gloom enshrouded his mind like the pall of gloom on the moors
+themselves. Spring brought dark foreboding to yet darker certainty.
+From
+his mountain eyrie Peregrine could now see bands of men assembling in
+the village below. They were wallers, attracted thither by the prospect
+of definite work during the summer months, and on Easter Monday a start
+was made. Peregrine watched them from the fells, and as he saw them
+carrying the blocks of limestone in their hands they seemed to him like
+an army of stinging ants which had been disturbed in their ant-hill and
+were carrying their eggs to another spot.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly but surely the work advanced. At first the walls took a
+beeline
+track up the hillside, but when they reached the higher ground, where
+scars of rock and patches of reedy swamp lay in their path, their
+progress became serpentine. But whether straight or winding, the white
+walls mounted ever upwards, and Peregrine knew that his doom was
+sealed.
+The moors which Ibbotsons had shepherded for two hundred years would
+soon pass out of his charge; the most ancient of callings, which
+Peregrine loved as he loved life itself, would be his no more; his
+mountain home, which had stood the shock of an age-long battle with the
+storms, would pass into the hand of some dalesman's hind, and he would
+be forced to descend to the valley and end his days in one or other of
+the smoky towns where his remaining sons were living.</p>
+
+<p>There was no human being to whom he could communicate his
+thoughts, yet
+the pent-up anguish must find outlet somehow, lest the heart-strings
+should snap beneath the strain. It was therefore to his sheepdog,
+Rover,
+that he unburdened his mind, as the dog lay with its paws across his
+knees in the heather, looking up to its master's face. "Snakes, Rover,
+doesta see t' snakes," he would mutter, as his eye caught the
+serpent-like advance of the walls. The dog seemed to catch his meaning,
+and responded with a low growl of sympathy. "Aye, they're snakes," the
+old man went on, "crawlin's up t' fell-side on their bellies an'
+lickin'
+up t' dust. They've gotten their fangs into my heart, Rover, and seean
+they'll be coilin' thersels about my body. I niver thowt to see t'
+snakes clim' t' moors; they sud hae bided i' t' dale and left t' owd
+shipperd to dee in peace."</p>
+
+<p>When clipping-time came the walls had almost reached the level
+of the
+shepherd's cottage. It was the farmers' custom to pay Peregrine a visit
+at this time and receive at his hands the sheep that were to be driven
+down to the valley to be clipped and earmarked. But this year not a
+single one appeared. Shame held them back, and they sent their hinds
+instead. These knew well what was passing in the shepherd s mind, but
+they stood in too much awe of him to broach the subject; and he, on his
+side, was too proud to confide his grievance to irresponsible farm
+servants. But if nothing was said the dark circles round Peregrine's
+eyes and the occasional trembling of his hand betrayed to the men his
+sleepless nights and the palsied fear that infected his heart.</p>
+
+<p>At times, too, though he did his utmost to avoid them, the
+shepherd
+would come upon the bands of wallers engaged in their sinister task.
+These were strangers to the dale and less reticent than the men from
+the
+farms.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-mornin', shipperd. Thou'll be noan sae pleased to set
+een on us
+wallers, I reckon," one of them would say.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-mornin'," Peregrine would reply. "I weant say that I's
+fain to see
+you, but I've no call to threap wi' waller-lads. Ye can gan back to
+them
+that sent you and axe 'em why they've nivver set foot on t' moor this
+yeer."</p>
+
+<p>"Mebbe they're thrang wi' their beasts and have no time to
+look after t'
+yowes."</p>
+
+<p>"Thrang wi' beasts, is it? Nay, they're thrang wi' t' devil,
+and are
+flaid to look an honest man i' t' face."</p>
+
+<p>The old man's words, and still more the lines of anguish that
+seamed his
+weather-beaten face, touched them to the quick. But what could they do?
+They were day-labourers, with wives and children dependent on the work
+of their hands. Walling meant tenpence a day and regular work for at
+least six months, and the choice lay between that and the dreaded
+"Bastile," as Yorkshiremen in the years that succeeded the French
+Revolution had learnt to call the workhouse.</p>
+
+<p>So the work went on, and each day saw "the snakes" approaching
+nearer to
+their goal on the crest of the fells. Peregrine still pursued his
+calling, for the farmers, partly to humour the old man, gave orders
+that
+a gap here and there should be left in the walls through which he could
+drive his flocks. The work slackened somewhat during the hay harvest,
+and the services of the wallers were enlisted in the meadows below. But
+when the hay was gathered into the barns—there are no
+haystacks in the
+Yorkshire dales—walling was resumed with greater vigour than
+before.
+The summer was advancing, and the plan was to finish the work before
+the
+winter storms called a halt. All hands were therefore summoned to the
+task, and the farmers themselves would often join the bands of wallers.
+Peregrine kept out of their way as far as possible, hating nothing so
+much as the sound of their hammers dressing the stone. But one day, as
+he rounded a rocky spur, he came upon the chief farmer of the district,
+as he was having dinner with his men under the lee of the wall he was
+building. Seeing that an encounter was unavoidable, the shepherd
+advanced boldly to meet his adversary.</p>
+
+<p>"I've catched thee at thy wark at last have I, Timothy?" were
+his words
+of greeting, and Timothy Metcalfe cowered before a voice which seared
+like one of his own branding-irons. "Enclosin' t' freemen's commons is
+nobbut devil's wark, I's thinkin'," Peregrine went on relentlessly,
+"and
+I've marked thee out for devil's wark sin first thou tried to bring
+more
+nor thy stint o' Swawdill yowes on to t' moor."</p>
+
+<p>The wallers received this home-thrust with a smile of
+approval, and
+Timothy, roused by this, sought to defend himself.</p>
+
+<p>"It's noan devil's wark," he retorted. "Enclosure was made by
+order o'
+t' commissioners."</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, I know all about t' commissioners—farmers hand
+i' glove wi' t'
+lawyers frae t' towns, and, aboon all, a government that's i' t'
+landlords' pockets. What I say is that t' common land belongs
+iverybody,
+an' sike-like as thee have gotten no reight to fence it in."</p>
+
+<p>"Happen we're doin' it for t' good o' t' country," argued
+Timothy.
+"There's bin a vast o' good herbage wasted, wi' sheep hallockin' all
+ower t' moors, croppin' a bit here and a bit theer, and lettin' t' best
+part o' t' grass get spoilt."</p>
+
+<p>"Thou's leein', and thou knows it," replied Peregrine, with
+the
+righteous indignation of one whose professional honour is impugned.
+"I've allus taen care that t' moors hae bin cropped fair; thou reckons
+thou'll feed mair yowes an' lambs on t' moors when thou's bigged thy
+walls; but thou weant, thou'll feed less. I know mair about sheep nor
+thou does, and I tell thee thou'll not get thy twee hinds to tend 'em
+same as a shepherd that's bred an' born on t' moors."</p>
+
+<p>"We sal see about that," Metcalfe answered sullenly.</p>
+
+<p>"An' what wilta do when t' winter storms coom?" Peregrine
+continued.
+"It's not o' thee an' thine, but o' t' yowes I's thinkin'; they'll be
+liggin theer for mebbe three week buried under t' snow. It's then
+thou'll be wantin' t' owd shipperd back, aye, an' Rover too, that can
+set a sheep when shoo's under six foot o' snow."</p>
+
+<p>"Thou's despert proud of what thou knows about sheep an' dogs,
+Peregrine, but there's mony a lad down i' t' dale that's thy marrow."</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, I's proud o' what I've larnt misel through tendin' sheep
+on t'
+Craven moors for mair nor sixty year; and thou's proud o' thy meadows
+and pasturs down i' t' dale, aye, and o' thy beasts an' yowes and all
+thy farm-gear; but it's t' pride that gans afore a fall. Think on my
+words, Timothy Metcalfe, when I's liggin clay-cowd i' my grave. Thou's
+tramplin' on t' owd shipperd an' robbin' him o' his callin'; and
+there's
+fowks makkin' brass i' t' towns that'll seean be robbin' thee o' thy
+lands. Thou's puttin' up walls all ower t' commons an' lettin' t'
+snakes
+wind theirsels around my lile biggin; and there's fowks'll be puttin'
+up
+bigger walls, that'll be like a halter round thy neck."</p>
+
+<p>As he uttered these words, Peregrine drew himself up to his
+full height,
+and his flashing eyes and animated gestures gave to what he said
+something of the weight of a sibylline prophecy. Then, calling his dog
+to heel, he moved slowly away.</p>
+
+<p>By the end of August the walls had reached the top of the
+fells and
+there had joined up with those which had mounted the other slope of the
+moors from the next valley. And now began the final stage in the
+process
+of enclosure—the building of the cross-walls and the division
+of the
+whole area into irregular fields. This work started simultaneously in
+the dale-bottoms and on the crests, so that Peregrine's cottage, which
+was situated midway between the valley and the mountain-tops, would be
+enclosed last of all. The agony which the shepherd endured, therefore,
+during these weeks of early autumn was long-drawn-out. He still pursued
+his calling, leading the sheep, when the hot sun had burnt the short
+wiry grass of the hill-slopes, down to the boggy ground where runnels
+of
+water furrowed their courses through the peat and kept the herbage
+green. But go where he might, he could not escape from the sound of the
+wallers' tools. It was a daily crucifixion of his proud spirit, and
+every blow of the hammer on the stones was like a piercing of his flesh
+by the crucifiers' nails.</p>
+
+<p>October brought frost, followed by heavy rains, and the moors
+were
+enshrouded in mist. But the farmers, eager that the enwalling should be
+finished before the first snows came, allowed their men no respite.
+With
+coarse sacking over their shoulders to ward off the worst of the rain,
+they laboriously plied their task, but the songs and jests and laughter
+which had accompanied their work in summer gave way to gloomy silence.
+They rarely met Peregrine now, though they often saw him tending his
+flocks in the distance, and noticed that his shoulders, which six
+months
+before had been erect, were now drooping heavily forward and that he
+walked with tottering steps. They reported this in the farm-houses
+where
+they were lodging, and two of the farmers wives, who in happier days
+had
+been on friendly terms with Peregrine, paid a visit to the old man's
+cottage in order to try to induce him to come down to the dale for the
+winter or go and stay with one of his sons in the towns. The shepherd
+received them with formal courtesy, but would not listen to their
+proposal.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay," he said, "I'll bide on t' moors; t' moors are gooid
+enif to dee
+on."</p>
+
+<p>Early in November a party of wallers were disturbed at their
+work by the
+persistent barking of a dog. Thinking that the animal was caught in a
+snare, they followed the sound, with the intention of setting it free.
+On reaching the spot they found it was Rover, standing over the
+prostrate figure of the shepherd. The old man had fainted and was lying
+in the heather. The wallers brought water in their hats and, dashing it
+in his face restored him to consciousness. He was, however, too weak to
+talk, so they carried him in their arms to his cottage and laid him on
+his bed while one of them raced down the hill to summon the nearest
+doctor.</p>
+
+<p>A few hours later fever set in, and the patient became
+delirious. A
+tumult of ideas was surging through his brain, and found vent in broken
+speech, which struck awe to the wallers' hearts as they bent over his
+bed.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Ein-tein-tethera-methera-pimp</i>; <i>awfus-dawfus-deefus-dumfus-dik</i>."
+The
+old man was counting his sheep, using the ancient Gaelic numerals from
+one to ten, which had been handed down from one shepherd to another
+from
+time immemorial. And as he called out the numbers his hand fumbled
+among
+the bed-clothes as though he were searching for the notches on his
+shepherd's crook.</p>
+
+<p>Then his mind wandered away to his three sons who had fallen
+in their
+country's wars. "Miles! Christopher! Tristram!" he cried, and his
+glazed
+eyes were fastened on the door as if he expected them to enter. Then,
+dimly remembering the fate that had befallen them, he sank slowly back
+on the pillow. "They're deead, all deead," he murmured; "an' their
+bones
+are bleached lang sin. Miles deed at Corunna, Christopher at Waterloo,
+and I—I deant know wheer Tristram deed. They sud hae
+lived—lived to
+help me feight t' snakes." As he uttered the dreaded word his fingers
+clutched his throat as though he felt the coils of the monsters round
+his neck, and a piercing shriek escaped his lips.</p>
+
+<p>After a time he grew quieter and his voice sank almost to a
+whisper. "He
+makketh me to lie down i' green pasturs," he gently murmured, and, as
+he
+uttered the familiar words, a smile lit up his face. "There'll be nea
+snakes i' yon pasturs. I's thinkin'. ... He leadeth me beside t' still
+watters.... I know all about t' still watters; they flows through t'
+peat an' t' ling away on t' moor."</p>
+
+<p>Later in the day the doctor came, but a glance showed him that
+recovery
+was out of the question; and next morning, as the sun broke over the
+eastern fells, Peregrine Ibbotson passed away. The snakes had done
+their
+work; their deadly fangs had found the shepherd's heart.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="THROPS_WIFE" id="THROPS_WIFE"></a>THROP'S
+WIFE</h2>
+
+<p>In Yorkshire, when a man is very busy, we say he is "despert
+thrang";
+but when he is so busy that "t' sweat fair teems off him," we say that
+he is as "thrang as Throp's wife." Now I had always been curious to
+know
+who Throp's wife was, and wherein her "thrangness" consisted, and what
+might be Throp's view of the matter; but all my inquiries threw no
+light
+upon the problem, and it seemed as though Throp's wife were going to
+prove as intangible as Mrs Harris. But I am not the man to be put off
+by
+feminine elusiveness, so I made a vow that I would give up smoking
+until
+I had found Throp's wife and made her mine. My summer holiday was
+coming
+on, and I decided that, instead of spending the week in Scarborough, I
+would make a tour through the towns and villages of the West Riding in
+search of Throp's wife. I took the matter as much to heart as if I had
+been a mediaeval knight setting forth to rescue some distressed damsel
+from the clutches of a wicked magician or monstrous hippogriff, and I
+called my expedition "the quest of Throppes wife"; as my emblem I chose
+the words "<i>Cherchez la femme</i>."</p>
+
+<p>I first of all turned my steps in the direction of Pudsey, for
+I knew
+that it had the reputation of being the home of lost souls. To my
+delight I found that Pudsey professed first-hand acquaintance with the
+lady.</p>
+
+<p>"Throp's wife," said Pudsey; "ay, iverybody has heerd tell
+abaat Throp's
+wife. Thrang as Throp's wife is what fowks allus say."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes," I replied; "but what I want to know is who Throp's
+wife
+really was."</p>
+
+<p>"Why," answered Pudsey, "shoo'll happen hae bin t' wife o' a
+chap they
+called Throp."</p>
+
+<p>Now that was just the answer I might have expected from
+Pudsey, and I
+decided to waste no more time there. So I made for the Heavy Woollen
+District—capital letters, if you please, Mr
+Printer—- and straightway
+put my question. But the Heavy Woollen District was far too thrang
+itself to take interest in anybody else's thrangness; it knew nothing
+about quests or emblems, cared little about Throp's wife, and less
+about
+me. So I commended the Heavy Woollens to the tender mercies of the
+excess profits taxers and sped on my way. I struck across country for
+the Calder Valley, but neither at Elland, which calls itself Yelland,
+nor at Halifax, which is said to be the pleasantest place in England to
+be hanged in, could I obtain any clue as to the lady's identity.
+"Thrang
+as Throp's wife" was everywhere a household phrase, but that was all. I
+was beginning to grow weary; besides, I wanted my pipe.</p>
+
+<p>"What is the use," I asked Halifax, "of your establishing
+Literary and
+Philosophical Societies, Antiquarian Societies, and a local branch of
+the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, if you cannot get to the
+bottom of Throp's wife?"</p>
+
+<p>Halifax was somewhat taken aback at this, and its learned
+antiquaries,
+in self-defence, assured me that, if she had been a Roman remain they
+would have known all about her.</p>
+
+<p>"But how do you know that she is not a Roman remain?" I asked.
+"Nobody
+can tell a woman's age. She may even be a solar myth."</p>
+
+<p>Say what I might, I could not induce Halifax to join in "the
+quest of
+Throppes wife"; it savoured too much of quixotry for sober-minded
+Halifax.</p>
+
+<p>I now realised that the quest must be a solitary one, and I
+consoled
+myself with the thought that, if the ardours of the pilgrimage were
+unshared, so would be the glory of the prize. Fired with new
+enthusiasm,
+I shouted the name of Throp's wife to the everlasting hills, and the
+everlasting hills gave back the slogan in reverberating
+echoes—"Throp's
+wahfe." By midday I had reached the summit of Stanbury Moor, and the
+question was whether I should descend the populous Worth Valley to
+Keighley or strike northwards across the hills. Instinct impelled me to
+the latter course, and instinct was right. Late in the afternoon, faint
+but pursuing, I reached a hill-top village which the map seemed to
+identify with a certain Cowling Hill, but which was always spoken of as
+Cohen-eead.</p>
+
+<p>I made my way to "The Golden Fleece," and there, in the bar
+parlour, I
+met an old man and a merry. His face was as round and almost as red as
+a
+Dutch cheese, and many a year had passed since he had last seen his
+feet. I felt drawn to this old man, whose baptismal name was Timothy
+Barraclough, but who always answered to the by-name of Tim o' Frolics;
+and when we had politely assured one another that it was grand weather
+for the hay and that lambs would soon be making a tidy price at Colne
+market, I spoke to him of the quest.</p>
+
+<p>At first he remained silent, but after a few moments his blue
+eyes began
+to twinkle like stars in the firmament, and then, slapping his knees
+with both hands, he broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"Ay, ay," he said, "I know all about Throp's wife. Shoo lived
+at
+Cohen-eead, an' my mother telled me t' tale when I were nobbut a barn."</p>
+
+<p>As I heard these words, I almost leaped for joy, and could
+have thrown
+my arms about the old man's neck, and embraced him. Remembering Pudsey,
+however, I refrained, but urged Tim o' Frolics to tell me all he knew.</p>
+
+<p>"Throp was a farmer," he began, "and lived out Cornshaw way.
+He was a
+hard-workin' man, was Throp, but I reckon all his wark were nobbut
+laikin' anent what his wife could do. You see, her mother had gien her
+a
+spinnin'-wheel when shoo were wed, and eh! but shoo were a gooid 'un to
+spin. Shoo'd get t' house sided up by ten o'clock, an' then shoo'd set
+hersen down to t' wheel. Throp would sam up all t' bits o' fallen wool
+that he could find, an' Throp's wife would wesh 'em an' card 'em an'
+spin 'em into yarn, an' then shoo'd knit t' yarn into stockin's an'
+sell
+'em at Keighley an' Colne. Shoo were that thrang shee'd sooin getten
+shut o' all t' wool that Throp could get howd on, an' then shoo axed t'
+farmers to let t' barns out o' t' village go round t' moors an' bring
+her t' wool that had getten scratted off t' yowes' backs for ten mile
+around. Shoo were a patteren wife, and sooin fowks began to say to one
+another: 'I've bin reight thrang to-day; I've bin well-nigh as thrang
+as
+Throp's wife.' So 'thrang as Throp's wife' gat to be a regular nominy,
+an' other fowks took to followin' her example; it were fair smittlin'!
+They bowt theirsens spinnin'-wheels, an' gat agate o' spinnin', while
+there were all nations o' stockins turned out i' Cohen-eead an'
+Cornshaw, enough for a whole army o' sodgers. Ay, an' t' women fowks
+gat
+their chaps to join i' t' wark; there were no settin' off for t' public
+of a neet, an' no threapin' or fratchin' at t' call-hoils. It was wark,
+wark, wark, through morn to neet, an' all on account o' Throp's wife
+an'
+her spinnin'-wheel.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, after a time Cohen-eead had getten that sober an'
+hard-workin',
+t'owd devil began to grow a bit unaisy. He'd a lot o' slates, had t'
+devil; there was one slate for iverybody i' Cohen-eead. He'd had t'
+slates made i' two sizes, one for t' men an' one for t' women."</p>
+
+<p>"The big slates were for the men and the little slates for the
+women, I
+suppose."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm noan so sure o' that," Timothy rejoined, and his eyes
+began to
+twinkle again. "Well," he continued, "t' devil began to look at t'
+slates, an there was onmost nowt written on 'em; nobody had getten
+druffen, or illified his neighbour; there was nobbut a two-three
+grocers
+that had bin convicted o' scale-sins. So t' devil sends for t' god o'
+flies, and when he were come, he says to him: 'Nah then, Beelzebub,
+what's wrang wi' Cohen-eead? There's no business doin' there'; and he
+shows him t' slates. So Beelzebub taks t' slates and looks at 'em, an'
+then he scrats his heead an' he says: 'I can't help it, your Majesty.
+It's Throp's wife; that's what's wrang wi' Cohen-eead.'</p>
+
+<p>"'Throp's wife! Throp's wife!' says Satan; 'an' who's Throp's
+wife to
+set hersen agean me?'</p>
+
+<p>"'Shoo's made fowks i' Cohen-eead that thrang wi' wark they've
+no time
+to think o' sins.'</p>
+
+<p>"'An' what have thy flies bin doin' all t' time?' asks Satan.
+'They've
+bin laikin', that's what they've bin doin'. They ought to hae bin
+buzzin' round fowks' heeads an' whisperin' sinful thowts into their
+lug-hoils. How mony flies does thou keep at Cohen-eead?'</p>
+
+<p>"T' god o' flies taks out his book an' begins to read t' list:
+'Five
+hunderd mawks, three hunderd atter-cops, two hunderd an' fifty
+bummle-bees.' 'Bummle-bees! Bummle-bees!' says Satan. 'What's t' gooid
+o' them, I'd like to know? How mony house-flies, how mony blue-bottles
+hasta sent?' and wi' that he rives t' book out o' Beelzebub's hands and
+turns ower t' pages hissen.</p>
+
+<p>"At lang length he gies him back his book, and he says: 'I sal
+hae to
+look into this misen. Throp's wife! I'll sooin sattle wi' Throp's wife.
+I'll noan have her turnin' Cohen-eead intul a Gardin o' Eden. I reckon
+I'm fair stalled o' that mak o' place.'</p>
+
+<p>"So Satan gav out that he were baan for Cohen-eead an'
+wouldn't be back
+while to-morn. 'Twere lat i' t' afternooin when he'd getten theer, an'
+t' first thing he did were to creep behind a wall and change hissen
+intul a sarpint. An' as he were set theer, waitin' for it to get dark,
+he saw five blue-bottles that were laikin' at tig i' t' sunshine anent
+t' wall. Well, that made t'owd devil fair mad, for they ought to hae
+bin
+i' t' houses temptin' fowks to sin; so he oppened his cake-hoil, thrast
+out his forked tongue, an' swallowed three on 'em at one gulp. After
+that he felt a bit better. When it were turned ten o'clock, he crawled
+alang t' loans an' bridle-stiles, while he gat to Throp's farm. He
+sidled under t' door and into t' kitchen. It were as dark as a booit i'
+t' kitchen, an' he could hear Throp snorin' i' bed aboon t' balks. So
+he
+crawled up t' stairs, an' under t' chamer door, an' up on to t' bed.
+Eh!
+but Throp's wife would hae bin flustered if shoo'd seen a sarpint
+liggin' theer on t' pillow close agean her lug-hoil. But shoo were fast
+asleep, wi' Throp aside her snorin' like an owd ullet i' t' ivy-tree.
+So
+t' devil started temptin' her, and what doesta think he said?"</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose he told her not to work so hard," I replied, "but
+take life
+more easily and quarrel a bit with her neighbours."</p>
+
+<p>Tim o' Frolics paused for a moment to enjoy the luxury of
+seeing me fall
+into the pit that he had dug for me, and then went on:</p>
+
+<p>"He said nowt o' t' sort. That's what t' blue-bottles had bin
+sayin' to
+her all t' time, an' all for nowt. Nay, t'owd devil were a sly 'un, an'
+knew more about Throp's wife nor all t' blue-bottles i' t' world. So he
+says to her: 'Keziah'—they called her Keziah after her
+grandmother—'thou's t' idlest dawkin' i' Cohen-eead. When
+arta baan to
+get agate o' workin'?'"</p>
+
+<p>"But surely," I interrupted, "there was no temptation in
+telling her to
+work harder."</p>
+
+<p>Timothy paused, and then, in a reproving voice, asked: "Who's
+tellin' t'
+tale, I'd like to know? Thou or me?"</p>
+
+<p>I stood rebuked, and urged him to go on with his story,
+promising that I
+would not break in on the narrative again.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, as I were sayin'," he continued, "t' devil kept tellin'
+her that
+shoo mun be reight thrang, an' not waste time clashin' with her
+neighbours; an' when he thowt he'd said enough he crawled down off t'
+bed an out o' house and away back to wheer he com frae.</p>
+
+<p>"Next mornin' Throp's wife wakkened up at t' usual time an'
+crept out o'
+bed. There was nowt wrang wi' her, and o' course shoo knew nowt about
+t'
+royal visit that shoo'd bin honoured wi'. Shoo gat all t' housewark
+done, fed t' hens and t' cauves, an' was set down to her wheel afore
+ten
+o'clock. There shoo sat an' tewed harder nor iver. It were Setterday,
+an' shoo looked at t' bag o' wool and said to hersen that shoo'd have
+it
+all carded an' spun an' sided away afore shoo went to bed that neet.
+Shoo wouldn't give ower when t' time com for dinner or drinkins or
+supper, but shoo made Throp bring her a sup o' tea and summat to eat
+when he com in through his wark. An' all t' time shoo called hersen an
+idle dollops 'cause shoo weren't workin' hard enough. That were t'
+devil's game. But for all shoo tewed so hard, there was a gey bit o'
+wool left i' t' bag when ten o'clock com and 'twere time to get to bed.
+You see, 'twere bad wool; 'twere all feltered an' teed i' knots. But
+Throp's wife were noan baan to bed while shoo'd finished t' bag. So
+Throp said, if that were so, he mun set hissen down an' help wi' t'
+wark. So Throp carded an' Throp's wife spun, an' that set things forrad
+a bit. But t' hands o' t' clock went round as they'd niver done afore;
+eleven o'clock com and hauf-past eleven, and then a quairter to twelve.
+Throp's wife looked at t' clock, an' then at bag, an' then at Throp.</p>
+
+<p>"'Throp,' shoo said, 'we'll noan be through wi t' wark by
+midneet.'</p>
+
+<p>"'Then we sal hae to give ower,' said Throp. 'It'll be Sunday
+morn i' a
+quairter of an hour, an' I'm noan baan to work o' Sunday.'</p>
+
+<p>"When Throp's wife heerd that shoo burst out a-roarin'. 'I'm
+an idle
+good-for-nowt,' shoo said. 'Eh! but I mun finish t' bag; I mun, I mun.'</p>
+
+<p>"'I'm noan baan to work when t' clock has struck twelve,'
+Throp said
+agean, 'nor let thee work, nowther. I'm a deacon at t' Independent
+Chapil, an' I'll noan let fowks say that they saw a leet i' wer
+kitchen,
+an' heerd thy wheel buzzin' of a Sunday morn.'</p>
+
+<p>"When Throp's wife heerd that, shoo fell to roarin' agean, for
+shoo knew
+they'd noan be through wi' t' spinnin' while a quairter past twelve.
+But
+at lang length shoo turned to Throp an' shoo said: 'Let's put t' clock
+back, an' then, if onybody's passin' an' looks in on us, an' wants to
+know why we're workin' of a Sunday morn, we can show 'em t' clock.'</p>
+
+<p>"Throp said nowt for a bit; he was a soft sort o' a chap, an'
+didn't
+want to start fratchin' wi' his wife. So just to please her, he gat up
+on to t' stooil an' put back t' hands o' t' clock twenty minutes. An'
+t'
+clock gave a despert gert groan; 'twere summat atween a groan an' a
+swed wi' t' clock. Howiver, he com back to his cardin', an' when t'
+clock strack twelve, t' bag o' wool were empty, an' there were a gert
+hank o' spun yarn as big as a man's heead. Throp looked at his wife,
+an'
+there were a glint in her een that he'd niver seen theer afore; shoo
+were fair ditherin' wi' pride an' flustration. 'Fowks san't say "Thrang
+as Throp's wife" for nowt,' shoo said, and shoo gat up off t' stooil,
+sided away t' spinnin'-wheel, an' stalked off to bed wi' Throp at her
+heels. Eh! mon, but 'twere a false sort o' pride were yon."</p>
+
+<p>"Did people find out about putting the clock back?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, 'twere worse nor that," Timothy replied. "That neet
+there was a
+storm at Cohen-eead the likes o' which had niver bin seen theer afore.
+There was thunner an' leetnin', and a gert sough o' wind that com
+yowlin' across t' moor an' freetened iverybody wellnigh out o' their
+five senses. Fowks wakkened up an' said 'twere Judgment Day, an' T' Man
+Aboon had coom to separate t' sheep frae t' goats. When t' cockleet
+com,
+t' storm had fallen a bit, an' fowks gat out o' bed to see if owt had
+happened 'em. Slates, and mebbe a chimley or two, had bin rived off t'
+roofs, but t' beasts were all reight i' t' mistals, an' then they went
+up on to t' moors to look for t' sheep. When they got nigh Throp's
+farm,
+they noticed there was a gert hoil in his riggin' big enough for a man
+to get through. So they shouted to Throp, but he niver answered. Then
+they oppened t' door an' looked in. There was nobody i' t' kitchen, but
+t' spinnin'-wheel were all meshed to bits and there were a smell o'
+burnin' wool. They went all ower t' house, but they could see nowt o'
+Throp nor o' Throp's wife, nor o' Throp's wife's chintz-cat that shoo
+called Nimrod, nor yet o' Throp's parrot that he'd taught to whistle
+<i>Pop goes t' Weazel</i>. They lated 'em ower t' moors an'
+along t' beck
+boddom, but 'twere all for nowt, an' nobody i' Cohen-eead iver set een
+on 'em again."</p>
+
+<p>Such was Timothy Barraclough's story of Throp's wife and of
+the terrible
+fate which befell her and her husband. I spent the night at the inn,
+and
+next morning made further inquiries into the matter. There was little
+more to be learnt, but I was told that farmers crossing the moors on
+their way home from Colne market had sometimes heard, among the rocks
+on
+the crest of the hills, the sound of a spinning-wheel; but others had
+laughed at this, and had said that what they had heard was only the cry
+of the nightjar among the bracken. It was also rumoured that on one
+occasion some boys from the village had made their way into a natural
+cavern which ran beneath the rocks, and, after creeping some distance
+on
+hands and knees, had been startled by ghostly sounds. What they heard
+was the mournful whistling of a popular air, as it were by some caged
+bird, and then the strain was taken up by the voices of a man and woman
+singing in unison:</p>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Up and down the city
+street</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In and out the "Easel,"</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That's the way the money
+goes,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Pop goes the weazel.</span><br>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="IT_MUN_BE_SO" id="IT_MUN_BE_SO"></a>"IT
+MUN BE SO"</h2>
+
+<p>I met her on her way through the path-fields to the cowshed;
+she was
+gathering, in the fading light of an October evening, the belated stars
+of the grass of Parnassus, and strapped to her shoulders was the
+"budget," shaped to the contour of the back, and into which the milk
+was
+poured from the pails. It was a heavy load for a girl of twelve, but
+she
+was used to it, and did not grumble. Her father was dead, all the
+day-tale men had been called up, and her mother, she assured me, "was
+that thrang wi' t' hens an' t' cauves, shoo'd no time for milkin' cows."</p>
+
+<p>In the village she was subjected to a good deal of ridicule.
+The
+children made fun of her on her way home from school, and called her
+"daft Lizzie"; the old folks, when they heard her muttering to herself,
+would shrug their shoulders and pass the remark that she was "nobbut a
+hauf-rocked 'un"—an insult peculiarly galling to her mother.</p>
+
+<p>"A hauf-rocked 'un!" she would exclaim. "Nay, I rocked her
+misel i' t'
+creddle while my shackles fair worked. Shoo taks after her dad, that's
+what's wrang wi' Lizzie. A feckless gowk was Watmough; he couldn't
+frame
+to do owt but play t' fiddle i' t' sky-parlour, or sit ower t' fire
+eatin' fat-shives."</p>
+
+<p>Lizzie's daftness was not a serious matter; it consisted
+partly in a
+certain dreaminess, which brought a yonderly look into her eyes, and
+made her inattentive to what was going on around her, and partly in
+that
+habit of talking to herself which has already been referred to. I had
+won her confidence and friendship from the time when I rescued her
+"pricky-back urchin" from being kicked to death by the farm boys, who
+declared that hedgehogs always made their way into the byres and milked
+the cows. Since then we had had many talks together, but this was the
+first time that I had accompanied her when she went to milk.</p>
+
+<p>Milking in summer-time, when the cows are out at grass, is
+pleasant
+enough, but it is different of a winter evening. Then one gropes one's
+way by the light of the stable lantern through the rain-sodden fields
+to
+the cowshed, the reeking atmosphere of which often makes one feel faint
+as one plunges into it from out of the frosty air. But Lizzie liked the
+work at all seasons, and was never so much at ease as when she was
+firmly planted on her stool, her curly head butting into a cow's ribs,
+and the warm milk swishing rhythmically into her pail. There were three
+cows in the byre, and she had called them after her aunts. Eliza, like
+her namesake, was "contrairy," and had to have her hind legs hobbled
+lest she should kick over the pail. Molly and Anne were docile beasts
+that chewed the cud with bovine complacency. It was Lizzie's habit to
+tell the cows stories as she milked, making them up as she went along;
+but to-day she found a better listener in myself.</p>
+
+<p>Our talk was at first of cows; thence it passed to village
+gossip, pigs,
+hedgehogs, and so back to cows once more. Knowing the imaginative bent
+of her mind, I put the question to her: "Wouldn't you like to know just
+what becomes of the milk you send off to Leeds by train every day?"</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, I like to know who sups t' milk," she answered, "an' so
+does t'
+cows."</p>
+
+<p>"But you can't know that," I said. "You don't take it round to
+the
+houses."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, I don't tak it round to t' houses, but I reckon out
+aforehand
+who's to get it."</p>
+
+<p>It was evident that Lizzie had some private arrangement for
+the disposal
+of her milk, and I encouraged her to let me share her secret.</p>
+
+<p>"I've milked for all maks o' fowks sin' father deed," she went
+on,
+"bettermy fowks and poor widdies. Once I milked for t' King."</p>
+
+<p>"Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle?"</p>
+
+<p>Lizzie knew nothing about pleasantry, and was not put out by
+my
+frivolous question.</p>
+
+<p>"'Twern't nowther o' them places," she continued; "'twere
+Leeds Town
+Hall. Mother read it out o' t' paper that he was comin' to Leeds to go
+round t' munition works, and would have his dinner wi' t' Lord Mayor.
+So
+I said to misel: 'I'll milk for t' King.' He's turned teetotal, has t'
+King, sin t' war started, and I telled t' cows all about it t' neet
+afore. 'Ye mun do your best, cushies, to-morn', I said. 'T' King'll be
+wantin' a sup o' milk to his ham and eggs, and I reckon 'twill do him
+more gooid nor his pint o' beer, choose how. An' just you think on that
+gentle-fowks has tickle bellies. Don't thou go hallockin' about i' t'
+tonnup-field, Eliza, and get t' taste o' t' tonnups into thy cud same
+as
+thou did last week.' Eh! they was set up about it, was t' cows; I'd
+niver seen 'em so chuffy. So next day, just to put 'em back i' their
+places, I made em gie their milk to t' owd fowks i' t' Union."</p>
+
+<p>"Who else have you milked for?" I asked, after a pause, during
+which she
+had moved her stool from Eliza to roan Anne.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, I can't reckon 'em all up," she replied. "Soomtimes it's
+weddin's
+an' soomtimes it's buryin's; then there's lile barns that's just bin
+weaned, and badly fowks i' bed."</p>
+
+<p>"And will you sometimes milk for a lady I know that lives in
+Leeds?"</p>
+
+<p>Lizzie was silent for a moment, and then asked: "Is shoo a
+taicher, an'
+has shoo gotten fantickles and red hair?"</p>
+
+<p>"No," I replied, and I thought with some amusement of the
+freckled face
+and aureoled head of the village schoolmistress, who had got across
+with
+Lizzie on account of her inability to do sums and speak "gradely
+English." "She's an old lady, with white hair; she's my mother."</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, I'll milk for thy mother," Lizzie answered; "but I'm
+thrang wi'
+sodgers this week an' next."</p>
+
+<p>"Soldiers in camp?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, sodgers i' t' hospital. Poor lads, they're sadly begone
+for want
+o' a sup o' milk. I can see 'em i' their beds i' them gert wards, and
+there's country lads amang 'em that knows all about cows an' plooin'.
+Their faces are as lang as a wet week when they think on that they've
+lossen an arm or a leg, an' will niver milk nor ploo no more. Eh! but
+I'm fain to milk for t' sodgers."</p>
+
+<p>"But how can you be sure that the right people get your milk?"
+I asked
+at last.</p>
+
+<p>She did not answer at once, and I knew that she was wondering
+at my
+stupidity, and considering how best she could make me understand. But
+she could find no words to bring home to my intelligence the confidence
+that was hers. All that she could say was: "It mun be so."</p>
+
+<p>"It mun be so." At first I thought it was just the usual game
+of
+make-believe in which children love to indulge. But it was much more
+than this, and the simple words were an expression of her sure faith
+that what she willed must come to pass. "It mun be so." Why not? "If ye
+have faith, and shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be
+thou cast into the sea, it shall be done."</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="THE_INNER_VOICE" id="THE_INNER_VOICE"></a>THE
+INNER VOICE</h2>
+
+<p>Fear is a resourceful demon, with whom we are engaged in
+perpetual
+conflict from the cradle to the grave. Fear assumes many forms, and has
+always a shrewd eye for the joints in that armour of courage and
+confidence which we put on in self-defence. One man conquers fear of
+danger only to fall a prey to fear of public opinion; another succumbs
+to superstitious fear, while a third, steadfast against all these,
+comes
+under the thraldom of the most insidious and malign of all forms of
+fear—the fear of death.</p>
+
+<p>The power of fear has of late been forcibly impressed on my
+mind by
+hearing from his own lips the story of my friend, Job Hesketh. Six
+months ago I should have said that Job was entirely unconscious of
+fear.
+I have never known a man so good-humouredly indifferent to public
+opinion. "Say what thou thinks and do what thou says" was the golden
+rule upon which he acted, and which he commended to others.
+Superstition, in its myriad forms, was for him a lifelong jest.
+Thirteen
+people at table had never been known to take the keen edge off his
+Yorkshire appetite, and he liked to make fun of his friends' dread of
+ghosts, witches and "gabbleratchets." Nothing pleased him better than
+to
+stroll of an evening round the nearest cemetery, and he had often been
+heard to declare: "I'd as sooin eat my supper off a tombstone as off
+wer
+kitchen table."</p>
+
+<p>He faced danger with reckless unconcern every day of his life.
+He was
+employed as a "vessel-man" at the Leeds Steel Works, working on a
+twelve-hours' shift, and his duty was to attend to the huge "vessels"
+or
+crucibles in which the molten pig-iron is converted by the Bessemer
+process into steel. The operation is one of enthralling interest and
+beauty, and Job Hesketh's soul was in his work. The molten iron from
+the
+blast furnaces flows along its channel into huge "ladles" or cauldrons,
+and from there it is conveyed into a still larger reservoir or "mixer,"
+where the greater part of the slag—which floats as a scum on
+the
+surface—is drawn off. Then the purified metal passes into
+other
+cauldrons, which are borne along by hydraulic machinery and their
+contents gently tipped into the crucibles, which lower their gaping
+mouths to receive the daffodil stream of molten iron. When their maws
+are full, the crucibles are once more brought into an erect position,
+and the process of converting iron into steel begins. A blast of air is
+driven through the liquid metal, and the "vessels" are at once changed
+into fountains of fire. A gigantic spray of flame and sparks rises from
+their gaping mouths and ascends to a height of twenty feet, changing
+its
+colour from green to gold and from gold to violet and blue as the
+impure
+gases of sulphur and phosphorus are purged by the blast. For twenty
+minutes this continues, and then the roar of the blast and the fiery
+spray die down. What entered the crucible as iron is now ready to be
+poured forth as steel. Once more the "vessels" are lowered and made to
+discharge their contents. First comes a molten cascade of basic slag
+which is borne away to cool, then to be ground to finest powder, before
+its quickening power is given to pasture and cornfield, imparting a
+deeper purple to the clover and a mellower gold to the rippling ears of
+wheat. When all the slag has been drawn off, there is a moment's pause,
+and then a new cascade begins. The steel is beginning to flow, not in a
+daffodil stream like the slag, but in a cascade of exquisite turquoise
+blue, melting away at the sides into iridescent opal. Sometimes a great
+cloud of steam from the pit below passes across the mouth of the
+crucible, and then the torrent of molten steel takes on all the colours
+of the rainbow, and the great shed, with its alert, swiftly moving
+figures, is suffused with a radiance of unearthly beauty.</p>
+
+<p>When the vessels have discharged all their precious liquid,
+the cauldron
+into which the metal has been poured is swung in mid-air by that
+unseen,
+effortless power which we know as hydraulic pressure, through the arc
+of
+a wide circle, until it reaches the point where the great ingot-moulds
+stand ready to receive the molten steel. Then the cauldron is tapped,
+and once more the stream of turquoise flows forth, until the ladle is
+empty and the moulds are filled to the brim with liquid fire. Such was
+the work in which Job Hesketh was engaged, and it absorbed him body and
+soul from year's end to year's end.</p>
+
+<p>Job was a giant in stature and strength. Born on a farm in the
+very
+heart of the Yorkshire wolds, he had drifted, as a boy of sixteen, to
+Leeds, and had found the life and activities of the forge as congenial
+as those of the farmstead. He had reached the age of fifty without
+knowing a day's illness, and he would have been the first to admit that
+fortune had smiled on him. His home life had been smooth, his wages had
+been sufficient for his simple needs, and the good health that he
+enjoyed was shared by his wife and five children. It is true that, in
+spite of his long years of service, he had never risen to be a foreman;
+but that, he knew quite well, was his own fault. During the summer
+months his conduct at the forge was exemplary, but as soon as November
+set in it was another matter. Fox-hunting was the passion of his life,
+and with the fall of the leaf in the last days of October, Job grew
+restless. He would eagerly scan the papers for news of the doings of
+the
+Bramham Moor Hunt, and from the opening of the season to its close he
+would play truant on at least one day a week. He knew every cover for
+leagues around, and thought nothing of tramping six or eight miles to
+be
+ready for the meet before following the hounds and huntsman all day on
+foot across the stubble fields. In vain did foremen and works-managers
+remonstrate with him; he promised to reform, but never kept his word.
+The blood of many generations of wold farmers ran in his veins, and
+everyone of them had been a keen sportsman. The cry of the hounds rang
+in his dreams of a night, and when Mary Hesketh, lying by her husband's
+side, heard him muttering in his sleep: "Tally-ho! Hark to Rover! Stown
+away!" she knew that, when the hooter sounded at half-past five, it
+would summon him, not to work, but to a day with the hounds. He would
+return home between four and five, mud-stained from head to foot,
+triumphant at heart, but with an amusingly cowed expression on his
+face,
+as of a dog that expects a whipping.</p>
+
+<p>The only whipping that Mary Hesketh could administer to her
+repentant
+Job was that of the tongue. In her early matrimonial life she had
+wielded this like a flail, and Job had winced before the blows which
+she
+delivered. But in course of time she had come to realise that her
+husband's passion for the chase was incurable, and, like a wise woman,
+she accepted it as part of her destiny. "Thou's bin laikin' agean, thou
+gert good-for-nowt," was her usual greeting for Job on these occasions.</p>
+
+<p>"Ay, ay, lass," he would reply; "I've addled nowt all t' day.
+But thou
+promised, when we wed, to tak me for better or worse; an' if t' worse
+wasn't t' hounds, it would happen be hosses or drink. Sithee, Mally,
+I've browt thee a two-three snowdrops; thou can wear 'em o' Sunday."</p>
+
+<p>Such was the Job Hesketh that I had known and loved for many
+years, and
+I saw no reason why his genial temper and buoyant heart should not
+remain with him to the end of his life. Yet within six months the man
+changed completely. He grew suddenly old and shrunken; the great blithe
+laugh that pealed through the house was silenced, the look of suave
+contentment with himself and with the world about him vanished from his
+face, and in its place I saw a nervous, troubled glance as of one who
+suspects a lurking foe ready to spring at his throat. The change which
+came over Job was like that which sometimes comes over a city sky in
+autumn. The morning breaks fair, and the sun rises from out a
+cloudless,
+frosty sky, promising a day of sunshine. But then, with the lighting of
+a hundred thousand fires, a change takes place. The smoke cannot escape
+in the windless air, but hangs like a pall over the houses. The sun
+grows chill, coppery and rayless, and soon a fog, creeping along the
+river, silently encloses each particle of smoke within a watery shroud,
+and a mantle of murky gloom invests the city.</p>
+
+<p>What was it that wrought this sudden change in the mind of Job
+Hesketh?
+The story is soon told. For a long time there had been no serious
+accident at the Leeds Steel Works, and the workmen, almost without
+being
+aware of it, had grown somewhat reckless of the dangers which they had
+to face. They knew quite well that in many of the operations which the
+metal undergoes in its passage from crude ore to ingots of steel, a
+false step meant instant death. But they had known this so long that
+the
+knowledge had lost its terrors.</p>
+
+<p>There are many moments of enforced idleness for the vesselmen
+as they
+stand on their raised platform in front of the crucibles; but, even
+during these moments of inactivity, alertness of mind is required. One
+morning their minds were not alert, and one of the workmen, Abe Verity
+by name, seated on the railing which separates the platform from the
+pit
+in which stand the ingot-moulds, had snatched the cap from the head of
+one of his fellows. The latter, in response to this, had raised his
+crowbar, as if he meant to strike Abe on the head, and Abe, lurching
+backward on the railing in order to avoid the blow, had lost his
+balance
+and fallen backwards. Under ordinary circumstances this would have
+meant
+nothing worse than a drop into the pit below, but, as ill-luck would
+have it, one of the cauldrons of molten steel was being swung along the
+arc of the pit by a hydraulic crane, and, at the very moment when Abe
+lost his balance, it had reached the point beneath which he was
+sitting.
+There was an agonised cry from the vesselmen on their platform, a
+hissing splash with great gouts of liquid fire flying in all
+directions,
+a sickening smell, and then, a few minutes later, a clergyman, hastily
+summoned from the adjoining church, was reciting the burial service
+over
+the calcined body of Abe Verity.</p>
+
+<p>Blank terror gleamed in the eyes of the men who had been
+witnesses of
+this grim holocaust. All work was suspended for the day, and Job
+Hesketh
+was led home, dazed and trembling in every joint, by his two eldest
+sons, who worked in another part of the forge. Huddled together in his
+chair by the kitchen fire, perspiration streamed from his face. He was
+in a state bordering on delirium, and the answers which he gave to the
+questions put to him were wildly incoherent.</p>
+
+<p>Abe Verity was his friend. They had been boys together in the
+little
+wold village where they had been born, and it was at Job's earnest
+entreaty that Abe had quitted farm work and joined his friend at the
+Leeds Steel Works. Their tastes had been similar, and the Veritys had
+often joined the Heskeths in their summer holiday at the seaside. And
+now, in one fell moment, the lifelong friendship had been severed, and
+Abe, the glad, strong, heart-warm man, had plunged from life to death.</p>
+
+<p>Job refused to go to bed that night, but sat in his chair by
+the
+flickering embers of his kitchen fire. His wife, lying awake in the
+bedroom above, listened to his hard breathing and to the half-stifled
+words which now and again fell from his lips. He was brooding over the
+terrible scene he had witnessed. Every detail had bitten itself into
+his
+brain like acid into metal. He saw the waves of liquid steel closing
+over his friend, the greedy swirl of the molten metal, and then the
+little tongues of red fire playing upon the surface. They reminded him
+of the red tongues of wolves which he had once seen in a cage, as they
+licked their chops after their feed of horse-flesh. Then it was the
+clergyman reading from his Prayer Book in the garish light of the forge
+that fastened itself on his mind. The words seemed charged with bitter
+mockery: "We give Thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased Thee to
+deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world."
+"Hearty thanks"! he muttered scornfully. "I'll gie God nowt o' t' sort.
+Life tasted gooid to Abe. He knew nowt about t' miseries o' t' sinful
+world. He led a clean life, did Abe; an' he were fain o' life, same as
+I
+am."</p>
+
+<p>Time gradually assuaged the first horror of the tragedy which
+Job had
+witnessed, but it failed to bring him peace of mind. Fear of death,
+which up to the moment of the tragedy at the forge had never given him
+an uneasy moment, now entered into possession of his mind and haunted
+him awake or asleep. His work at the forge, once a joy to him, was now
+an unbroken agony. He saw death lying in wait for him every time he
+climbed a ladder or lifted a crowbar. Nor could he wholly escape from
+the terror in what had always seemed to him the security of his home.
+The howling of the wind in the chimney, the muttering of a distant
+thunderstorm, even the sight of his razor on the dressing-table, were
+enough to arouse the morbid fear and strike terror to his heart.</p>
+
+<p>He said little of the agony that he suffered, but it was
+written plainly
+in his eyes, in his ashen face and in the trembling of his hand. I did
+my best to induce him to speak his mind to me, but with poor success.
+One Sunday evening, however, when I found him and his wife seated by
+themselves over the fire, I found him more communicative, and I
+realised
+that what he dreaded most of all in the thought of death was loss of
+personality. Of the unelect Calvinist's fear of hell he knew nothing.
+What troubled him was, rather, dissatisfaction with heaven. Job was not
+much of a theologian, though he attended chapel regularly of a Sunday
+evening. His ideas of heaven were drawn mainly from certain popular
+hymns, which depicted the life of the redeemed as a perpetual practice
+of psalmody.</p>
+
+<p>"What sud I be doin' i' heaven," he asked, "wi' a crown o'
+gowd on my
+heead and nowt to do all day but twang a harp, just as if I were one o'
+them lads i' t' band? What mak o' life's yon for a chap like me, that's
+allus bin used to tug an' tew for his livin'!"</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, Job," his wife replied, "but thou'll be fain o' a bit o'
+rest when
+thy turn cooms. It's a place o' rest, that's what heaven is; thou'll
+noan be wanted to play on t' harp without thou's a mind to."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't sit idle like thee, Mary," Job answered. "I mun allus
+be doin'
+summat. If it isn't Steel Works, it's fox-huntin'; and if it isn't
+fox-huntin' it's fettlin' up t' henhouse, or doin' a bit o' wark wi' my
+shool i' t' tatie-patch."</p>
+
+<p>"Thou'll happen change thy mind when thou's a bit owder," was
+Mary
+Hesketh's answer to this. "When I'm ower thrang wi' wark on a
+washin'-day, I just set misen down on t' chair and think o' t' rest o'
+heaven, an' I say ower to misen yon lines that I larnt frae my muther:</p>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"I knew a poor lass that
+allus were tired,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Shoo lived in a house
+wheer help wasn't hired.</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Her last words on earth
+were, 'Dear friends, I am goin'</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Wheer weshin' ain't
+doon, nor sweepin', nor sewin',</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Don't weep for me now,
+don't weep for me niver,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I'm boun' to do nowt for
+iver an' iver.'"</span><br>
+
+<p>"Ay, lass," Job replied, "that's reight enif for thee.
+Breedin' barns
+taks it out o' a woman. But it'll noan suit me so weel."</p>
+
+<p>I did my best to reason with Job and to enlarge his conception
+of the
+life to come and of the progress of the soul after death, but I made
+little impression on his mind. A heaven without forges, fox-hunting and
+hen-coops offered him no possible attraction.</p>
+
+<p>"What thou says may be true," he would answer, "but it'll noan
+be Job
+Hesketh that's sittin' theer. It'll be somebody else o' t' same name."</p>
+
+<p>Thus did he fall back upon his ever-besetting fear of loss of
+personality in the life hereafter, and, like his Biblical namesake, he
+refused to be comforted.</p>
+
+<p>The agony which Job Hesketh was enduring did not make him
+listless. On
+the contrary, it seemed to give him new energy. It is true that the old
+pleasure had gone out of his work and play, but to him work and play
+meant life, and to life he clung with the energy of one who lived in
+constant fear lest it should be suddenly snatched from him. It was
+January when Abe Verity had met with his fatal accident, and all
+through
+the next six months Job toiled like a galley-slave.</p>
+
+<p>It was the practice of the Heskeths to spend the first ten
+days of
+August at the seaside. It was their annual holiday, long talked of and
+long prepared, and it was invariably spent at Bridlington. There Job
+could indulge to the full in his favourite holiday pastime of swimming,
+and there he was in close touch with the undulating wold country where
+his boyhood had been spent. He could renew old acquaintances, lend a
+hand to the farmers, or wander at will along the chalk beds of the
+<i>gipsies</i> or dry water-courses which wind their way
+from the hills to
+the sea. Years ago he and his wife had given a trial to Scarborough,
+Blackpool and Morecambe as seaside resorts, but they felt like
+foreigners there and had come back to Bridlington as to an old home.</p>
+
+<p>"There's nowt like Bridlington sands," he would say, in
+self-defence.
+"I'm noan sayin' but what there's a better colour i' t' watter at
+Blackpool, but there's ower mich wind on' t sea. Sea-watter gits into
+your mouth when you're swimmin' and then you've to blow like a grampus.
+Scarborough's ower classy for t' likes o' Mary an' me; it's all reight
+for bettermy-bodies that likes to dizen theirselves out an' sook cigars
+on church parade. But me an' t' owd lass allus go to Bridlington. It's
+homely, is Bridlington, an' you're not runnin' up ivery minute agean
+foreign counts an' countesses that ought to bide wheer they belang, an'
+keep theirsens to theirsens."</p>
+
+<p>There had been no improvement in Job's state of mind during
+the long
+summer days that preceded his holiday. In his most robust days
+inquiries
+as to his health always elicited the answer that he was "just
+middlin',"
+which is the invariable answer that the cautious Yorkshireman
+vouchsafes
+to give. Now, with a shrunken frame, and fever in his eye, he was still
+"just middlin'," and, only when hard pressed would be acknowledge the
+carking fear that was gnawing at his heart. I was, however, not without
+hope that change of air and sea-bathing, for which Job had a passion
+almost equal to that for fox-hunting, would restore him to health and
+tranquillity of mind.</p>
+
+<p>The Heskeths started for Bridlington on a Friday, and on the
+following
+Sunday the news reached me that my old friend had been drowned while
+bathing. I was stunned by the blow, and a feeling of intense gloom
+pervaded my mind all day. But next morning the rumour was corrected.
+Job, it seems, had gone for a long swim on the Saturday morning, and,
+not realising that he had lost strength during the last six months, had
+swum too far out of his depth. His strength had given out on the return
+journey, and only the arrival of a boatman had saved him from death by
+drowning. Relieved as I was by this second account of what had
+happened,
+I was, nevertheless, a prey to the fear that this second encounter with
+death would have enhanced that agony of mind which he had endured ever
+since the moment when his friend, Abe Verity, had fallen into the
+cauldron of molten steel. I waited anxiously for Job's return home and
+determined to go and see him on the evening following his arrival.</p>
+
+<p>I was in my bedroom, preparing to start off, when, to my
+surprise, I
+heard Job's voice at my front door. I ran downstairs and was face to
+face with a Job Hesketh that I had not known for six months. His head
+and shoulders were erect, he had put on flesh, and the cowed look had
+entirely vanished from his eyes. I at once congratulated him on his
+improved appearance.</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, aye," he answered, "there's nowt mich wrang wi' me."</p>
+
+<p>"Bridlington, I see, has done you a world of good."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, I've bin farther nor Bridlington," he replied, and the
+old merry
+twinkle, that I knew so well and had missed so long, came into his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean?" I asked. "Have you been on board one of
+the Wilson
+liners in the Humber and crossed over to Holland?"</p>
+
+<p>"Farther nor Holland," he replied, with a chuckle. "I've bin
+to heaven.
+I reckon I'm t' first Yorkshireman that's bin to heaven an' gotten a
+return ticket given him."</p>
+
+<p>"Sit down, Job," I said, "and stop that nonsense. What do you
+mean?"</p>
+
+<p>Job seated himself by my study fire, leisurely took from his
+pocket a
+dirty clay pipe and a roll of black twist, which he proceeded to cut
+and
+pound. As he was thus engaged he would look up from time to time into
+my
+face and enjoy to the full the look of impatience imprinted on it.</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, lad," he began at last, "I've bin to heaven sin I last
+saw thee,
+an' heaven's more like Leeds nor I thowt for."</p>
+
+<p>"Like Leeds!" I exclaimed, and, as Job seemed in a jesting
+mood, I
+decided to humour him. "I fancy it must have been the other place you
+got to. To think of you not being able to tell heaven from hell."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, 'twere heaven, reight enif," he continued, undisturbed.
+"I could
+tell it by t' glint i' t' een o' t' lads an' lasses."</p>
+
+<p>I could see that Job had a story to tell of more than ordinary
+interest.
+His changed appearance and buoyant manner showed clearly that something
+had happened to him which ha. I was determined to hear the
+story in full.</p>
+
+<p>"Now then, Job," I said, "let us get to business. Take that
+pipe out of
+your mouth and tell me what you have been doing at Bridlington."</p>
+
+<p>Job laid down his clay pipe, cleared his throat, and polished
+his face
+till it shone, with a large red handkerchief, and began his story.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, you see, t' missus an' me got to Bridlington Friday
+afore Bank
+Holiday, an' next mornin' I went down to t' shore for my swim same as
+I'd allus done afore. 'Twere a breet mornin', an t' chalk cliffs o'
+Flamborough were glistenin' i' t' sun-leet. T' fishin' boats were out
+at
+sea, an' t' air were fair wick wi' kittiwakes an' herrin' gulls. So I
+just undressed misen, walked down to t' watter an' started swimmin'.
+Eh!
+but t' sea were bonny an' warm, an' for once I got all yon dowly thowts
+o' death clean out o' my head. So I just struck out for t' buoy that
+were anchored out at sea, happen hafe a mile frae t' shore. That had
+allus bin my swim sin first we took to comin' to Bridlington, and I'd
+niver had no trouble i' swimmin' theer an' back. I got to t' buoy all
+reight an' rested misen a bit an' looked round. Gow! but 'twere a grand
+seet. I could see t' leet-house at Spurn, and reight i' front o' me
+were
+Bridlington wi' t' Priory Church and up beyond were fields an' fields
+of
+corn wi' farm-houses set amang t' plane-trees an' t' sun-leet
+glistenin'
+on their riggins. Efter a while I started to swim back. But it were
+noan
+so easy. Tide were agean me an' there were a freshish breeze off l'
+land. Howiver, I'd no call to hurry misen, so when I got a bit tired I
+lay on my back, an' floated an' looked up at t' gulls aboon my head.
+But
+then I fan' out 'twere no use floatin'; t' tide were driftin' me out to
+sea. So I got agate o' swimmin' an' kept at it for wellnigh ten
+minutes.
+But t' shore were a lang way off, an' then, sudden-like, I began to
+think o' Abe Verity, an' t' fear o' death got howd on me an' clutched
+me
+same as if I'd bin taen wi' cramp. There were lads fishin' frae boats
+noan so far off, an' I hollaed to 'em; but they niver heerd. I tewed
+an'
+better tewed, but I got no forrarder; an' then I knew I were boun' to
+drown."</p>
+
+<p>As Job got to this point in his story something of the old
+terror crept
+into his eyes, and I did my best to cheer him.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Job," I said, "they tell me that drowning is the
+pleasantest kind
+of death that there is."</p>
+
+<p>His face brightened up immediately, and he replied: "Thou's
+tellin'
+true, lad, an' what's more, I know all about it. If anybody wants to
+know what it's like to be drowned, send 'em to Job Hesketh. If I'd as
+mony lives as an owd tom-cat, I'd get shut on 'em all wi' drownin'."</p>
+
+<p>Job's spirits were evidently restored, so I urged him to get
+on with his
+story.</p>
+
+<p>"Well," he continued, "I tugged an' tewed as lang as I could,
+but my
+mouth began to get full o' watter, my legs an' airms were dead beat,
+an'
+I reckoned that 'twere all ower wi' me. An' then a fearful queer sort
+o'
+thing happened me. I were i' my father's farm on t' wold, laikin' wi'
+my
+brothers same as I used to do when I were a lile barn. An', what's
+more,
+I thowt it were my ninth birthday. You see, when I were nine yeer owd,
+my father gave me two gimmer lambs an' I were prouder yon day nor iver
+I'd bin i' my life afore. Weel, that were t' day that had coom back; I
+knew nowt about drownin', but theer was I teein' a bit o' ribbin' about
+t' lambs' necks an' givin' 'em a sup o' milk out o' a bottle. An' then
+I
+were drivin' wi' my father an' mother i' t' spring-cart to Driffield
+markit. I'd donned my best clothes and my nuncle had gien me a new
+sixpenny-bit for a fairin', an' I were to buy choose-what I liked.
+Well,
+I were aimin' to think how I sud spend t' brass when I got to
+Driffield,
+when suddenly I weren't a lile barn no more. I were Job Hesketh,
+vesselman at Leeds Steel Works, and I were drownin' i' t' sea. I saw a
+boat noan so far away and I tried to holla to t' boatman, but 'twere no
+use; all my strength had given out, an' my voice were nobbut a groan.
+An' then——"</p>
+
+<p>Job paused, and I looked up into his face. A strange radiance
+had come
+over it, such as I had never seen there before. I had heard it said
+that
+all that was brightest in a man's past life rises like a vision before
+his eyes when, in the act of drowning, his body sinks once, and then
+again, beneath the water, but I had never before confronted a man who
+could relate in detail what had happened to him. Then there was Job's
+story about his return ticket to heaven, which puzzled me, and I urged
+him to continue his story.</p>
+
+<p>"Thou'll reckon I'm talkin' blether," he went on, "but I tell
+thee it's
+true, ivery word on it. I'll tak my Bible oath on it. All on a sudden I
+were stannin' i' a gert park, and eh! but there were grand trees. They
+were birk-trees, an' their boles were that breet they fair glistened i'
+t' sunleet. An' underneath t' birks were bluebells, yakkers an' yakkers
+o' bluebells, an' I thowt they were bluer an' breeter nor ony I'd seen
+afore. There were all maks o' birds i' t' trees—spinks an'
+throstles
+an' blackbirds—an' t' air aboon my head were fair wick wi'
+larks an'
+pipits singin' as canty as could be. Weel, I followed along t'
+beck-side
+while I com to a gert lake, wi' lads an' lasses sailin' boats on it. So
+I said to misen: 'My word! but it's Roundhay Park an' all.' But it
+wern't nowt o' t' sort. For one thing there were no policemen about,
+same as you'd see at Roundhay on a Bank Holiday, an' at low side o' t'
+lake there was a town wi' all maks an' manders o' buildin's; an',
+what's
+more, a steel works wi' blast-furnaces. Weel, I were stood there,
+watchin' t' childer paddlin' about i' t' watter, when somebody clapped
+his hand on my showder an' sang out: 'Hullo! Job, how long hasta bin
+here?' I looked round an', by t' Mass! who sud I see but Abe Verity."</p>
+
+<p>"Abe Verity!" I exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>"Ay, 'twere Abe hissen, plain as life.</p>
+
+<p>"So I said: 'Hullo! Abe, how ista?'</p>
+
+<p>"'Just middlin',' says Abe, 'an' how's thisen? How long hasta
+bin here?'</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I didn't hardlins know what to say to him. You see I
+didn't
+fairly know where I was, so I couldn't tell him how lang I'd bin theer.
+So I says to him: 'Sithee, Abe, is this Roundhay Park?'</p>
+
+<p>"'Raandhay Park,' says Abe. You see Abe allus talked a bit
+broad. He
+couldn't talk gradely English same as you an' me. 'Twere all along o'
+him livin' wi' them Leeds loiners up at Hunslet Carr. 'Raandhay Park!'
+he says. 'Nay, lad, you'll noan see birk-trees like yon i' Raandhay
+Park.' And he pointed to t' birk-trees by t' lake-side, wi' boles two
+foot through.</p>
+
+<p>"'What is it then?' I asked. 'Have I coom to foreign parts?
+I'm a bad
+'un to mell wi' foreigners.'</p>
+
+<p>"'Nay,' said Abe, 'thou's i' heaven.'</p>
+
+<p>"'Heaven!' I shouted out, an' I looked up at Abe to see if he
+were
+fleerin' at me. He looked as grave as a judge, did Abe, but then I
+noticed that he were donned i' his blue overalls, same as if he'd just
+coom frae his wark. So I said to him: 'Heaven, is it? I can't see mich
+o' heaven about thee, Abe. Wheer's thy harp an' crown o' gowd?'</p>
+
+<p>"'Harp an' crown o' gowd,' said Abe, an' he started laughin'.
+'Who is
+thou takkin' me for? I'm noan King David. I'm a vesselman at t' steel
+works,' an' he pointed wi' his hand across t' lake to wheer we could
+see
+t' forge.</p>
+
+<p>"Gow! but I were fair flustrated. There was Abe Verity tellin'
+me one
+minute that I were in heaven, and next minute he were sayin' that he
+were workin' at t' steel works. You see I had allus thowt that i'
+heaven
+iverything would be different to what it is on earth. So I said: 'Does
+thou mean to tell me, Abe, that lads i' heaven do t' same sort o' wark
+that they've bin doin' all their lives on earth?'</p>
+
+<p>"'Nay,' says Abe, 'I'll noan go so far as to say just that.
+What I say
+is that they start i' heaven wheer they've left off on earth; but t'
+conditions is different.'</p>
+
+<p>"'How's that?' I axed.</p>
+
+<p>"'Well, for one thing, a lad taks more pride i' his wark; an',
+what's
+more, he's freer to do what he likes. When I were at Leeds Steel Works
+I
+had to do choose-what t' boss telled me. Up here I'm my own boss.'</p>
+
+<p>"When I heerd that, I knew that Abe were weel suited. You see
+he were a
+bit o' a Socialist, were Abe; he used to wear a red tie an' talk
+Socialism of a Setterday neet on Hunslet Moor. So I said to him:
+'Doesta
+mean that heaven stands for Socialism, Abe?'</p>
+
+<p>"But Abe laughed an' shook his heead. 'Nay, lad,' he said, 'we
+haven't
+gotten no 'isms i' heaven. We've gotten shut o' all that sort o' thing.
+There's no argifying i' heaven. There's plenty o' discipline, but it's
+what we call self-discipline; an' I reckon that's t' only sort o'
+discipline that's worth owt.'</p>
+
+<p>"'That'll niver do for me, Abe,' I said. 'If it were a case o'
+self-discipline, I reckon I'd niver do a stroke o' wark.'</p>
+
+<p>"'Nay, lad,' he said; 'thou'll think different now thou's coom
+to
+heaven. Thou'll hark to t' inner voice an' do what it tells thee.'</p>
+
+<p>"'Inner voice,' I said; 'what's that?'</p>
+
+<p>"'It's a new sort o' boss,' says Abe; 'an' a gooid 'un an'
+all. When
+thou wants to know what to do or how to do it, thou just sets thisen
+down, an' t' inner voice starts talkin' to thee an' keeps on talkin',
+while thou gets agate o' doin' what it tells thee.'"</p>
+
+<p>Job's story was gripping my imagination as nothing had done
+before.
+Heaven was a place of activity and not of rest; a place where the
+labours of earth were renewed at the point at which they had ceased on
+earth, but under ideal conditions; so that labour, under the guidance
+of
+self-discipline, became service. Job's account of his conversation with
+Abe made all this as clear as sunlight, but I was still somewhat
+puzzled
+by the story of the inner voice.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you think Abe meant by the inner voice?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay," replied Job, "I can't tell. But what he said were true.
+I'm sure
+o' that. There were a look in his een that I'd niver seen theer afore;
+'twere as if t' inner voice were speakin' through his een as well as
+through his mouth."</p>
+
+<p>"It's something more than conscience," I went on, speaking as
+much to
+myself as to Job. "Conscience tells a man what it is his duty to do,
+but
+conscience does not teach him how to do things."</p>
+
+<p>We were both silent for a few moments, pondering over the
+problem of the
+inner voice. Then a thought flashed through my mind and, rising from my
+seat, I went to my bookshelves and took down a volume of Browning's
+poems. I eagerly turned over the pages of <i>Paracelsus</i>,
+read a few
+verses to myself, and then exclaimed:</p>
+
+<p>"I know what it is, Job. The inner voice is the voice of
+truth." And I
+read aloud the verses in which Paracelsus, that eager quest after
+truth,
+speaks his mind to his friend Festus:</p>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Truth is within
+ourselves; it takes no rise</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">From outward things,
+whate'er you may believe.</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">There is an inmost
+centre in us all,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Where truth abides in
+fullness; and around,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Wall upon wall, the
+gross flesh hems it in,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">This perfect, clear
+perception—which is truth.</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A baffling and
+perverting carnal mesh</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Binds it and makes all
+error: and to KNOW</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Rather consists in
+opening out a way</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whence the imprisoned
+splendour may escape,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Than in effecting entry
+for a light,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Supposed to be without.</span><br>
+
+<p>Browning was, perhaps, somewhat beyond the comprehension of
+Job Hesketh,
+but he liked to hear me reading poetry aloud.</p>
+
+<p>"Whativer it is," he said, "Abe Verity knows all about it. He
+were allus
+a better scholar nor me, were Abe, sin first we went to schooil
+together; but I reckon I'll know all about it, too, when I've slipped
+t'
+leash an' started work at Heaven Steel Works."</p>
+
+<p>It was evident that a great change had come over Job's mind,
+and that
+the wonderful vision of a future life that had been granted to him
+during that second immersion beneath the waves of the North Sea had
+wholly taken away from him his old fear of death. But I wanted to hear
+the conclusion of the story, and pressed him to continue.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay," he said, "there's noan so mich more to tell. There was
+summat i'
+Abe that made me a bit flaid o' axin' him ower mony questions. He were
+drissed like a plain vesselman, sure enif; but he talked as if he were
+a
+far-learnt man, an' his own maister. I axed him how lang t' shifts
+lasted i' heaven, an' he said: 'We work as lang as t' inner voice tells
+us to.' You see 'twere allus t' inner voice, an' I couldn't hardlins
+mak
+out what he meant by that.</p>
+
+<p>"Then a thowt com into my heead, but I didn't fairly like to
+out wi' it,
+for fear T' Man Aboon were somewheer about an' sud hear me. So I just
+leaned ovver and whispered i' Abe's lug:</p>
+
+<p>"'Doesta tak a day off nows an' thens an' run wi' t' hounds or
+t'
+harriers?'</p>
+
+<p>"Abe laughed as if he were fit to brust hissen, an' then,
+afore he'd
+time to answer, iverything went as dark as a booit. I saw no more o'
+Abe, nor o' t' lake, nor o' t' birk-trees; an' t' next time I oppened
+my
+een there were a doctor chap stannin' ower me wi' a belly-pump in his
+hand, an' I were liggin' on a bed as weak as a kitlin."</p>
+
+<p>Job was silent for a while, after finishing his story and
+relighting his
+pipe, and his silence gave me a chance of looking at him closely.
+Physically he was none the worse for his adventure; mentally,
+spiritually, he was a new man. The fear of death had gone from his
+eyes,
+and in its place was the joy of life, together with a sure faith in the
+triumph of personality when, to use his own coursing phrase, he had
+slipped the leash. His vision of heaven was somewhat too material to
+satisfy me, but there could be no doubt that it had brought to his
+terror-swept soul the peace of mind which passeth all understanding.</p>
+
+<p>After a while Job rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and
+took his
+leave. I accompanied him to the door and watched him as he walked down
+the street. There was something buoyant in his tread, and his gigantic
+shoulders rolled from side to side like a seaman's on the quarter-deck.
+Soon he started whistling, and I smiled as I caught the tune. It was
+one
+of his chapel hymns, and there was a note of exultation in the closing
+bars:</p>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"O grave! where is thy
+victory?</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">O death! where is thy
+sting?"</span><br>
+
+<p>My mind was full of Job's story all that day. I somehow
+refused to
+believe that what he had related was mere imagination, and it was
+evident that he could not have invented the story of the inner voice,
+for this remained a mystery to him. The inner voice haunted me all the
+time, and, as I lay in bed that night, I asked myself again and again
+the question: Why must we wait for a future life to hear this inner
+voice?</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="BA" id="BA"></a>B.A.</h2>
+
+<p>They met at the smithy, waiting for "The Crooked Billet" to
+open for the
+evening. There was Joe Stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as
+Besom-Joe, William Throup the postman, Tommy Thwaite the "Colonel," so
+called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of
+the Allied Commanders-in-Chief, and Owd Jerry the smith, who knew how
+to
+keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his
+hammer on the anvil. He refuted his opponents by asking them questions,
+after the manner of Socrates. The subject of conversation was the
+village school-mistress, who had recently been placed in charge of some
+thirty children, and was winning golden opinions on all sides.</p>
+
+<p>"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut
+fower foot
+eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places
+wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick."</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her
+heead," said
+Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, shoo'll noan best t' parson," objected Stackhouse who,
+as
+"church-warner" for the year, looked upon himself as the defender of
+the
+faith, the clergy, and all their works. "Parson's written books abaat
+t'
+owd churches i' t' district, who's bin wedded in 'em, and who's liggin'
+i' t' vaults."</p>
+
+<p>"Well," rejoined the Colonel, "and didn't Mary Crabtree, wheer
+shoo
+lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen
+books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?"</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has,"
+retorted
+Stackhouse.</p>
+
+<p>"I reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to
+cover as to
+write one," retorted the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"An' shoo can write too," the postman joined in, "better nor
+t' parson.
+I've seen her letters, them shoo writes and them shoo gets sent her.
+An'
+there's a queer thing abaat some o' t' letters at fowks writes to her;
+they put B.A. at after her name."</p>
+
+<p>"Happen them'll be her Christian names," suggested Stackhouse.
+"There's
+a mak o' fowks nowadays that gets more nor one name when they're
+kessened."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay," replied Throup, "her name's Mary, and what fowks puts
+on t'
+envelope is Miss Mary Taylor, B.A."</p>
+
+<p>"Thou's sure it's 'B.A.,' and not 'A.B.,'" said Stackhouse.
+"I've a
+nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered
+'A.B.,'
+meaning able-bodied, so as t' Admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a
+limb."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, it's 'B.A.,' and fowks wodn't call a lass like Mary
+Taylor
+able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin."</p>
+
+<p>"I reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'B.A.,'"
+interposed the
+Colonel. "Shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me
+they're
+all foorced to put 'B.A.' at after their names."</p>
+
+<p>"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of
+information
+coming from the Colonel.</p>
+
+<p>"Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks.
+It'll be same
+as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name."</p>
+
+<p>"Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked
+William
+Throup, his mouth agape with wonder.</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, blether-heead," replied Stackhouse, "they'll be like t'
+specials,
+and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. But doesta reckon, Colonel,
+that B.A. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, they tell me that it stands for Bachelor of Arts,
+choose-what that
+means."</p>
+
+<p>The smith had listened to the Colonel's explanation of the
+mysterious
+letters with growing scepticism. He had scarcely spoken, but an
+attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short,
+petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he
+stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and
+proceeded,
+after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions.</p>
+
+<p>"Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is
+a he-male
+or a she-male?"</p>
+
+<p>"Her's a she-male, o' course. What maks thee axe that?"</p>
+
+<p>The smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a
+cinder, and
+proceeded with his own cross-examination.</p>
+
+<p>"An' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell
+a he-male
+thro' a she-male as well as thee?"</p>
+
+<p>"O' course they can. By t' mass, Jerry, what arta drivin' at?"</p>
+
+<p>"An' hasta niver bin i' church, Colonel," the smith continued,
+unperturbed, "when t' parson has put spurrins up? Why, 'twere nobbut a
+week last Sunday sin he axed if onybody knew just cause or 'pediment
+why
+Tom Pounder sudn't wed Anne Coates."</p>
+
+<p>"I mind it, sure enough," interjected Stackhouse, "and fowks
+began to
+girn, for they knew there was ivery cause an' 'pediment why he sud wed
+her."</p>
+
+<p>"Hod thy din! Besom-Joe, while I ve sattled wi' t' Colonel"
+said the
+smith, and he turned once more on his man. "What I want to know is if
+parson didn't say: 'I publish t' banns o' marriage between Tom Pounder,
+bachelor, and Anne Coates, spinster, both o' this parish.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, that's reight," said the Colonel, "an' I see what thou's
+drivin'
+at. Thou means Mary Taylor ought to be called spinster. Well, for sure,
+I niver thowt o' that."</p>
+
+<p>"It's not likely thou would; thou's noan what I sud call a
+thinkin' man.
+Thy tongue is ower fast for thy mind to keep up wi' it."</p>
+
+<p>"Then what doesta reckon they letters stand for?" asked
+Besom-Joe.</p>
+
+<p>"There's nowt sae difficult wi' t' letters when you give your
+mind to
+'em," the smith replied. "What I want to know is, if Mary Taylor came
+here of her own accord, or if her was putten into t' job by other
+fowks."</p>
+
+<p>"I reckon shoo was appointed by t' Eddication Committee."</p>
+
+<p>"Appointed, was shoo? I thowt as mich. Then mebbe 'B.A.' will
+stand for
+'By appointment.'"</p>
+
+<p>The smith's solution of the problem was received with silence,
+but the
+silence implied approval. The Colonel, it is true, smarting under a
+sense of defeat, would have liked to press the argument further; but
+just then the front door of "The Crooked Billet" was thrown open by the
+landlord, and the smithy was speedily emptied of its occupants.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;">
+<h2><a name="CORN-FEVER" id="CORN-FEVER"></a>CORN-FEVER</h2>
+
+<p>"Sithee, lass, oppen t' windey a minute, there's a love."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you want t' windey openin' for, mother? You'll give
+me my death
+o' cowd."</p>
+
+<p>"I thowt I heerd t' soond o' t' reaper."</p>
+
+<p>"Sound o' t' reaper! Nay, 'twere nobbut t' tram coomin' down
+t' road.
+What makes you think o' reapers? You don't live i' t' country any
+longer."</p>
+
+<p>"Happen I were wrang, but they'll be cuttin' corn noan sae far
+away, I
+reckon."</p>
+
+<p>"What have you got to do wi' corn, I'd like to know? If you
+wanted to
+bide i' t' country when father deed, you sud hae said so. I gave you
+your choice, sure enough. 'Coom an' live wi' me i' Hustler's Court,' I
+said, 'an' help me wi' t' ready-made work, or else you can find a place
+for yourself 'i Thirsk Workhouse.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, I've had my choice, Mary, but it's gey hard tewin' all
+t' day at
+button-holes, when September's set in and I think on t' corn-harvist."</p>
+
+<p>There was a pause in the conversation, and Mary, to humour her
+mother,
+threw up the window and let in the roar of the trams, the far-off clang
+of the steel hammers at the forge, and the rancid smell of the
+fried-fish shop preparing for the evening's trade. The old woman
+listened attentively to catch the sound which she longed for more than
+anything else in the world, but the street noises drowned everything.
+She sank back in her chair and took up the garment she was at work on.
+But her mind was busy, and after a few minutes she turned again to her
+daughter.</p>
+
+<p>"Thoo'll not be thinkin' o' havin' a day i' t' coontry this
+month,
+Mary?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, I'm noan sich a fool as to want to go trapsin' about t'
+lanes an'
+t' ditches. I've my work to attend to, or we'll not get straight wi' t'
+rent."</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, we're a bit behind wi' t' rent sin thoo com back frae
+thy week i'
+Blackpool."</p>
+
+<p>"Now don't you be allus talkin' about my week i' Blackpool; I
+reckon
+I've a right to go there, same as t' other lasses that works at
+Cohen's."</p>
+
+<p>"I wasn't complainin', Mary."</p>
+
+<p>"Eh! but I know you were; and that's all t' thanks I get for
+sendin' you
+them picture postcards. You want me to bide a widdy all my life, and me
+nobbut thirty-five."</p>
+
+<p>"Is there sae mony lads i' Blackpool, that's thinkin' o'
+gettin' wed?"</p>
+
+<p>"By Gow! there is that. There's a tidy lot o' chaps i' them
+Blackpool
+boarding-houses, an' if a lass minds her business, she'll have hooked
+one afore Bank Holiday week's out."</p>
+
+<p>Again there was silence in the workroom, and the needles
+worked busily.
+The daughter was moodily brooding over the matrimonial chances which
+she
+had missed, while the mother's thoughts were going back to her youth
+and
+married life, when she lived at the foot of the Hambledon Hills, in a
+cottage where corn-fields, scarlet with poppies in summer-time, reached
+to her garden gate. At last the old woman timidly re-opened the
+conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"We couldn't tak a hafe-day off next week, I suppose, and gan
+wi' t'
+train soomwheer oot i' t' coontry, wheer I could see a two-three fields
+o' corn? Rheumatics is that bad I could hardlins walk far, but mebbe
+they'd let me sit on t' platform wheer I could watch t' lads huggin' t'
+sheaves or runnin' for t' mell."(1)</p>
+
+<p>"Lor'! mother, fowks don't do daft things like that any
+longer; they've
+too mich sense nowadays."</p>
+
+<p>"Aye, I know t' times has changed, but mebbe there'll be farms
+still
+wheer they keep to t' owd ways. Eh! it were grand to see t' farm-lads
+settin' off i' t' race for t' mell-sheaf. Thy gran'father has gotten t'
+mell mony a time. I've seen him, when I were a lile lass, bringin' it
+back in his airms, and all t' lads kept shoutin' oot:</p>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">"Sam Proud's gotten t'
+mell o' t' farmer's corn,</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">It's weel bun' an'
+better shorn;</span><br>
+
+<span style="margin-left: 3em;">—Shout 'Mell,'
+lads, 'Mell'!"</span><br>
+
+<p>Mary had almost ceased to listen, but the mother went on with
+her story:
+"A canty mon were my father, and he hadn't his marra for thackin'
+'twixt
+Thirsk an' Malton. An' then there was t' mell-supper i' t' gert lathe,
+wi' singin' an' coontry dances, an' guisers that had blacked their
+faces. And efter we'd had wer suppers, we got agate o' dancin' i' t'
+leet o' t' harvist-moon; and reet i 't' middle o' t' dancers was t'
+mell-doll."</p>
+
+<p>"Mell-doll!" exclaimed Mary, roused to attention by the word.
+"Well, I'm
+fair capped! To think o' grown-up fowks laikin' wi' dolls. Eh! country
+lads an' lasses are downright gauvies, sure enough."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, 'twern't a proper doll, nowther. 'Twere t' mell-sheaf,
+t' last
+sheaf o' t' harvist, drissed up i' t' farmer's smock, wi' ribbins set
+all ower it. A bonnie seet was t' mell-doll, an' if I could nobbut set
+een on yan agean, I'd be happy for a twelmonth."</p>
+
+<p>"You'll see no more mell-dolls, mother, so long as you bide
+wi' me. I'm
+not going to let t' lasses at Cohen's call me a country gauvie, same as
+they did when I first came to Leeds. But I'll tell you what I'll do.
+Woodhouse Feast'll be coomin' on soon, and I'll take you there, sure as
+my name's Mary Briggs. There'll be summat more for your brass nor
+mell-suppers, an' guisers an' dolls. There'll be swings and steam
+roundabouts, aye, an' steam-organs playin' all t' latest tunes thro' t'
+music-halls—a lot finer than your daft country songs. An'
+we'll noan
+have to wait for t' harvest-moon; there'll be naphtha flares ivery
+night
+lightin' up all t' Feast."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, lass, I reckon I'se too owd for Woodhouse Feast; I'll
+bide at yam.
+I sal be better when September's oot. It's t' corn-fever that's wrang
+wi' me."</p>
+
+<p>"Corn-fever! What next, I'd like to know! You catch a new
+ailment ivery
+day. One would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look
+after you."</p>
+
+<p>"A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I's
+thinkin'. I've
+heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t'
+hay-harvest's on. It's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat. So
+I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh,
+deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. But I'll say nae mair aboot it.
+Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi' my wark, and t'
+button-holes is bad for thy een, lass. Thoo'll be wantin' a bit o'
+brass
+for Woodhouse Feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my Lloyd George money
+left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to Blackpool. Nay, don't start
+fratchin', there's a love. I's not complainin'."</p>
+
+<p>(1) The mell, or mell-sheaf, is the last sheaf of corn left in
+the
+harvest field.</p>
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman
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diff --git a/18173.txt b/18173.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e8c831d --- /dev/null +++ b/18173.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2588 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales of the Ridings + +Author: F. W. Moorman + +Commentator: C. Vaughan + +Release Date: April 14, 2006 [EBook #18173] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE RIDINGS *** + + + + +Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush + + + + + + TALES OF THE RIDINGS + BY + F. W. MOORMAN 1872 - 1919 + + LATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE LEEDS UNIVERSITY + + Editor of "Yorkshire Dialect Poems" + + WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR + By Professor C. VAUGHAN + + LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREET + 1921 + + + + +Contents: +MEMOIR +A LAOCOON OF THE ROCKS +THROP'S WIFE +THE INNER VOICE +B.A. +CORN-FEVER + + + + +MEMOIR + + +Frederic Moorman came of a stock which, on both sides, had struck deep +roots in the soil of Devon. His father's family, which is believed to +have sprung ultimately from "either Cornwall or Scotland"--a +sufficiently wide choice, it may be thought--had for many generations +been settled in the county.(1) His mother's--her maiden name was Mary +Honywill--had for centuries held land at Widdicombe and the +neighbourhood, in the heart of Dartmoor. He was born on 8th September +1872, at Ashburton, where his father, the Rev. A. C. Moorman, was +Congregational minister; and for the first ten years of his life he was +brought up on the skirts of the moor to which his mother's family +belonged: drinking in from the very first that love of country sights +and sounds which clove to him through life, and laying the foundation of +that close knowledge of birds and flowers which was an endless source of +delight to him in after years, and which made him so welcome a companion +in a country walk with any friend who shared his love of such things but +who, ten to one, could make no pretence whatever to his knowledge. + +In 1882, his father was appointed to the ministry of the Congregational +Church at Stonehouse, in Gloucestershire; and Frederic began his formal +schooling at the Wyclif Preparatory School in that place. The country +round Stonehouse--a country of barish slopes and richly wooded +valleys--is perhaps hardly so beautiful as that which he had left and +whose memory he never ceased to cherish. But it has a charm all its own, +and the child of Dartmoor had no great reason to lament his removal to +the grey uplands and "golden valleys" of the Cotswolds. + +His next change must have seemed one greatly for the worse. In 1884 he +was sent to the school for the sons of Congregational ministers at +Caterham; and the Cotswolds, with their wide outlook over the Severn +estuary to May Hill and the wooded heights beyond, were exchanged for +the bald sweep and the white chalk-pits of the North Downs. These too +have their unique beauty; but I never remember to have heard Moorman say +anything which showed that he felt it as those who have known such +scenery from boyhood might have expected him to do. + +After some five years at Caterham, he began his academical studies at +University College, London; but, on the strength of a scholarship, soon +removed to University College, Aberystwyth (1890), where the +scenery--sea, heron-haunted estuaries, wooded down to the very shore, +and hills here and there rising almost into mountains--offered +surroundings far more congenial to him than the streets and squares of +Bloomsbury. + +In these new surroundings, he seems to have been exceptionally happy, +throwing himself into all the interests of the place, athletic as well +as intellectual, and endearing himself both to his teachers and his +fellow-students. His friendship with Professor Herford, then Professor +of English at Aberystwyth, was one of the chief pleasures of his student +days as well as of his after life. Following his natural bent, he +decided to study for Honours in English Language and Literature, and at +the end of his course (1893) was placed in the Second Class by the +examiners for the University of London, to which the Aberystwyth College +was at that time affiliated. Those who believe in the virtue of infant +prodigies--and, in the country which invented Triposes and Class Lists, +it is hard to fix any limit to their number--will be distressed to learn +that, in the opinion of those best qualified to judge of such matters, +he was not at that time reckoned to be of "exceptionally scholarly +calibre." Perhaps this was an omen all the better for his future +prospects as a scholar. + +It is a wholesome practice that, when the cares of examinations are once +safely behind him, a student should widen his experience by a taste of +foreign travel. Accordingly, in September, 1893, Moorman betook himself +to Strasbourg, primarily for the sake of continuing his studies under +the skilful guidance of Ten Brinck. The latter, however, was almost at +once called to Berlin and succeeded by Brandl, now himself of the +University of Berlin, who actually presided over Moorman's studies for +the next two years, and who thought, and never ceased to think, very +highly both of his abilities and his acquirements. It was only natural +that Moorman should make a pretty complete surrender to German ideals +and German methods of study. It was equally natural that, in the light +of subsequent experience, his enthusiasms in that line should suffer a +considerable diminution. He was not of the stuff to accept for ever the +somewhat bloodless and barren spirit which has commonly dominated the +pursuit of literature in German universities. + +Into the social life of his new surroundings he threw himself with all +the zest that might have been expected from his essentially sociable +nature: making many friendships--that of Brandl was the one he most +valued--and joining--in some respects, leading--his fellow-students in +their sports and other amusements. His first published work, in fact, +was a translation of the Rules of Association Football into German; and +he may fairly be regarded as the godfather of that game on German soil. +Nor was this the end of his activities. During the two years he spent at +Strasbourg he acted as Lektor in English to the University, so +gaining--and gaining, it is said, with much success--his first +experience in what was to be his life's work as a teacher. + +On the completion of his course at Strasbourg, where he obtained the +degree of Ph.D. in June 1895,(2) he returned to Aberystwyth, now no +longer as student but as Lecturer in the English Language and Literature +under his friend and former teacher, Professor Herford. There he +remained for a little over two years (September, 1895, to January, +1898), gradually increasing his stores of knowledge and strengthening +the foundations of the skill which was afterwards to serve him in good +stead as a teacher. During that time he also became engaged to the +sister of one of his colleagues, Miss Frances Humpidge, whom he had +known for some years and whose love was to be the chief joy and support +of his after life. + +As a matter of prudence, the marriage was postponed until his prospects +should be better assured. The opportunity came sooner than could have +been expected. In January, 1898, he was appointed to the lectureship in +his subject--a subject, such is our respect for literature, then first +handed over to an independent department--in the Yorkshire College at +Leeds; and in August of the same year he was married. Four children, +three of whom survived and the youngest of whom was twelve at the time +of his death, were born during the earlier years of the marriage. + +The life of a teacher offers little excitement to the onlooker; and all +that can be done here is to give a slight sketch of the various +directions in which Moorman's energies went out. The first task that lay +before him was to organise the new department which had been put into +his hands, to make English studies a reality in the college to which he +had been called, to give them the place which they deserve to hold in +the life of any institution devoted to higher education. Into this task +he threw himself with a zeal which can seldom, if ever, have been +surpassed. Within six years he had not only put the teaching of his +subject to Pass Students upon a satisfactory basis; he had also laid the +foundations of an Honours School able to compete on equal terms with +those of the other colleges which were federated in the then Victoria +University of the north. It was a really surprising feat for so young a +man--he was little over twenty-five when appointed--to have accomplished +in so short a time; the more so as he was working single-handed: in +other words, was doing unaided the work, both literary and linguistic, +which in other colleges was commonly distributed between two or three. +And I speak with intimate knowledge when I say that the Leeds students +who presented themselves for their Honours Degree at the end of that +time bore every mark of having been most thoroughly and efficiently +prepared. + +In 1904, six years after Moorman's appointment to the lectureship, the +Yorkshire College was reconstituted as a separate and independent +university, the University of Leeds; and in the rearrangement which +followed, an older man was invited to come in as official chief of the +department for which Moorman had hitherto been solely responsible. This +invitation was not accepted until Moorman had generously made it clear +that the proposed appointment would not be personally unwelcome to him. +Nevertheless, it was clearly an invidious position for the new-comer: +and a position which, but for the exceptional generosity and loyalty of +the former chief of the department, would manifestly have been +untenable. In fact, no proof of Moorman's unselfishness could be more +conclusive than that, for the nine years during which the two men worked +together, the harmony between them remained unbroken, untroubled by even +the most passing cloud. Near the close of this time, in recognition of +his distinction as a scholar and of his great services to the +University, a separate post, as Professor of the English Language, was +created for him. + +During the whole of his time at Leeds, his knowledge of his subject, +both on its literary and linguistic side, was constantly deepening and +his efficiency, as teacher of it, constantly increasing. With so keen a +mind as his, this was only to be expected. It was equally natural that, +as his knowledge expanded and his advice came to be more and more sought +by those engaged in the study of such matters, he should make the +results of his researches known to a wider public. After several smaller +enterprises of this kind,(3) he broke entirely fresh ground with two +books, which at once established his right to be heard in both the +fields for which he was professionally responsible: _Yorkshire Place +Names_, published for and by the Thoresby Society in 1911; and a study +of the life and poetry of Robert Herrick, two years later. The former, +if here and there perhaps not quite rigorous enough in the tests applied +to the slippery evidence available, is in all essentials a most solid +piece of work: based on a wide and sound knowledge of the linguistic +principles which, though often grossly neglected, form the corner-stone, +and something more, of all such inquiries; and lit up with a keen eye +for the historical issues--issues reaching far back into national +origins which, often in the most unexpected places, they may be made to +open out. The latter, to which he turned with the more zest because it +led him back to the familiar setting of his native county--to its moors +and rills and flowers, and the fairy figures that haunted them--is a +delightful study of one of the most unique of English poets(4); a study, +however, which could only have been written by one who, among many other +things, was a thorough-paced scholar. Many qualities--knowledge, +scholarship, love of nature, a discerning eye for poetic beauty--go to +the making of such a book. Their union in this _Study_ serves to show +that, great as was Moorman's authority in the field of language, it was +always to literature, above all to poetry, that his heart went naturally +out. The closing years of his life were to set this beyond doubt. + +It would be absurd to close this sketch of Moorman's professional +activities without a reference, however slight, to what was, after all, +one of the most significant things about them. No man can, in the full +sense, be a teacher unless, in some way or other, he throws himself into +the life and interests of his students. And it was among the +secrets--perhaps the chief secret--of Moorman's influence as a teacher +that, so far from being mere names in a register, his students were to +him always young people of flesh and blood, in whose interests he could +share, whose companion he delighted to be, and who felt that they could +turn to him for advice and sympathy as often as they were in need. No +doubt his own youthfulness of temper, the almost boyish spirits which +seldom or never flagged in him, helped greatly to this result; but the +true fountain of it all lay in his ingrained unselfishness. The same +power was to make itself felt among the classes for older students which +he held in the last years of his life. + +To fulfil all these academical duties in the liberal spirit, which was +the only spirit possible to Moorman, might well have been expected to +exhaust the energies of any man. Yet, amidst them all, he found time to +take part, both as lecturer and as trusted adviser, in the activities of +the Workers' Educational Association, attending summer meetings and, +during the last five or six winters of his life, delivering weekly +lectures and taking part in the ensuing discussions, at Crossgates, one +of the outlying suburbs of Leeds. To the students who there, year by +year, gathered round him he greatly endeared himself by his power of +understanding their difficulties and of presenting great poetry in a way +that came home to their experience and imagination. His growing sympathy +with the life of homestead and cottage made this a work increasingly +congenial to him; and, as a lecturer, he was perhaps never so happy, in +all senses of the word, as when, released from the "idols of the +lecture-room," he was seeking to awake, or keep alive, in others that +love of imaginative beauty which counted for so much in his own life and +in his discharge of the daily tasks that fell upon him: speaking freely +and from his heart to men and women more or less of his own age and his +own aspirations; "mingling leadership and _camaraderie_ in the happy +union so characteristic of him," and "drawing out the best endeavours of +his pupils by his modest, quietly effective methods of teaching and, +above all, by his great, quiet, human love for each and all."(5) + +It is clear that such work, however delightful to him, meant a +considerable call upon his time and strength: the more so as it went +hand in hand with constant labours on behalf of the Yorkshire Dialect +Society, for which he was the most indefatigable of travellers--cycling +his way into dale after dale in search of "records"--and of which, on +the death of his friend, Mr Philip Unwin, he eventually became +president. Nor was this all. During the last seven years or so of his +life the creative impulse, the need of embodying his own life and the +lives of those around him in imaginative form was constantly growing +upon him, and a wholly new horizon was opening before him. + +At first he may have thought of nothing more than to produce plays +suitable for performance either by the students of the University or by +young people in those Yorkshire dales with which his affections were +becoming year by year increasingly bound up. But, whatever the occasion, +it soon proved to be no more than an occasion. He swiftly found that +imaginative expression not only came naturally to him, but was a deep +necessity of his nature; that it gave a needed outlet to powers and +promptings which had hitherto lain dormant and whose very existence was +unsuspected by his friends, perhaps even by himself. _The May King_, +_Potter Thompson_, the adaptation of the _Second Shepherds' Play_ from +the fifteenth-century _Towneley Mysteries_ followed each other in swift +succession; and the two first have, or will shortly have, been performed +either by University students or by school children of "the Ridings."(6) +This is not the place to attempt any critical account of them. But there +are few readers who will not have been struck by the simplicity with +which the themes--now pathetic, now humorous, now romantic--are handled, +and by the easy unconsciousness with which the Professor wears his +"singing robes." + +The same qualities, perhaps in a yet higher degree, appear in the +dialect poems, written during the last three years of his life: _Songs +of the Ridings_. The inspiration of these was less literary; they sprang +straight from the soil and from his own heart. It was, no doubt, a +scholarly instinct which first turned his mind in this direction: the +desire of one who had studied the principles of the language and knew +every winding of its historical origins to trace their working in the +daily speech of the present. He has told us so himself, and we may +readily believe it. But, if he first came to the dales as learner and +scholar, he soon found his way back as welcome visitor and friend. The +more he saw of the dalesmen, the more his heart went out to them: the +more readily, as if by an inborn instinct, did he enter into their +manner of life, their mood and temper, their way of meeting the joys and +sorrows brought by each day as it passed. And so it was that the +scholar's curiosity, which had first carried him thither, rapidly gave +way to a feeling far deeper and more human. His interest in forms of +speech and fine shades of vowelling fell into the background; a simple +craving for friendly intercourse, inspired by a deep sense of human +brotherhood, took its place. And _Songs of the Ridings_(7) is the +spontaneous outgrowth of the fresh experience and the ever-widening +sympathies which had come to him as a man. The same is true of _Tales of +the Ridings_, published for the first time in the following pages. + +The last five years of his life (1914-1919) had, to him as to others, +been years of unusual stress. Disqualified for active service, he had +readily undertaken the extra work entailed by the departure of his +younger colleagues for the war. He had also discharged the semi-military +duties, such as acting on guard against enemy aircraft, which fell +within his powers; and, both on the outskirts of Leeds and round his +Lytton Dale cottage, he had devoted all the time he could spare to +allotment work, so as to take his share--it was, in truth, much more +than his share--in increasing the yield of the soil. All this, with a +host of miscellaneous duties which he voluntarily shouldered, had put an +undue strain upon his strength. Yet, with his usual buoyancy, he had +seemed to stand it all without flagging; and even when warned by the +army medical authorities that his heart showed some weakness, he had +paid little heed to the warning, had certainly in no way allowed it +either to interfere with his various undertakings or to prey upon his +spirits. + +The Armistice naturally brought some relief. Among other things, it +opened the prospect of the return of his colleagues and a considerable +lightening both of his professional and of his manifold civic duties. He +was, moreover, much encouraged--as a man of his modest, almost +diffident, nature was bound to be--by the recognition which _Songs of +the Ridings_ had brought from every side: not least from the dalesmen, +for whom and under whose inspiration they were written. And all his +friends rejoiced to think that a new and brighter horizon seemed opening +before him. Those who saw him during these last months thought that he +had never been so buoyant. They felt that a new hope and a new +confidence had entered into his life. + +These hopes were suddenly cut off. He had passed most of August and the +first week of September (1919) at his cottage in Lytton Dale, keeping +the morning of his birthday (8th September), as he always delighted to +do, with his wife and children. In the afternoon he went down to bathe +in the river, being himself an excellent swimmer, and wishing to teach +his two younger children an art in which he had always found health and +keen enjoyment. He swam across the pool and called on his daughter to +follow him. Noticing that she was in some difficulty, he jumped in again +to help her, but suddenly sank to the bottom, and was never seen alive +again. An angler ran up to help from a lower reach of the stream, and +brought the girl safely to land. Then, for the first time learning that +her father had sunk, he dived and dived again in the hope of finding him +before it was too late. But the intense cold of the water baffled all +his efforts, and the body was not recovered until some hours later. It +is probable that the chill of the pool had caused a sudden failure of +Moorman's heart--a heart already weakened by the excessive strain of the +last few years--and it is little likely that, after he had once sunk, he +could ever have been saved. + +The death of Moorman called forth expressions of grief and of grateful +affection, so strong and so manifestly sincere as to bring something of +surprise even to his closest friends. Much more surprising would they +have been to himself. They came from every side, from lettered and +unlettered, from loom and dale, from school and university. Nothing +could prove more clearly how strong was the hold he had won upon all who +knew him, how large the place he filled in the heart of his colleagues +and the county of his adoption. It was a fitting tribute to a literary +achievement of very distinctive originality. It was also, and above all, +a tribute, heartfelt and irrepressible, to the charm of a singularly +bright and winning spirit: to a life which had spent itself, without +stint and without one thought of self, in the service of others. + +Endnotes (were footnotes): + +(1) To this family is believed to have belonged John Moreman, Canon and +eventually Dean of Exeter (though he died, October, 1554, "before he was +presented to the Deanery"), of whom an account will be found in Prince's +_Worthies of Devon_ (ed. 1701, pp. 452-453), as well as in Wood's +_Athenoe_ and _Fasti Oxonienses_ and Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_. He was +"the first in those days to teach his parishioners to say the Lord's +Prayer, the Belief and the Commandments in the English tongue" (whether +the contrast is with Latin or Cornish, for he was then Vicar of +Menynhed, in East Cornwall, does not appear). He was imprisoned, as a +determined Catholic, in Edward VI.'s reign, but "enlarged under Queen +Mary, with whom he grew into very great favour," and was chosen to +defend the doctrine of Transubstantiation before the Convocation of +1553. + +(2) His thesis for this degree, on _The Interpretation of Nature in +English Poetry from Beowulf to Shakespeare_, was published in 1905. + +(3) He published editions of _The Faithful Shepherdess_, _The Knight of +the Burning Pestle_ and _The Two Noble Kinsmen_ in 1897, and an +elaborately critical edition of Herrick's _Poems_, in completion of his +_Study_, in 1915. He also contributed the chapter on "Shakespeare's +Apocrypha" to the _Cambridge History of English Literature_; and for +many years acted as English editor of the _Shakespeare Jahrbuch_. + +(4) Dean Bourne, the parish to which Herrick was not very willingly +wedded, is within five miles of Ashburton, Moorman's birthplace. + +(5) The words in inverted commas are quoted from the records of the +Class, kindly communicated by the secretary, Mr Hind. It is difficult to +imagine anything stronger than the expressions of affectionate respect +which recur again and again in them. I add one more, from the pen which +wrote the second quotation: "So quiet, yet so pervading, was his love +that each felt the individual tie; and our class, so diverse in spirit, +thought and training, has never heard or uttered an angry word. We felt +it would be acting disloyally to hurt anyone whom he loved." + +(6) _The May King_, written in 1913, has been twice acted by school +children, once in the open air, once in the large hall of the +University. _Potter Thompson_, written in 1911-1912, was acted by +students of the University in 1913 and is at present in rehearsal for +acting by pupils of the Secondary School of Halifax. The Towneley +_Shepherds' Play_ was acted with slight modifications by University +students, under Moorman's guidance, in 1907. His adaptation of it, +written in 1919, has not yet been acted, but was written in the hope +that some day it might be. It may be added that he was largely +responsible for a very successful performance of Fletcher's _Elder +Brother_ by the University students in 1908. + +(7) First published serially in _The Yorkshire Weekly Post_ of +1917-1918. + + + + +A LAOCOON OF THE ROCKS + + +The enclosure of the common fields of England by hedge or wall, whereby +the country has been changed from a land of open champaigns and large +vistas to one of parterres and cattle-pens, constitutes a revolution in +the social and economic life of the nation. Though extending over many +years and even centuries, this process of change reached its height in +the latter half of the eighteenth and the early nineteenth century, and +thus comes into line with the industrial revolution which was taking +place in urban England about the same time. To some, indeed, the +enclosure of the open fields may appear as the outward symbol of that +enwalling of the nation's economic freedom which transformed the artisan +from an independent craftsman to a wage-earner, and made of him a link +in the chain of our modern factory system. To those economists who +estimate the wealth of nations solely by a ledger-standard, the +enclosure of the common fields has seemed a wise procedure; but to those +who look deeper, a realisation has come that it did much to destroy the +communal life of the countryside. Be that as it may, it is beyond +question that to the ancient and honoured order of shepherds, from whose +ranks kings, seers and poets have sprung, it brought misfortune and even +ruin. + +Among the shepherds of the eastern slopes of the Pennine Hills few were +better known in the early years of the nineteenth century than Peregrine +Ibbotson. A shepherd all his life, as his father and grandfather had +been before him, he nevertheless belonged to a family that had once +owned wide tracts of land in Yorkshire. But the Ibbotsons had fought on +the losing side in the Pilgrimage of Grace, and the forfeiture of their +lands had reduced them to the rank of farmers or shepherds. But the +tradition of former greatness was jealously preserved in the family; it +lived on in the baptismal names which they gave to their children and +fostered in them a love of independence together with a spirit of +reserve which was not always appreciated by their neighbours. But the +spirit of the age was at work in them as in so many other families in +the dale villages. Peregrine's six sons had long since left him alone in +his steading on the moors: some had gone down to the manufacturing towns +of the West Riding and had prospered in trade; others had fought, and +more than one had fallen, in the Napoleonic wars. Peregrine, therefore, +although seventy-six years of age and a widower, had no one to share +roof and board with him in his shepherd's cottage a thousand feet above +the sea. + +Below, in the dale, lay the villages with their clustered farmsteads and +their square-towered churches of Norman foundation. Round about his +steading, which was screened by sycamores from the westerly gales, lay +the mountain pastures, broken by terraces of limestone rock. Above, +where the limestone yields place to the millstone, were the high moors +and fells, where grouse, curlews and merlins nested among the heather, +and hardy, blue-faced sheep browsed on the mountain herbage. + +It was Peregrine's duty to shepherd on these unenclosed moors the sheep +and lambs which belonged to the farmers in the dale below. Each farmer +was allowed by immemorial custom to pasture so many sheep on the moors +the number being determined by the acreage of his farm. During the +lambing season, in April and May, all the sheep were below in the crofts +behind the farmsteads, where the herbage was rich and the weakly ewes +could receive special attention; but by the twentieth of May the flocks +were ready for the mountain grass, and then it was that Peregrine's year +would properly begin. The farmers, with their dogs in attendance, would +drive their sheep and lambs up the steep, zigzagging path that led to +Peregrine's steading, and there the old shepherd would receive his +charges. Dressed in his white linen smock, his crook in his hand, and +his white beard lifted by the wind, he would take his place at the mouth +of the rocky defile below his house. At a distance he might easily have +been mistaken for a bishop standing at the altar of his cathedral church +and giving his benediction to the kneeling multitudes. There was dignity +in every movement and gesture, and the act of receiving the farmers' +flocks was invested by him with ritual solemnity. He gave to each farmer +in turn a formal greeting, and then proceeded to count the sheep and +lambs that the dogs had been trained to drive slowly past him in single +file. He knew every farmer's "stint" or allowance, and stern were his +words to the man who tried to exceed his proper number. + +"Thou's gotten ower mony yowes to thy stint, Thomas Moon," he would say +to a farmer who was trying to get the better of his neighbours. + +"Nay, Peregrine, I reckon I've nobbut eighty, and they're lile 'uns at +that." + +"Eighty's thy stint, but thou's gotten eighty-twee; thou can tak heam +wi' thee twee o' yon three-yeer-owds, an' mind thou counts straight next +yeer." + +Further argument was useless; Peregrine had the reputation of never +making a mistake in his reckoning, and, amid the jeers of his fellows, +Thomas Moon would drive his two rejected ewes with their lambs back to +his farm. + +When all the sheep had been counted and driven into the pens which they +were to occupy for the night the shepherd would invite the farmers to +his house and entertain them with oatcakes, Wensleydale cheese and +home-brewed beer; meanwhile, the conversation turned upon the past +lambing season and the prospects for the next hay harvest. When the +farmers had taken their leave Peregrine would pay a visit to the pens to +see that all the sheep were properly marked and in a fit condition for a +moorland life. Next morning he opened the pens and took the ewes and +lambs on to the moors. + +For the next ten months they were under his sole charge, except during +the short periods of time when they had to be brought down to the farms. +The first occasion was "clipping-time," at the end of June, before the +hay harvest began. Then, on the first of September, they returned to the +dale in order that the ram lambs might be taken from the flocks and sold +at the September fairs. Once again, before winter set in, the farmers +demanded their sheep of Peregrine in order to anoint them with a salve +of tar, butter and grease, which would keep out the wet. For the rest +the flocks remained with Peregrine on the moors, and it was his duty to +drive them from one part to another when change of herbage required it. + +The moors seemed woven into the fabric of Peregrine's life, and he +belonged to them as exclusively as the grouse or mountain linnet. He +knew every rock upon their crests and every runnel of water that fretted +its channel through the peat; he could mark down the merlin's nest among +the heather and the falcon's eyrie in the cleft of the scar. If he +started a brooding grouse and the young birds scattered themselves in +all directions, he could gather them all around him by imitating the +mother's call-note. The moor had for him few secrets and no terrors. He +could find his way through driving mist or snowstorm, knowing exactly +where the sheep would take shelter from the blast, and rescuing them +from the danger of falling over rocks or becoming buried in snowdrifts. +The sun by day and the stars by night were for him both clock and +compass, and if these failed him he directed his homeward course by +observing how the cotton-grass or withered sedge swayed in the wind. + +Except when wrapped in snow, the high moors of the Pennine range present +for eight months of the year a harmony of sober colours, in which the +grey of the rocks, the bleached purple of the heather blossom and the +faded yellows and browns of bent and bracken overpower the patches of +green herbage. But twice in the course of the short summer the moors +burst into flower and array themselves with a bravery with which no +lowland meadow can compare. The first season of bloom is in early June, +when the chalices or the cloud-berry and the nodding plumes of the +cottongrass spring from an emerald carpet of bilberry and ling. These +two flowers are pure white, and the raiment of the moors is that of a +bride prepared to meet her bridegroom, the sun. By July the white has +passed, and the moors have assumed once more a sombre hue. But August +follows, and once again they burst into flower. No longer is their +vesture white and virginal; now they bloom as a matron and a queen, +gloriously arrayed in a seamless robe of purple heather. + +Such were the surroundings amid which Peregrine Ibbotson had spent three +quarters of a century, and he asked for nothing better than that he +should end his days as a Yorkshire shepherd. But now a rumour arose that +there was a project on foot to enclose the moors. The meadows and +pastures in the valley below had been enclosed for more than +half-a-century, and this had been brought about without having recourse +to Act of Parliament. The fields had been enclosed by private +commission; the farmers had agreed to refer the matter to expert +arbitrators and their decisions had been accepted without much +grumbling. The dalesmen were proud of their freehold property and were +now casting their eyes upon the moorland pastures above. They agreed +that the sheep would crop the grass more closely if confined by walls +within a certain space, and the fees paid to the shepherd for his labour +would be saved; for each farmer would be able to look after his own +sheep. But what weighed with them most was the pride of individual +possession compared with which the privilege of sharing with their +neighbours in communal rights over the whole moor seemed of small +account. Moreover, stones for walling were plentiful, and the disbanding +of the armies after the French wars had made labour cheap. + +At first Peregrine refused to believe the rumour; the moors, he argued +with himself, had always been commons and commons they must remain. Yet +the rumour persisted and gradually began to work like poison in his +mind. He was too proud to mention the matter to the farmers when they +came up for the autumn salving of the sheep, but a constraint in their +manner deepened his suspicions, and all through the winter a pall of +gloom enshrouded his mind like the pall of gloom on the moors +themselves. Spring brought dark foreboding to yet darker certainty. From +his mountain eyrie Peregrine could now see bands of men assembling in +the village below. They were wallers, attracted thither by the prospect +of definite work during the summer months, and on Easter Monday a start +was made. Peregrine watched them from the fells, and as he saw them +carrying the blocks of limestone in their hands they seemed to him like +an army of stinging ants which had been disturbed in their ant-hill and +were carrying their eggs to another spot. + +Slowly but surely the work advanced. At first the walls took a beeline +track up the hillside, but when they reached the higher ground, where +scars of rock and patches of reedy swamp lay in their path, their +progress became serpentine. But whether straight or winding, the white +walls mounted ever upwards, and Peregrine knew that his doom was sealed. +The moors which Ibbotsons had shepherded for two hundred years would +soon pass out of his charge; the most ancient of callings, which +Peregrine loved as he loved life itself, would be his no more; his +mountain home, which had stood the shock of an age-long battle with the +storms, would pass into the hand of some dalesman's hind, and he would +be forced to descend to the valley and end his days in one or other of +the smoky towns where his remaining sons were living. + +There was no human being to whom he could communicate his thoughts, yet +the pent-up anguish must find outlet somehow, lest the heart-strings +should snap beneath the strain. It was therefore to his sheepdog, Rover, +that he unburdened his mind, as the dog lay with its paws across his +knees in the heather, looking up to its master's face. "Snakes, Rover, +doesta see t' snakes," he would mutter, as his eye caught the +serpent-like advance of the walls. The dog seemed to catch his meaning, +and responded with a low growl of sympathy. "Aye, they're snakes," the +old man went on, "crawlin's up t' fell-side on their bellies an' lickin' +up t' dust. They've gotten their fangs into my heart, Rover, and seean +they'll be coilin' thersels about my body. I niver thowt to see t' +snakes clim' t' moors; they sud hae bided i' t' dale and left t' owd +shipperd to dee in peace." + +When clipping-time came the walls had almost reached the level of the +shepherd's cottage. It was the farmers' custom to pay Peregrine a visit +at this time and receive at his hands the sheep that were to be driven +down to the valley to be clipped and earmarked. But this year not a +single one appeared. Shame held them back, and they sent their hinds +instead. These knew well what was passing in the shepherd s mind, but +they stood in too much awe of him to broach the subject; and he, on his +side, was too proud to confide his grievance to irresponsible farm +servants. But if nothing was said the dark circles round Peregrine's +eyes and the occasional trembling of his hand betrayed to the men his +sleepless nights and the palsied fear that infected his heart. + +At times, too, though he did his utmost to avoid them, the shepherd +would come upon the bands of wallers engaged in their sinister task. +These were strangers to the dale and less reticent than the men from the +farms. + +"Good-mornin', shipperd. Thou'll be noan sae pleased to set een on us +wallers, I reckon," one of them would say. + +"Good-mornin'," Peregrine would reply. "I weant say that I's fain to see +you, but I've no call to threap wi' waller-lads. Ye can gan back to them +that sent you and axe 'em why they've nivver set foot on t' moor this +yeer." + +"Mebbe they're thrang wi' their beasts and have no time to look after t' +yowes." + +"Thrang wi' beasts, is it? Nay, they're thrang wi' t' devil, and are +flaid to look an honest man i' t' face." + +The old man's words, and still more the lines of anguish that seamed his +weather-beaten face, touched them to the quick. But what could they do? +They were day-labourers, with wives and children dependent on the work +of their hands. Walling meant tenpence a day and regular work for at +least six months, and the choice lay between that and the dreaded +"Bastile," as Yorkshiremen in the years that succeeded the French +Revolution had learnt to call the workhouse. + +So the work went on, and each day saw "the snakes" approaching nearer to +their goal on the crest of the fells. Peregrine still pursued his +calling, for the farmers, partly to humour the old man, gave orders that +a gap here and there should be left in the walls through which he could +drive his flocks. The work slackened somewhat during the hay harvest, +and the services of the wallers were enlisted in the meadows below. But +when the hay was gathered into the barns--there are no haystacks in the +Yorkshire dales--walling was resumed with greater vigour than before. +The summer was advancing, and the plan was to finish the work before the +winter storms called a halt. All hands were therefore summoned to the +task, and the farmers themselves would often join the bands of wallers. +Peregrine kept out of their way as far as possible, hating nothing so +much as the sound of their hammers dressing the stone. But one day, as +he rounded a rocky spur, he came upon the chief farmer of the district, +as he was having dinner with his men under the lee of the wall he was +building. Seeing that an encounter was unavoidable, the shepherd +advanced boldly to meet his adversary. + +"I've catched thee at thy wark at last have I, Timothy?" were his words +of greeting, and Timothy Metcalfe cowered before a voice which seared +like one of his own branding-irons. "Enclosin' t' freemen's commons is +nobbut devil's wark, I's thinkin'," Peregrine went on relentlessly, "and +I've marked thee out for devil's wark sin first thou tried to bring more +nor thy stint o' Swawdill yowes on to t' moor." + +The wallers received this home-thrust with a smile of approval, and +Timothy, roused by this, sought to defend himself. + +"It's noan devil's wark," he retorted. "Enclosure was made by order o' +t' commissioners." + +"Aye, I know all about t' commissioners--farmers hand i' glove wi' t' +lawyers frae t' towns, and, aboon all, a government that's i' t' +landlords' pockets. What I say is that t' common land belongs iverybody, +an' sike-like as thee have gotten no reight to fence it in." + +"Happen we're doin' it for t' good o' t' country," argued Timothy. +"There's bin a vast o' good herbage wasted, wi' sheep hallockin' all +ower t' moors, croppin' a bit here and a bit theer, and lettin' t' best +part o' t' grass get spoilt." + +"Thou's leein', and thou knows it," replied Peregrine, with the +righteous indignation of one whose professional honour is impugned. +"I've allus taen care that t' moors hae bin cropped fair; thou reckons +thou'll feed mair yowes an' lambs on t' moors when thou's bigged thy +walls; but thou weant, thou'll feed less. I know mair about sheep nor +thou does, and I tell thee thou'll not get thy twee hinds to tend 'em +same as a shepherd that's bred an' born on t' moors." + +"We sal see about that," Metcalfe answered sullenly. + +"An' what wilta do when t' winter storms coom?" Peregrine continued. +"It's not o' thee an' thine, but o' t' yowes I's thinkin'; they'll be +liggin theer for mebbe three week buried under t' snow. It's then +thou'll be wantin' t' owd shipperd back, aye, an' Rover too, that can +set a sheep when shoo's under six foot o' snow." + +"Thou's despert proud of what thou knows about sheep an' dogs, +Peregrine, but there's mony a lad down i' t' dale that's thy marrow." + +"Aye, I's proud o' what I've larnt misel through tendin' sheep on t' +Craven moors for mair nor sixty year; and thou's proud o' thy meadows +and pasturs down i' t' dale, aye, and o' thy beasts an' yowes and all +thy farm-gear; but it's t' pride that gans afore a fall. Think on my +words, Timothy Metcalfe, when I's liggin clay-cowd i' my grave. Thou's +tramplin' on t' owd shipperd an' robbin' him o' his callin'; and there's +fowks makkin' brass i' t' towns that'll seean be robbin' thee o' thy +lands. Thou's puttin' up walls all ower t' commons an' lettin' t' snakes +wind theirsels around my lile biggin; and there's fowks'll be puttin' up +bigger walls, that'll be like a halter round thy neck." + +As he uttered these words, Peregrine drew himself up to his full height, +and his flashing eyes and animated gestures gave to what he said +something of the weight of a sibylline prophecy. Then, calling his dog +to heel, he moved slowly away. + +By the end of August the walls had reached the top of the fells and +there had joined up with those which had mounted the other slope of the +moors from the next valley. And now began the final stage in the process +of enclosure--the building of the cross-walls and the division of the +whole area into irregular fields. This work started simultaneously in +the dale-bottoms and on the crests, so that Peregrine's cottage, which +was situated midway between the valley and the mountain-tops, would be +enclosed last of all. The agony which the shepherd endured, therefore, +during these weeks of early autumn was long-drawn-out. He still pursued +his calling, leading the sheep, when the hot sun had burnt the short +wiry grass of the hill-slopes, down to the boggy ground where runnels of +water furrowed their courses through the peat and kept the herbage +green. But go where he might, he could not escape from the sound of the +wallers' tools. It was a daily crucifixion of his proud spirit, and +every blow of the hammer on the stones was like a piercing of his flesh +by the crucifiers' nails. + +October brought frost, followed by heavy rains, and the moors were +enshrouded in mist. But the farmers, eager that the enwalling should be +finished before the first snows came, allowed their men no respite. With +coarse sacking over their shoulders to ward off the worst of the rain, +they laboriously plied their task, but the songs and jests and laughter +which had accompanied their work in summer gave way to gloomy silence. +They rarely met Peregrine now, though they often saw him tending his +flocks in the distance, and noticed that his shoulders, which six months +before had been erect, were now drooping heavily forward and that he +walked with tottering steps. They reported this in the farm-houses where +they were lodging, and two of the farmers wives, who in happier days had +been on friendly terms with Peregrine, paid a visit to the old man's +cottage in order to try to induce him to come down to the dale for the +winter or go and stay with one of his sons in the towns. The shepherd +received them with formal courtesy, but would not listen to their +proposal. + +"Nay," he said, "I'll bide on t' moors; t' moors are gooid enif to dee +on." + +Early in November a party of wallers were disturbed at their work by the +persistent barking of a dog. Thinking that the animal was caught in a +snare, they followed the sound, with the intention of setting it free. +On reaching the spot they found it was Rover, standing over the +prostrate figure of the shepherd. The old man had fainted and was lying +in the heather. The wallers brought water in their hats and, dashing it +in his face restored him to consciousness. He was, however, too weak to +talk, so they carried him in their arms to his cottage and laid him on +his bed while one of them raced down the hill to summon the nearest +doctor. + +A few hours later fever set in, and the patient became delirious. A +tumult of ideas was surging through his brain, and found vent in broken +speech, which struck awe to the wallers' hearts as they bent over his +bed. + +"_Ein-tein-tethera-methera-pimp_; _awfus-dawfus-deefus-dumfus-dik_." The +old man was counting his sheep, using the ancient Gaelic numerals from +one to ten, which had been handed down from one shepherd to another from +time immemorial. And as he called out the numbers his hand fumbled among +the bed-clothes as though he were searching for the notches on his +shepherd's crook. + +Then his mind wandered away to his three sons who had fallen in their +country's wars. "Miles! Christopher! Tristram!" he cried, and his glazed +eyes were fastened on the door as if he expected them to enter. Then, +dimly remembering the fate that had befallen them, he sank slowly back +on the pillow. "They're deead, all deead," he murmured; "an' their bones +are bleached lang sin. Miles deed at Corunna, Christopher at Waterloo, +and I--I deant know wheer Tristram deed. They sud hae lived--lived to +help me feight t' snakes." As he uttered the dreaded word his fingers +clutched his throat as though he felt the coils of the monsters round +his neck, and a piercing shriek escaped his lips. + +After a time he grew quieter and his voice sank almost to a whisper. "He +makketh me to lie down i' green pasturs," he gently murmured, and, as he +uttered the familiar words, a smile lit up his face. "There'll be nea +snakes i' yon pasturs. I's thinkin'. ... He leadeth me beside t' still +watters.... I know all about t' still watters; they flows through t' +peat an' t' ling away on t' moor." + +Later in the day the doctor came, but a glance showed him that recovery +was out of the question; and next morning, as the sun broke over the +eastern fells, Peregrine Ibbotson passed away. The snakes had done their +work; their deadly fangs had found the shepherd's heart. + + + + +THROP'S WIFE + + +In Yorkshire, when a man is very busy, we say he is "despert thrang"; +but when he is so busy that "t' sweat fair teems off him," we say that +he is as "thrang as Throp's wife." Now I had always been curious to know +who Throp's wife was, and wherein her "thrangness" consisted, and what +might be Throp's view of the matter; but all my inquiries threw no light +upon the problem, and it seemed as though Throp's wife were going to +prove as intangible as Mrs Harris. But I am not the man to be put off by +feminine elusiveness, so I made a vow that I would give up smoking until +I had found Throp's wife and made her mine. My summer holiday was coming +on, and I decided that, instead of spending the week in Scarborough, I +would make a tour through the towns and villages of the West Riding in +search of Throp's wife. I took the matter as much to heart as if I had +been a mediaeval knight setting forth to rescue some distressed damsel +from the clutches of a wicked magician or monstrous hippogriff, and I +called my expedition "the quest of Throppes wife"; as my emblem I chose +the words "_Cherchez la femme_." + +I first of all turned my steps in the direction of Pudsey, for I knew +that it had the reputation of being the home of lost souls. To my +delight I found that Pudsey professed first-hand acquaintance with the +lady. + +"Throp's wife," said Pudsey; "ay, iverybody has heerd tell abaat Throp's +wife. Thrang as Throp's wife is what fowks allus say." + +"Yes, yes," I replied; "but what I want to know is who Throp's wife +really was." + +"Why," answered Pudsey, "shoo'll happen hae bin t' wife o' a chap they +called Throp." + +Now that was just the answer I might have expected from Pudsey, and I +decided to waste no more time there. So I made for the Heavy Woollen +District--capital letters, if you please, Mr Printer--- and straightway +put my question. But the Heavy Woollen District was far too thrang +itself to take interest in anybody else's thrangness; it knew nothing +about quests or emblems, cared little about Throp's wife, and less about +me. So I commended the Heavy Woollens to the tender mercies of the +excess profits taxers and sped on my way. I struck across country for +the Calder Valley, but neither at Elland, which calls itself Yelland, +nor at Halifax, which is said to be the pleasantest place in England to +be hanged in, could I obtain any clue as to the lady's identity. "Thrang +as Throp's wife" was everywhere a household phrase, but that was all. I +was beginning to grow weary; besides, I wanted my pipe. + +"What is the use," I asked Halifax, "of your establishing Literary and +Philosophical Societies, Antiquarian Societies, and a local branch of +the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, if you cannot get to the +bottom of Throp's wife?" + +Halifax was somewhat taken aback at this, and its learned antiquaries, +in self-defence, assured me that, if she had been a Roman remain they +would have known all about her. + +"But how do you know that she is not a Roman remain?" I asked. "Nobody +can tell a woman's age. She may even be a solar myth." + +Say what I might, I could not induce Halifax to join in "the quest of +Throppes wife"; it savoured too much of quixotry for sober-minded +Halifax. + +I now realised that the quest must be a solitary one, and I consoled +myself with the thought that, if the ardours of the pilgrimage were +unshared, so would be the glory of the prize. Fired with new enthusiasm, +I shouted the name of Throp's wife to the everlasting hills, and the +everlasting hills gave back the slogan in reverberating echoes--"Throp's +wahfe." By midday I had reached the summit of Stanbury Moor, and the +question was whether I should descend the populous Worth Valley to +Keighley or strike northwards across the hills. Instinct impelled me to +the latter course, and instinct was right. Late in the afternoon, faint +but pursuing, I reached a hill-top village which the map seemed to +identify with a certain Cowling Hill, but which was always spoken of as +Cohen-eead. + +I made my way to "The Golden Fleece," and there, in the bar parlour, I +met an old man and a merry. His face was as round and almost as red as a +Dutch cheese, and many a year had passed since he had last seen his +feet. I felt drawn to this old man, whose baptismal name was Timothy +Barraclough, but who always answered to the by-name of Tim o' Frolics; +and when we had politely assured one another that it was grand weather +for the hay and that lambs would soon be making a tidy price at Colne +market, I spoke to him of the quest. + +At first he remained silent, but after a few moments his blue eyes began +to twinkle like stars in the firmament, and then, slapping his knees +with both hands, he broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. + +"Ay, ay," he said, "I know all about Throp's wife. Shoo lived at +Cohen-eead, an' my mother telled me t' tale when I were nobbut a barn." + +As I heard these words, I almost leaped for joy, and could have thrown +my arms about the old man's neck, and embraced him. Remembering Pudsey, +however, I refrained, but urged Tim o' Frolics to tell me all he knew. + +"Throp was a farmer," he began, "and lived out Cornshaw way. He was a +hard-workin' man, was Throp, but I reckon all his wark were nobbut +laikin' anent what his wife could do. You see, her mother had gien her a +spinnin'-wheel when shoo were wed, and eh! but shoo were a gooid 'un to +spin. Shoo'd get t' house sided up by ten o'clock, an' then shoo'd set +hersen down to t' wheel. Throp would sam up all t' bits o' fallen wool +that he could find, an' Throp's wife would wesh 'em an' card 'em an' +spin 'em into yarn, an' then shoo'd knit t' yarn into stockin's an' sell +'em at Keighley an' Colne. Shoo were that thrang shee'd sooin getten +shut o' all t' wool that Throp could get howd on, an' then shoo axed t' +farmers to let t' barns out o' t' village go round t' moors an' bring +her t' wool that had getten scratted off t' yowes' backs for ten mile +around. Shoo were a patteren wife, and sooin fowks began to say to one +another: 'I've bin reight thrang to-day; I've bin well-nigh as thrang as +Throp's wife.' So 'thrang as Throp's wife' gat to be a regular nominy, +an' other fowks took to followin' her example; it were fair smittlin'! +They bowt theirsens spinnin'-wheels, an' gat agate o' spinnin', while +there were all nations o' stockins turned out i' Cohen-eead an' +Cornshaw, enough for a whole army o' sodgers. Ay, an' t' women fowks gat +their chaps to join i' t' wark; there were no settin' off for t' public +of a neet, an' no threapin' or fratchin' at t' call-hoils. It was wark, +wark, wark, through morn to neet, an' all on account o' Throp's wife an' +her spinnin'-wheel. + +"Well, after a time Cohen-eead had getten that sober an' hard-workin', +t'owd devil began to grow a bit unaisy. He'd a lot o' slates, had t' +devil; there was one slate for iverybody i' Cohen-eead. He'd had t' +slates made i' two sizes, one for t' men an' one for t' women." + +"The big slates were for the men and the little slates for the women, I +suppose." + +"I'm noan so sure o' that," Timothy rejoined, and his eyes began to +twinkle again. "Well," he continued, "t' devil began to look at t' +slates, an there was onmost nowt written on 'em; nobody had getten +druffen, or illified his neighbour; there was nobbut a two-three grocers +that had bin convicted o' scale-sins. So t' devil sends for t' god o' +flies, and when he were come, he says to him: 'Nah then, Beelzebub, +what's wrang wi' Cohen-eead? There's no business doin' there'; and he +shows him t' slates. So Beelzebub taks t' slates and looks at 'em, an' +then he scrats his heead an' he says: 'I can't help it, your Majesty. +It's Throp's wife; that's what's wrang wi' Cohen-eead.' + +"'Throp's wife! Throp's wife!' says Satan; 'an' who's Throp's wife to +set hersen agean me?' + +"'Shoo's made fowks i' Cohen-eead that thrang wi' wark they've no time +to think o' sins.' + +"'An' what have thy flies bin doin' all t' time?' asks Satan. 'They've +bin laikin', that's what they've bin doin'. They ought to hae bin +buzzin' round fowks' heeads an' whisperin' sinful thowts into their +lug-hoils. How mony flies does thou keep at Cohen-eead?' + +"T' god o' flies taks out his book an' begins to read t' list: 'Five +hunderd mawks, three hunderd atter-cops, two hunderd an' fifty +bummle-bees.' 'Bummle-bees! Bummle-bees!' says Satan. 'What's t' gooid +o' them, I'd like to know? How mony house-flies, how mony blue-bottles +hasta sent?' and wi' that he rives t' book out o' Beelzebub's hands and +turns ower t' pages hissen. + +"At lang length he gies him back his book, and he says: 'I sal hae to +look into this misen. Throp's wife! I'll sooin sattle wi' Throp's wife. +I'll noan have her turnin' Cohen-eead intul a Gardin o' Eden. I reckon +I'm fair stalled o' that mak o' place.' + +"So Satan gav out that he were baan for Cohen-eead an' wouldn't be back +while to-morn. 'Twere lat i' t' afternooin when he'd getten theer, an' +t' first thing he did were to creep behind a wall and change hissen +intul a sarpint. An' as he were set theer, waitin' for it to get dark, +he saw five blue-bottles that were laikin' at tig i' t' sunshine anent +t' wall. Well, that made t'owd devil fair mad, for they ought to hae bin +i' t' houses temptin' fowks to sin; so he oppened his cake-hoil, thrast +out his forked tongue, an' swallowed three on 'em at one gulp. After +that he felt a bit better. When it were turned ten o'clock, he crawled +alang t' loans an' bridle-stiles, while he gat to Throp's farm. He +sidled under t' door and into t' kitchen. It were as dark as a booit i' +t' kitchen, an' he could hear Throp snorin' i' bed aboon t' balks. So he +crawled up t' stairs, an' under t' chamer door, an' up on to t' bed. Eh! +but Throp's wife would hae bin flustered if shoo'd seen a sarpint +liggin' theer on t' pillow close agean her lug-hoil. But shoo were fast +asleep, wi' Throp aside her snorin' like an owd ullet i' t' ivy-tree. So +t' devil started temptin' her, and what doesta think he said?" + +"I suppose he told her not to work so hard," I replied, "but take life +more easily and quarrel a bit with her neighbours." + +Tim o' Frolics paused for a moment to enjoy the luxury of seeing me fall +into the pit that he had dug for me, and then went on: + +"He said nowt o' t' sort. That's what t' blue-bottles had bin sayin' to +her all t' time, an' all for nowt. Nay, t'owd devil were a sly 'un, an' +knew more about Throp's wife nor all t' blue-bottles i' t' world. So he +says to her: 'Keziah'--they called her Keziah after her +grandmother--'thou's t' idlest dawkin' i' Cohen-eead. When arta baan to +get agate o' workin'?'" + +"But surely," I interrupted, "there was no temptation in telling her to +work harder." + +Timothy paused, and then, in a reproving voice, asked: "Who's tellin' t' +tale, I'd like to know? Thou or me?" + +I stood rebuked, and urged him to go on with his story, promising that I +would not break in on the narrative again. + +"Well, as I were sayin'," he continued, "t' devil kept tellin' her that +shoo mun be reight thrang, an' not waste time clashin' with her +neighbours; an' when he thowt he'd said enough he crawled down off t' +bed an out o' house and away back to wheer he com frae. + +"Next mornin' Throp's wife wakkened up at t' usual time an' crept out o' +bed. There was nowt wrang wi' her, and o' course shoo knew nowt about t' +royal visit that shoo'd bin honoured wi'. Shoo gat all t' housewark +done, fed t' hens and t' cauves, an' was set down to her wheel afore ten +o'clock. There shoo sat an' tewed harder nor iver. It were Setterday, +an' shoo looked at t' bag o' wool and said to hersen that shoo'd have it +all carded an' spun an' sided away afore shoo went to bed that neet. +Shoo wouldn't give ower when t' time com for dinner or drinkins or +supper, but shoo made Throp bring her a sup o' tea and summat to eat +when he com in through his wark. An' all t' time shoo called hersen an +idle dollops 'cause shoo weren't workin' hard enough. That were t' +devil's game. But for all shoo tewed so hard, there was a gey bit o' +wool left i' t' bag when ten o'clock com and 'twere time to get to bed. +You see, 'twere bad wool; 'twere all feltered an' teed i' knots. But +Throp's wife were noan baan to bed while shoo'd finished t' bag. So +Throp said, if that were so, he mun set hissen down an' help wi' t' +wark. So Throp carded an' Throp's wife spun, an' that set things forrad +a bit. But t' hands o' t' clock went round as they'd niver done afore; +eleven o'clock com and hauf-past eleven, and then a quairter to twelve. +Throp's wife looked at t' clock, an' then at bag, an' then at Throp. + +"'Throp,' shoo said, 'we'll noan be through wi t' wark by midneet.' + +"'Then we sal hae to give ower,' said Throp. 'It'll be Sunday morn i' a +quairter of an hour, an' I'm noan baan to work o' Sunday.' + +"When Throp's wife heerd that shoo burst out a-roarin'. 'I'm an idle +good-for-nowt,' shoo said. 'Eh! but I mun finish t' bag; I mun, I mun.' + +"'I'm noan baan to work when t' clock has struck twelve,' Throp said +agean, 'nor let thee work, nowther. I'm a deacon at t' Independent +Chapil, an' I'll noan let fowks say that they saw a leet i' wer kitchen, +an' heerd thy wheel buzzin' of a Sunday morn.' + +"When Throp's wife heerd that, shoo fell to roarin' agean, for shoo knew +they'd noan be through wi' t' spinnin' while a quairter past twelve. But +at lang length shoo turned to Throp an' shoo said: 'Let's put t' clock +back, an' then, if onybody's passin' an' looks in on us, an' wants to +know why we're workin' of a Sunday morn, we can show 'em t' clock.' + +"Throp said nowt for a bit; he was a soft sort o' a chap, an' didn't +want to start fratchin' wi' his wife. So just to please her, he gat up +on to t' stooil an' put back t' hands o' t' clock twenty minutes. An' t' +clock gave a despert gert groan; 'twere summat atween a groan an' a +sweer, an' it went straight to Throp's heart, an' he wished he'd niver +melled wi' t' clock. Howiver, he com back to his cardin', an' when t' +clock strack twelve, t' bag o' wool were empty, an' there were a gert +hank o' spun yarn as big as a man's heead. Throp looked at his wife, an' +there were a glint in her een that he'd niver seen theer afore; shoo +were fair ditherin' wi' pride an' flustration. 'Fowks san't say "Thrang +as Throp's wife" for nowt,' shoo said, and shoo gat up off t' stooil, +sided away t' spinnin'-wheel, an' stalked off to bed wi' Throp at her +heels. Eh! mon, but 'twere a false sort o' pride were yon." + +"Did people find out about putting the clock back?" I asked. + +"Nay, 'twere worse nor that," Timothy replied. "That neet there was a +storm at Cohen-eead the likes o' which had niver bin seen theer afore. +There was thunner an' leetnin', and a gert sough o' wind that com +yowlin' across t' moor an' freetened iverybody wellnigh out o' their +five senses. Fowks wakkened up an' said 'twere Judgment Day, an' T' Man +Aboon had coom to separate t' sheep frae t' goats. When t' cockleet com, +t' storm had fallen a bit, an' fowks gat out o' bed to see if owt had +happened 'em. Slates, and mebbe a chimley or two, had bin rived off t' +roofs, but t' beasts were all reight i' t' mistals, an' then they went +up on to t' moors to look for t' sheep. When they got nigh Throp's farm, +they noticed there was a gert hoil in his riggin' big enough for a man +to get through. So they shouted to Throp, but he niver answered. Then +they oppened t' door an' looked in. There was nobody i' t' kitchen, but +t' spinnin'-wheel were all meshed to bits and there were a smell o' +burnin' wool. They went all ower t' house, but they could see nowt o' +Throp nor o' Throp's wife, nor o' Throp's wife's chintz-cat that shoo +called Nimrod, nor yet o' Throp's parrot that he'd taught to whistle +_Pop goes t' Weazel_. They lated 'em ower t' moors an' along t' beck +boddom, but 'twere all for nowt, an' nobody i' Cohen-eead iver set een +on 'em again." + +Such was Timothy Barraclough's story of Throp's wife and of the terrible +fate which befell her and her husband. I spent the night at the inn, and +next morning made further inquiries into the matter. There was little +more to be learnt, but I was told that farmers crossing the moors on +their way home from Colne market had sometimes heard, among the rocks on +the crest of the hills, the sound of a spinning-wheel; but others had +laughed at this, and had said that what they had heard was only the cry +of the nightjar among the bracken. It was also rumoured that on one +occasion some boys from the village had made their way into a natural +cavern which ran beneath the rocks, and, after creeping some distance on +hands and knees, had been startled by ghostly sounds. What they heard +was the mournful whistling of a popular air, as it were by some caged +bird, and then the strain was taken up by the voices of a man and woman +singing in unison: + + Up and down the city street + In and out the "Easel," + That's the way the money goes, + Pop goes the weazel. + + + + +"IT MUN BE SO" + + +I met her on her way through the path-fields to the cowshed; she was +gathering, in the fading light of an October evening, the belated stars +of the grass of Parnassus, and strapped to her shoulders was the +"budget," shaped to the contour of the back, and into which the milk was +poured from the pails. It was a heavy load for a girl of twelve, but she +was used to it, and did not grumble. Her father was dead, all the +day-tale men had been called up, and her mother, she assured me, "was +that thrang wi' t' hens an' t' cauves, shoo'd no time for milkin' cows." + +In the village she was subjected to a good deal of ridicule. The +children made fun of her on her way home from school, and called her +"daft Lizzie"; the old folks, when they heard her muttering to herself, +would shrug their shoulders and pass the remark that she was "nobbut a +hauf-rocked 'un"--an insult peculiarly galling to her mother. + +"A hauf-rocked 'un!" she would exclaim. "Nay, I rocked her misel i' t' +creddle while my shackles fair worked. Shoo taks after her dad, that's +what's wrang wi' Lizzie. A feckless gowk was Watmough; he couldn't frame +to do owt but play t' fiddle i' t' sky-parlour, or sit ower t' fire +eatin' fat-shives." + +Lizzie's daftness was not a serious matter; it consisted partly in a +certain dreaminess, which brought a yonderly look into her eyes, and +made her inattentive to what was going on around her, and partly in that +habit of talking to herself which has already been referred to. I had +won her confidence and friendship from the time when I rescued her +"pricky-back urchin" from being kicked to death by the farm boys, who +declared that hedgehogs always made their way into the byres and milked +the cows. Since then we had had many talks together, but this was the +first time that I had accompanied her when she went to milk. + +Milking in summer-time, when the cows are out at grass, is pleasant +enough, but it is different of a winter evening. Then one gropes one's +way by the light of the stable lantern through the rain-sodden fields to +the cowshed, the reeking atmosphere of which often makes one feel faint +as one plunges into it from out of the frosty air. But Lizzie liked the +work at all seasons, and was never so much at ease as when she was +firmly planted on her stool, her curly head butting into a cow's ribs, +and the warm milk swishing rhythmically into her pail. There were three +cows in the byre, and she had called them after her aunts. Eliza, like +her namesake, was "contrairy," and had to have her hind legs hobbled +lest she should kick over the pail. Molly and Anne were docile beasts +that chewed the cud with bovine complacency. It was Lizzie's habit to +tell the cows stories as she milked, making them up as she went along; +but to-day she found a better listener in myself. + +Our talk was at first of cows; thence it passed to village gossip, pigs, +hedgehogs, and so back to cows once more. Knowing the imaginative bent +of her mind, I put the question to her: "Wouldn't you like to know just +what becomes of the milk you send off to Leeds by train every day?" + +"Aye, I like to know who sups t' milk," she answered, "an' so does t' +cows." + +"But you can't know that," I said. "You don't take it round to the +houses." + +"Nay, I don't tak it round to t' houses, but I reckon out aforehand +who's to get it." + +It was evident that Lizzie had some private arrangement for the disposal +of her milk, and I encouraged her to let me share her secret. + +"I've milked for all maks o' fowks sin' father deed," she went on, +"bettermy fowks and poor widdies. Once I milked for t' King." + +"Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle?" + +Lizzie knew nothing about pleasantry, and was not put out by my +frivolous question. + +"'Twern't nowther o' them places," she continued; "'twere Leeds Town +Hall. Mother read it out o' t' paper that he was comin' to Leeds to go +round t' munition works, and would have his dinner wi' t' Lord Mayor. So +I said to misel: 'I'll milk for t' King.' He's turned teetotal, has t' +King, sin t' war started, and I telled t' cows all about it t' neet +afore. 'Ye mun do your best, cushies, to-morn', I said. 'T' King'll be +wantin' a sup o' milk to his ham and eggs, and I reckon 'twill do him +more gooid nor his pint o' beer, choose how. An' just you think on that +gentle-fowks has tickle bellies. Don't thou go hallockin' about i' t' +tonnup-field, Eliza, and get t' taste o' t' tonnups into thy cud same as +thou did last week.' Eh! they was set up about it, was t' cows; I'd +niver seen 'em so chuffy. So next day, just to put 'em back i' their +places, I made em gie their milk to t' owd fowks i' t' Union." + +"Who else have you milked for?" I asked, after a pause, during which she +had moved her stool from Eliza to roan Anne. + +"Nay, I can't reckon 'em all up," she replied. "Soomtimes it's weddin's +an' soomtimes it's buryin's; then there's lile barns that's just bin +weaned, and badly fowks i' bed." + +"And will you sometimes milk for a lady I know that lives in Leeds?" + +Lizzie was silent for a moment, and then asked: "Is shoo a taicher, an' +has shoo gotten fantickles and red hair?" + +"No," I replied, and I thought with some amusement of the freckled face +and aureoled head of the village schoolmistress, who had got across with +Lizzie on account of her inability to do sums and speak "gradely +English." "She's an old lady, with white hair; she's my mother." + +"Aye, I'll milk for thy mother," Lizzie answered; "but I'm thrang wi' +sodgers this week an' next." + +"Soldiers in camp?" I asked. + +"Nay, sodgers i' t' hospital. Poor lads, they're sadly begone for want +o' a sup o' milk. I can see 'em i' their beds i' them gert wards, and +there's country lads amang 'em that knows all about cows an' plooin'. +Their faces are as lang as a wet week when they think on that they've +lossen an arm or a leg, an' will niver milk nor ploo no more. Eh! but +I'm fain to milk for t' sodgers." + +"But how can you be sure that the right people get your milk?" I asked +at last. + +She did not answer at once, and I knew that she was wondering at my +stupidity, and considering how best she could make me understand. But +she could find no words to bring home to my intelligence the confidence +that was hers. All that she could say was: "It mun be so." + +"It mun be so." At first I thought it was just the usual game of +make-believe in which children love to indulge. But it was much more +than this, and the simple words were an expression of her sure faith +that what she willed must come to pass. "It mun be so." Why not? "If ye +have faith, and shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be +thou cast into the sea, it shall be done." + + + + +THE INNER VOICE + + +Fear is a resourceful demon, with whom we are engaged in perpetual +conflict from the cradle to the grave. Fear assumes many forms, and has +always a shrewd eye for the joints in that armour of courage and +confidence which we put on in self-defence. One man conquers fear of +danger only to fall a prey to fear of public opinion; another succumbs +to superstitious fear, while a third, steadfast against all these, comes +under the thraldom of the most insidious and malign of all forms of +fear--the fear of death. + +The power of fear has of late been forcibly impressed on my mind by +hearing from his own lips the story of my friend, Job Hesketh. Six +months ago I should have said that Job was entirely unconscious of fear. +I have never known a man so good-humouredly indifferent to public +opinion. "Say what thou thinks and do what thou says" was the golden +rule upon which he acted, and which he commended to others. +Superstition, in its myriad forms, was for him a lifelong jest. Thirteen +people at table had never been known to take the keen edge off his +Yorkshire appetite, and he liked to make fun of his friends' dread of +ghosts, witches and "gabbleratchets." Nothing pleased him better than to +stroll of an evening round the nearest cemetery, and he had often been +heard to declare: "I'd as sooin eat my supper off a tombstone as off wer +kitchen table." + +He faced danger with reckless unconcern every day of his life. He was +employed as a "vessel-man" at the Leeds Steel Works, working on a +twelve-hours' shift, and his duty was to attend to the huge "vessels" or +crucibles in which the molten pig-iron is converted by the Bessemer +process into steel. The operation is one of enthralling interest and +beauty, and Job Hesketh's soul was in his work. The molten iron from the +blast furnaces flows along its channel into huge "ladles" or cauldrons, +and from there it is conveyed into a still larger reservoir or "mixer," +where the greater part of the slag--which floats as a scum on the +surface--is drawn off. Then the purified metal passes into other +cauldrons, which are borne along by hydraulic machinery and their +contents gently tipped into the crucibles, which lower their gaping +mouths to receive the daffodil stream of molten iron. When their maws +are full, the crucibles are once more brought into an erect position, +and the process of converting iron into steel begins. A blast of air is +driven through the liquid metal, and the "vessels" are at once changed +into fountains of fire. A gigantic spray of flame and sparks rises from +their gaping mouths and ascends to a height of twenty feet, changing its +colour from green to gold and from gold to violet and blue as the impure +gases of sulphur and phosphorus are purged by the blast. For twenty +minutes this continues, and then the roar of the blast and the fiery +spray die down. What entered the crucible as iron is now ready to be +poured forth as steel. Once more the "vessels" are lowered and made to +discharge their contents. First comes a molten cascade of basic slag +which is borne away to cool, then to be ground to finest powder, before +its quickening power is given to pasture and cornfield, imparting a +deeper purple to the clover and a mellower gold to the rippling ears of +wheat. When all the slag has been drawn off, there is a moment's pause, +and then a new cascade begins. The steel is beginning to flow, not in a +daffodil stream like the slag, but in a cascade of exquisite turquoise +blue, melting away at the sides into iridescent opal. Sometimes a great +cloud of steam from the pit below passes across the mouth of the +crucible, and then the torrent of molten steel takes on all the colours +of the rainbow, and the great shed, with its alert, swiftly moving +figures, is suffused with a radiance of unearthly beauty. + +When the vessels have discharged all their precious liquid, the cauldron +into which the metal has been poured is swung in mid-air by that unseen, +effortless power which we know as hydraulic pressure, through the arc of +a wide circle, until it reaches the point where the great ingot-moulds +stand ready to receive the molten steel. Then the cauldron is tapped, +and once more the stream of turquoise flows forth, until the ladle is +empty and the moulds are filled to the brim with liquid fire. Such was +the work in which Job Hesketh was engaged, and it absorbed him body and +soul from year's end to year's end. + +Job was a giant in stature and strength. Born on a farm in the very +heart of the Yorkshire wolds, he had drifted, as a boy of sixteen, to +Leeds, and had found the life and activities of the forge as congenial +as those of the farmstead. He had reached the age of fifty without +knowing a day's illness, and he would have been the first to admit that +fortune had smiled on him. His home life had been smooth, his wages had +been sufficient for his simple needs, and the good health that he +enjoyed was shared by his wife and five children. It is true that, in +spite of his long years of service, he had never risen to be a foreman; +but that, he knew quite well, was his own fault. During the summer +months his conduct at the forge was exemplary, but as soon as November +set in it was another matter. Fox-hunting was the passion of his life, +and with the fall of the leaf in the last days of October, Job grew +restless. He would eagerly scan the papers for news of the doings of the +Bramham Moor Hunt, and from the opening of the season to its close he +would play truant on at least one day a week. He knew every cover for +leagues around, and thought nothing of tramping six or eight miles to be +ready for the meet before following the hounds and huntsman all day on +foot across the stubble fields. In vain did foremen and works-managers +remonstrate with him; he promised to reform, but never kept his word. +The blood of many generations of wold farmers ran in his veins, and +everyone of them had been a keen sportsman. The cry of the hounds rang +in his dreams of a night, and when Mary Hesketh, lying by her husband's +side, heard him muttering in his sleep: "Tally-ho! Hark to Rover! Stown +away!" she knew that, when the hooter sounded at half-past five, it +would summon him, not to work, but to a day with the hounds. He would +return home between four and five, mud-stained from head to foot, +triumphant at heart, but with an amusingly cowed expression on his face, +as of a dog that expects a whipping. + +The only whipping that Mary Hesketh could administer to her repentant +Job was that of the tongue. In her early matrimonial life she had +wielded this like a flail, and Job had winced before the blows which she +delivered. But in course of time she had come to realise that her +husband's passion for the chase was incurable, and, like a wise woman, +she accepted it as part of her destiny. "Thou's bin laikin' agean, thou +gert good-for-nowt," was her usual greeting for Job on these occasions. + +"Ay, ay, lass," he would reply; "I've addled nowt all t' day. But thou +promised, when we wed, to tak me for better or worse; an' if t' worse +wasn't t' hounds, it would happen be hosses or drink. Sithee, Mally, +I've browt thee a two-three snowdrops; thou can wear 'em o' Sunday." + +Such was the Job Hesketh that I had known and loved for many years, and +I saw no reason why his genial temper and buoyant heart should not +remain with him to the end of his life. Yet within six months the man +changed completely. He grew suddenly old and shrunken; the great blithe +laugh that pealed through the house was silenced, the look of suave +contentment with himself and with the world about him vanished from his +face, and in its place I saw a nervous, troubled glance as of one who +suspects a lurking foe ready to spring at his throat. The change which +came over Job was like that which sometimes comes over a city sky in +autumn. The morning breaks fair, and the sun rises from out a cloudless, +frosty sky, promising a day of sunshine. But then, with the lighting of +a hundred thousand fires, a change takes place. The smoke cannot escape +in the windless air, but hangs like a pall over the houses. The sun +grows chill, coppery and rayless, and soon a fog, creeping along the +river, silently encloses each particle of smoke within a watery shroud, +and a mantle of murky gloom invests the city. + +What was it that wrought this sudden change in the mind of Job Hesketh? +The story is soon told. For a long time there had been no serious +accident at the Leeds Steel Works, and the workmen, almost without being +aware of it, had grown somewhat reckless of the dangers which they had +to face. They knew quite well that in many of the operations which the +metal undergoes in its passage from crude ore to ingots of steel, a +false step meant instant death. But they had known this so long that the +knowledge had lost its terrors. + +There are many moments of enforced idleness for the vesselmen as they +stand on their raised platform in front of the crucibles; but, even +during these moments of inactivity, alertness of mind is required. One +morning their minds were not alert, and one of the workmen, Abe Verity +by name, seated on the railing which separates the platform from the pit +in which stand the ingot-moulds, had snatched the cap from the head of +one of his fellows. The latter, in response to this, had raised his +crowbar, as if he meant to strike Abe on the head, and Abe, lurching +backward on the railing in order to avoid the blow, had lost his balance +and fallen backwards. Under ordinary circumstances this would have meant +nothing worse than a drop into the pit below, but, as ill-luck would +have it, one of the cauldrons of molten steel was being swung along the +arc of the pit by a hydraulic crane, and, at the very moment when Abe +lost his balance, it had reached the point beneath which he was sitting. +There was an agonised cry from the vesselmen on their platform, a +hissing splash with great gouts of liquid fire flying in all directions, +a sickening smell, and then, a few minutes later, a clergyman, hastily +summoned from the adjoining church, was reciting the burial service over +the calcined body of Abe Verity. + +Blank terror gleamed in the eyes of the men who had been witnesses of +this grim holocaust. All work was suspended for the day, and Job Hesketh +was led home, dazed and trembling in every joint, by his two eldest +sons, who worked in another part of the forge. Huddled together in his +chair by the kitchen fire, perspiration streamed from his face. He was +in a state bordering on delirium, and the answers which he gave to the +questions put to him were wildly incoherent. + +Abe Verity was his friend. They had been boys together in the little +wold village where they had been born, and it was at Job's earnest +entreaty that Abe had quitted farm work and joined his friend at the +Leeds Steel Works. Their tastes had been similar, and the Veritys had +often joined the Heskeths in their summer holiday at the seaside. And +now, in one fell moment, the lifelong friendship had been severed, and +Abe, the glad, strong, heart-warm man, had plunged from life to death. + +Job refused to go to bed that night, but sat in his chair by the +flickering embers of his kitchen fire. His wife, lying awake in the +bedroom above, listened to his hard breathing and to the half-stifled +words which now and again fell from his lips. He was brooding over the +terrible scene he had witnessed. Every detail had bitten itself into his +brain like acid into metal. He saw the waves of liquid steel closing +over his friend, the greedy swirl of the molten metal, and then the +little tongues of red fire playing upon the surface. They reminded him +of the red tongues of wolves which he had once seen in a cage, as they +licked their chops after their feed of horse-flesh. Then it was the +clergyman reading from his Prayer Book in the garish light of the forge +that fastened itself on his mind. The words seemed charged with bitter +mockery: "We give Thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased Thee to +deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world." +"Hearty thanks"! he muttered scornfully. "I'll gie God nowt o' t' sort. +Life tasted gooid to Abe. He knew nowt about t' miseries o' t' sinful +world. He led a clean life, did Abe; an' he were fain o' life, same as I +am." + +Time gradually assuaged the first horror of the tragedy which Job had +witnessed, but it failed to bring him peace of mind. Fear of death, +which up to the moment of the tragedy at the forge had never given him +an uneasy moment, now entered into possession of his mind and haunted +him awake or asleep. His work at the forge, once a joy to him, was now +an unbroken agony. He saw death lying in wait for him every time he +climbed a ladder or lifted a crowbar. Nor could he wholly escape from +the terror in what had always seemed to him the security of his home. +The howling of the wind in the chimney, the muttering of a distant +thunderstorm, even the sight of his razor on the dressing-table, were +enough to arouse the morbid fear and strike terror to his heart. + +He said little of the agony that he suffered, but it was written plainly +in his eyes, in his ashen face and in the trembling of his hand. I did +my best to induce him to speak his mind to me, but with poor success. +One Sunday evening, however, when I found him and his wife seated by +themselves over the fire, I found him more communicative, and I realised +that what he dreaded most of all in the thought of death was loss of +personality. Of the unelect Calvinist's fear of hell he knew nothing. +What troubled him was, rather, dissatisfaction with heaven. Job was not +much of a theologian, though he attended chapel regularly of a Sunday +evening. His ideas of heaven were drawn mainly from certain popular +hymns, which depicted the life of the redeemed as a perpetual practice +of psalmody. + +"What sud I be doin' i' heaven," he asked, "wi' a crown o' gowd on my +heead and nowt to do all day but twang a harp, just as if I were one o' +them lads i' t' band? What mak o' life's yon for a chap like me, that's +allus bin used to tug an' tew for his livin'!" + +"Nay, Job," his wife replied, "but thou'll be fain o' a bit o' rest when +thy turn cooms. It's a place o' rest, that's what heaven is; thou'll +noan be wanted to play on t' harp without thou's a mind to." + +"I can't sit idle like thee, Mary," Job answered. "I mun allus be doin' +summat. If it isn't Steel Works, it's fox-huntin'; and if it isn't +fox-huntin' it's fettlin' up t' henhouse, or doin' a bit o' wark wi' my +shool i' t' tatie-patch." + +"Thou'll happen change thy mind when thou's a bit owder," was Mary +Hesketh's answer to this. "When I'm ower thrang wi' wark on a +washin'-day, I just set misen down on t' chair and think o' t' rest o' +heaven, an' I say ower to misen yon lines that I larnt frae my muther: + + "I knew a poor lass that allus were tired, + Shoo lived in a house wheer help wasn't hired. + Her last words on earth were, 'Dear friends, I am goin' + Wheer weshin' ain't doon, nor sweepin', nor sewin', + Don't weep for me now, don't weep for me niver, + I'm boun' to do nowt for iver an' iver.'" + + +"Ay, lass," Job replied, "that's reight enif for thee. Breedin' barns +taks it out o' a woman. But it'll noan suit me so weel." + +I did my best to reason with Job and to enlarge his conception of the +life to come and of the progress of the soul after death, but I made +little impression on his mind. A heaven without forges, fox-hunting and +hen-coops offered him no possible attraction. + +"What thou says may be true," he would answer, "but it'll noan be Job +Hesketh that's sittin' theer. It'll be somebody else o' t' same name." + +Thus did he fall back upon his ever-besetting fear of loss of +personality in the life hereafter, and, like his Biblical namesake, he +refused to be comforted. + +The agony which Job Hesketh was enduring did not make him listless. On +the contrary, it seemed to give him new energy. It is true that the old +pleasure had gone out of his work and play, but to him work and play +meant life, and to life he clung with the energy of one who lived in +constant fear lest it should be suddenly snatched from him. It was +January when Abe Verity had met with his fatal accident, and all through +the next six months Job toiled like a galley-slave. + +It was the practice of the Heskeths to spend the first ten days of +August at the seaside. It was their annual holiday, long talked of and +long prepared, and it was invariably spent at Bridlington. There Job +could indulge to the full in his favourite holiday pastime of swimming, +and there he was in close touch with the undulating wold country where +his boyhood had been spent. He could renew old acquaintances, lend a +hand to the farmers, or wander at will along the chalk beds of the +_gipsies_ or dry water-courses which wind their way from the hills to +the sea. Years ago he and his wife had given a trial to Scarborough, +Blackpool and Morecambe as seaside resorts, but they felt like +foreigners there and had come back to Bridlington as to an old home. + +"There's nowt like Bridlington sands," he would say, in self-defence. +"I'm noan sayin' but what there's a better colour i' t' watter at +Blackpool, but there's ower mich wind on' t sea. Sea-watter gits into +your mouth when you're swimmin' and then you've to blow like a grampus. +Scarborough's ower classy for t' likes o' Mary an' me; it's all reight +for bettermy-bodies that likes to dizen theirselves out an' sook cigars +on church parade. But me an' t' owd lass allus go to Bridlington. It's +homely, is Bridlington, an' you're not runnin' up ivery minute agean +foreign counts an' countesses that ought to bide wheer they belang, an' +keep theirsens to theirsens." + +There had been no improvement in Job's state of mind during the long +summer days that preceded his holiday. In his most robust days inquiries +as to his health always elicited the answer that he was "just middlin'," +which is the invariable answer that the cautious Yorkshireman vouchsafes +to give. Now, with a shrunken frame, and fever in his eye, he was still +"just middlin'," and, only when hard pressed would he acknowledge the +carking fear that was gnawing at his heart. I was, however, not without +hope that change of air and sea-bathing, for which Job had a passion +almost equal to that for fox-hunting, would restore him to health and +tranquillity of mind. + +The Heskeths started for Bridlington on a Friday, and on the following +Sunday the news reached me that my old friend had been drowned while +bathing. I was stunned by the blow, and a feeling of intense gloom +pervaded my mind all day. But next morning the rumour was corrected. +Job, it seems, had gone for a long swim on the Saturday morning, and, +not realising that he had lost strength during the last six months, had +swum too far out of his depth. His strength had given out on the return +journey, and only the arrival of a boatman had saved him from death by +drowning. Relieved as I was by this second account of what had happened, +I was, nevertheless, a prey to the fear that this second encounter with +death would have enhanced that agony of mind which he had endured ever +since the moment when his friend, Abe Verity, had fallen into the +cauldron of molten steel. I waited anxiously for Job's return home and +determined to go and see him on the evening following his arrival. + +I was in my bedroom, preparing to start off, when, to my surprise, I +heard Job's voice at my front door. I ran downstairs and was face to +face with a Job Hesketh that I had not known for six months. His head +and shoulders were erect, he had put on flesh, and the cowed look had +entirely vanished from his eyes. I at once congratulated him on his +improved appearance. + +"Aye, aye," he answered, "there's nowt mich wrang wi' me." + +"Bridlington, I see, has done you a world of good." + +"Nay, I've bin farther nor Bridlington," he replied, and the old merry +twinkle, that I knew so well and had missed so long, came into his eyes. + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "Have you been on board one of the Wilson +liners in the Humber and crossed over to Holland?" + +"Farther nor Holland," he replied, with a chuckle. "I've bin to heaven. +I reckon I'm t' first Yorkshireman that's bin to heaven an' gotten a +return ticket given him." + +"Sit down, Job," I said, "and stop that nonsense. What do you mean?" + +Job seated himself by my study fire, leisurely took from his pocket a +dirty clay pipe and a roll of black twist, which he proceeded to cut and +pound. As he was thus engaged he would look up from time to time into my +face and enjoy to the full the look of impatience imprinted on it. + +"Aye, lad," he began at last, "I've bin to heaven sin I last saw thee, +an' heaven's more like Leeds nor I thowt for." + +"Like Leeds!" I exclaimed, and, as Job seemed in a jesting mood, I +decided to humour him. "I fancy it must have been the other place you +got to. To think of you not being able to tell heaven from hell." + +"Nay, 'twere heaven, reight enif," he continued, undisturbed. "I could +tell it by t' glint i' t' een o' t' lads an' lasses." + +I could see that Job had a story to tell of more than ordinary interest. +His changed appearance and buoyant manner showed clearly that something +had happened to him which had dispelled the pall of gloom which had +settled on him since Abe Verity's death. I was determined to hear the +story in full. + +"Now then, Job," I said, "let us get to business. Take that pipe out of +your mouth and tell me what you have been doing at Bridlington." + +Job laid down his clay pipe, cleared his throat, and polished his face +till it shone, with a large red handkerchief, and began his story. + +"Well, you see, t' missus an' me got to Bridlington Friday afore Bank +Holiday, an' next mornin' I went down to t' shore for my swim same as +I'd allus done afore. 'Twere a breet mornin', an t' chalk cliffs o' +Flamborough were glistenin' i' t' sun-leet. T' fishin' boats were out at +sea, an' t' air were fair wick wi' kittiwakes an' herrin' gulls. So I +just undressed misen, walked down to t' watter an' started swimmin'. Eh! +but t' sea were bonny an' warm, an' for once I got all yon dowly thowts +o' death clean out o' my head. So I just struck out for t' buoy that +were anchored out at sea, happen hafe a mile frae t' shore. That had +allus bin my swim sin first we took to comin' to Bridlington, and I'd +niver had no trouble i' swimmin' theer an' back. I got to t' buoy all +reight an' rested misen a bit an' looked round. Gow! but 'twere a grand +seet. I could see t' leet-house at Spurn, and reight i' front o' me were +Bridlington wi' t' Priory Church and up beyond were fields an' fields of +corn wi' farm-houses set amang t' plane-trees an' t' sun-leet glistenin' +on their riggins. Efter a while I started to swim back. But it were noan +so easy. Tide were agean me an' there were a freshish breeze off t' +land. Howiver, I'd no call to hurry misen, so when I got a bit tired I +lay on my back, an' floated an' looked up at t' gulls aboon my head. But +then I fan' out 'twere no use floatin'; t' tide were driftin' me out to +sea. So I got agate o' swimmin' an' kept at it for wellnigh ten minutes. +But t' shore were a lang way off, an' then, sudden-like, I began to +think o' Abe Verity, an' t' fear o' death got howd on me an' clutched me +same as if I'd bin taen wi' cramp. There were lads fishin' frae boats +noan so far off, an' I hollaed to 'em; but they niver heerd. I tewed an' +better tewed, but I got no forrarder; an' then I knew I were boun' to +drown." + +As Job got to this point in his story something of the old terror crept +into his eyes, and I did my best to cheer him. + +"Well, Job," I said, "they tell me that drowning is the pleasantest kind +of death that there is." + +His face brightened up immediately, and he replied: "Thou's tellin' +true, lad, an' what's more, I know all about it. If anybody wants to +know what it's like to be drowned, send 'em to Job Hesketh. If I'd as +mony lives as an owd tom-cat, I'd get shut on 'em all wi' drownin'." + +Job's spirits were evidently restored, so I urged him to get on with his +story. + +"Well," he continued, "I tugged an' tewed as lang as I could, but my +mouth began to get full o' watter, my legs an' airms were dead beat, an' +I reckoned that 'twere all ower wi' me. An' then a fearful queer sort o' +thing happened me. I were i' my father's farm on t' wold, laikin' wi' my +brothers same as I used to do when I were a lile barn. An', what's more, +I thowt it were my ninth birthday. You see, when I were nine yeer owd, +my father gave me two gimmer lambs an' I were prouder yon day nor iver +I'd bin i' my life afore. Weel, that were t' day that had coom back; I +knew nowt about drownin', but theer was I teein' a bit o' ribbin' about +t' lambs' necks an' givin' 'em a sup o' milk out o' a bottle. An' then I +were drivin' wi' my father an' mother i' t' spring-cart to Driffield +markit. I'd donned my best clothes and my nuncle had gien me a new +sixpenny-bit for a fairin', an' I were to buy choose-what I liked. Well, +I were aimin' to think how I sud spend t' brass when I got to Driffield, +when suddenly I weren't a lile barn no more. I were Job Hesketh, +vesselman at Leeds Steel Works, and I were drownin' i' t' sea. I saw a +boat noan so far away and I tried to holla to t' boatman, but 'twere no +use; all my strength had given out, an' my voice were nobbut a groan. +An' then----" + +Job paused, and I looked up into his face. A strange radiance had come +over it, such as I had never seen there before. I had heard it said that +all that was brightest in a man's past life rises like a vision before +his eyes when, in the act of drowning, his body sinks once, and then +again, beneath the water, but I had never before confronted a man who +could relate in detail what had happened to him. Then there was Job's +story about his return ticket to heaven, which puzzled me, and I urged +him to continue his story. + +"Thou'll reckon I'm talkin' blether," he went on, "but I tell thee it's +true, ivery word on it. I'll tak my Bible oath on it. All on a sudden I +were stannin' i' a gert park, and eh! but there were grand trees. They +were birk-trees, an' their boles were that breet they fair glistened i' +t' sunleet. An' underneath t' birks were bluebells, yakkers an' yakkers +o' bluebells, an' I thowt they were bluer an' breeter nor ony I'd seen +afore. There were all maks o' birds i' t' trees--spinks an' throstles +an' blackbirds--an' t' air aboon my head were fair wick wi' larks an' +pipits singin' as canty as could be. Weel, I followed along t' beck-side +while I com to a gert lake, wi' lads an' lasses sailin' boats on it. So +I said to misen: 'My word! but it's Roundhay Park an' all.' But it +wern't nowt o' t' sort. For one thing there were no policemen about, +same as you'd see at Roundhay on a Bank Holiday, an' at low side o' t' +lake there was a town wi' all maks an' manders o' buildin's; an', what's +more, a steel works wi' blast-furnaces. Weel, I were stood there, +watchin' t' childer paddlin' about i' t' watter, when somebody clapped +his hand on my showder an' sang out: 'Hullo! Job, how long hasta bin +here?' I looked round an', by t' Mass! who sud I see but Abe Verity." + +"Abe Verity!" I exclaimed. + +"Ay, 'twere Abe hissen, plain as life. + +"So I said: 'Hullo! Abe, how ista?' + +"'Just middlin',' says Abe, 'an' how's thisen? How long hasta bin here?' + +"Well, I didn't hardlins know what to say to him. You see I didn't +fairly know where I was, so I couldn't tell him how lang I'd bin theer. +So I says to him: 'Sithee, Abe, is this Roundhay Park?' + +"'Raandhay Park,' says Abe. You see Abe allus talked a bit broad. He +couldn't talk gradely English same as you an' me. 'Twere all along o' +him livin' wi' them Leeds loiners up at Hunslet Carr. 'Raandhay Park!' +he says. 'Nay, lad, you'll noan see birk-trees like yon i' Raandhay +Park.' And he pointed to t' birk-trees by t' lake-side, wi' boles two +foot through. + +"'What is it then?' I asked. 'Have I coom to foreign parts? I'm a bad +'un to mell wi' foreigners.' + +"'Nay,' said Abe, 'thou's i' heaven.' + +"'Heaven!' I shouted out, an' I looked up at Abe to see if he were +fleerin' at me. He looked as grave as a judge, did Abe, but then I +noticed that he were donned i' his blue overalls, same as if he'd just +coom frae his wark. So I said to him: 'Heaven, is it? I can't see mich +o' heaven about thee, Abe. Wheer's thy harp an' crown o' gowd?' + +"'Harp an' crown o' gowd,' said Abe, an' he started laughin'. 'Who is +thou takkin' me for? I'm noan King David. I'm a vesselman at t' steel +works,' an' he pointed wi' his hand across t' lake to wheer we could see +t' forge. + +"Gow! but I were fair flustrated. There was Abe Verity tellin' me one +minute that I were in heaven, and next minute he were sayin' that he +were workin' at t' steel works. You see I had allus thowt that i' heaven +iverything would be different to what it is on earth. So I said: 'Does +thou mean to tell me, Abe, that lads i' heaven do t' same sort o' wark +that they've bin doin' all their lives on earth?' + +"'Nay,' says Abe, 'I'll noan go so far as to say just that. What I say +is that they start i' heaven wheer they've left off on earth; but t' +conditions is different.' + +"'How's that?' I axed. + +"'Well, for one thing, a lad taks more pride i' his wark; an', what's +more, he's freer to do what he likes. When I were at Leeds Steel Works I +had to do choose-what t' boss telled me. Up here I'm my own boss.' + +"When I heerd that, I knew that Abe were weel suited. You see he were a +bit o' a Socialist, were Abe; he used to wear a red tie an' talk +Socialism of a Setterday neet on Hunslet Moor. So I said to him: 'Doesta +mean that heaven stands for Socialism, Abe?' + +"But Abe laughed an' shook his heead. 'Nay, lad,' he said, 'we haven't +gotten no 'isms i' heaven. We've gotten shut o' all that sort o' thing. +There's no argifying i' heaven. There's plenty o' discipline, but it's +what we call self-discipline; an' I reckon that's t' only sort o' +discipline that's worth owt.' + +"'That'll niver do for me, Abe,' I said. 'If it were a case o' +self-discipline, I reckon I'd niver do a stroke o' wark.' + +"'Nay, lad,' he said; 'thou'll think different now thou's coom to +heaven. Thou'll hark to t' inner voice an' do what it tells thee.' + +"'Inner voice,' I said; 'what's that?' + +"'It's a new sort o' boss,' says Abe; 'an' a gooid 'un an' all. When +thou wants to know what to do or how to do it, thou just sets thisen +down, an' t' inner voice starts talkin' to thee an' keeps on talkin', +while thou gets agate o' doin' what it tells thee.'" + +Job's story was gripping my imagination as nothing had done before. +Heaven was a place of activity and not of rest; a place where the +labours of earth were renewed at the point at which they had ceased on +earth, but under ideal conditions; so that labour, under the guidance of +self-discipline, became service. Job's account of his conversation with +Abe made all this as clear as sunlight, but I was still somewhat puzzled +by the story of the inner voice. + +"What do you think Abe meant by the inner voice?" I asked. + +"Nay," replied Job, "I can't tell. But what he said were true. I'm sure +o' that. There were a look in his een that I'd niver seen theer afore; +'twere as if t' inner voice were speakin' through his een as well as +through his mouth." + +"It's something more than conscience," I went on, speaking as much to +myself as to Job. "Conscience tells a man what it is his duty to do, but +conscience does not teach him how to do things." + +We were both silent for a few moments, pondering over the problem of the +inner voice. Then a thought flashed through my mind and, rising from my +seat, I went to my bookshelves and took down a volume of Browning's +poems. I eagerly turned over the pages of _Paracelsus_, read a few +verses to myself, and then exclaimed: + +"I know what it is, Job. The inner voice is the voice of truth." And I +read aloud the verses in which Paracelsus, that eager quest after truth, +speaks his mind to his friend Festus: + + Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise + From outward things, whate'er you may believe. + There is an inmost centre in us all, + Where truth abides in fullness; and around, + Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, + This perfect, clear perception--which is truth. + A baffling and perverting carnal mesh + Binds it and makes all error: and to KNOW + Rather consists in opening out a way + Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, + Than in effecting entry for a light, + Supposed to be without. + +Browning was, perhaps, somewhat beyond the comprehension of Job Hesketh, +but he liked to hear me reading poetry aloud. + +"Whativer it is," he said, "Abe Verity knows all about it. He were allus +a better scholar nor me, were Abe, sin first we went to schooil +together; but I reckon I'll know all about it, too, when I've slipped t' +leash an' started work at Heaven Steel Works." + +It was evident that a great change had come over Job's mind, and that +the wonderful vision of a future life that had been granted to him +during that second immersion beneath the waves of the North Sea had +wholly taken away from him his old fear of death. But I wanted to hear +the conclusion of the story, and pressed him to continue. + +"Nay," he said, "there's noan so mich more to tell. There was summat i' +Abe that made me a bit flaid o' axin' him ower mony questions. He were +drissed like a plain vesselman, sure enif; but he talked as if he were a +far-learnt man, an' his own maister. I axed him how lang t' shifts +lasted i' heaven, an' he said: 'We work as lang as t' inner voice tells +us to.' You see 'twere allus t' inner voice, an' I couldn't hardlins mak +out what he meant by that. + +"Then a thowt com into my heead, but I didn't fairly like to out wi' it, +for fear T' Man Aboon were somewheer about an' sud hear me. So I just +leaned ovver and whispered i' Abe's lug: + +"'Doesta tak a day off nows an' thens an' run wi' t' hounds or t' +harriers?' + +"Abe laughed as if he were fit to brust hissen, an' then, afore he'd +time to answer, iverything went as dark as a booit. I saw no more o' +Abe, nor o' t' lake, nor o' t' birk-trees; an' t' next time I oppened my +een there were a doctor chap stannin' ower me wi' a belly-pump in his +hand, an' I were liggin' on a bed as weak as a kitlin." + +Job was silent for a while, after finishing his story and relighting his +pipe, and his silence gave me a chance of looking at him closely. +Physically he was none the worse for his adventure; mentally, +spiritually, he was a new man. The fear of death had gone from his eyes, +and in its place was the joy of life, together with a sure faith in the +triumph of personality when, to use his own coursing phrase, he had +slipped the leash. His vision of heaven was somewhat too material to +satisfy me, but there could be no doubt that it had brought to his +terror-swept soul the peace of mind which passeth all understanding. + +After a while Job rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and took his +leave. I accompanied him to the door and watched him as he walked down +the street. There was something buoyant in his tread, and his gigantic +shoulders rolled from side to side like a seaman's on the quarter-deck. +Soon he started whistling, and I smiled as I caught the tune. It was one +of his chapel hymns, and there was a note of exultation in the closing +bars: + + "O grave! where is thy victory? + O death! where is thy sting?" + +My mind was full of Job's story all that day. I somehow refused to +believe that what he had related was mere imagination, and it was +evident that he could not have invented the story of the inner voice, +for this remained a mystery to him. The inner voice haunted me all the +time, and, as I lay in bed that night, I asked myself again and again +the question: Why must we wait for a future life to hear this inner +voice? + + + + +B.A. + + +They met at the smithy, waiting for "The Crooked Billet" to open for the +evening. There was Joe Stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as +Besom-Joe, William Throup the postman, Tommy Thwaite the "Colonel," so +called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of +the Allied Commanders-in-Chief, and Owd Jerry the smith, who knew how to +keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his +hammer on the anvil. He refuted his opponents by asking them questions, +after the manner of Socrates. The subject of conversation was the +village school-mistress, who had recently been placed in charge of some +thirty children, and was winning golden opinions on all sides. + +"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot +eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places +wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick." + +"Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said +Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day." + +"Nay, shoo'll noan best t' parson," objected Stackhouse who, as +"church-warner" for the year, looked upon himself as the defender of the +faith, the clergy, and all their works. "Parson's written books abaat t' +owd churches i' t' district, who's bin wedded in 'em, and who's liggin' +i' t' vaults." + +"Well," rejoined the Colonel, "and didn't Mary Crabtree, wheer shoo +lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen +books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?" + +"Aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has," retorted +Stackhouse. + +"I reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to cover as to +write one," retorted the Colonel. + +"An' shoo can write too," the postman joined in, "better nor t' parson. +I've seen her letters, them shoo writes and them shoo gets sent her. An' +there's a queer thing abaat some o' t' letters at fowks writes to her; +they put B.A. at after her name." + +"Happen them'll be her Christian names," suggested Stackhouse. "There's +a mak o' fowks nowadays that gets more nor one name when they're +kessened." + +"Nay," replied Throup, "her name's Mary, and what fowks puts on t' +envelope is Miss Mary Taylor, B.A." + +"Thou's sure it's 'B.A.,' and not 'A.B.,'" said Stackhouse. "I've a +nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered 'A.B.,' +meaning able-bodied, so as t' Admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a +limb." + +"Nay, it's 'B.A.,' and fowks wodn't call a lass like Mary Taylor +able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin." + +"I reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'B.A.,'" interposed the +Colonel. "Shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me they're +all foorced to put 'B.A.' at after their names." + +"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information +coming from the Colonel. + +"Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. It'll be same +as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name." + +"Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked William +Throup, his mouth agape with wonder. + +"Nay, blether-heead," replied Stackhouse, "they'll be like t' specials, +and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. But doesta reckon, Colonel, +that B.A. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?" + +"Nay, they tell me that it stands for Bachelor of Arts, choose-what that +means." + +The smith had listened to the Colonel's explanation of the mysterious +letters with growing scepticism. He had scarcely spoken, but an +attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short, +petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he +stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded, +after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions. + +"Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male +or a she-male?" + +"Her's a she-male, o' course. What maks thee axe that?" + +The smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a cinder, and +proceeded with his own cross-examination. + +"An' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell a he-male +thro' a she-male as well as thee?" + +"O' course they can. By t' mass, Jerry, what arta drivin' at?" + +"An' hasta niver bin i' church, Colonel," the smith continued, +unperturbed, "when t' parson has put spurrins up? Why, 'twere nobbut a +week last Sunday sin he axed if onybody knew just cause or 'pediment why +Tom Pounder sudn't wed Anne Coates." + +"I mind it, sure enough," interjected Stackhouse, "and fowks began to +girn, for they knew there was ivery cause an' 'pediment why he sud wed +her." + +"Hod thy din! Besom-Joe, while I ve sattled wi' t' Colonel" said the +smith, and he turned once more on his man. "What I want to know is if +parson didn't say: 'I publish t' banns o' marriage between Tom Pounder, +bachelor, and Anne Coates, spinster, both o' this parish.'" + +"Aye, that's reight," said the Colonel, "an' I see what thou's drivin' +at. Thou means Mary Taylor ought to be called spinster. Well, for sure, +I niver thowt o' that." + +"It's not likely thou would; thou's noan what I sud call a thinkin' man. +Thy tongue is ower fast for thy mind to keep up wi' it." + +"Then what doesta reckon they letters stand for?" asked Besom-Joe. + +"There's nowt sae difficult wi' t' letters when you give your mind to +'em," the smith replied. "What I want to know is, if Mary Taylor came +here of her own accord, or if her was putten into t' job by other +fowks." + +"I reckon shoo was appointed by t' Eddication Committee." + +"Appointed, was shoo? I thowt as mich. Then mebbe 'B.A.' will stand for +'By appointment.'" + +The smith's solution of the problem was received with silence, but the +silence implied approval. The Colonel, it is true, smarting under a +sense of defeat, would have liked to press the argument further; but +just then the front door of "The Crooked Billet" was thrown open by the +landlord, and the smithy was speedily emptied of its occupants. + + + + +CORN-FEVER + + +"Sithee, lass, oppen t' windey a minute, there's a love." + +"What do you want t' windey openin' for, mother? You'll give me my death +o' cowd." + +"I thowt I heerd t' soond o' t' reaper." + +"Sound o' t' reaper! Nay, 'twere nobbut t' tram coomin' down t' road. +What makes you think o' reapers? You don't live i' t' country any +longer." + +"Happen I were wrang, but they'll be cuttin' corn noan sae far away, I +reckon." + +"What have you got to do wi' corn, I'd like to know? If you wanted to +bide i' t' country when father deed, you sud hae said so. I gave you +your choice, sure enough. 'Coom an' live wi' me i' Hustler's Court,' I +said, 'an' help me wi' t' ready-made work, or else you can find a place +for yourself 'i Thirsk Workhouse.'" + +"Aye, I've had my choice, Mary, but it's gey hard tewin' all t' day at +button-holes, when September's set in and I think on t' corn-harvist." + +There was a pause in the conversation, and Mary, to humour her mother, +threw up the window and let in the roar of the trams, the far-off clang +of the steel hammers at the forge, and the rancid smell of the +fried-fish shop preparing for the evening's trade. The old woman +listened attentively to catch the sound which she longed for more than +anything else in the world, but the street noises drowned everything. +She sank back in her chair and took up the garment she was at work on. +But her mind was busy, and after a few minutes she turned again to her +daughter. + +"Thoo'll not be thinkin' o' havin' a day i' t' coontry this month, +Mary?" + +"Nay, I'm noan sich a fool as to want to go trapsin' about t' lanes an' +t' ditches. I've my work to attend to, or we'll not get straight wi' t' +rent." + +"Aye, we're a bit behind wi' t' rent sin thoo com back frae thy week i' +Blackpool." + +"Now don't you be allus talkin' about my week i' Blackpool; I reckon +I've a right to go there, same as t' other lasses that works at +Cohen's." + +"I wasn't complainin', Mary." + +"Eh! but I know you were; and that's all t' thanks I get for sendin' you +them picture postcards. You want me to bide a widdy all my life, and me +nobbut thirty-five." + +"Is there sae mony lads i' Blackpool, that's thinkin' o' gettin' wed?" + +"By Gow! there is that. There's a tidy lot o' chaps i' them Blackpool +boarding-houses, an' if a lass minds her business, she'll have hooked +one afore Bank Holiday week's out." + +Again there was silence in the workroom, and the needles worked busily. +The daughter was moodily brooding over the matrimonial chances which she +had missed, while the mother's thoughts were going back to her youth and +married life, when she lived at the foot of the Hambledon Hills, in a +cottage where corn-fields, scarlet with poppies in summer-time, reached +to her garden gate. At last the old woman timidly re-opened the +conversation. + +"We couldn't tak a hafe-day off next week, I suppose, and gan wi' t' +train soomwheer oot i' t' coontry, wheer I could see a two-three fields +o' corn? Rheumatics is that bad I could hardlins walk far, but mebbe +they'd let me sit on t' platform wheer I could watch t' lads huggin' t' +sheaves or runnin' for t' mell."(1) + +"Lor'! mother, fowks don't do daft things like that any longer; they've +too mich sense nowadays." + +"Aye, I know t' times has changed, but mebbe there'll be farms still +wheer they keep to t' owd ways. Eh! it were grand to see t' farm-lads +settin' off i' t' race for t' mell-sheaf. Thy gran'father has gotten t' +mell mony a time. I've seen him, when I were a lile lass, bringin' it +back in his airms, and all t' lads kept shoutin' oot: + + "Sam Proud's gotten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn, + It's weel bun' an' better shorn; + --Shout 'Mell,' lads, 'Mell'!" + +Mary had almost ceased to listen, but the mother went on with her story: +"A canty mon were my father, and he hadn't his marra for thackin' 'twixt +Thirsk an' Malton. An' then there was t' mell-supper i' t' gert lathe, +wi' singin' an' coontry dances, an' guisers that had blacked their +faces. And efter we'd had wer suppers, we got agate o' dancin' i' t' +leet o' t' harvist-moon; and reet i 't' middle o' t' dancers was t' +mell-doll." + +"Mell-doll!" exclaimed Mary, roused to attention by the word. "Well, I'm +fair capped! To think o' grown-up fowks laikin' wi' dolls. Eh! country +lads an' lasses are downright gauvies, sure enough." + +"Nay, 'twern't a proper doll, nowther. 'Twere t' mell-sheaf, t' last +sheaf o' t' harvist, drissed up i' t' farmer's smock, wi' ribbins set +all ower it. A bonnie seet was t' mell-doll, an' if I could nobbut set +een on yan agean, I'd be happy for a twelmonth." + +"You'll see no more mell-dolls, mother, so long as you bide wi' me. I'm +not going to let t' lasses at Cohen's call me a country gauvie, same as +they did when I first came to Leeds. But I'll tell you what I'll do. +Woodhouse Feast'll be coomin' on soon, and I'll take you there, sure as +my name's Mary Briggs. There'll be summat more for your brass nor +mell-suppers, an' guisers an' dolls. There'll be swings and steam +roundabouts, aye, an' steam-organs playin' all t' latest tunes thro' t' +music-halls--a lot finer than your daft country songs. An' we'll noan +have to wait for t' harvest-moon; there'll be naphtha flares ivery night +lightin' up all t' Feast." + +"Nay, lass, I reckon I'se too owd for Woodhouse Feast; I'll bide at yam. +I sal be better when September's oot. It's t' corn-fever that's wrang +wi' me." + +"Corn-fever! What next, I'd like to know! You catch a new ailment ivery +day. One would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look +after you." + +"A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I's thinkin'. I've +heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t' +hay-harvest's on. It's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat. So +I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh, +deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. But I'll say nae mair aboot it. +Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi' my wark, and t' +button-holes is bad for thy een, lass. Thoo'll be wantin' a bit o' brass +for Woodhouse Feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my Lloyd George money +left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to Blackpool. Nay, don't start +fratchin', there's a love. I's not complainin'." + +(1) The mell, or mell-sheaf, is the last sheaf of corn left in the +harvest field. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of the Ridings, by F. W. 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