Lark Rise - Flora Thompson (read more books .TXT) 📗
- Author: Flora Thompson
- Performer: -
Book online «Lark Rise - Flora Thompson (read more books .TXT) 📗». Author Flora Thompson
teaching, typing, or shop work to engage the daughters of small farmers,
small shopkeepers, innkeepers, and farm bailiffs. Most of them had
either to go out to service or remain at home.
After the mansion, there were the steward’s, the head gardener’s and the
stud-groom’s houses to visit with the garland; then on through gardens
and park and woods and fields to the next stopping-place. Things did not
always go smoothly. Feet got tired, especially when boots did not fit
properly or were worn thin. Squabbles broke out among the boys and
sometimes had to be settled by a fight. Often a heavy shower would send
the whole party packing under trees for shelter, with the unveiled
garland freshening outside in the rain; or some irate gamekeeper would
turn the procession back from a short cut, adding miles to the way. But
these were slight drawbacks to happiness on a day as near to perfection
as anything can be in human life.
There came a point in the circuit when faces were turned towards home,
instead of away from it; and at last, at long last, the lights in the
Lark Hill windows shone clear through the spring twilight. The great day
was over, for ever, as it seemed, for at ten years old a year seems as
long as a century. Still, there was the May money to be shared out in
school the next morning, and the lady to be stroked before being put
back in her box, and the flowers which had survived to be put in water:
even to-morrow would not be quite a common day. So the last waking
thoughts blended with dreams of swans and peacocks and footmen and sore
feet and fat cooks with pink faces wearing daisy crowns which turned
into pure gold, then melted away.
XIVTo Church on Sunday
If the Lark Rise people had been asked their religion, the answer of
nine out of ten would have been ‘Church of England’, for practically all
of them were christened, married, and buried as such, although, in adult
life, few went to church between the baptisms of their offspring. The
children were shepherded there after Sunday school and about a dozen of
their elders attended regularly; the rest stayed at home, the women
cooking and nursing, and the men, after an elaborate Sunday toilet,
which included shaving and cutting each other’s hair and much puffing
and splashing with buckets of water, but stopped short before lacing up
boots or putting on a collar and tie, spent the rest of the day eating,
sleeping, reading the newspaper, and strolling round to see how their
neighbours’ pigs and gardens were looking.
There were a few keener spirits. The family at the inn was Catholic and
was up and off to early Mass in the next village before others had
turned over in bed for an extra Sunday morning snooze. There were also
three Methodist families which met in one of their cottages on Sunday
evenings for prayer and praise; but most of these attended church as
well, thus earning for themselves the name of ‘Devil dodgers’.
Every Sunday, morning and afternoon, the two cracked, flat-toned bells
at the church in the mother village called the faithful to worship.
Ding-dong, Ding-dong, Ding-dong, they went, and, when they heard them,
the hamlet churchgoers hurried across fields and over stiles, for the
Parish Clerk was always threatening to lock the church door when the
bells stopped and those outside might stop outside for all he cared.
With the Fordlow cottagers, the Squire’s and farmer’s families and
maids, the Rectory people and the hamlet contingent, the congregation
averaged about thirty. Even with this small number, the church was
fairly well filled, for it was a tiny place, about the size of a barn,
with nave and chancel only, no side aisles. The interior was almost as
bare as a barn, with its grey, roughcast walls, plain-glass windows, and
flagstone floor. The cold, damp, earthy odour common to old and unheated
churches pervaded the atmosphere, with occasional whiffs of a more
unpleasant nature said to proceed from the stacks of mouldering bones in
the vault beneath. Who had been buried there, or when, was unknown, for,
excepting one ancient and mutilated brass in the wall by the font, there
were but two memorial tablets, both of comparatively recent date. The
church, like the village, was old and forgotten, and those buried in the
vault, who must have once been people of importance, had not left even a
name. Only the stained glass window over the altar, glowing jewel-like
amidst the cold greyness, the broken piscina within the altar rails, and
a tall broken shaft of what had been a cross in the churchyard, remained
to witness mutely to what once had been.
The Squire’s and clergyman’s families had pews in the chancel, with
backs to the wall on either side, and between them stood two long
benches for the school-children, well under the eyes of authority. Below
the steps down into the nave stood the harmonium, played by the
clergyman’s daughter, and round it was ranged the choir of small
schoolgirls. Then came the rank and file of the congregation, nicely
graded, with the farmer’s family in the front row, then the Squire’s
gardener and coachman, the schoolmistress, the maidservants, and the
cottagers, with the Parish Clerk at the back to keep order.
‘Clerk Tom’, as he was called, was an important man in the parish. Not
only did he dig the graves, record the banns of marriage, take the chill
off the water for winter baptisms, and stoke the coke stove which stood
in the nave at the end of his seat; but he also took an active and
official part in the services. It was his duty to lead the congregation
in the responses and to intone the ‘Amens’. The psalms were not sung or
chanted, but read, verse and verse about, by the Rector and people, and
in these especially Tom’s voice so drowned the subdued murmur of his
fellow worshippers that it sounded like a duet between him and the
clergyman—a duet in which Tom won easily, for his much louder voice
would often trip up the Rector before he had quite finished his portion,
while he prolonged his own final syllables at will.
The afternoon service, with not a prayer left out or a creed spared,
seemed to the children everlasting. The school-children, under the stern
eye of the Manor House, dared not so much as wriggle; they sat in their
stiff, stuffy, best clothes, their stomachs lined with heavy Sunday
dinner, in a kind of waking doze, through which Tom’s ‘Amens’ rang like
a bell and the Rector’s voice buzzed beelike. Only on the rare occasions
when a bat fluttered down from the roof, or a butterfly drifted in at a
window, or the Rector’s little fox terrier looked in at the door and
sidled up the nave, was the tedium lightened.
Edmund and Laura, alone in their grandfather’s seat, modestly situated
exactly half-way down the nave, were more fortunate, for they sat
opposite the church door and, in summer, when it was left open, they
could at least watch the birds and the bees and the butterflies crossing
the opening and the breezes shaking the boughs of the trees and ruffling
the long grass on the graves. It was interesting, too, to observe some
woman in the congregation fussing with her back hair, or a man easing
his tight collar, or old Dave Pridham, who had a bad bunion, shuffling
off a shoe before the sermon began, with one eye all the time upon the
clergyman; or to note how closely together some newly married couple
were sitting, or to see Clerk Tom’s young wife suckling her baby. She
wore a fur tippet in winter and her breast hung like a white heather
bell between the soft blackness until it was covered up with a white
handkerchief, ‘for modesty’.
Mr. Ellison in the pulpit was the Mr. Ellison of the Scripture lessons,
plus a white surplice. To him, his congregation were but children of a
larger growth, and he preached as he taught. A favourite theme was the
duty of regular churchgoing. He would hammer away at that for forty-five
minutes, never seeming to realize that he was preaching to the absent,
that all those present were regular attendants, and that the stray sheep
of his flock were snoring upon their beds a mile and a half away.
Another favourite subject was the supreme rightness of the social order
as it then existed. God, in His infinite wisdom, had appointed a place
for every man, woman, and child on this earth and it was their bounden
duty to remain contentedly in their niches. A gentleman might seem to
some of his listeners to have a pleasant, easy life, compared to theirs
at field labour; but he had his duties and responsibilities, which would
be far beyond their capabilities. He had to pay taxes, sit on the Bench
of Magistrates, oversee his estate, and keep up his position by
entertaining. Could they do these things? No. Of course they could not;
and he did not suppose that a gentleman could cut as straight a furrow
or mow or thatch a rick as expertly as they could. So let them be
thankful and rejoice in their physical strength and the bounty of the
farmer, who found them work on his land and paid them wages with his
money.
Less frequently, he would preach eternal punishment for sin, and touch,
more lightly, upon the bliss reserved for those who worked hard, were
contented with their lot and showed proper respect to their superiors.
The Holy Name was seldom mentioned, nor were human griefs or joys, or
the kindly human feelings which bind man to man. It was not religion he
preached, but a narrow code of ethics, imposed from above upon the lower
orders, which, even in those days, was out of date.
Once and once only did inspiration move him. It was the Sunday after the
polling for the General Election of 1886, and he had begun preaching one
of his usual sermons on the duty to social superiors, when, suddenly
something, perhaps the memory of the events of the past week, seemed to
boil up within him. Flushed with anger—‘righteous anger’, he would have
called it—and his frosty blue eyes flashing like swords, he cast
himself forward across the ledge of his pulpit and roared: ‘There are
some among you who have lately forgotten that duty, and we know the
cause, the bloody cause!’
Laura shivered. Bad language in church! and from the Rector! But, later
in life, she liked to think that she had lived early enough to have
heard a mild and orthodox Liberalism denounced from the pulpit as ‘a
bloody cause’. It lent her the dignity of an historical survival.
The sermon over, the people sprang to their feet like Jacks-in-a-box.
With what gusto they sang the evening hymn, and how their lungs expanded
and their tongues wagged as they poured out of the churchyard! Not that
they resented anything that was said in the Rector’s sermons. They did
not listen to them. After the Bloody Cause sermon Laura tried to find
out how her elders had reacted to it; but all she could learn was: ‘I
seems to have lost the thread just then,’ or, more frankly, ‘I must’ve
been nodding’; the most she could get was one woman’s, ‘My! didn’t th’
old parson get worked up today!’
Some of them went to church to show off their best clothes and to see
and criticize those of their neighbours; some because they loved to hear
their own voices raised in the hymns, or
Comments (0)