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  CHAPTER V.

  THE RUNAWAY.

  Everybody hath heard, and old people still remember, how oneAct after the other was passed for the suppression of theNonconformists, whom the Church of England tried to extirpate, butcould not. Had these laws been truly carried into effect, therewould have been great suffering among the Dissenters; but, in orderto enforce them, every man's hand would have been turned against hisneighbour, and this--thank God!--is not possible in Somerset. Forexample, the Act of Uniformity provided not only for the ejectmentof the Nonconforming ministers (which was duly carried out), butalso enacted that none of them should take scholars without thelicense of the Bishop. Yet many of the ejected ministers maintainedthemselves in this way openly, without the Bishop's license. Theywere not molested, though they might be threatened by some hotEpiscopalian; nor were the Bishops anxious to set the country afireby attempting to enforce this law. One must not take from an honestneighbour, whatever an unjust law may command, his only way ofliving.

  Again, the Act passed two years later punished all persons with fineand imprisonment who attended conventicles. Yet the conventiclescontinued to be held over the whole country, because it wasimpossible for the Justices to fine and imprison men with whom theysat at dinner every market-day, with whom they took their punch andtobacco, and whom they knew to be honest and God-fearing folk.Again, how could they fine and imprison their own flesh and blood?Why, in every family there were some who loved the meeting-housebetter than the steeple-house. Laws have little power when they areagainst the conscience of the people.

  Thirdly, there was an Act prohibiting ministers from residing withinfive miles of the village or town where they had preached. This wasa most cruel and barbarous Act, because it sent the poor ministersaway from the help of their friends. Yet how was it regarded? Myfather, for his part, continued to live at Bradford Orcas withoutlet or hindrance, and so, no doubt, did many more.

  Again, another Act was passed giving authority to Justices of thePeace to break open doors and to take in custody persons foundassembling for worship. I have heard of disturbances at Taunton,where the Magistrates carried things with a high hand; but I thinkthe people who met to worship after their own fashion were littledisturbed. Among the Churchmen were some, no doubt, who rememberedthe snubs and rubs they had themselves experienced, and the memorymay have made them revengeful. All the persecution, it is certain,was not on the side of the Church. There was, for instance, thecase of Dr. Walter Raleigh, Dean of Wells, who was clapped intoa noisome prison where the plague had broken out. He did not dieof that disease, but was done to death in the jail, barbarously,by one David Barrett, shoemaker, who was never punished for themurder, but was afterwards made Constable of the City. There wasalso the case of the Rev. Dr. Piers, whom I have myself seen, forhe lived to a good old age. He was a Prebendary of Wells, and beingdriven forth, was compelled to turn farmer, and to work with his ownhands--digging, hoeing, ploughing, reaping, and threshing--when heshould have been in his study. Every week this reverend and learnedDoctor of Divinity was to be seen at Ilminster Market, standingbeside the pillars with his cart, among the farmers and their wives,selling his apples, cheese, and cabbages.

  I say that no doubt many remembered these things. Yet the affectionof the people went forth to the Nonconformists and the ejectedministers, as was afterwards but too well proved. I have beenspeaking of things which happened before my recollection. It was inthe year 1665, four years after the Ejection, that I was born. Myfather would have named me Grace Abounding, but my mother calledme Alice, after her own name. I was thus six years younger than mybrother Barnaby, and two years younger than Robin and Humphrey.

  The first thing that I can recollect is a kind of picture,preserved, so to speak, in my head. At the open door is a womanspinning at the wheel. She is a woman with a pale, grave face; sheworks diligently, and for the most part in silence; if she speaks,it is to encourage or to admonish a little girl who plays in thegarden outside. Her lips move as she works, because she communeswith her thoughts all day long. From time to time she turns herhead and looks with anxiety into the other room, where sits herhusband at his table.

  Before him stand three boys. They are Barnaby, Robin, and Humphrey.They are learning Latin. The room is piled with books on shelves andbooks on the floor. In the corner is a pallet, which is the master'sbed by night. I hear the voices of the boys who repeat theirlessons, and the admonishing of their master. I can see throughthe open door the boys themselves. One, a stout and broad lad, ismy brother Barnaby: he hangs his head and forgets his lesson, andcauses his father to punish him every day. He receives admonitionwith patience; yet profiteth nothing. The next is Humphrey; he isalready a lad of grave and modest carriage, who loves his book andlearns diligently. The third is Robin, whose parts are good, werehis application equal to his intelligence. He is impatient, andlongs for the time when he may close his book and go to play again.

  Poor Barnaby! at the sight of a Latin Grammar he would feel sick. Hewould willingly have taken a flogging every day--to be sure, thatgenerally happened to him--in order to escape his lessons and be offto the fields and woods.

  It was the sight of his rueful face--yet never sad except atlessons--which made my mother sigh when she saw him dull but patientover his book. Had he stayed at home I know not what could have beendone with him, seeing that to become a preacher of the Gospel wasbeyond even the power of prayer (the Lord having clearly expressedHis will in this matter). He would have had to clap on a leathernapron, and become a wheelwright or blacksmith; nothing better thanan honest trade was possible for him.

  But (whether happily or not) a strange whim seized the boy whenhe was fourteen years of age. He would go to sea. How he came tothink of the sea I know not; he had never seen the sea; there wereno sailors in the village; there was no talk of the sea. PerhapsHumphrey, who read many books, told him of the great doings ofour sailors on the Spanish Main and elsewhere. Perhaps some ofthe clothiers' men, who are a roving and unsettled crew, had beensailors--some, I know, had been soldiers under Oliver. However, thismatters not, Barnaby must needs become a sailor.

  When first he broke this resolution, which he did secretly, to mymother, she began to weep and lament, because everybody knows howdreadful is the life of a sailor, and how full of dangers. Shebegged him to put the thought out of his head, and to apply himselfagain to his books.

  'Mother,' he said, 'it is no use. What comes in at one ear goes outat the other. Nothing sticks: I shall never be a scholar.'

  'Then, my son, learn an honest trade.'

  'What? Become the village cobbler--or the blacksmith? Go hat in handto his Honour, when my father should have been a Bishop, and mymother is a gentlewoman? That will I not. I will go and be a sailor.All sailors are gentlemen. I shall rise and become first mate, andthen second captain, and lastly, captain in command. Who knows? Imay go and fight the Spaniard, if I am lucky.'

  'Oh, my son, canst thou not stay at home and go to church, andconsider the condition of thine immortal soul? Of sailors it is wellknown that their language is made up of profane oaths, and that theyare all profligates and drunkards. Consider, my son'--my motherlaid her hand upon his arm--'what were Heaven to me, if I have notmy dear children with me as well as my husband? How could I praisethe Lord if I were thinking of my son who was not with me, but--ah!Heaven forbid the thought!'

  Barnaby made no reply. What could he say in answer to my mother'stears? Yet I think she must have understood very well that her son,having got this resolution into his head, would never give it up.

  'Oh!' she said, 'when thou wast a little baby in my arms,Barnaby--who art now so big and strong'--she looked at him with thewonder and admiration that women feel when their sons grow big andstout--'I prayed that God would accept thee as an offering for Hisservice. Thou art vowed unto the Lord, my son, as much as Samuel. Doyou think he complained of his lessons? What would have happened,think you, to Samuel if he had taken off his ephod and declaredthat he would serve no longer
at the altar, but must take spear andshield, and go to fight the Amalekite?'

  Said Barnaby, in reply, speaking from an unregenerate heart,'Mother, had I been Samuel, to wear an ephod and to learn the Latinsyntax every day, I should have done that. Ay! I would have done it,even if I knew that at the first skirmish an arrow would pierce myheart.'

  It was after a great flogging, on account of the passive voice orsome wrestling with the syntax, that Barnaby plucked up courage totell his father what he wished to do.

  'With my consent,' said my father, sternly, 'thou shalt neverbecome a sailor. As soon would I send thee to become a buffoon in aplayhouse. Never dare to speak of it again.'

  Barnaby hung his head and said nothing.

  Then my mother, who knew his obstinate disposition, took him to SirChristopher, who chid him roundly, telling him that there was workfor him on land, else he would have been born beside the coast,where the lads take naturally to the sea: that being, as he was,only an ignorant boy, and landborn, he could not know the dangerswhich he would encounter: that some ships are cast away on desertislands, where the survivors remain in misery until they die, andsome on lands where savages devour them, and some are dragged downby calamaries and other dreadful monsters, and some are burned atsea, their crews having to choose miserably between burning anddrowning, and some are taken by the enemy, and the sailors clappedinto dungeons and tortured by the Accursed Inquisition.

  '_He was seized with a mighty wrath, and, catchinghis son sharply by the ear, led him out of the throng._']

  Many more things did Sir Christopher set forth, showing themiserable life and the wretched end of the sailor. But Barnaby neverchanged countenance, and though my mother bade him note this andmark that, and take heed unto his Honour's words, his face showedno melting. 'Twas always an obstinate lad; nay it was his obstinacyalone which kept him from his learning. Otherwise he might perhapshave become as great a scholar as Humphrey.

  'Sir,' he said, when Sir Christopher had no other word to say, 'withsubmission, I would still choose to be a sailor, if I could.'

  In the end he obtained his wish. That is to say, since no one wouldhelp him towards it, he helped himself. And this, I think, is theonly way in which men do ever get what they want.

  It happened one evening that there passed through the village aman with a pipe and tabor, on which he played so movingly that allthe people turned out to listen. For my own part I was with mymother, yet I ran to the garden-gate and leaned my head over, drawnby the sound of the music. Presently the boys and girls began totake hands together and to dance. I dare not say that to dance issinful, because David danced. But it was so regarded by my father,so that when he passed by them, on his way home from taking the air,and actually saw his own son Barnaby in the middle of the dancers,footing it merrily with them all, joyfully leading one girl up andthe other down at _John come and kiss me now_, he was seized with amighty wrath, and, catching his son sharply by the ear, led him outof the throng and so home. For that evening Barnaby went supperlessto bed, with the promise of such a flogging in the morning as wouldcause him to remember for the rest of his life the sinfulness ofdancing. Never had I seen my father so angry. I trembled beforehis wrathful eyes. But Barnaby faced him with steady looks, makinganswer none, yet not showing the least repentance or fear. I thoughtit was because a flogging had no terrors for him. The event provedthat I was wrong; that was not the reason: he had resolved to runaway, and when we awoke in the morning he was gone. He had creptdown-stairs in the night; he had taken half a loaf of bread and agreat cantle of soft cheese, and had gone away. He had not gone forfear of the rod: he had run away with design to go to sea. Perhapshe had gone to Bristol; perhaps to Plymouth; perhaps to Lyme. Mymother wept, and my father sighed; and for ten years more we neithersaw nor heard anything of Barnaby, not even whether he was dead orliving.