Ben o' Bill's, the Luddite: A Yorkshire Tale

by D. F. E. Sykes; George Henry Walker

It was a sight to see Powle Chapel at an afternoon service. Every pew was filled, and every eye was fixed on Parson Webster as he gave out the hymns line by line, verse by verse, for few of us could read, tho’ most made a point of having a hymn book. Up in the loft was the music, the double bass, the viol, and the clarionet. Between Jim Wood—Jim o’ Slack—who played the double bass, and his colleagues of the viol and clarionet contention had raged from the very foundation of the church at Powle. Jim o’ Slack maintained that in every true view of harmony wedded to divinity, the notes of the double bass stood for the wrath of Jehovah, and were designed to inspire awe and inward quaking. The feeble and futile utterances of the viol and the clarionet, he conceded, might represent the tender qualities of mercy and compassion, and, as such, might be worthy of some consideration among the Methodies, whose spiritual food was as milk for babies, but in High Calvinism, Jim maintained, nought but the bulky instrument his soul loved could convey adequate conception of the majesty of God and the terrors of hell. It was grand to hear the singing. We all sang for our lives, and we all had a notion of singing in tune. Then the praying! oh! it was fine to hear little Parson Webster. How he rejoiced over the elect! How he lamented over the unregenerate! It was very comforting to hear, for we were the elect, the Erastians of the Church and the Arminians of the chapel in the valley we well understood to be those in outer darkness. With what a solid satisfaction, too, did the elders settle down to the discourse of an hour and forty minutes by the hour glass, which was the least we expected from Mr. Webster. I remember still his text of that very day, “Behold I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.” Who could deny, he asked, the utter and natural depravity of man? Why only he who by the very denial stood confessed of the sins of arrogancy and self–sufficiency. Was not the natural man, since the Fall, prone to murder, lust, evil imaginings, covetousness, hardness of heart, vain glory, malice, and all unworthiness, all being, by nature, the children of wrath, and only that small handful of the dust of Zion, of all that great valley, called forth and justified before the foundation of the world that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love. How awful, too, was the lot of those that went down quick into hell, whose steps took hold on the eternal fire whose flames were never quenched. But we were not of these, tho’ on this we must not plume ourselves, for salvation was not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy, for the potter had power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour. I was very glad for my part to have been made a vessel unto honour, and of this there could be no reasonable doubt, for when my father, moved thereto by my mother, after the split about Hannah Garside’s eggs, finally asked for admission to the community of the Powle and was dipped, cousin Mary and I were required to state on which side we elected to stand. Mr. Webster, in a long and earnest discourse in the parlour at home, and with much praying, set before us, as he said, life and good, death and evil, blessing and cursing. I waited to hear what Mary had to say, being for my part little troubled in my mind at that time about religion and not rightly understanding on what points of doctrine Mr. Chew differed from Mr. Webster, and liking the chapel the better because the singing was heartier, and the Church the rather because the sermons were shorter, and it seemed to me your soul might be saved there with less pother. Now Mary, I know not why, said she should go with her aunt, and was commended for a good girl by Mr. Webster, and I, not wishful on the Sunday to turn down the broo’ to Church whilst Mary toiled up the hill to the Powle, announced my resolve to walk in my father’s steps. So Mr. Webster, much pleased, praised my filial obedience, and he being well content to take this as a sign of grace and effectual calling, I e’en took his word for it and joined the Baptists.

I say I remember well the text of that afternoon, and by this reason. My father and mother and Mary were set in the one pew whilst ’Siah and Martha and myself were set behind them. Now as I looked upon Mary that afternoon it came into my mind very strongly that it was strange so fair and dainty a specimen of the potter’s craft should be shapen in iniquity, and I was marvelling greatly to myself that out of the same lump of clay two vessels so unlike as Cousin Mary, and Martha, our serving wench, should be fashioned by the potter’s hands. For Martha was broad shouldered and squat, and had coarse towzelled hair, very red, and her mouth was large and her lips thick, and her arms were rough of skin and red, and she waddled in her walk, and her breathing was heavy, and her eye dull, and her voice was not tuneful, tho’ she would sing in the hymns, albeit my mother frowned at her and would have had her hold her peace, for my mother did not think it quite proper for the serving man and maid to sing with their betters: but as my father said “If you go to chapel, you must do as chapel does.”

But Mary, oh! my children, you will never know what my cousin Mary was like in those days, with her brown eyes, so warm and soft, and her brown hair all wavy, and with little love ringlets about the neck and her little hands not white but creamy brown, and her rosebud mouth, and her voice so musical, and her smile so sweet. And so, I say, thinking, perhaps, too much of these things, and wondering, too, at the marvellous skill of the potter, and opining, belike, that there must be a difference in the clay, but quite certain that Mary was not fashioned in iniquity, and the day being hot and the air very heavy, and two suet dumplings I had eaten for dinner sitting heavy on me, I fell into a sort of doze as Mr. Webster reached his twelfthly. Now, Mary, seeing this, and being ever full of mischief, having looked to see that my father was intent on the discourse, and that my mother’s eyes were closed—in thought—did lean over the pew and put into my mouth a lump of good–stuff and, I chancing at the moment to throw back my head, the sweet rolled into my gullet and had gone nigh to choke me. I had much ado to stifle my coughing, and all the congregation did look hard at me, save only Mary herself, who listened with sweet gravity as Mr. Webster proceeded with his twelfthly.

I walked home that evening with ’Siah, for Mary dallied behind with Martha, and father and mother had gone on before with Mr. Webster, who was to take his supper at our house, as was now his almost weekly custom of a Sunday. ’Siah was a silent man, and was a good servant, loving his beasts and careful for them, but over fond of ale, and much to be feared when overtaken with drink, and noted that he had fought a great fight at the Feast with one arm tied behind his back.

“Aw believe awn getten it, Ben,” said ’Siah, as we went across the fields in the wintry gloom, homewards.

“What’s ta getten, ’Si?” I asked.

“Th’ conviction,” said ’Siah.

“Conviction, what conviction?”

“Why, th’ conviction o’ sin to be sure. How many convictions does ta’ think there are?” said ’Siah, in a pet.

“Why, ’Siah, th’ last conviction tha’ had were afore Justice Ratcliffe at th’ Brigg, and more by token if my father hadn’t sent me wi’ th’ fine, in th’ stocks tha’d ha sat for six mortal hours by Huddersfield Church clock.”