The parish has no history, unless that a former rector, Thomas Rogerson, was sequestrated as a royalist in 1642, and next year his wife and children were turned out of doors by the Puritans. “After which,” Walker tells us,
“Mr Rogerson lived with a Country-man in a very mean Cottage upon a Heath, for some years, and in a very low and miserable Condition.” But if Monk Soham has no history, its church, St Peter’s, is striking even among Suffolk churches, for the size of the chancel, the great traceried east window, and the font sculptured with the Seven Sacraments. The churchyard is pretty with trees and shrubs—those four yews by the gates a present from FitzGerald; and the rectory, half a mile off, is almost hidden by oaks, elms, beeches, and limes, all of my father’s and grandfather’s planting. Else the parish soon will be treeless. It was not so when my father first came to it. Where now there is one huge field, there then would be five or six, not a few of them meadows, and each with pleasant hedgerows. There were two “Greens” then—one has many years since been enclosed; and there was not a “made” road in the entire parish—only grassy lanes, with gates at intervals. “High farming” has wrought great changes, not always to the profit of our farmers, whose moated homesteads hereabouts bear old-world names—Woodcroft Hall, Blood Hall, Flemings Hall, Crows Hall, Windwhistle Hall, and suchlike. “High farming,” moreover, has swallowed up most of the smaller holdings. Fifty years ago there were ten or a dozen farms in Monk Soham, each farm with its
resident tenant; now the number is reduced to less than half. It seems a pity, for a twofold reason: first, because the farm-labourer thus loses all chance of advancement; and secondly, because the English yeoman will be soon as extinct as the bustard.
Tom Pepper was the last of our Monk Soham yeomen—a man, said my father, of the stuff that furnished Cromwell with his Ironsides. He was a strong Dissenter; but they were none the worse friends for that, not even though Tom, holding forth in his Little Bethel, might sometimes denounce the corruptions of the Establishment. “The clargy,” he once declared, “they’re here, and they ain’t here; they’re like pigs in the garden, and yeou can’t git ’em out.” On which an old woman, a member of the flock, sprang up and cried, “That’s right, Brother Pepper, kitch ’em by the fifth buttonhole!” [22] Tom went once to hear Gavazzi lecture at Debenham, and next day my father asked him how he liked it. “Well,” he said, “I thowt I should ha’ beared that chap they call Jerry Baldry, but I din’t. Howsomdiver, this one that spŏok fare to laa it into th’ owd Pope good tidily.” Another time my father said something to
him about the Emperor of Russia. “Rooshur,” said Tom; “what’s that him yeou call Prooshur?” And yet again, when a concrete wall was built on to a neighbouring farm-building, Tom remarked contemptuously that he “din’t think much of them consecrated walls.” Withal, what an honest, sensible soul it was!
Midway between the rectory and Tom Pepper’s is the “Guildhall,” an ancient house, though probably far less ancient than its name. It is parish property, and for years has served as an almshouse for ten or a dozen old people. My father used to read the Bible to them, and there was a black cat once which would jump on to his knees, so at last it was shut up in a cupboard. The top of this cupboard, however, above the door, was separated from the room only by a piece of pasted paper; and through this paper the cat’s head suddenly emerged. “Cat, you bitch!” said old Mrs Wilding, and my father could read no more. Nay, his father (then in his last illness) laughed too when he heard the story.
The average age of those old Guildhall people must have been much over sixty, and some of them were nearly centenarians—Charity Herring, who was always setting fire to her bed with a worn-out warming-pan, and James Burrows, of whom my father made this jotting in one of his note-books: “In the year 1853 I buried James
Burrows of this parish at the reputed age of one hundred years. Probably he was nearly, if not altogether that age. Talking with him a few years before his death, I asked if his father had lived to be an old man, and he said that he had. I asked him then about his grandfather, and his answer was that he had lived to be a ‘wonnerful owd man.’ ‘Do you remember your grandfather?’ ‘Right well: I was a big bor when he died.’ ‘Did he use to tell you of things which he remembered?’ ‘Yes, he was wery fond of talking about ’em: he used to say he could remember the Dutch king coming over.’ James Burrows could not read or write, nor his father probably before him: so that this statement must have been based on purely traditional grounds. Assume he was born in 1755 he would have been a ‘big bor,’ fifteen years old, in 1770; and assume that his grandfather died in 1770 aged ninety-six, this would make him to have been born in 1675, fourteen or fifteen years before William of Orange landed.”
Then there were Tom and Susan Kemp. He came from somewhere in Norfolk, the scene, I remember, of the ‘Babes in the Wood,’ and he wore the only smock-frock in the parish, where the ruling fashion was “thunder-and-lightning” sleeve-waistcoats. Susan’s Sunday dress was a clean lilac print gown, made very