Here I must say a few words in reference to Nanny Holland, and how it was that such an old shrew should be able to hold such power over nearly all the housewives of the village. In her younger days Nanny had the reputation of being exceedingly skilful in midwifery. Moreover Nanny had been known more than once to set a broken leg, or arm, when the doctor was too busy, or, which was often the case, too drunk to attend. Nanny was always ready to assist her neighbours in cases of sickness. She would go when called upon, whether by night or by day; and if any one hesitated to call her, she would not be any the better pleased, and would give them what she called a bit of the rough side of her tongue.
But there was still another reason, and not an unimportant one, why the women in the village did not always consider it prudent to offend old Nanny. At that time almost, if not quite, every wife in the village made her own bread, and Nanny had the only oven in the parish; and there the women would go, carrying their dough with them, to be made into loaves and baked.
In those days there was no electric telegraph, but somehow or other news would fly; and my baby sister had not been vaccinated many hours before the news reached old Nanny's ears, and she took the first opportunity to call and find out particulars, so she came in with her teeth clenched, and her dark eyes sparkling with rage, and said, "I have just heard some news, and what dost thee think 'tis? Why, I heard that thee's been down to thicky doctor and had thy chiel knockle-headed with vaccination."
"Well, so I have," replied my mother, "and I am only sorry that I did not know of vaccination sooner, so that I could have had all my children vaccinated."
"Whew," said Nanny, "of all natural fools I ever knowed, thee art the cussedest fool of all. Mind'ee, if thee brings thy dough to my bakehouse Vriday next, I'll kick thee and thy dough out vaster than thee brought it in." And without another word old Nanny went away, and from that day forward she always gave my mother a wide berth. Whenever they met she would cross the road and pass along on the other side.
I have stated that our curate-in-charge had left the village and gone into Berkshire. The rector was a gentleman whom I had never seen. It was reported that he was squandering his time and his health and wealth on the turf, amongst thieves, black-legs, thimble-riggers, and other rogues and vagabonds. I know that it is not always prudent to believe all that is stated by the tongues of the villagers, but in this case I fear the accusation was only too true; in fact, the probabilities were that in this case the village gossip did not know all the truth. One thing was certain, he had to go about incognito as the bailiffs of the county court were constantly looking after him to serve him with a writ, or to arrest his person. Only one good thing do I know of him; he used to send four pounds a year to my father for the maintenance of the Sunday school.
After our curate left, it was several months before we had another. The parsons of the neighbouring villages used to come, and sometimes we had morning service, and sometimes afternoon, and sometimes evening service, and more often no service at all. I remember on one occasion the bells were chimed at half-past ten, and the people came to church, but no parson came; the project again was tried at three, and again the people came, and again no parson, and as a sort of forlorn hope the bells were chimed again at six, and still no parson came.
Old George Pant and a few others set up services about this time in the blacksmith's shop. Now old George Pant wore a wig, and other boys and myself used to go and peep through a large crack in the door of the blacksmith's shop, and watch him while he was praying. He used to get dreadfully excited and shake himself about, till by and by his wig would drop down behind him.
I had seen George Pant shake off his wig more than once, and the wicked thought entered my mind to try and steal that wig, which piece of theft I actually did accomplish on the very next Sunday evening; and this is the way I did it. The door of the blacksmith's shop in which the meetings were held had in it several large cracks which I could easily put my hand through; and I noticed that when George was praying, he, and all his congregation, knelt with their backs towards the door; and so intent were they upon their devotions, that one could open the door and go in and out again, without attracting their attention. But I was too prudent to risk myself in far enough to pick up the coveted wig, when it should chance to fall; so I provided myself with a long stick, and tied a couple of eel-hooks to one end, and watched my opportunity through the crack in the door. I had not very long to wait. George began to pray, and presently down came the wig. Directly it touched the ground, my fish-hook caught it up, and in another instant I was out of sight of the door with the wig under my arm. But I was no sooner at a safe distance, than I began to reflect, and I would have given the world to restore the wig to its place, but I knew I dared not do it. I knew that if I gave it up to its owner, he would freely forgive me, but my father would literally skin me. So I dug a hole in our orchard at the foot of the quince tree, dropped the wig in, and simply held my tongue. Its sudden disappearance was a nine days' mystery in the village.
Meanwhile my father and mother were doing their level best to keep the Sunday school going with no help from any one; and there we children were taught the catechism, and lessons from the Old and New Testaments; and the stick was frequently used. At length we received news that a new parson was coming, and all sorts of speculations were rife as to what sort of parson he would be. Was he young or old? Married or single? Rich or poor? At last the bells were set ringing, and every boy blew his penny whistle and fired his pop-gun, because the Reverend Peter Manonni Scrope Cornwall, M.A., with his two sons, and two daughters, and sister-in-law, Miss Brown, who was his housekeeper, had actually arrived. Mr. Cornwall took the curacy at £80 per year, and an old tumbledown, damp, dismal den of a house to live in. Now the Rev. P. M. S. Cornwall had to preach the Gospel and educate his four children, keep up the dignity of his profession, visit and succour the sick, give to missionaries, buy books for the Sunday school, and subscribe to the thirty-nine articles, besides giving an annual treat to one hundred children, all out of £80 per annum. All of which he did to perfection.