by Jane Rogers
This pattern for normal days: on the eve of the Sabbath a greater emphasis must be laid on preparation of food, cleaning, and so forth, that no work may be done on the Sabbath. Likewise on the eve and feast of the New Moon each month, and on the other occasional feast days. There must also be a day, maybe two days, set aside with regularity for the laundry of Sanctuary, household and personal linens. At present I fear our stocks are so small we must wash once a week, but as our needlework creates a greater abundance of linen and robes, I aspire to a monthly laundry, which will cause less frequent disruption. We shall bake once a week, on a Thursday, which will remove our sewing time; and I fear there may be many other routine tasks in a household of this size, of which I am yet ignorant. Interruption to our tasks will be occasioned by the Prophet’s visitors, who must be received and accommodated. With God’s help, however, with God’s sustaining grace, we shall find our way to do His will.
Within this framework of order there are no times for contact with our previous lives. We are now dedicated to a new way, joyously renouncing our earthly ties, as do members of the old monastic orders. Sister Leah, however, has a strong and touching affection for her earthly family, and has applied to me for permission to see them. It can never be God’s wish to abruptly sever the true ties of filial affection, and so I have permitted her, during the times for domestic duties, to visit them. I have been in some anxiety concerning the others on this subject for though none have expressed a desire to see their family, yet surely they may? I applied to the Prophet, and he has relieved me of this responsibility by stating that if any wish to leave the house on other than household duties, she should apply to him. Leah was, I fear, much vexed by this news, and absented herself from sewing this morning. I shall trust to her own conscience to bring her into obedience with the Prophet’s desires, for she is a sweet and sensible girl.
Last night my old aunt was much in my mind, and I thought of the pleasure it would give her to hear about the Prophet (or Yaakov, as he has asked us to call him, after his given name of John) and the new life that I lead. Though I saw her in Sanctuary at Sabbath, it was not possible to exchange words; I shall, God willing, engage to visit her in the coming week.
I thank God that an order has been established, and pray for the strength of mind to keep in step with it. For inspiration and guidance I fix my mind on Mother Southcott, who never failed in her earthly work and duties, though she was called to God’s work at all times of the day and night. Once indeed she committed a most grievous sin (which she freely admits, in her writings) which was to be so preoccupied with the completion of a trivial household task (she was about sweeping the floor, and then had to put the potatoes on to boil in time for dinner) that when the Spirit’s voice began, and demanded that she set aside her broom and write down His words, she was impatient at His interrupting her earthly routine, and wished Him gone. I pray God I may never come to this: that I may safeguard for ever a quiet corner of my mind to Him. Dear Lord, I know there must be cooks, and sweepers, and maids of all work: but you have promised to call the women to your real work, to be missionaries and preachers, to be instrumental in the commencement of the New Age. I pray that we may not be forgotten.
*
I am ashamed, now, of my presumption. Indeed, I wonder at the source of my discontent, and think it more than likely due to the walnuts I ate the other night – for they have given me a swollen, heavy sensation, with prickling in the hands and feet. When I mentioned it, Sister Rebekah said their mother never eats walnuts, for that same reason.
I have only to look about me, to see opportunities to do His work which are offered by my sisters under this very roof. Sister Hannah is closed, curled like a winter hedgehog, repelling the merest touch of kindness. She does not pray, yet she sits, many a time, an hour together in silence, and I then feel the spirit of the Lord interceding and lifting her sorrows. Likewise He works upon the sad de-natured Martha, and has calmed her, though she is as ignorant of His love as is the dumb beast in the field.
These are your works, Lord: teach me to be content with small gains, for is not the soul of one who repents and turns to you, worth more than a thousand who never fell away? Sister Hannah is your Kingdom to conquer, Sister Martha is yours to be made captive, and I the midwife to their births into the spiritual world.
Hannah has asked me about the history of our church. It gives me pleasure to cast my mind back, for that sweep of memory retrieves many incidents and moments which enhance the value of the present, establishing it in context, like a jewel in a rich setting.
We had no leader of our own in Ashton before Prophet Wroe, but were under the leadership of the Bradford Prophet, George Turner. When Prophet Wroe first came among us he was much distrusted. Some of our number did not readily remember that He prefers the poor, that He will often choose as His mouthpiece the rejected, the humble, the despised: a carpenter’s son from Nazareth; illiterate fishermen disciples; a poor farmer’s daughter from Devon. How natural then that His mantle should fall upon John Wroe, the crippled woolcomber’s son from Bradford. It was when I saw his public baptism in the Medlock that I myself became convinced he was of God.
Many elements combined on that day, to add weight to his claim. I dreamt, the night before, of a small dark creature – a bat, I think, although I could not be sure – which fluttered and seemed to limp in the air across a field until it reached a body of water, into which it fell and, as I thought, drowned. But this dark and disturbing creature (I had been loath to approach or touch it, its quick fluttering motion being curiously repulsive) was transformed, once submerged, into a silvery fish of great size and magnificence, which soared and leapt through the water with beautiful agility. I have no need of an interpreter to tell me that this refers to Prophet Wroe, whose unprepossessing physical appearance, hunched back and dark aspect had led many (including, shamefully, myself) to mistrust him – but that in the spiritual domain, his power and excellence are beyond all doubt. The fish indeed figures Christ, and prefigured also the transforming element of water to be used in that day’s baptism.
The day was full of miracles: a hot, glorious September day, on whose clear air the joyful sounds of our musicians in procession carried so clearly that crowds of the poorer sort came out to follow us. Though they were noisy and boisterous – some of the young men, indeed, shamefully under the influence of strong ale, and inclined to offer insults to our women – yet I thank God that they were amused to follow us, for having followed, many found themselves swayed and called by His power. We crossed the Medlock at Oldham Road bridge, and spread down along the bank; some of the crowd following, some remaining on the bridge, and others fighting their way down on the opposite side, among the close-growing stunted oak trees and blackberry brambles. When the Prophet stood up on the back of a cart to speak, some of the poor lost souls on the bridge began an obscene chant, soon taken up by others of their number – the repetition of which drowned out his voice. With perfect dignity, the Prophet descended from the cart and began to wade, fully clothed, into the water. We (may God forgive us for our lack of courage) clustered fearfully together at the water’s edge, uncertain if we were to follow him or no, and dreadfully afraid of the jeering mob. When he was in waist deep, the Prophet stopped and, facing the crowd, raised his arms above his head. There was a sudden increase in the clamour on the bridge, and a number of missiles flew through the air and splashed into the water around him. He did not flinch, though one fell close enough to make a splash right in his face. His immobility seemed to enrage them and then the air was thick with flying objects – pebbles, sticks, bottles – some even flung their clogs, and others joined together to heave rocks towards his head. He was soaked by the gigantic splashing on all sides but, by God’s divine protection, not one of these objects so much as grazed his body. The hail ceased as suddenly as it had increased – all eager, no doubt, to see how they had hurt him – and in the silence his voice rang out.
‘I praise my Maker for His pro
tecting love. He offers you forgiveness, and the same protection from spite and danger, by the washing away of sins in this pure water. Come down and join His flock.’
Truly they were astonished by his courage, and by the miraculous protection God had provided him from their clumsy onslaught. I have heard cynics, talking of that day, say that Mr Wroe would not have had so many willing to be baptized, had not the heat of the sun and the choking dust of the crowded road driven them to seek refreshment in the water: but are not the sunshine and the dust also of God’s making, do not His great designs and purposes run through all things? Within minutes the river was swarming with people. Many, in the rashness of their enthusiasm, jumped from the bridge, and I thank God none were seriously hurt. Three of our Elders waded out to assist the Prophet, and with their help he baptized and blessed one after another steadily for upwards of an hour. Elder Caleb counted one hundred and eighty-seven baptized that day, and if that is not a miracle, what can be? It was difficult, from the seething mass of bodies in the water, from the pushing and the calling, the jubilant splashing of excitable youngsters, and the rejoicing of the newly baptized, to see clearly what was happening: but God steeled my courage, and arm in arm with Ann Taylor I waded out into the water and at length found the Prophet, and received his blessing along with a good ducking in the Medlock water. I am grateful to God not only for the spiritual forgiveness and regeneration of that holy moment – a still, close moment with God, even amongst the shouting and splashing of hundreds – but also for His practical goodness in protecting us all on that day from the ill effects of the river water. For on many an occasion before and since I have seen the water run black or cloudy with waste stuffs from the mills, and glimpsed the bloated bellies of poisoned fish floating downstream in shoals. None who entered the water that day felt any other than its symbolic effects, of cleansing and purity: this again I count a miracle.
From that day on the Prophet’s power increased among us: his courage and dignity are truly of God – and if any should have doubted and desired further proof, the veracity of a number of his prophecies must have provided it. His prophecies have ranged over matters great and small, and in all cases they have been accurate, either materially or spiritually. He has predicted sickness (of the Malloy family; of Reverend Beecher; of Sarah Vaughn’s child), death (of Mrs Baker, Elder Joshua, the younger children of the Andrews) and recovery from sickness (of too many to name, who have joined the church as a result of his intercession with God). His foreknowledge of the weather is legendary with our farming people: he foretold the late snows last May, the high winds of the previous autumn, the perpetual wetness of the preceding spring. They come to him now for advice on when to cut their hay, when to let the sheep out on to the hills at winter’s end – when best to sow, when to reap – a thousand pieces of invaluable advice are made available to them by him. He can tell the best day for a wedding or a baptism. In politics, he foretells the violent demonstrations and strikes of the machine breakers – and their suppression by masters and soldiery (the failure of the Bradford woolcombers’ strike being the most recently fulfilled prophecy of this sort). He foretells also the up and down turns in the fortunes of our church, announcing before John Stanley made the offer to finance the new Sanctuary building (completed at a cost of £9,500) that a great gift would come to the church – and predicting at the present time a calamity and period of darkness for our church, which may arrive at the end of this year. His foresight helps us to understand God’s patterns, the trials and tests of faith He must lay out for us, to prove us true.
He has also foretold great changes in the world about us; the coming of the railways being the greatest instance of this kind. Before we knew or had thought of such a thing, he described to us a great machine, smoking and creating a noise as infernal as those smoky depths from which it seemed to come; roaring on its iron way through peaceful meadows and green fields, moving at unnatural speed. He has likewise foretold the advent of a flying machine, by which men will be empowered to soar in the air like birds, and gaze down upon the tiny landscape beneath. These types of inventions I see as the last perverted and unnatural spawnings of the degenerate human imagination, before that day when His power and radiance shall obliterate all such dark shadows, and the brightness of His light shall reveal them for the toys, the nothings, that they are.
Leah
Five days, we have been here. It feels like five weeks. The Prophet is absent and none seems to know when he will return.
As to servants; we are the servants! I might have expected that we must sew and cook; but to clean out fires and empty slops? To scrub floors? This must be merely temporary, until the household is properly established.
My sisters in God, as I am told to call them, set to without complaint, organized by saintly Sister Joanna. It is no surprise that she is chosen, she has been mother-henning it around the church so long now. None of them are beauties, and one – one is unspeakable.
Martha. I cannot believe that such a creature walks. It is a wild, stinking, blundering animal let loose amongst us. What has he got her for? Dinah (who has the misfortune to share her chamber) tells me she has a circle of sores around her neck, as from a chain. It is not hard to believe that whoever kept her before, kept her like a dog. Those small hill farmers live beyond any type of Christian civilization. I believe she has never seen soap or water in her life. At table the sounds of her troughing (I do not look, but the sound one cannot avoid) make my food lie queasy to my stomach. Such refinements as spoon and fork are quite unknown; food is conveyed to her mouth by the fistful. Nor does she possess the slightest notion of modesty; you may find her scratching or picking at any part of her anatomy without shame. They tumble in all together up there in the hills, brother and sister, father and daughter. She’s no more virgin nor I am; that big sow’s body has rutted and farrowed with the rest of the stock.
Saint Joanna hovers about her, lavishing patience and kindliness upon her, which effort is as much noticed by Martha as is the weather by a stone. The woman is half an idiot, there is nothing in her eyes. She is even too stupid to sit, unless you tell her; twice in daylight I have come across her slumped against the wall, mouth hanging open, snoring. Yesterday afternoon she came in to me where I sat sewing in the drawing room, bearing a great filthy sack over her shoulder. When I ask her what she wants she simply stares, too pig-ignorant to reply. When I question her as to the contents of the sack, she must put the filthy thing down on the carpet and peer into it.
‘Take it out of here!’ I shout at her. ‘Look at the dirt on the carpet.’ She hoists the sack – containing, I reckon, near a hundredweight of potatoes, and takes it off. A good while later, when I took the kettle to fill at the pump, I passed her standing outside the kitchen door, the sack still over her shoulder. Well, thought I, if she’s too stupid to set down such a weight, let her bear it. But Saint Joanna came out, and bade her take it to the outer office. I dare say she has no other notion of potatoes than rooting them out of the earth raw with her snout, after the Irish fashion. It is an offence to the eye and the stomach, to be stalled with such a creature.
The others – save one – I know, Rachel and Rebekah Mayall, Dinah Clays the cripple. There is a small thin pasty woman from London, Hannah Lees, who barely answers when you question her. She is not of the church, for she knows none of the words to our hymns or prayers. Rachel and Rebekah may be allowed to be pretty; they have the advantage of youth, that first bloom and freshness. But anyone who has seen their mother can already see the shadow of that grossness attaching to them. I imagine the way that soft dimpling flesh will swell and bloat with passing time; as dough, left overnight by the fire, rises to near double its puffy size. They may be good for a year or two, those girls. No more.
Poor Joanna drips with saintliness, I wonder why such a woman should have a body, whose intention is to go around being the abnegation of the flesh. Her unworldliness is like a smell to warn you off.
This is what I desired
, for there is certainly no competition – but I little thought I should be left alone with such companions for days on end. If only he had chosen Judith, we might at least have laughed together.
At first I was excited. Saint Joanna asked me to unpack and store the china and glasses. In the dining room there are stacks of chairs, still tied together as the carrier brought them, and boxes of Sheffield cutlery, and crates of new china. As I pulled it from its woodshavings and polished it, and stowed it away upon the shelves of the fine oak sideboard, I imagined the dining room with white damask on the table, and glasses and silverware glinting in the brilliant light of the silver candelabra. I imagined the kind of society I should meet in this room – church leaders and gentry. There is money in all this, more than I thought before. Sanctuary itself was built out of donations only two years ago; and how much more have the renovations to this house cost? Never mind the furnishings, which are all new and of the highest quality?
My daydreams are disturbed, though, when I look soberly at the other six women. They have hardly been selected to form part of a glittering social circle.
It is not difficult to get out – in that at least I was right. Saint Joanna is already so grateful for my presence (since I am more skilled and competent about the house than the other five put together) that she agrees gladly to my little expeditions ‘to take clean altar-cloths to Sanctuary’ or ‘to collect two dozen eggs promised us of Sister Benson when I met her at the haberdashers’, or even, ‘to visit my parents’, and does not comment on how long I am gone. So I have seen my little Thomas every day, and had an hour’s chatter with Anne to keep me sane. She points out to me the wisdom of the Prophet’s absenting himself at first. His apparent lack of interest in us must help to dispel those rumours about ‘comfort and succour’ which have arisen among the less holy members of the church (we giggled at this, till Anne’s husband George called out from the workshop to know the joke).
