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Title: The Old Church Clock
Author: Parkinson, Richard
Language: English
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The
Old Church Clock
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
BY
RICHARD PARKINSON, B.D.,
Canon of Manchester.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
LONDON:
J. G. F. AND J. RIVINGTON.
MANCHESTER: SIMMS AND DINHAM.
1843.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The Collegiate Church and Victoria Bridge Frontispiece
Broughton Church Following xviii
Ulverstone Church Following 64
View of Scaw Fell Following 68
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION v
MEMOIR OF ROBERT WALKER xix
The Old Church Clock
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 6
CHAPTER III 9
CHAPTER IV 12
CHAPTER V 17
CHAPTER VI 22
CHAPTER VII 29
CHAPTER VIII 37
CHAPTER IX 43
CHAPTER X 51
CHAPTER XI 60
CHAPTER XII 68
CHAPTER XIII 77
CHAPTER XIV 87
CHAPTER XV 95
[Picture: The Collegiate Church and Victoria Bridge]
INTRODUCTION.
A BRIEF history of the following homely little tale may perhaps be not
less interesting, and more edifying, than the tale itself. It was
written originally for the pages of _The Christian Magazine_, (a cheap
monthly publication, intended for circulation especially in the
manufacturing districts,) which is under the management of a young
clerical friend, who deserves the highest praise for the energy with
which he commenced, and the zeal and judgment with which he has hitherto
conducted it.
Like many more important events, the following story, which commenced
almost in jest, has ended almost in earnest. It was not at first
proposed that it should extend beyond three or four chapters; but having
nearly by accident carried his hero (so to style him) into the North for
a birth-place, a train of associations was awakened of which the author
could not forego the record. Though by birth and descent a native of
Lancashire, he had resided long enough in the region of the English Lakes
to become enamoured with its wild and romantic scenes, and intimately
acquainted with the manners and mode of thinking of its inhabitants; and,
among other charms of that sequestered district, not the least grateful
to his imagination was the character of ROBERT WALKER, for so long a
period incumbent of one of the most retired and romantic portions even of
that primitive country. Nor was it merely as an exemplary parish priest,
(and well does Robert Walker deserve the title of Priest of the Lakes, as
that of Apostle of the North has been assigned to Bernard Gilpin,) that
the character of this good man is to be regarded, but as one striking
instance out of many (if the history of our Parish Priesthood _could_ now
be written) in which the true liturgical teaching of the Church was
strictly maintained in the lower ranks of the ministry, when it had been
either totally discontinued or had withered down into a mere lifeless
form, in the higher. It cannot be denied that corruption began from
above,—secular patronage and loose foreign notions and manners first
influencing those in station and authority, and then naturally descending
downwards into the ranks of the Church; thus gradually corrupting the
whole mass to such an extent, that the chastisements which she has since
received from the whips and scorns of dissent became as wholesome as it
was deserved. Now, in the author’s mind, there was an apostolical
succession of duty as well as office in Robert Walker, which convinced
him,—and consoled him with the thought,—that there was nothing in the
Church system itself which necessarily led to that deadness in herself
and activity and success in those who dissented from her, which it was
too often his lot to witness during the first days of his ministry. {vii}
No doubt, hundreds of his brethren can look back, each to his Robert
Walker in his own district, by whose light his path was cheered when all
else seemed dark around him.
The history of Robert Walker, however, is calculated to teach a much more
important lesson than this; although it be one which seems so obvious to
_reason_, that it could hardly have been expected that any example should
be required, even to _enforce_ it. It appears quite evident, at the
first glance, that as Faith can only be illustrated, proved, and
confirmed by good works, so Doctrine can only be impressed, ingrafted,
and made practical by discipline. It is true that it may be conveyed
into the mind, and painted on the imagination, by distinct and impressive
oral teaching alone; but it can only become useful and even intelligible
to the great masses of men, by their being required to show, by some
outward act of their own, that they understand its utility, and make a
personal application of the truths which it conveys. When our SAVIOUR
Himself combined—never to be separated—outward acts and observances with
inward graces in the two holy Sacraments of His religion, He taught us,
at once by precept and example, that even the most solemn and mysterious
doctrines of His Church can only be properly impressed on the heart and
understanding by the observance of some corresponding and outward act, as
at once a sign of obedience, and a channel of further grace. This is the
system on which our Prayer Book is constructed. Are men to pray?—it
tells them when and how. Are they to believe certain _facts_ in their
religion?—it impresses them on the heart and memory by periodical
commemorations. Are they to believe certain _doctrines_?—it brings these
prominently forth at fixed times and seasons. And so on. Doctrine and
discipline, with the Church, go hand in hand, like faith and practice,
the result of both. Now all this seems so _reasonable_, that it might
hardly appear to require the test of experience to give it further
sanction; yet to that test we may fairly appeal; and the author has, in
his own mind, been constantly in the habit of doing so by the cheering
history of Robert Walker. Let us first look at the opposite side of the
picture, in the illustrious instance of NEWTON, the pious, laborious, and
eloquent minister of OLNEY. Here is a favourable specimen of the system
of spreading the Gospel by instructing the mind, and sanctifying the
feelings of the hearer, principally by oral teaching, without laying much
stress upon the necessity for prescribed outward observances. Yet what
is the result? No one can read COWPER’S beautiful letters with regard to
that place and time, and not be painfully convinced of the evanescent
nature of all impressions which are merely made by individual teaching on
individual minds, without some external bond of union by which a
religious society may be held together when the hand that first combined
it has been withdrawn; and some supply of fuel to rouse and rekindle the
slumbering embers, when the first light has been extinguished or removed.
Thus, nearly all traces of the teaching of that good man disappeared
almost as soon as his warning voice had ceased to sound in the ears of
his at the time willing hearers. {xii} But how different has been the
result in the case of the liturgical teaching and Prayer-Book discipline
of the humble Robert Walker! Even in his native valleys, not only a
pious remembrance of his character, but a willing obedience to his
precepts, still lingers. But especially in his descendants, numerous,
and scattered, and often in humble circumstances as they are found to be,
it is there that we find,—as we might most expect to find,—the impress of
his character, deeply, the author hopes, indelibly impressed; and showing
itself in a manner most edifying to the observer, and most confirmatory
of the far-seeing wisdom with which our own Church’s system of discipline
has been constructed. It has been the author’s good fortune, at
different periods of his life, to see, or to hear of-various members of
this favoured family, in almost every variety of station to which one
single race can well be supposed liable; but the result of his
observation has been always the same. Walker’s great-grandson, the Rev.
Robert Bamford, Vicar of Bishopton, who first brought this venerable
patriarch into notice beyond the boundaries of his native hills, by a
sketch of his character in the columns of the _Christian Remembrancer_,
(though partial attention had many years previously been drawn to him by
some letters in the _Annual Register_) was himself a clergyman of the
highest character and promise. One of Walker’s daughters, Mrs.
Borrowdale, who became a resident of Liverpool, retained to the last the
habits of obedience to the Prayer Book which she had been taught in
youth, and attended the daily service of St. Thomas’s in that town, till
it finally expired for want of the rubrical number of worshippers. But,
by a singular coincidence, the author was brought into contact with this
family in a way still more interesting to himself; and gladly would he
wish to convey to his readers’ mind that sympathy with his feelings,
which is necessary to enter fully into the moral of this little
narrative. The author, some years ago, was presented by a friend to a
living, and found there as curate one who had married the
great-grand-daughter of Robert Walker. Here generations had passed away
between the early stock and the last shoot of the tree; yet the connexion
between the two was by no means dissevered. The tree might still be
known by its fruit! She was one—(we may speak freely of the dead, as
they then become the common property of the Church)—she was one whom it
was not possible to know and not to love. With the liberal education
which a town residence affords, she yet retained much of the freshness of
manner and unaffected simplicity of address which belong to the
better-educated class of females in a country place, and which win the
heart more than the finest polish of artificial manners. Her real
anxiety for the comfort and pleasure of others, and total forgetfulness
of self, formed that highest species of flattery which no one can resist;
while her attention to domestic duties, her care for the poor, and her
punctual observance of religious services, combined to render her all
that one wishes to find in that most important of all stations—a curate’s
wife. She was proud—in the best sense of the word—of her descent from
Robert Walker; and Robert Walker would have been proud of her. She was
so attached to the place—and a less promising or more laborious post
could hardly be conceived—that she had often been heard to declare that
nothing should remove her from it, even should any chance deprive them of
the curacy. At length the author resolved to resign the living; and
among other reasons for doing so, one (of which he has the least reason
to be ashamed) was that he might be instrumental in procuring the
succession to it for those who were so well worthy to hold it. But,
alas! how mysterious are the ways of Providence! She, who had looked up
to this event as the highest point of her earthly ambition, was destined
never to enjoy the object of her hopes. Within a very few weeks after
this resignation, she was taken off by the immediate stroke of death, by
a complaint of which she had long entertained reasonable fears. Yet she
died, as she had lived, in the service of her Master and His Church. She
was found by her husband dead on the sofa, with the Prayer Book beside
her, open at the place where she had just been hearing her only child, a
boy of about eight years of age, read aloud to her, according to her
custom, the service for the day. Thus departed a true descendant of
Robert Walker! Thus the author’s leave-taking of his late flock was
converted into _her_ funeral sermon. He need not add _what_ topics would
naturally suggest themselves as appropriate to the melancholy occasion!
The author has thus put the reader in possession of some of the reasons
why the character of Robert Walker should have been one of especial
interest to himself: and he has now only to explain the artifice which
has been employed, in order that the public might have it before them in
all its beauty.
It is well known to all the readers of WORDSWORTH, that in addition to
the sketch which he has drawn of this primitive pastor in his great poem
of the Excursion, he has, in his notes to his sonnets on the River
Duddon, given a prose history of his life, from materials supplied by the
family, in language of the utmost simplicity and beauty. This little
memoir is, of course, locked up from the generality of readers in the
somewhat costly volumes of Mr. Wordsworth’s works; and the author has
often wished that it were reprinted in a separate form, for general
perusal, as a great man’s “Records of a Good man’s life.” Happening
then, as has already been said, to place the birth of his hero in the
North, the thought occurred to him so far to attempt a sketch of the
character of Robert Walker, as to justify him, in his own eyes, in
presenting to the Poet the request (even now an unreasonable one) that he
would permit his own true history of the Patriarch to accompany this
little narrative into the world. With this request Mr. Wordsworth has
kindly complied; thus conferring on the author a favour in addition to
many others previously received; and affording to his reader the
comfortable assurance that, in purchasing this otherwise meagre
production, he will at least receive, in the following memoir alone,
something well worth his money.
The author has only to add, that the little sketch, at the conclusion of
the tale, of the late Rev. Joshua Brooks, Chaplain of the Collegiate
Church, may probably look like a caricature to all except those who knew
him; and, (now that the publication is no longer anonymous) that the two
characters in the dialogue are both alike imaginary.
BROUGHTON CLIFF, MARCH 25, 1843.
[Picture: Broughton Church]
[From Mr. Wordsworth’s notes to his series of sonnets on the river
Duddon.]
THE reader who may have been interested in the foregoing Sonnets, (which
together may be considered as a Poem,) will not be displeased to find in
this place a prose account of the Duddon, extracted from Green’s
comprehensive _Guide to the Lakes_, lately published. “The road leading
from Coniston to Broughton is over high ground, and commands a view of
the River Duddon; which, at high water, is a grand sight, having the
beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland stretching each
way from its margin. In this extensive view, the face of nature is
displayed in a wonderful variety of hill and dale; wooded grounds and
buildings; amongst the latter, Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a
hill, rising elegantly from the valley, is an object of extraordinary
interest. Fertility on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in
the superior heights of Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the high lands
between Kirkby and Ulverstone.
“The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the banks of the Duddon, and
on its Lancashire side it is of various elevations. The river is an
amusing companion, one while brawling and tumbling over rocky precipices,
until the agitated water becomes again calm by arriving at a smoother and
less precipitous bed, but its course is soon again ruffled, and the
current thrown into every variety of foam which the rocky channel of a
river can give to water.”—_Vide Green’s Guide to the Lakes_, vol. i. pp.
98–100.
After all, the traveller would be most gratified who should approach this
beautiful Stream, neither at its source, as is done in the Sonnets, nor
from its termination; but from Coniston over Walna Scar; first descending
into a little circular valley, a collateral compartment of the long
winding vale through which flows the Duddon. This recess, towards the
close of September, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a
fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees faded, but perhaps none
fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated enough to show the
various objects in the valley, and not so high as to diminish their
importance, the stranger will instinctively halt. On the foreground,
little below the most favourable station, a rude foot-bridge is thrown
over the bed of the noisy brook foaming by the way-side. Russet and
craggy hills, of bold and varied outline, surround the level valley,
which is besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch trees. A few
homesteads are interspersed, in some places peeping out from among the
rocks like hermitages, whose site has been chosen for the benefit of
sunshine as well as shelter; in other instances, the dwelling-house,
barn, and byre, compose together a cruciform structure, which, with its
embowering trees, and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof like a
fleece, call to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most
cases, and nature every where, have given a sanctity to the humble works
of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a
harmony of tone and colour, a perfection and consummation of beauty,
which would have been marred had aim or purpose interfered with the
course of convenience, utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region
stands in no need of the veil of twilight to soften or disguise its
features. As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it would fill the
spectator’s heart with gladsomeness. Looking from our chosen station, he
would feel an impatience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by the
milkmaid, to wander from house to house, exchanging “good-morrows” as he
passed the open doors; but, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly
light gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an answering light
from the smooth surface of the meadows; when the trees are dusky, but
each kind still distinguishable; when the cool air has condensed the blue
smoke rising from the cottage-chimneys; when the dark mossy stones seem
to sleep in the bed of the foaming Brook; _then_, he would be unwilling
to move forward, not less from a reluctance to relinquish what he
beholds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, by his approach, the
quietness beneath him. Issuing from the plain of this valley, the Brook
descends in a rapid torrent, passing by the church-yard of Seathwaite.
The traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst of the wild and
beautiful scenery which gave occasion to the Sonnets from the 14th to the
20th inclusive. From the point where the Seathwaite Brook joins the
Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass through which the River makes
its way into the Plain of Donnerdale. The perpendicular rock on the
right bears the ancient British name of THE PEN; the one opposite is
called WALLA-BARROW CRAG, a name that occurs in several places to
designate rocks of the same character. The _chaotic_ aspect of the scene
is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while
dinner was preparing, and at his return, being asked by his host, “What
way he had been wandering?” replied, “As far as it is _finished_!”
The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with large fragments of rocks fallen
from aloft; which, as Mr. Green truly says, “are happily adapted to the
many-shaped waterfalls,” (or rather water-breaks, for none of them are
high,) “displayed in the short space of half a mile.” That there is some
hazard in frequenting these desolate places, I myself have had proof; for
one night an immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot where, with a
friend, I had lingered the day before. “The concussion,” says Mr. Green,
speaking of the event, (for he also, in the practice of his art, on that
day sat exposed for a still longer time to the same peril,) “was heard,
not without alarm, by the neighbouring shepherds.” But to return to
Seathwaite Church-yard: it contains the following inscription.
“In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died the 25th of June,
1802, in the 93rd year of his age, and 67th of his curacy at
Seathwaite.
“Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in the 93rd
year of her age.”
In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this notice:
“Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert Walker. He was curate of
Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was a man singular for his
temperance, industry, and integrity.”
This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the eighteenth Sonnet, as a
worthy compeer of the Country Parson of Chaucer, &c. In the Seventh Book
of the Excursion, an abstract of his character is given, beginning—
“A Priest abides before whose life such doubts
Fall to the ground;—”
and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, will
not be out of place here.
MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER.
In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at Under-Crag, in Seathwaite; he
was the youngest of twelve children. His eldest brother, who inherited
the small family estate, died at Under-Crag, aged ninety-four, being
twenty-four years older than the subject of this Memoir, who was born of
the same mother. Robert was a sickly infant; and, through his boyhood
and youth continuing to be of delicate frame and tender health, it was
deemed best, according to the country phrase, to _breed __him a scholar_;
for it was not likely that he would be able to earn a livelihood by
bodily labour. At that period few of these Dales were furnished with
schoolhouses; the children being taught to read and write in the chapel;
and in the same consecrated building, where he officiated for so many
years both as preacher and schoolmaster, he himself received the
rudiments of his education. In his youth he became schoolmaster at
Lowes-water; not being called upon, probably, in that situation, to teach
more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a
“Gentleman” in the neighbourhood, he acquired, at leisure hours, a
knowledge of the classics, and became qualified for taking holy orders.
Upon his ordination, he had the offer of two curacies; the one, Torver,
in the vale of Coniston,—the other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. The
value of each was the same, viz. five pounds _per annum_: but the cure of
Seathwaite having a cottage attached to it, as he wished to marry, he
chose it in preference. The young person on whom his affections were
fixed, though in the condition of a domestic servant, had given promise,
by her serious and modest deportment, and by her virtuous dispositions,
that she was worthy to become the helpmate of a man entering upon a plan
of life such as he had marked out for himself. By her frugality she had
stored up a small sum of money, with which they began housekeeping. In
1735 or 1736, he entered upon his curacy; and nineteen years afterwards,
his situation is thus described, in some letters to be found in the
Annual Register for 1760, from which the following is extracted:—
To Mr. —
_Coniston_, _July_ 26, 1754.
“SIR,
“I was the other day upon a party of pleasure, about five or six
miles from this place, where I met with a very striking object, and
of a nature not very common. Going into a clergyman’s house (of whom
I had frequently heard) I found him sitting at the head of a long
square table, such as is commonly used in this country by the lower
class of people, dressed in a coarse blue frock, trimmed with black
horn buttons; a checked shirt, a leathern strap about his neck for a
stock, a coarse apron, and a pair of great wooden-soled shoes, plated
with iron to preserve them, (what we call clogs in these parts,) with
a child upon his knee, eating his breakfast: his wife, and the
remainder of his children, were some of them employed in waiting upon
each other, the rest in teazing and spinning wool, at which trade he
is a great proficient; and moreover, when it is made ready for sale,
will lay it, by sixteen or thirty-two pounds weight, upon his back,
and on foot, seven or eight miles will carry it to the market, even
in the depth of winter. I was not much surprised at all this, as you
may possibly be, having heard a great deal of it related before. But
I must confess myself astonished with the alacrity and the good
humour that appeared both in the clergyman and his wife, and more so,
at the sense and ingenuity of the clergyman himself.” * *
Then follows a letter, from another person, dated 1755, from which an
extract shall be given.
“By his frugality and good management, he keeps the wolf from the
door, as we say; and if he advances a little in the world, it is
owing more to his own care, than to any thing else he has to rely
upon. I don’t find his inclination is running after further
preferment. He is settled among the people, that are happy among
themselves; and lives in the greatest unanimity and friendship with
them; and, I believe, the minister and people are exceedingly
satisfied with each other; and indeed how should they be
dissatisfied, when they have a person of so much worth and probity
for their pastor? A man, who, for his candour and meekness, his
sober, chaste, and virtuous conversation, his soundness in principle
and practice, is an ornament to his profession, and an honour to the
country he is in; and bear with me if I say, the plainness of his
dress, the sanctity of his manners, the simplicity of his doctrine,
and the vehemence of his expression, have a sort of resemblance to
the pure practice of primitive Christianity.”
We will now give his own account of himself, to be found in the same
place.
From the Rev. ROBERT WALKER.
“SIR,
“Yours of the 26th instant was communicated to me by Mr. C—, and I
should have returned an immediate answer, but the hand of Providence
then lying heavy upon an amiable pledge of conjugal endearment, hath
since taken from me a promising girl, which the disconsolate mother
too pensively laments the loss of; though we have yet eight living,
all healthful, hopeful children, whose names and ages are as
follow:—Zaccheus, aged almost eighteen years; Elizabeth, sixteen
years and ten months; Mary, fifteen; Moses, thirteen years and three
months; Sarah, ten years and three months; Mabel, eight years and
three months; William Tyson, three years and eight months; and Anne
Esther, one year and three months; besides Anne, who died two years
and six months ago, and was then aged between nine and ten; and
Eleanor, who died the 23rd inst., January, aged six years and ten
months. Zaccheus, the eldest child, is now learning the trade of
tanner, and has two years and a half of his apprenticeship to serve.
The annual income of my chapel at present, as near as I can compute
it, may amount to about £17 10s., of which is paid in cash, _viz._ £5
from the bounty of Queen Anne, and £5 from W. P., Esq., of P—, out of
the annual rents, he being lord of the manor, and £3 from the several
inhabitants of L—, settled upon the tenements as a rent-charge; the
house and gardens I value at £4 yearly, and not worth more; and I
believe the surplice fees and voluntary contributions, one year with
another, may be worth £3; but, as the inhabitants are few in number,
and the fees very low, this last-mentioned sum consists merely in
free-will offerings.
“I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with regard to the conduct
and behaviour of my auditory, who not only live in the happy
ignorance of the follies and vices of the age, but in mutual peace
and good-will with one another, and are seemingly (I hope really too)
sincere Christians, and sound members of the Established Church, not
one dissenter of any denomination being amongst them all. I got to
the value of £40 for my wife’s fortune, but had no real estate of my
own, being the youngest son of twelve children, born of obscure
parents; and, though my income has been but small, and my family
large, yet by a providential blessing upon my own diligent
endeavours, the kindness of friends, and a cheap country to live in,
we have always had the necessaries of life. By what I have written
(which is a true and exact account, to the best of my knowledge) I
hope you will not think your favour to me, out of the late worthy Dr.
Stratford’s effects, quite misbestowed, for which I must ever
gratefully own myself,
“Sir,
“Your much obliged and most obedient humble Servant,
R. W., Curate of S—.
“To Mr. C., of Lancaster.”
About the time when this letter was written, the Bishop of Chester
recommended the scheme of joining the curacy of Ulpha to the contiguous
one of Seathwaite, and the nomination was offered to Mr. Walker; but an
unexpected difficulty arising, Mr. W., in a letter to the Bishop, (a copy
of which, in his own beautiful hand-writing, now lies before me,) thus
expresses himself, “If he,” meaning the person in whom the difficulty
originated, “had suggested any such objection before, I should utterly
have declined any attempt to the curacy of Ulpha: indeed, I was always
apprehensive it might be disagreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as
they have been always accustomed to double duty, and the inhabitants of
Ulpha despair of being able to support a schoolmaster who is not curate
there also; which suppressed all thoughts in me of serving them both.”
And in a second letter to the Bishop he writes:—
“MY LORD,
“I have the favour of yours of the 1st instant, and am exceedingly
obliged on account of the Ulpha affair: if that curacy should lapse
into your Lordship’s hands, I would beg leave rather to decline than
embrace it; for the chapels of Seathwaite and Ulpha, annexed
together, would be apt to cause a general discontent among the
inhabitants of both places; by either thinking themselves slighted,
being only served alternately, or neglected in the duty, or
attributing it to covetousness in me; all which occasions of
murmuring I would willingly avoid.”
And, in concluding his former letter, he expresses a similar sentiment
upon the same occasion, “desiring, if it be possible, however, as much as
in me lieth, to live peaceably with all men.”
The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite was again augmented; and, to
effect this augmentation, fifty pounds had been advanced by himself; and,
in 1760, lands were purchased with eight hundred pounds. Scanty as was
his income, the frequent offer of much better benefices could not tempt
Mr. W. to quit a situation where he had been so long happy, with a
consciousness of being useful. Among his papers I find the following
copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty years after his refusal of the
curacy of Ulpha, which will show what exertions had been made for one of
his sons.
“MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE,
“Our remote situation here makes it difficult to get the necessary
information for transacting business regularly; such is the reason of
my giving your Grace the present trouble.
“The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering himself candidate for
deacon’s orders at your Grace’s ensuing ordination; the first, on the
25th instant, so that his papers could not be transmitted in due
time. As he is now fully at age, and I have afforded him education
to the utmost of my ability, it would give me great satisfaction (if
your Grace would take him, and find him qualified) to have him
ordained. His constitution has been tender for some years; he
entered the college of Dublin, but his health would not permit him to
continue there, or I would have supported him much longer. He has
been with me at home above a year, in which time he has gained great
strength of body, sufficient, I hope, to enable him for performing
the function. Divine Providence, assisted by liberal benefactors,
has blest my endeavours, from a small income, to rear a numerous
family; and as my time of life renders me now unfit for much future
expectancy from this world, I should be glad to see my son settled in
a promising way to acquire an honest livelihood for himself. His
behaviour, so far in life, has been irreproachable; and I hope he
will not degenerate, in principles or practice, from the precepts and
pattern of an indulgent parent. Your Grace’s favourable reception of
this, from a distant corner of the diocese, and an obscure hand, will
excite filial gratitude, and a due use shall be made of the
obligation vouchsafed thereby to
“Your Grace’s very dutiful and most obedient
“Son and Servant,
“ROBERT WALKER.”
The same man, who was thus liberal in the education of his numerous
family, was even munificent in hospitality as a parish priest. Every
Sunday, were served, upon the long table, at which he has been described
sitting with a child upon his knee, messes of broth, for the refreshment
of those of his congregation who came from a distance, and usually took
their seats as parts of his own household. It seems scarcely possible
that this custom could have commenced before the augmentation of his
cure; and what would to many have been a high price of self-denial, was
paid, by the pastor and his family, for this gratification; as the treat
could only be provided by dressing at one time the whole, perhaps, of
their weekly allowance of fresh animal food; consequently, for a
succession of days, the table was covered with cold victuals only. His
generosity in old age may be still further illustrated by a little
circumstance relating to an orphan grandson, then ten years of age, which
I find in a copy of a letter to one of his sons; he requests that
half-a-guinea may be left for “little Robert’s pocket-money,” who was
then at school; intrusting it to the care of a lady, who, as he says,
“may sometimes frustrate his squandering it away foolishly,” and
promising to send him an equal allowance annually for the same purpose.
The conclusion of the same letter is so characteristic, that I cannot
forbear to transcribe it.
“We,” meaning his wife and himself, “are in our wonted state of
health, allowing for the hasty strides of old age knocking daily at
our door, and threateningly telling us, we are not only mortal, but
must expect ere long to take our leave of our ancient cottage, and
lie down in our last dormitory. Pray pardon my neglect to answer
yours: let us hear sooner from you, to augment the mirth of the
Christmas holidays. Wishing you all the pleasures of the approaching
season, I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, yours affectionately,
“ROBERT WALKER.”
He loved old customs and usages, and in some instances stuck to them to
his own loss; for, having had a sum of money lodged in the hands of a
neighbouring tradesman, when long course of time had raised the rate of
interest, and more was offered, he refused to accept it; an act not
difficult to one, who, while he was drawing seventeen pounds a year from
his curacy, declined, as we have seen, to add the profits of another
small benefice to his own, lest he should be suspected of cupidity.—From
this vice he was utterly free; he made no charge for teaching school;
such as could afford to pay, gave him what they pleased. When very
young, having kept a diary of his expenses, however trifling, the large
amount, at the end of the year, surprised him; and from that time the
rule of his life was to be economical, not avaricious. At his decease he
left behind him no less a sum than £2000; and such a sense of his various
excellencies was prevalent in the country, that the epithet of WONDERFUL
is to this day attached to his name.
There is in the above sketch something so extraordinary as to require
further explanatory details.—And to begin with his industry; eight hours
in each day, during five days in the week, and half of Saturday, except
when the labours of husbandry were urgent, he was occupied in teaching.
His seat was within the rails of the altar; the communion-table was his
desk; and, like Shenstone’s schoolmistress, the master employed himself
at the spinning-wheel, while the children were repeating their lessons by
his side. Every evening, after school hours, if not more profitably
engaged, he continued the same kind of labour, exchanging, for the
benefit of exercise, the small wheel, at which he had sate, for the large
one on which wool is spun, the spinner stepping to and fro. Thus was the
wheel constantly in readiness to prevent the waste of a moment’s time.
Nor was his industry with the pen, when occasion called for it, less
eager. Intrusted with extensive management of public and private
affairs, he acted, in his rustic neighbourhood, as scrivener, writing out
petitions, deeds of conveyance, wills, covenants, etc., with pecuniary
gain to himself, and to the great benefit of his employers. These
labours (at all times considerable) at one period of the year, viz.
between Christmas and Candlemas, when money transactions are settled in
this country, were often so intense, that he passed great part of the
night, and sometimes whole nights, at his desk. His garden also was
tilled by his own hand; he had a right of pasturage upon the mountains
for a few sheep and a couple of cows, which required his attendance: with
this pastoral occupation, he joined the labours of husbandry upon a small
scale, renting two or three acres in addition to his own less than one
acre of glebe; and the humblest drudgery which the cultivation of these
fields required was performed by himself.
He also assisted his neighbours in haymaking and shearing their flocks,
and in the performance of this latter service he was eminently dexterous.
They, in their turn, complimented him with the present of a haycock, or a
fleece; less as a recompense for this particular service than as a
general acknowledgment. The Sabbath was in a strict sense kept holy; the
Sunday evenings being devoted to reading the Scripture and family prayer.
The principal festivals appointed by the Church were also duly observed;
but through every other day in the week, through every week in the year,
he was incessantly occupied in work of hand or mind; not allowing a
moment for recreation, except upon a Saturday afternoon, when he indulged
himself with a Newspaper, or sometimes with a Magazine. The frugality
and temperance established in his house, were as admirable as the
industry. Nothing to which the name of luxury could be given was there
known; in the latter part of his life, indeed, when tea had been brought
into almost general use, it was provided for visiters, and for such of
his own family as returned occasionally to his roof and had been
accustomed to this refreshment elsewhere; but neither he nor his wife
ever partook of it. The raiment worn by his family was comely and
decent, but as simple as their diet; the homespun materials were made up
into apparel by their own hands. At the time of the decease of this
thrifty pair, their cottage contained a large store of webs of woollen
and linen cloth, woven from thread of their own spinning. And it is
remarkable that the pew in the chapel in which the family used to sit
remained a few years ago neatly lined with woollen cloth spun by the
pastor’s own hands. It is the only pew in the chapel so distinguished;
and I know of no other instance of his conformity to the delicate
accommodations of modern times. The fuel of the house, like that of
their neighbours, consisted of peat, procured from the mosses by their
own labour. The lights by which, in the winter evenings, their work was
performed, were of their own manufacture, such as still continue to be
used in these cottages; they are made of the pith of rushes dipped in any
unctuous substance that the house affords. White candles, as tallow
candles are here called, were reserved to honour the Christmas festivals,
and were perhaps produced upon no other occasions. Once a month, during
the proper season, a sheep was drawn from their small mountain flock, and
killed for the use of the family; and a cow towards the close of the
year, was salted and dried, for winter provision: the hide was tanned to
furnish them with shoes.—By these various resources, this venerable
clergyman reared a numerous family, not only preserving them, as he
affectingly says, “from wanting the necessaries of life;” but afforded
them an unstinted education, and the means of raising themselves in
society.
It might have been concluded that no one could thus, as it were, have
converted his body into a machine of industry for the humblest uses, and
kept his thoughts so frequently bent upon secular concerns, without
grievous injury to the more precious parts of his nature. How could the
powers of intellect thrive, or its graces be displayed, in the midst of
circumstances apparently so unfavourable, and where to the direct
cultivation of the mind, so small a portion of time was allotted? But,
in this extraordinary man, things in their nature adverse were
reconciled; his conversation was remarkable, not only for being chaste
and pure, but for the degree in which it was fervent and eloquent; his
written style was correct, simple, and animated. Nor did his
_affections_ suffer more than his intellect; he was tenderly alive to all
the duties of his pastoral office: the poor and needy “he never sent
empty away,”—the stranger was fed and refreshed in passing that
unfrequented vale—the sick were visited; and the feelings of humanity
found further exercise among the distresses and embarrassments in the
worldly estate of his neighbours, with which his talents for business
made him acquainted; and the disinterestedness, impartiality, and
uprightness which he maintained in the management of all affairs confided
to him, were virtues seldom separated in his own conscience from
religious obligations. Nor could such conduct fail to remind those who
witnessed it of a spirit nobler than law or custom: they felt convictions
which, but for such intercourse, could not have been afforded, that, as
in the practice of their pastor, there was no guile, so in his faith
there was nothing hollow; and we are warranted in believing, that upon
these occasions, selfishness, obstinacy, and discord would often give way
before the breathings of his good-will and saintly integrity. It may be
presumed also, while his humble congregation were listening to the moral
precepts which he delivered from the pulpit, and to the Christian
exhortations that they should love their neighbour as themselves, and do
as they would be done unto, that peculiar efficacy was given to the
preacher’s labours by recollections in the minds of his congregation,
that they were called upon to do no more than his own actions were daily
setting before their eyes.
The afternoon service in the chapel was less numerously attended than
that of the morning, but by a more serious auditory; the lesson from the
New Testament, on those occasions, was accompanied by Birkett’s
Commentaries. These lessons he read with impassioned emphasis,
frequently drawing tears from his hearers, and leaving a lasting
impression upon their minds. His devotional feelings and the powers of
his own mind were further exercised, along with those of his family, in
perusing the Scriptures; not only on the Sunday evenings, but on every
other evening, while the rest of the household were at work, some one of
the children, and in her turn the servant, for the sake of practice in
reading, or for instruction, read the Bible aloud; and in this manner the
whole was repeatedly gone through. That no common importance was
attached to the observance of religious ordinances by his family, appears
from the following memorandum by one of his descendants, which I am
tempted to insert at length, as it is characteristic, and somewhat
curious. “There is a small chapel in the county palatine of Lancaster,
where a certain clergyman has regularly officiated above sixty years, and
a few months ago administered the sacrament of the LORD’s Supper in the
same, to a decent number of devout communicants. After the clergyman had
received himself, the first company out of the assembly who approached
the altar, and kneeled down to be partakers of the sacred elements,
consisted of the parson’s wife, to whom he had been married upwards of
sixty years; one son and his wife; four daughters, each with her husband;
whose ages, all added together, amounted to above 714 years. The several
and respective distances from the place of each of their abodes to the
chapel where they all communicated, will measure more than 1000 English
miles. Though the narration will appear surprising, it is without doubt
a fact that the same persons, exactly four years before, met at the same
place, and all joined in performance of the same venerable duty.”
He was indeed most zealously attached to the doctrine and frame of the
Established Church. We have seen him congratulating himself that he had
no dissenters in his cure of any denomination. Some allowance must be
made for the state of opinion when his first religious impressions were
received, before the reader will acquit him of bigotry, when I mention,
that at the time of the augmentation of the cure, he refused to invest
part of the money in the purchase of an estate offered to him upon
advantageous terms, because the proprietor was a Quaker;—whether from
scrupulous apprehension that a blessing would not attend a contract
framed for the benefit of the Church between persons not in religious
sympathy with each other; or, as a seeker of peace, he was afraid of the
uncomplying disposition which at one time was too frequently conspicuous
in that sect. Of this an instance had fallen under his own notice; for,
while he taught school at Loweswater, certain persons of that
denomination had refused to pay annual interest due under the title of
Church-stock; {xxxix} a great hardship upon the incumbent, for the curacy
of Loweswater was then scarcely less poor than that of Seathwaite. To
what degree this prejudice of his was blameable need not be
determined;—certain it is, that he was not only desirous, as he himself
says, to live in peace, but in love, with all men. He was placable, and
charitable in his judgments; and, however correct in conduct and rigorous
to himself, he was ever ready to forgive the trespasses of others, and to
soften the censure that was cast upon their frailties.—It would be
unpardonable to omit that, in the maintenance of his virtues, he received
due support from the Partner of his long life. She was equally strict in
attending to a share of their joint cares, nor less diligent in her
appropriate occupations. A person who had been some time their servant
in the latter part of their lives, concluded the panegyric of her
mistress by saying to me, “she was no less excellent than her husband;
she was good to the poor, she was good to every thing!” He survived for
a short time this virtuous companion. When she died, he ordered that her
body should be borne to the grave by three of her daughters and one
grand-daughter; and, when the corpse was lifted from the threshold, he
insisted upon lending his aid, and feeling about, for he was then almost
blind, took hold of a napkin fixed to the coffin; and, as a bearer of the
body, entered the Chapel, a few steps from the lowly Parsonage.
What a contrast does the life of this obscurely-seated, and, in point of
worldly wealth, poorly-repaid Churchman, present to that of Cardinal
Wolsey!
“O ’tis a burthen, Cromwell, ’tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven!”
We have been dwelling upon images of peace in the moral world, that have
brought us again to the quiet enclosure of consecrated ground, in which
this venerable pair lie interred. The sounding brook, that rolls close
by the church-yard without disturbing feeling or meditation, is now
unfortunately laid bare; but not long ago it participated, with the
chapel, the shade of some stately ash-trees, which will not spring again.
While the spectator from this spot is looking round upon the girdle of
stony mountains that encompasses the vale,—masses of rock, out of which
monuments for all men that ever existed might have been hewn, it would
surprise him to be told, as with truth he might be, that the plain blue
slab dedicated to the memory of this aged pair, is a production of a
quarry in North Wales! It was sent as a mark of respect by one of their
descendants from the vale of Festiniog, a region almost as beautiful as
that in which it now lies.
Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small distance from the Parsonage, has
been erected a mill for spinning yarn; it is a mean and disagreeable
object, though not unimportant to the spectator, as calling to mind the
momentous changes wrought by such inventions in the frame of
society—changes which have proved especially unfavourable to these
mountain solitudes. So much had been effected by those new powers,
before the subject of the preceding biographical sketch closed his life,
that their operation could not escape his notice, and doubtless excited
touching reflections upon the comparatively insignificant results of his
own manual industry. But Robert Walker was not a man of times and
circumstances: had he lived at a later period, the principle of duty
would have produced application as unremitting; the same energy of
character would have been displayed, though in many instances with
widely-different effects.
Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of Loweswater as a place
where Mr. Walker taught school, I will add a few memoranda from its
parish register, respecting a person apparently of desires as moderate,
with whom he must have been intimate during his residence there.
“Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great
As are his mounting wishes; but for me
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be.
HENRY FOREST, Curate.
Honour, the idol which the most adore,
Receives no homage from my knee;
Content in privacy I value more
Than all uneasy dignity.
Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being 25 years of age.”
“This Curacy was twice augmented by Queen Anne’s bounty. The first
payment, with great difficulty, was paid to Mr. John Curwen, of
London, on the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest,
Curate of Loweswater. Ye said 9th of May, ye said Mr. Curwen went to
the office, and saw my name registered there, &c. This, by the
Providence of GOD, came by lot to this poor place.
Hæc testor H. Forest.”
In another place he records, that the sycamore-trees were planted in the
church-yard in 1710.
He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four years. It is not
improbable that H. Forest was the gentleman who assisted Robert Walker in
his classical studies at Loweswater.
To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of which the following
verses are a part.
“Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu
Diffugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus;
Utendum est ætate, cito pede preterit ætas.”
With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and confirmatory of the above
account, Extracts from a Paper in the Christian Remembrancer, October,
1819: it bears an assumed signature, but is known to be the work of the
Rev. Robert Bamford, vicar of Bishopton, in the county of Durham; a
great-grandson of Mr. Walker, whose worth it commemorates, by a record
not the less valuable for being written in very early youth.
“His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were
industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quietness,
characterised the whole family. No railings, no idleness, no
indulgence of passion, were permitted. Every child, however young,
had its appointed engagements; every hand was busy. Knitting,
spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, making shoes, were by
the different children constantly performing. The father himself
sitting amongst them, and guiding their thoughts, was engaged in the
same occupations.
* * *
“He sate up late, and rose early; when the family were at rest, he
retired to a little room which he had built on the roof of his house.
He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves for his books, his
stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold
winter’s night, without fire, while the roof was glazed with ice, did
he remain reading or writing, till the day dawned. He taught the
children in the chapel, for there was no school-house. Yet in that
cold, damp place he never had a fire. He used to send the children
in parties either to his own fire at home, or make them run up the
mountain’s side.
* * *
“It may be further mentioned, that he was a passionate admirer of
nature; she was his mother, and he was a dutiful child. While
engaged on the mountains, it was his greatest pleasure to view the
rising sun; and in tranquil evenings, as it slided behind the hills,
he blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils and plants: a
constant observer of the stars and winds: the atmosphere was his
delight. He made many experiments on its nature and properties. In
summer he used to gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by
his entertaining description, amuse and instruct his children. They
shared all his daily employments, and derived many sentiments of love
and benevolence from his observations on the works and productions of
nature. Whether they were following him in the field, or surrounding
him in school, he took every opportunity of storing their minds with
useful information.—Nor was the circle of his influence confined to
Seathwaite. Many a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker,
and begged him to be as good a man.
* * *
“Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing and
hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even then, the
calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and
adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue, had
such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed
clergyman, without thinking of Mr. Walker * * * *. He allowed no
dissenter or methodist to interfere in the instruction of the souls
committed to his cure: and so successful were his exertions, that he
had not one dissenter of any denomination whatever in the whole
parish.—Though he avoided all religious controversies, yet when age
had silvered his head, and virtuous piety had secured to his
appearance reverence and silent honour, no one, however determined in
his hatred of apostolic descent, could have listened to his discourse
on ecclesiastical history, and ancient times, without thinking, that
one of the beloved apostles had returned to mortality, and in that
vale of peace had come to exemplify the beauty of holiness in the
life and character of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death,
his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this
misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually
decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He
never preached with steadiness after his wife’s death. His voice
faltered: he always looked at the seat she had used. He could not
pass her tomb without tears. He became, when alone, sad and
melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured.
He went to bed about twelve o’clock the night before his death. As
his custom was, he went, tottering and leaning upon his daughter’s
arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open
air. ‘How clear the moon shines to night!’ He said those words,
sighed, and laid down. At six next morning he was found a corpse.
Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing
followed him to the grave.”
THE OLD-CHURCH CLOCK.
CHAPTER I.
Trouble is a thing that will come without our call: but true joy will
not spring up without ourselves.
—BISHOP PATRICK’s “_Heart’s Ease_.”
One fine day last spring—(and fine days are not so common in Manchester,
at that season of the year, as to make them easily forgotten)—one fine
day I was crossing the new Victoria bridge, from the Manchester to the
Salford side of the river, when my attention was arrested by a
middle-aged person, (I had nearly written gentleman, but that word would
not have conveyed quite an accurate idea to the reader,) who was gazing
very steadily over the battlements, at the OLD CHURCH CLOCK. He was a
person whom I had often remarked strolling about the streets of the town,
and whom I felt myself to be perfectly acquainted with, by sight, though
I had no idea whatever of his name or occupation. Occupation, indeed, I
felt almost assured he had none, or at least not one which demanded any
considerable portion of his time; for, besides his age, which was
evidently too advanced to permit him to discharge any very laborious
duties, he was more abroad in the open air, than was consistent with any
constant or indispensable calling. His dress was of a description which
implied something above want, though not much; for, like its wearer, it
had seen better days; moreover, it showed its owner to be a man not given
to change; for it was of a fashion more in vogue thirty years ago, than
at the present time. Over a coat that had once been of a blacker dye
than now, he wore a _spencer_, or short great-coat, buttoned up to the
chin. His small-clothes were strictly what their name implies, closely
buttoned at the knees. His legs were comfortably encased in thick
woollen stockings, which received additional warmth from a pair of short
black gaiters, which clothed his ancles. Altogether he had rather the
air of a country schoolmaster, with more scholars than fees, taking the
air on a half-holiday. This respectable personage was (as I said) gazing
steadfastly at the OLD CHURCH CLOCK, over the battlements of the bridge:
he had his own watch in his hand, of ample size and antique appearance;
and I saw that he was going to regulate its time by that of the venerable
old time-teller in the tower of the Collegiate Church. Knowing that at
that moment the Old Church clock was not, as they say “quite right,” (for
friend PETER CLARE is sometimes much more attentive to the accuracy of
his own external appearance, than to the correctness of those measurers
of time, which her majesty’s subjects have committed to his regulation,)
I could not resist the inclination to caution one, whom I almost
considered an old acquaintance, against being led into error, by setting
his own watch to a clock which was at least five minutes behind the hour.
“My friend,” said I, (taking out my own watch at the same time, to give
some force to my words,) “that clock is six minutes too slow.” “It may
be so, sir,” said he, looking at me quite in the way that I had looked at
him, viz. as an old acquaintance, “it may be so, but I always set my
watch by that clock, every week, whether it be right or wrong!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed I, “that seems a strange fancy.” “It may be so,”
said he, “and perhaps it is. But, sir, I know that clock of old; five
and forty years I have gone by it, and it has never led me far wrong yet.
It has saved me some good thrashings, and more hard money; to say nothing
of better things it has done for me. It is now the oldest friend I have
in Manchester, and I keep up my acquaintance with it, by setting my watch
by it every Saturday; and, with GOD’s blessing, so long as I live in
Manchester, (and it is very likely, now, that I may live here till I
die,) I will set my watch by that clock, be it right or wrong!” There
was a mixture of joke and earnest in the old man’s manner, as he said
this, like one who feels that what he says seriously may yet be open to
ridicule; and I could not help replying, in a tone somewhat similar to
his own—“Well, I never heard so much said in favour of the Old Church
clock before! As we are walking in the same direction, perhaps you will
give me some particulars as to your acquaintance with that old clock, and
of the good which you have had out of it.”
“It will be rather a long story, sir: but I am getting to an age when it
is a pleasure to me to tell long stories, especially about myself—I have
little else to do.”
Here there was a pause of some duration; and I saw an anxious expression
on the old man’s features, either as if he was somewhat startled with the
task which he had undertaken, or did not quite know where to begin:
probably both feelings were in his mind, for in about half a minute, he
raised his eyes a little, which had been, till then, fixed on the ground,
and said, as if half to me and half to himself, “I think it will be best
to begin at the beginning. He will like to hear of my young days, and it
is a pleasure to me to go over them again. I was not, sir, born in
Manchester; indeed, I hardly ever knew any body that was! Many come from
Ireland, like pigs, and they live like pigs; and many from the north,
like woodcocks and fieldfares,—some grow fat like fieldfares, and some
grow lean like woodcocks!”
I now found that my new friend had some humour in his conversation; and I
confess, I did not like him the worse for it. He continued:—“I am from
the north. I was born in one of the wildest parts of the country you
ever saw, in the midst of lakes and mountains. It has been fashionable
lately to visit the lake country, but most persons go in their carriages
or on horseback, and they miss the very finest parts and the grandest
scenes. I did not think much of the beauties of the country then; but
since I left it, and came to live in this smoky dungeon, my heart has
often gone back to the place of my birth; and it now looks much more
beautiful in my mind than it did then to my eyes, or than it probably
would if I were ever to see it again.—I wonder if that will ever be!”—he
here half whispered to himself—“Sir, the house in which I was born stood
in one of the most retired parts of the lake country—a spot, I dare say,
never visited at all by strangers. They call it _Yewdale_. The house (I
see it now!) was low, and built of cobbles, but firm as a rock; one end,
indeed, had fallen in, and was used as a hen-roost and cart-house, but
the main part of the house was well slated with good brown flat stones,
out of Coniston Old Man, and had two chimneys at the top as tall and
round as a churn. The house stood on the side of the hill, just where
the road makes a turn to run right down upon Coniston Water Head. There
was a great broad plane tree at the end of it,”—“and a large thorn before
the door,” interrupted I, “with the top of it cut into the shape of a
cock.”
“Exactly so!” exclaimed he, looking up into my face with much surprise,
“why you have seen the very place!”
“To be sure I have, and that the very last summer, when I was strolling
about Yewdale and Tilberthwaite, the finest part of all the lake
country.”
“Eh, sir!” said he, his native dialect unconsciously returning with his
early recollections,—“Eh, sir, and is it not a _bonny bit_?—and so the
old cock is still crowing on the top of the old thorn!”
“Indeed it _was_,” said I; “but as I passed by, I saw a ladder reared up
to its side, and a decent looking man, apparently the owner, diligently
employed, with a pair of shears, in cutting off the cock’s tail!”
“Confound Tom Hebblethwaite,” said my companion, more seriously vexed
than I thought it possible for him to be,—“I wish—but I am a fool for
being angry with him—what better could be expected from him? At school
he was always a stupid fellow; he never could catch a trout out of the
lake in his life, and whenever he tried to rob a hen-roost, he was sure
to tumble down the ladder, and waken all the cocks and hens in the
parish!”
I was much amused at the reasons which the old man assigned why nothing
good could be expected from Tom Hebblethwaite, but said nothing more to
provoke his indignation, which I saw he soon became rather ashamed of.
After a pause he regained his wonted composure, and proceeded:—“In that
house I was born. My earliest recollection is the death of my
grandmother. I do not know how old she was, but she must have been near
a hundred years old. I yet remember her calling me to her bed side, just
before her death, giving me a shilling, which she seemed to have
concealed somewhere about the bed-clothes, and saying, in a deep and
earnest tone, ‘God bless you.’ She died that night. I have never
forgotten her blessing, and I have never parted with her shilling—I never
will!” There was a tear in his eye as he said this, and he paused for a
few moments in his narrative.
CHAPTER II.
“Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody!”
SHAKSPERE.
“MY early days,” the old man continued, “were, as all the rest have been,
a mixture of happiness and troubles. I believe the troubles were, at the
time, rather the more abundant part, though, in looking back on my past
days I remember the bright spots more distinctly than the dark: just as,
in youth, I have stood on Yewdale crag, and distinctly seen the distant
top of Snafell in the Isle of Man, because a sunbeam happened to fall on
it, while all was dark and indistinct around it. My father was a little
_Statesman_; by which, as you know, is not meant, in Cumberland, any
thing like Lord John Russell, as such a term would be understood in
Manchester; for he never, I believe, read a newspaper in his life; nay,
probably never saw one, unless it might be upon Lady le Fleming’s hall
table, when he went, as he did, once a year, to Rydal, to pay his boon
rent to her, as lady of the manor. A statesman, in Cumberland, is the
owner of a little land; and as proud he is of his little holding, as Sir
Robert Peel can be (and proud indeed he may be!) of governing the state.
How long we had lived upon this little estate, I cannot tell, nor, I
suppose, any body else. There were no title deeds in existence; nor, I
believe, many wills, if any. When the father died, the son quietly
buried him in Hawkshead church-yard, and then as quietly stepped into his
shoes, wore out his old coats, (if they could be worn out,) and every
thing went on just as before. My father was the most silent man I ever
met with in my life. He never spoke unless he had something to say, and
that seemed to be only once or twice in the course of the day. He was
always the first up in the morning, and the last in bed at night, and
worked like a slave on his farm from sunrise to sunset. Of course I
could not understand his character then, but I have often tried to
understand it since he was taken away, and I became capable of
reflection. He never shewed me much kindness, but was never harsh,
though always firm. I had great respect for him, because I saw my
neighbours had; and I believe it is true, generally, that children learn
to value their parents a good deal by the way in which they see them
treated by indifferent persons. All my life I have always treated
parents with respect in the presence of their children.”
“Thank you, my good friend,” interrupted I, “for that hint; I will put
that down in my memorandum book.”
“As you please,” said he, smiling, “it will at least do no harm there;
nor, I believe, would it do any, if you were to put it into practice!
But to go on with my long story. My mother,—sir, I do not know how I
shall get on now. I feel a rising in my throat at the recollection of
her very name; and though she has been dead and gone many a long year,
yet every thing that she said, and every thing that she did—her quiet
smile—her linsey-woolsey petticoat—her silver shoe-buckles—her smooth
gray hair turned back in a roll over her calm forehead—her soft voice,
making the broad Cumberland dialect sweeter, even to the ear of a
stranger, than the richest music—her patience in pain—her unchanging
kindness to me in all my wayward moods and fits of passion—her regularity
in all her devotions, public and private, come at this moment as fresh
into my mind, as if she were sitting now in the corner of my little
dwelling in Salford, instead of sleeping as she has done for many a long
year, quietly and peaceably, in the south-east corner of Hawkshead
church-yard. There is no stone over her grave; but I could find it
blind-fold even now, though it is many a day since I have stood beside
it—and it concerns no one else to know where it is but myself. I
sometimes wish to be buried beside her—but what does it signify? we could
not know each other in the grave—we _shall_ know each other, with joy
_shall_ meet again hereafter!”
There was a passionate earnestness in the old man’s manner as he uttered
these last words, which differed strongly from the general quiet tone of
his narrative. I kept silence when he paused, out of respect for his
feelings, and waited for the return of his wonted calmness, which he was
not long in regaining.
“My mother taught me to read almost as soon as I could speak. The book
she used for that purpose was the Testament. It was almost the only book
in the house, except the Whole Duty of Man, and four or five black-letter
volumes, tinged with smoke from having lain for ages in the chimney
corner, the contents of which not the oldest man in all Yewdale even
pretended to understand. By the time I was five years old, being a
strong, hale boy, my father tried to make me useful about the farm, in
feeding the cows, or looking after the sheep; but it would not do. I had
hardly strength for the former task; and as to looking after the sheep,
the temptation of joining two or three similar shepherds in an expedition
of bird-nesting or nut-gathering, was always too strong to be resisted.
Proving thus unequal to these important duties, my father determined to
find me one which required, (in public opinion at that time,) abilities
of a narrower range. I heard him say one night to my mother, after I had
gone to my snug roost in the loft, where I generally slept like a top,—‘I
think there is nothing for it but to make the lad a scholar—may be a
parson.’ To this my mother readily consented; and the day after, I was
furnished with a satchel, and sent off, with two or three other boys of
the dale, to Hawkshead school, to be made a scholar!
CHAPTER III.
“And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.”
SHAKSPERE.
“I BELIEVE,” continued the old man, “that if a man were to live an
hundred years,—so long as to forget every thing else that ever happened
to him, he would never forget the first day of his going to school! I am
sure _I_ never shall. I recollect at this moment, as well or better than
if it had taken place yesterday, every thing that happened, every thing
that I did and saw, nay, every thing that I thought on that all-important
day. When I first woke in the morning, I knew, before I opened my eyes,
that something particular was going to happen, though it was some time
before I was sufficiently wide awake to call to mind exactly what it was.
When it at last flashed across me that I was that day going for the first
time to school, I jumped into the middle of the floor, and was dressed,
(and in my best suit of fustians,) in half my usual time. I shall never
forget the care with which my good mother packed up my little dinner in
my bag, putting my spelling-book carefully on the top of it, nor the
pleased look with which she put my new hat on my head, and bid me to ‘be
a good boy.’ I recollect I thought at that time, as I started off—‘to be
sure I shall; how could any one doubt it!’ but I said nothing: I was in
too great haste to join my young companions, whom I heard hallooing out
for me from the top of the hill. What a glorious morning it was! I told
you that I did not care, then, much about the scenes of nature; nor did I
ever much think or talk about them. It is not the custom in that
country; for men are there too familiar with them to make them the
subject of their daily conversation. But the impression which they made
on me shows that I felt them; for there was not a beam of sunshine or a
cloud that crossed my path on that morning, which I do not recollect, at
this moment, as distinctly as the everlasting hills over which they
passed—never to visit them again!” A shade passed over the old man’s
countenance, and I fancied he was thinking, that he himself might be
compared to the cloud and the sunshine, never more to visit his native
hills. “The sun was rising right over the top of Penigent, as I and my
young companions reached the brow of the hill from which the road
descends down upon the quiet village of Hawkshead. His rays just crossed
the point on which we stood, and stretched across, like so many golden
rules or lines of light, to the top of Coniston Old Man, and the side of
Bowfell, leaving Yewdale and Coniston Water Head lost in mist and
darkness. The birds were singing on the heights, the cattle lowing to be
milked in the valleys below, and the sheep bleating on a thousand hills
The whole air was filled, as far as the eye could reach, with the
glittering spider’s web, or gossamer, of which nobody, I believe, could
ever yet give a clear account; and every bunch of heath and whin-bush was
sparkling with drops of dew so full and large, as to seem ready to fall
like a shower of rain upon the ground. There stood we, three raw lads of
the dale, setting out in the world for the first time, and certainly
looking out upon as bright a prospect before us, as ever cheered the
sight of any adventurous youths, going forth to seek their fortunes in
the world! Alas! the prospect has often been sadly dimmed since then!
On many a dark scene have I looked, and many a melancholy pang has shot
through my heart since I gazed down, as I did then, in such bright hopes
and high spirits, from the top of that hill, upon the lowly roof of
Hawkshead School! But what of that? Sorrow would have come, even if joy
had not come before it! and the recollections of my youth, instead of
being a ground of repining at my after-lot, have a thousand times been a
subject of heartfelt comfort; as I have ever felt that GOD did not intend
me to be miserable; but that all my sorrow has arisen, either from my own
vices and follies, or from those of my brother-men. I have often
thought, sir, what a contrast does my first school-day present with that
of thousands of the poor children in this wretched town of ours, who go
for the first time to their Infant or Sunday school, with no such
brilliant sun to light them on their way,—with no such mountain prospects
and bracing air to gladden their hearts, and breathe health into their
sickly frames,—with no such well-filled satchel prepared by the hands of
a watchful and pious mother; but through dingy and soot-discoloured
streets, without a single ray of the sun, unless it be as yellow as a
marigold, with but a crust of dry bread for breakfast, which the mother
puts into her child’s hand that she may at once indulge herself in her
bed, and get rid of the care of her offspring for the remainder of the
day.—Oh, sir! too truly has it been said by the poet,
“‘GOD made the country, but Man made the town.’”
“I fear, my good friend,” said I, “that your recollections of early youth
have prejudiced you against the manifold benefits arising to society from
the manufacturing system.”
“By no means,” said he, “by no manner of means; as you shall hear by and
by. But here have I been talking about myself in a most unreasonable
way, and kept you waiting all the while, at the door of Hawkshead school!
Let us walk in, if you please!”
CHAPTER IV.
But come,—I have it: Thou shalt earn thy bread
Duly and honourably, and usefully.
Our village schoolmaster hath left the parish,
Forsook the ancient school-house with its yew-trees,
That lurk’d beside a church two centuries older,—
So long devotion took the lead of knowledge;
And since his little flock are shepherdless,
’Tis thou shalt be promoted in his room;
And rather than thou wantest scholars, man,
Myself will enter pupil.
THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.
THE old gentleman’s narrative had, I confess, grown interesting to me. I
am always anxious, not only to study characters as they exist, but to
learn how characters have been formed. I believe we all pay too little
attention to this, when we blame men for their vices, or praise them for
their virtues. If we find an oak in the forest knotted and gnarled, with
his limbs distorted, and his trunk bending down to the ground instead of
towering majestically to the sky, we blame not the old oak for his
deformity, nor reproach him with the waste of many a long year in which
he has been visited by the refreshing dews of the heaven above, and the
fatness of the earth beneath. We are sure that there were causes, though
we do not now perceive them, which obstructed and stunted his early
growth, and made him what he is, and must now ever remain. The natural
soil might be barren, his early shoots might have been cropped by the
browzing sheep, or his top might be overshadowed, and the beams of the
sun prevented from cherishing his growth, by some more fortunate tree,
which has long since fallen before the woodman’s axe, but not till it had
dried up all the vital energies of the withered old stump before us. And
as it is with oaks, so, in some respects, with men. The soil in which
they first strike root, the sunshine under which they grow, the influence
of other minds on their early habits and opinions, are all to be
considered when we sit in judgment on men in after life, and attempt to
measure the praise or blame which is due to their moral or religious
conduct. It is true, that man differs from the oak in this, that _he_
can take an active part in forming his own character. _He_ can change
his soil, seek the sunshine, remove from evil neighbourhood, and fly from
the influence of dangerous example. But how seldom has he firmness and
grace for this! How truly does he resemble the oak in this, that he
becomes, through life, what the early circumstances of his youth have
made him! Hence, I am always anxious to know men’s histories from the
very beginning. Even slight matters, in childhood, produce permanent
effects; and I like to hear little anecdotes of youth, which some men
regard as trivial, because I know (as a great poet has said) that “the
child is father to the man,” and that education begins even with life
itself. A certain French lady wished to consult a philosopher about the
best mode of educating her child, and said that she was commencing at a
very early period, as her child was but three years old:—“Madam,” said
the philosopher, “you are beginning three years too late!”
Hence, as I said, I was glad to find the old man so willing to narrate
his history, and to have so perfect a memory of his early days, as I
expected thus to learn a lesson in the formation of human character, the
most important study to which the human mind can be directed. But I
confess I was somewhat startled when he invited me, as he termed it, to
“walk with him into Hawskhead school,” as I dreaded what is commonly
called a long yarn, more especially as the course of our walk together
was now drawing to a termination. “My good friend,” said I, “I would
listen to you with the greatest pleasure, but there is _one_ school-boy
taste which we never lose sight of as long as we live, viz., an accurate
knowledge of the dinner hour; and mine, I feel, is approaching. I shall
be most happy to resume our walk and our talk together to-morrow morning,
when I hope we shall be able to get through your first school-day with
mutual pleasure and satisfaction.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the old man, smiling, “but a full stomach has
seldom much feeling for an empty one.—Mine happens to be in that more
favourable condition at the present moment, and thankful am I to GOD for
it, for I can remember the day when I have been reduced to feed my eyes
instead of my mouth at the butcher’s shop? But I am really anxious to
give you a specimen of my early school-days, because I was brought up
under a system of instruction which is now rapidly passing away. At
every town, and almost every village in the north of England, there was,
and indeed still is, a grammar school; generally pretty well endowed as
to income, and under the management of a master and usher, one if not
both, educated at one of the universities of Oxford or Cambridge. All
the learning required at the time when they were founded was Latin and
Greek, and the masters of these schools were full of both. The schools
were free to all who came to them, so that the little statesman or
farmer, who happened to live near one of them, could give his son as good
an education as the first nobleman in the land, and at no further expense
than providing his child with meat and clothing. These lads were brought
up with frugal and industrious habits, and told from their very
childhood, that if they made themselves good scholars, they might
hereafter become bishops, or judges of the land, which in those days
often came to pass. One or two of the oldest bishops on the bench at
this moment, sprang out of these grammar schools; and many of our most
distinguished lawyers. But they are now, most of them, I hear, at a very
low ebb. The school-house is falling down, and the little village around
it, which was supported by the pupils and boarders, is pining away. This
is a sad blow, sir, to the poor north.—The farmer’s son gets not that
good education that he used to have, and is bound down for ever to his
plough and his flail, instead of rising to be one of the ornaments of his
country, and a benefactor to his poor native land. Pray, sir, can you
account for the falling off in these good old schools?”
“There are many reasons for it,” said I, “some of which might be removed,
and some not. One reason is, that noblemen and gentlemen now send their
sons to be educated either at the great public schools, or at private
academies, where they meet only with persons of their own rank, and
escape the mischiefs which are supposed to arise from mixing with persons
beneath them in birth or station.—Great folly this. The best part of
education consists in becoming acquainted, in early life, when the
passions and perceptions are strong, with persons of every class, and all
degrees of talents and opinions. Thus, asperities are softened, and a
knowledge of men and manners is obtained, which can be acquired so easily
in no other way. England is what it is, by this early admixture of high
and low, rich and poor, one with another; and it will cease to be old
England, free, liberal, and religious England, when men are taught to
consider each other as almost belonging to a different race of beings
from their very cradles. _Every_ man is an ignorant man who only knows
his _own_ class.”
“You are quite right there sir,” said the old man, “and all the
experience of my long life proves it. I have seen a thousand times, that
if men knew a little more of each other, half their prejudices on the
subjects of religion, politics, and other causes of division, would
vanish away at once: and these good old schools were great helps in
making youths of all classes know and understand each other.”
“Another reason for their falling away,” said I, “was their standing
still while the world went on. They taught Latin and Greek, when Latin
and Greek were the only necessary knowledge, and the only passports to
wealth and distinction; and so long as that was the case, all classes
were satisfied with them.—But the world soon wanted other knowledge.—It
wanted arithmetic, land-surveying, engineering, and a thousand other
things by which men make money, and get on in the world. But these
things grammar schools could not or would not teach. So boys were sent
to other places, where wise men, or pretenders to wisdom, professed to
teach all that is necessary for these very enlightened times; and the old
school benches soon became empty. There, grammar schools were
wrong;—they should have adapted themselves more to the wants of the
times; and then they might have flourished as of old, to the great
benefit of the whole nation. But I am forgetting your story, and what is
more, forgetting my dinner. Till we meet to-morrow, farewell!”
CHAPTER V.
You call this education, do you not?
Why, ’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks
Before a shouting drover. The glad van
Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch
A passing morsel from the dewy greensward;
While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation,
Fall on the troupe of the ill-fated laggard
That cripples in the rear.
OLD PLAY.
“WELL, sir,” said the old man, smiling, as we met at the appointed spot
about one o’clock, “now for Hawkshead school! I hope you have brought
all your stock of patience with you, and no appetite for any thing beyond
my little adventures on my first appearance under the frown of a
schoolmaster.”
“Speaking of appetites,” said I, interrupting him, “and seeing what I now
see before me, reminds me of a good joke against myself, which took place
when I first knew Manchester. I was standing upon this bridge, (or
rather its predecessor the old bridge, for the Victoria was not then
built,) at this hour of the day, when suddenly I saw a rush of men,
women, and children upon it, from the Manchester side, which astonished
me not a little. I should think there could not be fewer than three or
four hundred of them: all posting along at a great pace, with a good deal
of anxiety and determination written on their countenances; and, though
they said not a word to each other, with evidently one common object in
view. They were rather shabbily dressed, and clearly belonged to one
class of society. The imagination immediately conjured up various
startling reasons for this unexpected concourse, such as a fire, a fight,
or a radical meeting. Seeing one solitary individual who was standing
still, like myself, to let the crowd pass by, and whose countenance
seemed to express that he was quite aware of the cause of this irruption
into Salford, I could not resist the temptation of speaking to him, and
said—‘My good friend, where are all these people going to!’ ‘_To their
dinners_,’ said he, quietly and with a grin on his face, that made me
ashamed of my ignorance, and which raises a smile on my cheek every time
I see the same sight, which any man may do who stands here at one o’clock
in the day, and sees the workmen of Manchester hasten home to their
dinners in Salford.”
“Many a marvellous story,” said the old man, “has arisen out of a much
less plausible foundation.
“Well, sir, to my tale.—There stood I, an anxious and trembling little
boy, for the first time in my life at the door of a school. What a large
and awful place I thought it! The very outside frightened me almost
beyond endurance, and then, I thought, what is going on within! My fears
were more than realized on entrance; for the first thing that caught my
eye was the head master himself,—old Bowman, sitting in awful state at
the head of the school, with a great buzz wig on his head, and a most
formidable ferula lying on the desk before him. The old oak benches, cut
and carved with names, some of which, insignificant as they then were,
are now recorded in the history of our country, seemed formidable in my
eyes, as compared with the smaller articles of the same kind in my own
home; and the sight of so many boys all gathered together, and all busy
at their own occupations, made my poor little head almost spin round in
confusion. I and my companions were, of course, as new comers, placed on
the lowest form, and had to wait our turn to be called upon by the master
of the lower school. During that time I had leisure to look around me,
which I did with fear and trembling. At the head of the school, next to
the master, sat Joshua Prince, of whom I had often heard as the first boy
in the school, and a great favourite with the master. With what a
feeling of admiration did I regard him! He was the son of a miller in
the neighbourhood; but having shown great talents in early life, his
parents determined to give him a good education and send him to college,
in hopes that he might hereafter rise to eminence and distinction. Nor
did he disappoint their expectations. He carried off the highest honours
of his university, and is now one of the proudest boasts of Hawkshead
school—thanks to good old archbishop Sandys for having built and endowed
it! I don’t know how it is, sir, but I am as proud of Joshua Prince, and
my old school, as if I had succeeded like Joshua in the world, instead of
being what I am! Well, at last we were called up; and never shall I
forget the anxiety of that moment! Of course, I was at the bottom of my
class, and some boys much older and bigger than myself were at the top.
But I now found the advantage of my good mother’s early care, and soon
discovered that I was by no means the worst scholar among them. At last
we came to spelling:—‘Spell _kingdom_,’ said the master to the first boy
in the class, in a voice of thunder.—‘K, i, n, d, o, m,’ said the boy;
(and that boy, you must know, was Tom Hebblethwaite, the very person whom
you saw last summer cutting off the old cock’s tail—I dare say he was
thinking of me at the very time)—‘k, i, n, d, o, m,’ said Tom: ‘_g_,’
exclaimed I from the bottom of the class. ‘That’s right,’ said the
master, ‘stand up!’ So there was I, raised at once from the bottom to
the top, covered with glory! Tom made room for me very slowly, but the
eye of the master was upon him, and he gave way. At last the day was
over, and, as I thought, most triumphantly for myself: but I was wofully
mistaken! No sooner had the school broken up, and the masters left for
their own homes, than I saw Tom approaching me in the school-yard,
evidently with no friendly intentions. ‘So!’ said he, ‘_you_ think
yourself, I dare say, a very fine fellow—_I_ think you a mother’s
darling,’—accompanying this very civil speech with a box on the ear. My
blood was roused at this, more especially as he sneered at my mother,
which to my feelings was past endurance; and, though scarcely half his
size, I turned fiercely round upon him, and fairly knocked him down! ‘A
battle! a battle!’ was immediately the cry through the school-yard; and
though half the boys had seemed to be dispersed for their homes, yet
somehow their ears seemed to catch this _delightful_ sound in a most
extraordinary manner, and the whole school was round us in an incredibly
short space of time. A ring was immediately formed, and due preparations
were made for the contest, according to the laws of that brutal sport
which had prevailed in the school from time immemorial,—Joshua Prince
being at the head. How I felt the injustice of that moment! and though I
have in some degree changed my opinion on the subject since, yet I feel
much of that injustice to the present day. My opponent, as I have said,
was almost twice my size and strength, and was actuated by the worst and
most malignant feelings,—jealousy and revenge: I had nothing to support
me, except a sense of injustice done me, and a resolution to obtain a
character for manliness which I knew to be essential to a school-boy. I
hoped, therefore, that the bystanders would see the unfairness of such a
contest, and interfere in my behalf. But no; they were too anxious for
what they called ‘the sport,’ to give one thought to the merits of the
case. I looked imploringly at Joshua Prince, expecting to see a friend
in him at least; but his eye was inexorable, and, like the rest, he was
eager for the battle. We fought—he for revenge, I for honour—but in
despair! As might be expected, I was severely bruised and beaten, yet I
scorned to yield the victory as long as I was able to resist, and the
issue was what neither of the combatants expected. In his eagerness to
secure the victory, Tom at last struck me when I was on the ground. A
cry of ‘foul, foul,’ was immediately raised, and I was taken up from the
ground and carried round the yard by my schoolfellows, and formally
proclaimed victor by the whole school! Tom was forced to admit the
justice of this decision, and slunk away full of shame and
disappointment. So there was I, like many another conqueror, with no
other laurels to show as the fruit of my victory than the injuries which
I had received during the contest. It is true I had gained the respect
of my schoolfellows, but I had paid dearly for it, both in body and mind.
A cloud had been cast over the sunshine of my first school-day; and what
was worse, I had, in this plight, to face the anger of my father, and the
anxious looks of my poor expecting mother.”
CHAPTER VI.
I’ve wander’d far, I’ve wander’d near,
I’ve liv’d with low and high,
But ne’er knew I a thing so dear
As my own Mother’s eye!
It swell’d with grief, when grief was mine;
It beam’d, when joy was given;
On earth no sun like it could shine—
How glows it now, in Heaven!
“HOW changed to my eye was now that mountain road, by which, in the early
morning, I had hastened, full of joy and expectation, to Hawkshead
School! Not that there was any change in reality; for the evening sun
shone as bright in the West over my returning path, as its morning beams
had gilded my eastern track. The cows were once more lowing in the
valleys for the evening milking. The cuckoos were shouting to each other
from glen to glen, as if they alone had a right to be heard in their own
domain. The lark was whistling a highland fling in the sunbeams, and
dancing to his own merry music in the very centre of the sky. But all
this was lost upon me; for my spirits had sunk to the very lowest point
of despair, and I was thinking, in melancholy sadness, of the reception I
should meet with at home, all black and bruised as I was; and of the
blank which would sadden my poor mother’s face, when she hastened to meet
me, and hear my account of the adventures of the day. My little
companions, to do them justice, sympathized with my feelings; for though
they said little to comfort me, yet they restrained their boyish mirth
within a reasonable compass; and tried to conduct themselves as if
nothing particular had happened—all that could be expected from youths
like them. I shall never forget my feelings when Dash rushed out,
wagging his tail, and bounding with joy at my approach, and then,
suddenly looking me in the face, turned round with his tail between his
legs, and ran into the house as though he had been guilty of some serious
doggish fault, and expected instant chastisement! ‘Surely,’ thought I,
‘if Dash does not know me, my own mother wont!’ and so it proved; for at
first sight she hardly recollected who it was, so changed was I in
appearance. But her experience in the history of schoolboys was much
greater than my own; and I saw at once that she comprehended the whole
matter before I had said a word to her. She looked deadly pale for a
moment; but all she said was,—‘My dear boy, are _you_ to blame for this?’
‘No, mother, I am NOT,’ said I, with a firmness which I saw at once
carried conviction to her heart, and I felt I had made peace with one of
my parents. But the worst, I knew, and so did my mother, was yet to
come. My father was of another stamp, and viewed matters in another
light. He saw, too, and comprehended at a glance what had happened; but,
quite independent of the right or wrong of the question, his
determination was that all such proceedings should be put down with the
strong hand. I saw, therefore, that I was to be severely beaten; for my
father was not one who did these things by halves. It was not anger, it
was not want of feeling, that impelled him to this course; it was a
strong, though in this case surely a mistaken, sense of duty. My mother
and I, both knowing his character and feelings, knew it was in vain to
remonstrate; so I stood with terror, and my poor mother stood as pale as
death, prepared for the worst. Just at that moment, and when the
feelings of all the party, my father’s included, were almost past
endurance, the door flew open with some violence, and JOSHUA PRINCE stood
in the middle of the room! ‘Dont strike the boy,’ said he, in a firm
voice that seemed resolved to be listened to, ‘dont strike the boy, for
he does not deserve it.’ Had an angel from heaven appeared to us at that
moment, my mother and I could not have been more delighted, nor hardly
more startled than we at first were at his most unexpected and most
timely appearance; and in truth, I believe my father was not the least
relieved of the whole party. The uplifted rod dropped by his side, as it
were by instinct; and he looked at Joshua with an expression of respect
which led me to hope that the crisis of my fate was past. In the
neighbourhood of large grammar schools there is always much interest felt
in their proceedings among those inhabitants of the district who have
little or no immediate connexion with them. They are proud of the
success of the best scholars—even those who are no scholars whatever
themselves—and the head boy of a school is always spoken of with great
respect, especially by those who are in any way connected with the place,
either through their children or their own early education. My father,
therefore, had a strong feeling of almost reverence for Joshua Prince,
though he had hardly ever seen him before; and would have at once obeyed
him, even in a matter less agreeable to his feelings. The rod,
therefore, at once fell idly to his side.
“‘I thought it possible,’ continued JOSHUA, ‘that you might beat him, and
so I came to tell you that he does not deserve it. He was ill-used by
Tom Hebblethwaite, and he fought like a man. Send him to school
to-morrow, and I will see that he comes by no harm—good night!’—and
Joshua disappeared in the gloom. Now, sir, you may talk of great and
generous actions, but I do not think you will easily mention one which,
as far as it goes, will surpass this of JOSHUA PRINCE. You will
recollect that he was, after all, but a boy; young and thoughtless;
delighted with the battle, and pleased that he had done justice to the
conqueror, if such I could be called. He lived down the valley towards
Newby Bridge, nearly four miles from school, and in almost an opposite
direction to Yewdale. Yet all at once, when more than half way home, and
with the prospect of supper before a hungry boy brightening as he goes,
it flashes across his mind that I may possibly be chastised undeservedly
for the day’s occurrences, and he hesitates not a moment as to what steps
he should take. He turns aside across hill and valley, bog and stream,
where there is no footpath even for the goat, forgets his supper and his
evening fishing-rod, and all to save a little boy whom he never saw
before from a beating which, from its frequency at school, and from the
way in which he had encouraged the battle, he might have been expected to
care very little about. Nor _was_ it the beating that he cared about.
It was its _injustice_ that dwelt upon his mind. The brave have an
instinctive admiration of bravery; and he did not like to think that the
little boy should be ill-used, or rather misunderstood, who had shown
such firmness and courage in the school-yard. These were Joshua’s
motives; and verily he had his reward. The gratitude towards him of our
whole family, including my sister, (of whom I shall speak by and by,) was
such that there was nothing that we would not have done for his sake.
Yet he never seemed to expect any thing; or to show that he thought
himself to have done any thing extraordinary. He paid me very little
attention at school; none, in fact, beyond what he showed to most of the
younger boys; except that when any injury was attempted towards me by any
of those who were stronger than myself, he was always ready to see
justice done me. Favouritism he scrupulously avoided. An acquaintance
between us thus commenced, which ripened almost into friendship as I grew
older, and before he left us for college. But, what is most remarkable,
his kindness towards me seemed to increase, rather than diminish, by
absence. Many a kind message of advice did he send me by fellow-pupils
while I remained at school; and he has more than once visited me in my
quiet dwelling in Salford, though he has had an earl’s son under his
care; and has brought _him_ to see the ways of Manchester, and taught him
to sympathize with its toiling population. _These_, sir, are the links,
which bind all the parts of English society together, stronger than
chains of brass! These good old schools are like rivets which run
through the whole body politic; hence it was that the earl’s son, Joshua
Prince, and your humble servant, became fast friends for life!”
The old man’s face glowed as he said this, with a feeling which showed
that he was a patriot to the back bone. His poverty, and his age, in the
ardour of the moment, were quite forgotten.—His school-days were as fresh
on his mind as if they had hardly yet passed away; and I felt thankful to
Providence as I experienced how deeply he has infused happiness into
natures and conditions where the hasty observer might scarcely be able to
observe a trace of it.
He continued—“I will not detain you longer with the history of my
school-days; I have something far more important, and I hope, more
interesting to speak of,—my first religious impressions. But I cannot
help just mentioning one early companion who was soon lost to us all, but
whose character made a deep impression upon myself and many of my
school-fellows. He was but the son of a poor labourer, but showed an
early talent for poetry, and produced some pieces of very great merit,
which I wish I could recollect now, as they would be a comfort to me in
my solitary hours; but he sank, in decline, to an early grave; and all
his verses, I fear, died with him; for though many of his poems were
committed by his school-fellows to memory, yet none have recorded any of
them in writing.”
“Your story,” said I, “reminds me of an exactly similar case, (and
doubtless there are hundreds such,) which happened nearly thirty years
ago, at a school very like your own,—that of Richmond, in Yorkshire.
Poor HERBERT KNOWLES was, like your young companion, taken from one of
the lowest stations in life, and sent by kind friends to Richmond school,
with the intention of his being afterwards removed to college. But the
hand of death was upon him. He was of a gentle and pious mind, and of a
sickly frame. He knew that his days were fast drawing to a close, and a
few weeks before he died he wrote the following verses at night in
Richmond Church-yard, which show the way in which he looked death in the
face, and the faith and hope which pointed beyond the grave. As you are
fond of poetry, I will repeat the verses to you, and they may perhaps
somewhat console you for the loss of your friend’s:—
‘LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND,
YORKSHIRE, BY HERBERT KNOWLES.
_It is good for us to be here_: _if Thou wilt let us make here three
tabernacles_, _one for Thee_, _and one for Moses_, _and one for Elias_.
Matthew, xvii. 4.
Methinks it is good to be here;
If Thou wilt, let us build: but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition! Oh, no!
Affrighted he shrinketh away:
For see, they would pin him below
In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty! Ah, no! she forgets
The charms which she wielded before;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.
Shall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here’s neither dress nor adornment allow’d
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.
To Riches? Alas! ’tis in vain;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squandered again,
And here in the grave are all metals forbid
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford?
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board,
But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah no! they have wither’d and died,
Or fled with the spirit above:
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve:
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;
Peace, peace is the watch-word, the only one here.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known;
And here there are trophies enow:
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.
The first Tabernacle to HOPE we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to FAITH, which insures it fulfill’d;
And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice,
Who bequeath’d us them both when He rose to the skies!’”
“This _is_ poetry,” exclaimed the old man, when I had finished reciting
the above beautiful lines,—“and piety as well as poetry. The youth who,
with his own death full in view, could give utterance to such holy
thoughts, and in the darkness of the night, with the dead of old lying
around him and beneath his feet, must surely be gone to heaven!”
CHAPTER VII.
—As in those days
When this low pile a Gospel Teacher knew,
Whose good works form’d an endless retinue:
Such priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays;
Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
And tender Goldsmith crown’d with deathless praise!
WORDSWORTH.
“I AM now,” the old man continued, “approaching the most important period
of my life. My school-days glided away peaceably, and in some measure,
profitably. I was quite able and willing to learn every thing required
of me by my masters, and had plenty of time to spare to follow all those
various sports and amusements which occupy the time and thoughts of
rustic lads in mountain regions. Bird-nesting, fishing, wrestling,
hunting, came each in their turn with the change of the seasons; and I
was growing up a hale, strong youth, happy in my home, and in good humour
with myself and all the world: and, sir, I cannot help remarking, by the
way, that good humour, like charity, ‘begins at home;’ for I never knew
any one yet who was dissatisfied and out of sorts with persons or things
around him, who had not first quarrelled with himself.”
“I really think there is much truth in that remark of yours,” said I.
“Depend upon it there is,” he continued. “Well, my happiness at that
period of my life might be said, as far as human happiness could be,—to
be perfect. But yet the religious state of my mind was not quite
satisfactory. I had learned, and not only well remembered, but
understood, every thing with regard to religion which was taught us at
school; and that, believe me, was not little. We were taught to repeat
our Catechism, with Archbishop Wake’s explanation of it, every week. We
read the Bible as a school-book, till we could almost repeat it from
beginning to end; and every story in it was as familiar to my mind as the
Lord’s Prayer. I know many have a strong objection to the use of the
Bible as a school-book, but I confess I am not among the number. On the
contrary, I hold that familiarity with the Scriptures in childhood is the
only way in which a knowledge of them can be so deeply impressed upon the
memory, as that the passages which we want shall always be at hand to
serve us at every turn. As we get older we may understand what we read
better, but we do not remember it so clearly or so long. What I read
_now_, slips away almost as soon as the book is laid down; but what I
learned _then_, is as fresh in my memory as my school-day sports, or my
first companions in life. I know it is objected, that an early
familiarity with the Scriptures is apt to bring them into contempt, and
that we are liable to attach false meanings to passages, which sometimes
cling to us through the rest of our lives. But surely, if this be the
effect, the fault is rather in those who put the Scriptures into our
hands, than in our early youth, in which we first begin to read them. I
only know that I learned to reverence even the outside of the book of
GOD’s Word from my poor mother’s reverent manner of using it. She never
opened the volume without an expression of countenance which showed that
she felt herself at that moment to be in the more immediate presence of
her Maker; and I still look upon the corner in which it was always put
aside, and call to mind its black cover, with her horn spectacles resting
upon it, with as much respect as the Roman Catholic is said to regard the
image of his saint. Mine, however, is no superstitious reverence, but a
pious regard for the Word of GOD, and _her_ from whose lips I was first
taught it; and, sir, when I read my Bible now, which I hope I do not much
neglect, I combine pleasure as well as well as profit,—it brings back to
me the happy recollections of my youth, as well as affords the
consolations of old age.”
“I quite agree with you,” said I, “as to the advantages of an early
acquaintance with the Bible. Whether it should be made a school-book or
not, depends entirely upon the capabilities and sound principles of the
teacher.”
“There you are right,” said he; “but mine were like the ‘words of king
Lemuel, which his mother taught him:’ and old Bowman, to do him justice,
drilled the somewhat dry catechism of the good Archbishop pretty soundly
into my memory. Yet, as far as I can recollect, I had not at that time
any very distinct notions of the value of the Gospel, as distinct from
natural religion, and the obvious duty of doing as I was taught. I knew
all the _facts_ of Christianity perfectly. I could tell all the events
of our SAVIOUR’s life, and enumerate accurately every doctrine taught by
Himself and His apostles. I knew the necessity of unity in the Catholic
Church, and understood the Creeds by which that unity was intended to be
secured. But I did not see how these things applied to myself, as guides
for my own thoughts and actions. My real religion, I believe, as far as
I can call back my thoughts at this distance of time, consisted a good
deal in fear, both of GOD and man. My father, as I have said, was a
strict disciplinarian; his word was law: and my fear of GOD, I cannot
help thinking, arose almost naturally out of the situation in which
nature had placed me. In very early life,—as far back as I can recollect
anything,—I underwent great alarm from what is a common occurrence in
that mountain range—a terrific thunder storm. The effect of the
lightning in that land of hill and valley, is very striking; and was
never more so than on that well-remembered day! Sometimes it seemed to
dance in wanton playfulness on the side of the mountain, and sometimes to
split it from the top to the bottom. Then the echoing thunder ran up one
valley and down another in that land of seams and ridges, coming back
again to the place which it had left, with a voice hardly weakened by its
circuit; and there, joining a new and equally loud report, the bellowing
became as confused and endless as it was startling. Then came the
thunder-shower, not in drops of rain, but solid sheets of water. The
white cataracts began foaming and rushing down the side of every hill,
and gushing out of every opening in the valleys, till they swelled our
little stream that winds beneath the house into a mighty and irresistible
torrent, sweeping every thing before it towards the lake with rapid and
resistless fury. But what most impressed my mind at the moment, was to
see a poor innocent sheep, as well known to me by face as Dash himself,
hurled down by the current, and bleating piteously, but in vain, for
help! This scene, and scenes like these, made a deep impression on my
mind; and I began to entertain a constant and solemn feeling of the
continual presence and irresistible power of GOD. This thought was
uppermost in my mind from morning till night; in the fields and on my
bed. It was doubtless valuable to me as a guide to duty, but it gave a
gloomy turn to my thoughts which was inconsistent with the buoyant
feelings of youth, and, as I have since discovered, not in harmony with
the true spirit of the Gospel.”
But I must now introduce to you another member of our family, to whom I
have as yet hardly alluded, for many painful reasons, but whose history
now begins to be blended with mine in a manner which renders all farther
avoidance of her tale impossible. I refer to my poor sister Martha! She
was several years older than myself; and at the time I am now speaking
of, had arrived at woman’s estate. She was a splendid specimen of a fine
well-grown mountain girl, except that she was rather paler than exactly
suits the taste of the hardy mountaineer; her paleness, however, arose, I
believe, not from any delicacy of frame, but from habitual
thoughtfulness. How she was admired and sought after by the shy rustics
of the neighbourhood! and, above all, how she was beloved by myself!
Alas!—in the language of a friend of mine, who, though unknown to fame,
is a true poet—at that period of her short life,
‘The liquid lustre of her eye
Had ne’er been dimm’d by fond hopes blighted;
The halo of serenity
Still kept her marble forehead lighted!’
“Her kindness to me seemed to arise from her having united the feelings
of a sister and a mother towards me. She was so much older than myself
as to be justified in using, as she sometimes did, the language of
authority; and yet not so far removed from me in years, but that she
could look upon me as a brother, and that I could treat her (as I too
often did) with at least a brother’s freedom. Thus, as I grew older, and
my mind expanded from the instruction I received at Hawkshead, I became
more and more to be regarded by her as a companion and less as a child.
Thus she, who had been a check upon me and a teacher, now began at times
to learn something from me, of which you may well suppose that I was very
proud; whilst I was daily growing in admiration of her industry, piety,
and patience. She assisted her mother in all the female labours of the
house and the little farm, and yet always kept herself as neat and nice
as if she had nothing else to do. All at once, her manner began to
change. Instead of her constant cheerfulness, she became anxious and
absent, though by no means fretful or impatient. Her paleness visibly
increased, and her step grew less elastic and light. She occasionally
absented herself from home without mentioning where she had been, or
asking me, as she used formerly to do, to accompany her. This was
noticed by myself long before it was perceived, or at least mentioned, by
either my father or my mother; for I began to entertain a jealous feeling
that her affections were, from some cause or other, weakening towards me;
yet, as she never mentioned the subject herself, a feeling of pride or
obstinacy checked me from being the first to seek an explanation.
“We stood in this situation with regard to each other just at the time
when I was approaching fourteen years of age, and a rumour ran through
the country that the Bishop was about to visit Ulverston for the purpose
of holding a Confirmation. This, as you may suppose, caused a great
sensation among the youths of my age in that retired neighbourhood, for
visitations were not so frequent then as they fortunately are now, though
surely if they were still more frequent, it would be a great blessing to
the country. For this solemn rite it was necessary that I should be
prepared. But we were a long way from our parish church of Seathwaite,
and we had been in the habit, for nearness, of frequenting Torver chapel,
though not resident in the district. I confess I looked forward to this
preparation with a mixed feeling of alarm and curiosity. I was alarmed
for fear that I should be found sadly deficient in the information
necessary to justify me in appearing before the Bishop; and I was curious
to know what steps my parents proposed to take to have me trained for the
proper participation in this solemn rite. I confess that a willingness
to postpone what I considered a somewhat evil day prevented me from
asking any questions on this subject. At last I overheard a conversation
between my parents one night after we had retired to rest (for our rooms
were so near, and the doors and walls so full of chinks, that everything
that passed was distinctly heard from one room to another) which led me
to expect that the very day after, I was to be put in a train for
preparation; but how, I had no means of gathering. Accordingly, after
the usual morning’s work of the farm was over, my father (which was very
unusual with him) went to his room to put on his Sunday’s clothes; and my
mother, with a pleased yet anxious expression on her countenance,
directed me to do the same. I asked no questions, for the reason I have
just mentioned, but quietly obeyed. We were soon on the way together.
“It was a fine bright autumn morning, when we set off on this remarkable
pilgrimage; I feeling that nothing but a most important matter could have
induced my father to lose a day’s work at this season of the year; and my
father and mother observing a perfect silence, both apparently wrapped up
in their own thoughts. Our way lay by a cart-track that led right up to
the top of WALNA SCAR, a fine bold cliff, which I dare say you have
climbed, for sight-seers find it a noble point for a prospect on their
way between CONISTON and SEATHWAITE. It was the time of the year when
the farmers in that country cut their turf for their winter stock of
firing, and all the able-bodied population are then to be found assembled
at their work on the hills. I felt assured therefore, that my parents
were seeking some labourer in the place where he was sure, at that
season, to be found; but how this could possibly concern me, I could not
conjecture. At last, after a toilsome climb, we reached to the top of
WALNA; and there lay before us a prospect, such as the eye can command, I
should think, in few other regions of the globe! Mountains of all shapes
and sizes lay tossed in wild confusion around us, like the billows of a
stormy sea! Lakes sparkled at our feet like looking-glasses for the
giants; while the mighty western ocean bounded almost half the prospect
round, as with a silver girdle. But this prospect had nothing to do with
our visit here; nor I believe did it once cross the mind of either my
father or my mother.
“They were anxiously looking out among the groups of turf-getters with
which the top of the hill was dotted, for some one who was apparently the
object of this unusual visit. As we went along, the labourers stopped to
speak and to gaze, for a country man in a holiday dress at that busy
season, was to them a rare sight. A few enquiries directed my father to
the object of his search: and we soon approached a group of labourers who
seemed so intent upon their work, that we stood close to them before we
were observed. They differed little from the little bands that were
toiling around them, except that the eye at once detected that they were
all of one family. There were four able-bodied men who wheeled the turf,
when cut, in barrows, to the ground where they were spread out to dry,
and three girls, somewhat younger, who laid them flat on the ground for
that purpose. The turf-cutter was evidently the father of all the rest.
He was a short and stout man, with ruddy cheeks, and hair as white as
snow. He was obviously very far advanced in years, but as active in his
occupation as if he had been a much younger man. He had on a check
shirt, and a coarse blue frock trimmed with black horn buttons, something
like the dress of a charity boy at Chetham’s Hospital, and not very
unlike a parson’s cassock. He was so intent upon his work that he did
not perceive our approach till my father spoke to him, when the little
old man turned suddenly round, with his spade uplifted in the air, as if
he was impatient of being interrupted in his labour. To my surprise, my
father immediately took off his hat, and my mother made a curtsey,
actions so unusual that I began to feel an involuntary respect for him to
whom such honours were paid. He returned the salute with a friendly bow
and smile which showed that such attentions were not new to him: and my
father taking me by the hand said, almost in the words of Scripture,
‘Sir, this is our son of whom I spake unto you.’ The old man stepped
forward, and laid his hand on my head, and said, with an expression of
countenance which I shall never forget—‘GOD be gracious unto thee, my
son!’ Had the hand of a patriarch of old been then upon me, it could not
have affected me more. It was ‘WONDERFUL WALKER;’ did you ever hear,
sir, of Wonderful Walker?”
CHAPTER VIII.
“You, Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale
A Priest abides before whose life such doubts
Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lie
Retired from notice. . . .
In this one man is shown a temperance proof
Against all trials; industry severe
And constant as the motion of the day. . . .
Preaching, administering, in every work
Of his sublime vocation, in the walks
Of worldly intercourse between man and man,
And in his humble dwelling, he appears
A labourer, with moral virtue girt,
With spiritual graces, like a glory, crown’d.”
“Doubt can be none,” the Pastor said, “for whom
This portraiture is sketch’d. The great, the good,
The well-belov’d, the fortunate, the wise,
These titles emperors and chiefs have borne,
Honour assumed or given: and him, the WONDERFUL,
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,
Deservedly have styled.”
WORDSWORTH’S EXCURSION.
“HEAR of Wonderful Walker?” said I, “to be sure I have! and have honoured
and revered his memory as one of the bright lights of the Church, shining
in a dark age, and in a remote corner of the world, where it might have
been feared that light would hardly have extended. Why, my good friend,
I once walked to the quiet and retired village of Seathwaite that I might
make a pilgrimage to his grave; and though I have gazed upon the tombs
and monuments of many of the most renowned heroes and sages of days gone
by, none of them filled my mind with such deep sensations of awe and
reverence as the quiet and unpretending tomb of Robert Walker! I yet see
the inscription as freshly as if I had read it yesterday—the villagers
point it out with pride and pleasure, as an honour to their rustic
church-yard, and preserve it from all profanation, as a treasure above
all price. How humble is the inscription engraved on that modest
tombstone! What a couple of saints are there recorded, reposing in peace
and union after a long life of pious usefulness, and awaiting the sound
of the archangel’s trumpet with a faith as firm as their sleep is
tranquil! Thus runs the record:—
“‘In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died the 25th of June,
1802, in the 93rd year of his age, and 67th of his curacy at
Seathwaite.
“‘Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in the 92nd
year of her age.’
“Truly were they ‘lovely in their lives, and in death not divided.’ How
I envy you, my friend, to have been taught by the honest voice, and to
have gazed on the honest face of Robert Walker!”
“Truly, sir, you are quite enthusiastic about my old pastor, and I
suspect you have read the poet Wordsworth’s delightful sketch of his
character, with the materials for which he was supplied by some of his
surviving descendants; if not, I recommend you to lose no time in doing
so. My recollections of him are of a humbler kind, but perhaps not less
interesting; to me he has been more than a father. His divine words yet
live in my memory—I wish I had always followed his good advice, and good
example!
“His habits, as you know, were quite upon a level with the plain and
homely rustics of the village. He lived as they lived, and worked as
they worked. But he lost no spiritual influence, or even worldly respect
by this; on the contrary, by excelling them all in those pursuits of
which they could judge, he gained credit among them for being always
right in matters wherein they were less informed. I believe the clergy,
by their too frequent ignorance of, or contempt for, common things, often
lose an influence among the uneducated, which all their knowledge of
divinity can never make amends for. Walker was the best shepherd on the
mountains, and was not the less qualified thereby for being the spiritual
shepherd of his people.”
“You remind me,” said I, “of a good old parson of Buttermere, who was
really a learned and sound divine, but was most esteemed by his flock as
being the best wrestler in all the country side!”
“That sounds ridiculous enough,” said he, “but what good thing is there
which does not become ridiculous in its excess? Good Mr. Walker,
however, was of a different stamp. He was at peace with himself and all
the world. He ne’er had changed nor wished to change his place. Where
he was born, there he lived, and there he died. He baptized, married and
buried, almost every individual of at least two generations in his
parish; and where he laid them in their last resting-place, there he lay
down himself, waiting his final reward. I have myself always much
respect for a dead body, knowing that it shall live for ever; and I
always think that he who cares little for the bodies of them that sleep
in JESUS, is often little better than an infidel. It is not the soul
only that is immortal, the body is immortal also!
“But, sir, to my tale. My father continued—‘Hearing that a confirmation
is about to be held, we are anxious to put this our boy under the care of
your Reverence, that he may be duly prepared. We think, from what his
master, Mr. Bowman, says of him, that he is a good scholar, and
well-informed in matters of religion; we know that he is a tolerably good
boy at home,’ (here my father spoke with a half-smile on his face, as if
unwilling to allow so much in my favour in my presence; and indeed,
though much delighted, for I had never heard him say so much good of me
before, I fear the effect was in some degree to feed my vanity:)
‘_generally speaking_,’ my father continued, with an emphasis on the
phrase, ‘_generally speaking_ his conduct is very fair. But we know that
you always wish to prepare the young of your own parish for confirmation;
and so we have brought him to you that you may give us your advice as to
what he is to do to prepare himself, and you may depend upon it that we
will see that it is done.’
“‘Thank you, my good friend,’ said the Pastor, highly delighted, ‘thank
you! You have done what all parents ought, but not more than I expected
from you. I remember well, when I prepared you,—now forty years
ago,—when I prepared _you_ for the same solemn rite, I remember I told
you not to forget to bring up your children in the way they should go,
and thankful to GOD am I, that the seed sown so long since has lived in
your hearts, and has shot up at the proper time as fresh as if it had
been sown last spring! Truly the seeds of grace are as immortal as the
seeds of nature. See you that violet?’ said he, pointing to a little
simple pansy that was bending its graceful flower close to the spot on
which the old man stood,—‘look at it, and think, how came it there? Last
autumn, this spot was covered with bog-earth, which had probably rested
on this bleak and barren moor ever since the deluge. It was disturbed
last year by the spade of the turf-getter, and now, this beautiful little
flower has sprung up in this place! For ages and ages its seed must have
remained embedded in this sour and barren bog; yet, once disturbed by the
hand of man, it springs up fresh and lively, to show that GOD can keep
alive what to the eye of man may seem to perish, and can deck with grace
and beauty even the most unpromising spots of creation! So be it with
Thy WORD,’ said he, looking devoutly upwards. Now, I had observed the
pansy growing on the portions of heath which had been moved by the spade
a thousand times, yet never till now did I think that such a moral could
be drawn from so simple a fact. And, sir, I believe that there is _no_
fact, in nature or in art, from which a devout and observant mind may not
learn similar lessons of devotion. I never see a violet now, that I do
not think on Robert Walker, and the power of the grace of GOD.’
“The old man paused a little, and then continued: ‘My boy,’ said the
Pastor, addressing himself to me, ‘are you ready to learn?’ ‘As ready as
you to teach,’ said I, firmly but respectfully. I have often thought
since, that such a reply might, in the ears of some pastors, have sounded
something like a reproach; but in the ears of Robert Walker, whose
‘aptness to teach’ was as well known as his other good qualities, it was
a most agreeable answer. ‘Sharp and ready, I see,’ said he, turning to
my father with a smile; ‘but most of Bowman’s lads are pretty well
trained. I wish you to come to my church next Sunday morning, when I
propose to commence a course of lectures to the candidates for
confirmation; and I trust your parents will accompany you. They must
present you in the temple, as Joseph and Mary did their Holy Child. I
shall expect you all to “dine with me at noon,” with the rest of the
parish.’ This must sound in your ears as a large invitation from a poor
pastor (his income was not more than £20 a year) to a whole parish. But,
sir, it is no exaggeration; every Sunday did this good man keep open
house to his flock, and all were welcome who chose to partake of his
boiled beef or mutton, and a bason of broth.
“At this point in our conversation a young man joined our party, whom I
had for some time observed strolling about, and occasionally addressing
some of the various parties engaged in cutting turf on the fell. He was
good looking, and dressed in the prevailing fashion of the time, that is,
very much as I am at present, for my outward man has stood still in its
attire for the last forty years. It was evident that he was no native of
the north, and might be one of those _Lakers_, who, in that early period,
though not in such numbers as at present, visited the lakes during the
summer season, to enjoy the beauties of their scenery, and imbibe health
and strength from the pure breath of their mountain breezes. He
evidently eyed our Reverend friend with much curiosity; and respectfully
touching his hat, said with a smile, ‘Your outward attire, father, has in
my eyes a somewhat primitive appearance.’ Mr. Walker, if he felt the
sneer, did not seem to notice it, but replied with plain simplicity, ‘I
flatter myself, sir, that my dress is such as at once becomes my
character, and bespeaks my office. It is coarse in its texture, for the
materials of it were spun by my own hand; but its form is such as has
been handed down from time immemorial as belonging to the priest’s
office, and I see no reason, sir, why the priest’s vesture should not be
as unchangeable as his creed.’
“‘Unchangeable! venerable sir, _what_ is unchangeable? Is not the human
mind, in our days, gradually but irresistibly marching onwards, from the
darkness of ignorance to the broad daylight of liberty and knowledge? Is
not this an age of new light?” “It may be so,” said the priest, “but if
my creed be true, the last new light from _heaven_ came in the days of
our SAVIOUR—any new light _since_ then, must, I fear, have a different
origin!’
“The stranger did not seem disposed to pursue the conversation further,
but, slightly touching his hat, took his leave. We also paid our parting
respects to the pastor, and commenced our journey home. The stranger
joined us before we had advanced far on our return, and certainly we
found him a most intelligent and agreeable companion. He had seen much
of foreign countries, and mentioned many circumstances with regard to
them and their customs, which made a deep impression on my youthful
imagination. He accompanied us to the door of our house, which was
opened by my sister; and, much to my surprise, she received him with an
expression of countenance, and a conscious blush on her cheek, which
showed that it was not the first time that they had met. My curiosity
was excited, and I resolved, if possible, to find out the stranger’s
history and occupation.”
CHAPTER IX.
Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites
A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the Memory help when she would weave
A crown of hope! I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o’er which in vain we grieve.
WORDSWORTH.
“I am afraid sir,” continued the old man, as we resumed our walk and our
conversation, “that you will begin to think my tale of things gone by
both tiresome and unprofitable. To me it is interesting, because, as I
tell my story, my mind goes back to the days of my youth, and the early
feelings, both of joy and sorrow, return to my heart as my narrative
calls them up, almost as freshly as when the scenes were acting before my
eyes. But that the task is unprofitable, I cannot help sometimes
confessing to myself, however pleasing it may be to my feelings. Walker,
and all that concerned him, are gone to the grave. The world has marched
on with wonderful strides since his day; his clumsy spinning wheel is now
rendered useless by machinery; and even in his own little vale, a child’s
hand can, in one short week, produce a greater quantity and a much finer
quality of well spun yarn than he, poor man, twisted together during the
long and laborious years of his whole life! Why, then, should one look
to him, and not to that child, as a model? I feel that it would be
absurd to take the latter rather than the former as an example, yet I
confess I cannot assign the reason for it: and thus it is, that when I am
told that the present age is in advance of the last, and ought rather to
be my guide than the ways of antiquity, I am often driven into a
difficulty, though never convinced;—what think you of the matter?”
“Your difficulty,” said I, “seems to arise from confounding progress in
arts and sciences with progress in moral and mental power. The one is as
different from the other as possible, nor does the existence of the one
at all imply the presence of the other. The child you have referred to
as being able to spin so much better than Walker,—could it reason like
Walker? would it act and feel like him?—By no means; and so neither may
an age, distinguished for mechanical progress, excel one of darkness with
regard to such matters, and yet devoted to pursuits and studies which
call forth the powers of the mind, and exercise the best qualities of the
heart. Shakspere and Milton might have made sorry cotton-spinners; no
farmer now would plough, like Elisha, with twelve yoke of oxen before
him, yet where is the farmer who would surpass the prophet in zeal, and
eloquence, and devotion to his Master’s service? Never fear, then, my
friend, that the example of good Mr. Walker can grow old and useless; we
can easily cut better peats than he did by the help of better tools, but
when shall we surpass him in shrewd observation of the face of nature, in
industry, in devotion to GOD, in kindness and good-will to man! Hear
what is said of him by a great-grandson, who may well be prouder of being
a descendant of Robert Walker, than if he had come of the purest blood in
Europe:—
“‘His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were
industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quietness,
characterized the whole family. No railings, no idleness, no
indulgence of passion were permitted. Every child, however young,
had its appointed engagements; every hand was busy. Knitting,
spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, making shoes, were by
the different children constantly performed. The father himself
sitting amongst them and guiding their thoughts, was engaged in the
same operations.
* * *
“‘He sat up late and rose early; when the family were at rest, he
retired to a little room which he had built on the roof of his house.
He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves for his books, his
stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold
winter’s night, without fire, while the roof was glazed with ice, did
he remain reading or writing till the day dawned. He taught the
children in the chapel, for there was no school house. Yet in that
cold damp place he never had a fire. He used to send the children in
parties either to his own fire at home, or make them run up the
mountain’s side.
* * *
“‘It may be further mentioned, that he was a passionate admirer of
nature; she was his mother, and he was a dutiful child. While
engaged on the mountains, it was his greatest pleasure to view the
rising sun; and in tranquil evenings, as it slided behind the hills,
he blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils and plants; a
constant observer of the stars and winds. The atmosphere was his
delight: he made many experiments on its nature and properties. In
summer, he used to gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by
his entertaining descriptions, amuse and instruct his children. They
shared all his daily employments, and derived many sentiments of love
and benevolence from his observations on the works and productions of
nature. Whether they were following him in the field or surrounding
him in school, he took every opportunity of storing their minds with
useful information.—Nor was the circle of his influence confined to
Seathwaite. Many a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker,
and begged him to be as good a man.
* * *
“‘Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing and
hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even then, the
calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and
adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue had
such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed
clergyman without thinking of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“‘He allowed no dissenter or methodist to interfere in the
instruction of the souls committed to his care: and so successful
were his exertions, that he had not one dissenter of any denomination
whatever in the whole parish.—Though he avoided all religious
controversies, yet when age had silvered his head, and virtuous piety
had secured to his appearance reverence and silent honour, no one,
however determined in his hatred of apostolic descent, could have
listened to his discourse on ecclesiastical history and ancient
times, without thinking that one of the beloved apostles had returned
to mortality, and in that vale of peace had come to exemplify the
beauty of holiness in the life and character of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“‘Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death,
his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this
misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually
decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He
never preached with steadiness after his wife’s death. His voice
faltered: he always looked at the seat she had used. He could not
pass her tomb without tears. He seemed when alone sad and
melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured.
He went to bed about twelve o’clock the night before his death. As
his custom was, he went loitering and leaning upon his daughter’s
arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open
air. “How clear the moon shines to-night!” He said those words,
sighed, and lay down: at six next morning he was found a corpse.
Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing
followed him to the grave.’
“My good friend,” said I, when I had finished reading to him the above
beautiful extract, “I beg pardon for interrupting your narrative, but I
am sure you will forgive me on account of the subject, and because I
think what I have just read contains an answer to your question,—Why
should we imitate the ancients rather than the moderns? When the moderns
set us a better example than this, we will follow them with pleasure; but
they must excuse us if we wait till then. I would say, to those who are
anxious to set one age against another, and especially to magnify our own
at the expense of the past, (in the lines of a great and good man,)
“‘Oh! gather whencesoe’er ye safely may
The help which slackening Piety requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.’”
“They must take long strides,” replied the old man with a smile, “who put
their feet in the marks left by old Robert Walker! However, to my tale
once more.
“As I told you, I had for some time observed a change in the conduct and
spirits of my poor sister Martha, and the looks exchanged between the
good-looking stranger and herself led me to suspect, with the ready
feeling of jealousy, that he might be, in some way or other, the cause of
this great alteration. Yet I had never seen or heard of him before, as
being either a resident or a visitor in the neighbourhood; nor could I
conjecture how or where they had ever met. I determined, however, to
fathom the mystery, for my sister’s welfare was as dear to me as my own,
and I had at least as firm a reliance on her virtuous resolutions as I
had of mine. Nothing, indeed, could make me for a moment suspect (and
the event shows that it would have been criminal to suspect) that an
improper thought or design had ever crossed her well-regulated mind.
Observing her, one fine evening, during the week that these events
occurred, quietly leave the house after the labours of the day were
concluded, I determined to track her footsteps, though at such a distance
as carefully to avoid her observation. What a path did she select for
her evening’s ramble! Sir, you know the majestic shoulder of old
Wraynos, out of which the river Duddon takes its rise, a little silver
stream.—How it winds its way past the groves of Birker, under the
gigantic heights of WALLA-BARROW CRAG, and through the delicious plain of
DONNERDALE, gathering up the little mountain rivulets as it hurries on
towards the sea, till, at SEATHWAITE, it becomes a bold and brawling
stream, battling with the vast masses of fallen rock that encumber its
bed, and sprinkling the bushes that stand gazing into its current with a
perpetual dew. Down this romantic track did my sister haste with a step
as light and as timid as a mountain deer,—and, sir, the race of the red
deer of the mountain was not extinct in my day, but you often saw their
antlered heads gazing down upon you from heights which the most
experienced shepherd did not dare to climb. She did not, however, pursue
the Duddon as far down as Seathwaite, but turning up to her left, by the
side of a little feeder to the stream, entered the circular plain of a
small valley, which is one of the most retired and beautiful in the whole
region of the lakes. Every thing in it, houses, trees, and even men,
seem as old, and grey, and peaceful, as the hills which surround it!
Here my suspicions of the object of her journey were at once confirmed.
At the moment she entered the little circular plain of smooth green-sward
from below, the stranger whom we had encountered on the fell was seen to
issue from the shrubs that clothed the upper termination of the valley;
and they met in the centre with a punctuality which showed—though my poor
sister’s step seemed to slacken a little as they approached—that the time
and place of meeting were by no means accidental. As I gazed on his
manly form and graceful air, I could not but hope that all this augured
well for my sister’s future happiness, though there was an impression on
my mind, from whence gathered I could not explain, not altogether
favourable to the stranger. Perhaps, thought I, it arises from that
jealousy which is always felt towards those who are found to share in
those affections which we wish, however unreasonably, to keep solely to
ourselves. But what right had I to expect that my sister’s affections
should all her life be confined to her own domestic fire-side? I watched
them, therefore, with a mingled feeling, retire into one of the most
secluded parts of the glen, and hastened to ascend the rock under which
they had placed themselves as if to catch the last rays of the sun as
they threw a parting glance up the western opening of the dale. All
besides was black with shadow, and every singing-bird in the valley was
silent, except a solitary blackbird, who had taken his stand on the
highest twig of a towering birch that was still gilded with the light of
the sun. He whistled a few fine farewell notes to the day, and then
darted down into his thicket for the night. At that moment I heard my
sister’s well-known voice from below, soft and sweet, as if taking up the
song where the blackbird had left off his melody. The air was one
well-known in our valleys, but has not, I dare say, attracted the
attention of those caterers for the mart of music who gather up our
native melodies as men buy up our virgin honey, at a low rate, and dress
them out for higher prices, and a more fashionable circle. The words
were, I believe, her own; for she possessed a remarkable taste for
mountain ballads; or they might perhaps have been prepared for her by the
native poet, of whom I before spoke to you; for they conveyed a sentiment
which strangely harmonized with my own feelings with regard to the
stranger, and seemed to show that she, too, had her suspicions as to his
character, and was probably almost as ignorant as myself of his history.
Never did notes sound so sweetly on mine ear as at that moment did my
poor sister’s song! The time—the place—the feeling that the lines were
dictated by the true sentiments of the heart, all conspired to impress
them on my memory, and to convince me that there was a power in music to
reach the heart, which no other charm possesses, when the words, the air,
and the feeling are in perfect harmony with each other. I have prepared
for you a copy of the verses, but I cannot convey to you that which is
their greatest charm to me—the occasion on which they were first sung.
They have also been harmonized by a friend, who, like myself, has smelt
the heather in his youth, and has infused into the instrumental portion,
some of the feeling and spirit which breathed in my poor sister’s melody.
You are heartily welcome to both.
MARTHA’S SONG.
‘O speed not to our bonny braes
To cool dark Passion’s heat;
Nor think each stream, that wildly strays,
To every eye is sweet:
The fairest hues yon mountain wears
No sunshine can impart;
The brightest gleams, the purest airs,
Flow from a pious heart!
Clear be thy breast as summer breeze,
And tender be thy feeling,
’Twill give fresh verdure to the trees,
’Neath winter’s snow congealing!
Then speed not to our bonny braes
To cool dark Passion’s heat;
The glittering stream, that wildly strays,
Is sweet—but to the sweet!’
“How shall I paint to you the feelings which crowded upon my mind as I
wended my way homewards on that memorable evening! The darkening scene,
as I crossed the rugged crest of WALNA, was magnificent; and I have
always felt that the heart and imagination expand with the prospect. How
the littleness of human possessions strikes the mind, when we look over
the successive boundaries of a hundred lordships, and feel for the moment
permitted to possess, or at least to enjoy them, as much as their legal
owners! How do human passions die away under the balmy breath of heaven;
and the soul feel its original relationship to its eternal Author. Yet
anxiety for my sister’s welfare pressed upon my mind at that moment with
double force, because I alone was privy to her secret, and as yet only
knew it in a way which prevented me from employing my knowledge for her
good. Yet why should I interfere? was she not capable of regulating her
own conduct, and was there anything in what I had discovered inconsistent
with the prospect of a long course of happiness before her? With these
thoughts I reached home, and was soon after followed by my sister, whose
unusual absence had been quite unobserved by any other part of the
family, nor did I give any token that it had been noticed by myself.”
CHAPTER X.
The sun is bright, the fields are gay
With people in their best array,
Through the vale retired and lowly
Trooping to the summons holy.
And up among the woodlands see
What sparklings of blithe company!
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms;
Path or no path, what care they?
WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.
“You recollect that in our interview with Robert Walker on the top of
WALNA, we were directed by him to assemble at his church on the following
Sunday, the children to commence their preparation for Confirmation, and
the parents to present their offspring and themselves to derive comfort
and instruction from the occasion. Never did a brighter sun shine on the
world than that which rose on that memorable morning! Why, sir, does the
sun shine brighter on a Sunday than on any other day in the week?”
“I cannot,” said I, sniffing, “give a reason for that which does not
exist; but I can see a reason why good men should sometimes _think_ so,
from their mistaking the warmth and light of gratitude springing up in
their own hearts on that holy day, for the rays of the sun above them!”
“It may be so,” said the old man, “but I shall live and die in the belief
that there was something warmer and brighter in the sun on that blessed
morning, than I ever felt either before or since. The early work of the
day, (and in a farm like ours there is always some labour which must
necessarily be attended to even on the Sunday,) was finished long before
the usual hour, and we were all dressed in our very best and on our way
for SEATHWAITE Chapel, soon after nine o’clock. The early rays of the
sun lighted up Coniston OLD MAN, {52} so that you might count every stone
in his body. As we descended the slope of the mountain side for the vale
of the Duddon, you might see a thousand white threads of water pouring
down from every height that surrounded the valley, (for there had been a
heavy shower of rain in the night,) and all rushing, with headlong
impetuosity, into the brawling stream below. Then you could trace that
stream, winding its beautiful way, now in sunshine, and now in shadow,
till it gradually widened into a broad estuary, and lost\ itself in the
bay of MORECAMBE, the dark mass of PEEL CASTLE standing calmly amidst the
waves, as if to mark the boundary between the broad river and the ocean.
This sight of itself prepared the mind for the religious impressions
which were to follow; even a child like me seeing in the picture before
him an emblem of the hasty bustle of time and the quiet repose of
eternity; and I could not resist putting up a silent prayer to GOD, that
the light of His _Grace_ might continue to shine upon the days of my
short and feverish life as the sun in heaven was then glittering upon the
mountain rills, now so bright and busy, and in a few hours doomed to
become silent and still, as though they had never been. But another
sight, still more impressive, broke on our view as we turned the crest of
the little hill from which we first looked down on the chapel to which we
were tending. Nothing, I believe, puzzles strangers so much, on visiting
our Lake country, as to find out where all the people live. The houses
of the district are placed in such odd nooks and corners, so buried under
little knolls or spreading trees, and so like the old grey rocks about
them in colour and shape, that an inexperienced traveller might roam
through half that mountainous region, and fancy that its only inhabitants
were sheep, rooks, and wanderers like himself. In the mining districts,
too, one half of the inhabitants live under ground during the week, and
it is only on a Sunday, when they come up to worship GOD with their
brethren, that they see the light of the blessed day. Hence it is on
Sundays only, that any man, native or stranger, can get a real sight of
the whole population. Now, at the moment I speak of, just as we got a
first view of the whole valley round Mr. Walker’s chapel, the whole
population of the district burst on our sight at once. They were seen
pouring over every height, and hurrying down the breast of every hill, of
all ages, and in dresses of almost every variety of hue. The matrons, in
their scarlet cloaks, which shone brightly among the green heather, were
walking carefully along in groups of two or three, talking over, no
doubt, the events of the week since they last met, the occasion that now
more especially brought them together, and, it must be confessed, perhaps
now and then mixing with more serious topics a little of the passing
scandal of the country-side. The old grey-coated farmers, with stout
sticks in their hands, said a few words on the subject of prices at the
last Broughton sheep and wool fair; while the young men and maidens,
laughing a little more loudly than the day justified, and walking a
little nearer each other than their elders always quite approved, seemed
to select, by way of preference, the most rugged and slippery paths they
could find. In front of all rushed on the children and dogs, the latter,
even at church, the better behaved if not the more intelligent party of
the two. I would rather take my chance in the next world with some of
the good dogs that I knew in Seathwaite, than some of the beasts in human
shape that I have met with since I left it! Well, sir, all these were
seen pouring at once down the hill sides, as lighthearted and cheerful as
the larks over their heads. There could be no mistake as to the point to
which, straggling as they seemed to be in their course, they were all
finally aiming; for the little chapel-bell of Seathwaite was sending
forth its sharp sound, not much louder than a mountain cuckoo, but still
distinctly enough to be heard throughout the whole region in that still
and silent air. What a picture had we then before us of the UNITY of the
Church of CHRIST! Though the paths of these men, in the world, might be
different, yet they all met together in harmony in the House of GOD—they
all aimed at one point—they all hoped to be saved by the same faith.
Here there was indeed ‘one house appointed for all living’—to pray in
during life, to rest in after death. They all took Seathwaite chapel on
their road to heaven! The bell which called them together to prayer was
not much larger than a sheep bell, but it was obeyed by all the flock
with a readiness which shewed how anxious they all were to be included
within the fold of the GOOD SHEPHERD of their souls. Doubtless He was
present in spirit. His minister on earth, as far as that little flock
was concerned, was there in person; ready, as he always was, to see his
flock, and administer to their spiritual comforts. There he stood, at
the door of his humble parsonage, in his stuff gown and cassock, and his
silver locks streaming in the wind, greeting every one as he passed by
his door on the way to the chapel, and listening kindly to any little
intelligence, either of joy or of sorrow, which the events of the last
week might have brought forth. What a crowd there was assembled within
and around that humble chapel, on that Sunday morning! There was not
sitting or rather kneeling room for one half of the congregation. For
though probably the number of candidates for Confirmation did not much
exceed a dozen, yet Mr. Walker’s expressed wish, (and his wish was law,)
had brought together all the parents, god-fathers and god-mothers, and
elder brothers and sisters of every candidate, that they might be, on
that occasion, reminded of their own Christian duties. These, together
with a number of strangers attracted by the unusual circumstances,
swelled the congregation to an amount far exceeding what the little
chapel could contain; and so they stood about the door, or sat upon the
walls and grave-stones of the church-yard, which, to a mountain-race on a
fine autumn morning, formed quite as agreeable a temple of worship as the
close-packed and somewhat mouldy space within. We, as being somewhat
visitors and I a candidate, were civilly accommodated with seats by one
to whom we were well known, and so heard and saw every thing that passed.
There was no distinction of seats, or rather _forms_, in that little
house of prayer. The forms all looked to the east, being entered from
one small aisle which ran up from the west door to the altar. The people
sat in families, but without distinction as to rank, all going to the
place where their fathers had worshipped before, from time immemorial.
The only difference was, that as each by degrees grew old and deaf, they
advanced a step nearer the altar, that they might be able better to hear
and see the clergyman. Thus the more sacred part of the building was
surrounded by those who from age and spiritual experience deserved to be
exalted in the Church of CHRIST—they were, as it were, the Elders round
about the throne—they were a connecting link between minister and
people—they were looked up to by those who sat behind, as their parents
and examples; and no doubt it was an ambitious wish in the hearts of many
of the younger, that as _they_ advanced in years they might be thought
worthy to fill that honoured circle, and receive the respect which they
were then paying to their elders. Surely, sir, this is a more becoming
way of encircling the altar of our GOD, than by crowding its steps with
idle and ill-mannered boys, as is too often the case in town churches,
putting those at the head who ought to be but at the entrance of the
Church of CHRIST, and filling our minds, as we think of that sacred
portion of the House of GOD, with the image of a school-master with his
ferula instead of a priest in his holy vestments!”
“I am nearly of your mind,” said I, smiling at the quaintness of his
notion, “but you must recollect that necessity has no law.”
“True,” said he, “most true. Well, sir, there we were, waiting in
anxious expectation for the stopping of the little tinkling bell, and the
arrival of the clergyman, for no one thought of sitting down till he
appeared. At length he advanced, with a grave face, and placid
countenance, bowing slightly to all as he passed, but with his eyes fixed
right before him till he reached the little altar, over the rails of
which hung the surplice. This was reverently placed on his shoulders by
a man almost as old and grey-headed as himself, and evidently dressed in
some of the minister’s old raiment. The effect of this robing in the
sight of the congregation was very impressive. You saw as it were with
your eyes the putting off of the man and the putting on of the minister.
The world was lost for a time, and shrouded by the clean white robe of
the messenger of GOD. I have often thought that vestries, in and out of
which the minister of a large town church pops as in a play, destroy the
effect which was certainly produced on my mind by this robing of Robert
Walker in the sight of the people. The service began with a psalm,
selected and given out by Walker himself. His voice was rather thin from
age, but clear and distinct, for he had lost none of his teeth, and his
reading of the lines was like the sound of an instrument of music. He
read each verse separately, and separately they were sung. The lines
which he chose were the following from the Old Version of the Psalms,
which he always used not only as being more near the original and more
devotional in their spirit than the new, but as consisting mainly of
words of one syllable, and expressly adapted to the plain-song of
congregational singing. When shall I forget the musical cadences with
which he gave out the following simple lines from the 34th psalm?
‘Come neare to me my children deare,
And to my words give eare:
I shall ye teach the perfect way
How ye the LORD shall feare.
‘Who is the man that would live long,
And lead a blessed life?
See thou refraine thy tongue and lips
From all deceit and strife.
‘Turn back thy face from doing ill,
And do the godly deed:
Inquire for peace and quietnesse,
And follow it with speed.
‘For why? the eyes of GOD above
Upon the just are bent:
His eares likewise do heare the plaint
Of the poor innocent.’
“I wish, sir, you had heard the way in which the giving out of the first
verse of this psalm was responded to by the congregation! There was no
praising GOD by deputy—no leaving this delightful part of the service to
a few women in pink bonnets, and men in well-curled locks, stuck up in a
gallery in front of a conceited organist, mincing GOD’s praise in softly
warbled tones, and ready to sing to-morrow with just the same zeal and
devotion in a Roman Catholic Chapel or an Italian Concert Hall, if they
are equally well paid for their professional services. No, sir! every
man, woman, and child sung for themselves, lustily, and with a right good
will. They sung the air in a minor key, as is always the case among the
inhabitants of mountain districts, perhaps because they learn to pitch
their notes to the echoes of their native valleys; but it had from that
circumstance a more solemn and devotional effect. It was taken up by
those without the doors with the same zeal as by those within, for all
knew the air as familiarly as their own names. Here was a strict
compliance with David’s precept, ‘Young men and maidens, old men and
children, praise ye the name of the LORD.’ The mighty sound rushed down
the vale of ULPHA like the bursting of a mountain cataract; nor, for
aught I can tell, was it checked in its onward course till it had scaled
the heights of the surrounding mountains, and died away at last, in a
gentle whisper, on the lonely summit of BLACK COMB! _Died away_, did I
say? Forgive me, sir, the lowly thought! Far higher than the cliffs of
HELVELLYN did that holy psalm ascend; nor stayed it in its upward flight
till it approached, as a memorial of sweet incense, the throne of
GOD—there to be heard again when earthly sound shall be no more!”
There was a single tear on the old man’s withered cheek as he said this,
and a twitching about the rigid muscles of his mouth, which showed that
his iron frame could still vibrate to the gentle recollections of his
youth. He paused in his narrative; and there was a solemn silence
between us of some minutes’ duration. At length he resumed—
“The saying of the Church Service followed with the same calm solemnity
and devotion with which it began. It was clear that the object of the
priest was to forget himself, and lead the worshippers to forget him, in
the high service in which both were engaged; and in this he fully
succeeded. It was not till the worship prescribed by the Church was
ended, and the last Amen had died on the ear, that a sensation of
curiosity seemed to run through the assembly, and those without began to
crowd nearer the door, as though something unusual was about to take
place, and they were anxious to catch words less familiar to their ears
than the well-known language of the Prayer Book. There was little
preparation necessary for the sermon. The preacher did not leave his
place to change his sacred vestments for a black gown, as is now the
general fashion. His place of prayer was also his place of preaching. I
should explain that what we call the reading-desk was placed in the
north-east corner of the little chapel, having two ledges for his books,
one looking to the south, and the other (which also formed the door) to
the west. On the former rested the Prayer Book, and on the latter the
Bible; so that when he prayed, he naturally turned to the altar,—when he
read the Scriptures, towards the people. When he began to preach,
therefore, he simply turned to the people as when he had read the
lessons, resting his sermon on the Bible—no bad foundation, you will
say,” added the old man with a smile, “for a scriptural discourse! His
text was a very short and simple one but had he sought the whole Bible
through, he could not have found one better adapted to my state of mind
than the one he chose—my disposition being at that time, as I before
observed, to take a somewhat gloomy and severe view of the Gospel; it was
‘GOD is love.’ All my dark fears vanished at the sound; and I waited not
to hear the reasons to be convinced that the essence of the Gospel is
indeed ‘glad tidings’ to mankind. There was an unwonted appearance of
excitement about the preacher as he gave forth his text, and turned over
the leaves of the manuscript which lay before him, looking first at it,
and then at the crowd of upturned and expecting faces before him with an
expression which I did not at first comprehend. He paused before he
commenced his sermon, as if he could hardly read his own hand-writing,
and yet nothing could be plainer or more distinct than his penmanship,
even to the end of his days. At last he seemed to have made up his mind.
He closed his sermon with a force which seemed to shew that he had come
to a final determination, and deliberately put it into the pocket of his
cassock; he then cleared his voice, paused for an instant, and commenced
as follows. You will not expect me to remember every word of the
discourse; indeed, perhaps you will be surprised that I should remember
it at all; but the substance of it, and often the very words and looks of
the preacher still cling to my memory, with a firmness of which nothing
can deprive them but the coming grave!”
CHAPTER XI.
Even such a man (inheriting the zeal
And from the sanctity of elder times
Not deviating,—a priest, the like of whom,
If multiplied, and in their stations set,
Would o’er the bosom of a joyful land
Spread true religion and its genuine fruits)
Before me stood that day.
THE EXCURSION.
“‘MY brethren,’ said the priest, resting his hand on the Bible, and
looking round upon the anxious audience with an expression which showed
some degree of agitation of mind, mixed with his habitual calmness and
self-possession,—‘My _dear_ brethren, I am about to do what is quite
unusual, and, I fear, wrong in me;—I am about to address you in language
which I have not first carefully considered, and, word for word,
committed to paper. Though I have preached the blessed Gospel of our
LORD to you and your fathers, from this place, for the long period of
fifty years, I have never ventured to do this before. I have had too
much fear both for myself and you—too much anxiety that not a word should
drop from me which was not agreeable to the language and spirit of the
Gospel, to trust myself to unarranged thoughts, and unconsidered words.
But fifty years have given confidence to my mind, that nothing which is
not of GOD can slip from me in this house, even in the warmth and heat of
a moment like this; and thoughts arise _now_ in my mind which seem fitted
for the occasion, and yet which had not occurred to me in the silent
meditation of my closet. And surely I have _experienced_ too long the
full enjoyment of that holy truth that “GOD is love,” to shrink from
speaking of it, (and especially before you, my children,) without shame,
and without fear! I call you my children; for many as are the grey heads
that I now see before me, there is hardly one who has been born again
into the blessed kingdom of our LORD without the ministration of these
hands, unworthy as indeed they are to be made the instruments of so
divine a thing! There is one, indeed, now present,’—here his eye
naturally turned to the seat almost close beside him, in which sat the
venerable partner of his joys and cares, (_sorrows_, I believe, in the
worldly sense, he was too good a man to have any,) in her little black
silk quaker-like bonnet, and neat white cap; retaining on her cheeks much
of the bloom and some of the beauty which had made her, between sixty and
seventy years ago, the admiration of the parish:—‘There is _one_,
indeed,’ he repeated; his voice faltered, and it was clear that he would
have some difficulty in proceeding with his discourse: and here it was
beautiful to observe what happened. The old lady, seeing how matters
stood, looked up to him from under her bonnet with a quiet smile,
conveying at once an expression of kind encouragement and gentle rebuke,
which is quite indescribable. The effect was immediate. A slight flush
of shame crossed the old man’s brow, and he at once resumed his wonted
composure. There was something in that smile which had reminded him of
the days of their youth—when she was the buxom maiden and he the gallant
lover—and he doubtless felt some shame that he should not show himself at
least as firm and as youthful as his dame; and so his face naturally took
up an expression in quiet harmony with hers, and he became at once
himself again. Sir, it was beautiful! I would not have missed observing
it for the world. Doubtless, these were mere human feelings intruding
themselves into the house of GOD, but I cannot believe they were sinful.
It was like a gleam of earthly sunshine streaming through the painted
windows of the chancel of a cathedral, glancing upon, and not polluting,
the holy pavement of the sanctuary!”—The old man paused as if pleased
with his own thoughts, and then proceeded with his recollections of the
sermon.
“‘You,’ said the preacher, ‘have been my scholars, and sometimes, I
confess, my teachers, for many a year; for while you have learned from me
the truths of the Gospel, I have often drawn from you—your patience, your
cheerfulness, your submission to the will of GOD—a lesson as to the right
way of putting the Gospel into practice. Much, too, have I learned from
your sins, your negligences, and ignorances. But all combines,—strength
and weakness, life and death, the works of GOD and the Word of GOD,—to
teach us all the great, the essential doctrine of the text, “GOD is
love!” See how He has shown it in our creation and our redemption, in
the world around us, and in the world within us—the kingdom of earth, and
the kingdom of heaven! How _like_, too, are His bounties and
loving-kindnesses in both these kingdoms! It is indeed “the _same_ GOD,
that worketh all in all.” Look around you, as I have often before told
you to do, on human life, and especially on your own life, and the
blessings which each of you possess. GOD is with you in spiritual and
temporal things, always turning upon you the same face of love. He has
given you an earthly world in which you are to live here below. He gave
you breath to begin life, and strength to continue it. He gives you food
in health, medicine in sickness, parents and friends to guard and
instruct you in youth, companions in middle life, and children to be a
comfort in old age. He surrounds you with beauty to cheer your hearts on
every side; sunshine and shadow, the fruitful plains and the everlasting
hills, the fertilizing streams, and the bright and silent stars. GOD, in
short, shows Himself to you in love and beauty, through every stage of
your mortal life; and so it is with your spiritual life,—that life which
He has given you in His dear SON. Love rules in grace as well as in
nature. Love brought down the SAVIOUR to die for you when you were
dead—all dead—in trespasses and sins. Love sent down the Holy SPIRIT to
earth, by Whom ye were born again into the kingdom of CHRIST, as ye were
born into this world by the breath of the same SPIRIT when ye were but
insensible dust. And your spiritual life is surrounded with love and
kindness like your natural life, from its beginning on earth to its
consummation in heaven. GOD’s Bible, like His world, is full of love and
beauty. It tells you to whom you are to listen, namely, His ministers;
through what you are to seek grace, namely, His sacraments; through Whom
alone you are to be saved, namely, His SON.’
“He then proceeded to show more especially how this love was shown in the
institution of the rite of Confirmation, by which careful training of the
youth of CHRIST’s Church in faith and practice was secured, and all ages
taught how they must act together in furthering the common good, the
older being bound to teach the young, and the young to listen to the old;
while both learned to feel their submission to the rule of the Church, in
having to submit to the Bishop, as its head, the test of their mutual
obedience to her laws. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I will not now dwell more on
the rite of Confirmation, as the older have already had their instruction
in it, and that of the younger will soon follow. I wish to say a word to
you all on another matter, which I confess weighs heavily on my mind, and
no occasion may again occur on which I can do it so properly as at
present. You are surrounded with spiritual enemies on every side, and it
is my particular duty to warn you of your danger. GOD be thanked, the
foe has not yet scaled the walls of this parish, but he is loudly
battering at its ramparts! Look at all the various kinds of dissent from
the Church’s unity, which now stalk abroad with shameless front! Now all
dissent is _sin_, less or more. If it differs not from the truth, it is
the more unpardonable for its schism—if it does differ, so far as it
differs it is the more sinful. Look at popery, which is dissent in the
mask of unity—error the more dangerous for boasting itself to be the
truth. Look, again, at infidelity—the blasphemies of Tom Paine; beware,
my children, of this sin, for I hear it has come nigh you, even to your
doors.’ (Here a sensation of wondering horror ran through the assembled
crowd.) ‘Do you ask me for a safeguard against these snares? I answer,
meddle not with them! He that toucheth pitch _will_ be defiled. To be
tempted of the devil is trial enough for poor mortals to endure, but to
tempt the devil himself, is of all follies the most unpardonable! It is
not my duty, for it is impossible for me, to answer all the forms of
error; but it _is_ my duty to warn you against them all; and I do so by
giving you one simple safeguard, which will apply to them all alike: it
is this—_take my word for it_, _that your Church is true_.—_Somebody’s_
word you _must_ take, for you are too unlearned to judge of these deep
matters for yourselves, and why not _mine_? Have I any interest, have I
any wish to deceive you? Does not my salvation rest upon my securing
your own? Have I not given my nights and my days to the study of the
truth? Has not the Bishop, my spiritual head, commissioned me to preach
it to you? Have I any thing in this world that I can desire in
comparison with the salvation of your souls? Do not my hoary locks, and
shrinking frame, proclaim that here I have no continuing city, but must
soon give an account of my stewardship to Him that sent me? Has not the
Bible been my companion, and the wisest and best of all ages its
interpreters for me, for nearly a century? If these things cannot be
spoken against, take my word for it, till you have that of one whom you
have more reasons for believing, that if you take the Bible as your law,
and the Prayer Book as your practical rule of life, living up to both
with a good conscience, then, my life for yours—my _eternal_ life for
yours—you will at last find the path I now point out to you,—the path
that leads to heaven!’
“The venerable preacher gave utterance to these words with a passionate
earnestness which went to the hearts of all present, and very few who
heard them will ever forget either their sound or their meaning. He then
proceeded more calmly to press on his hearers their several duties to GOD
and to each other, and dismissed the vast assembly with his blessing,
given with all the dignity of a patriarch. I need not relate to you how
crowded was his mid-day meal,—how attentively listened to his evening
sermon. Suffice it to say, that we were instructed in every point of the
solemn vow which we were about to take, on our own behalf, before the
Bishop, in such a manner as might be expected from ROBERT WALKER. I
must, however, mention two events more, connected with this little
history of our Confirmation, the one very ridiculous, the other almost
sublime; because they have each their proper moral attached to them.
Among the other candidates for Confirmation was our old friend Tom
Hebblethwaite, whom I have long since forgiven for the sound beating he
gave me at Hawkshead, but whom I never _can_ forgive for cutting off the
old cock’s tail! Tom was stupid and sullen as usual, but at the same
time, thanks to old Bowman’s birch, had acquired information enough about
his catechism to prevent Mr. Walker from absolutely refusing him his
ticket. Accordingly, he was one of the party who started off together
from YEWDALE to ULVERSTON on the morning on which the confirmation was to
be held in the church of that town, by the Lord Bishop of Chester. We
were a sober and steady young party, attended by our parents, and one or
two god-fathers and god-mothers who knew their duty; and the mirth, which
generally attends such meetings of the youth of both sexes, was sobered
down into quiet and decorous conversation by the seriousness of the
occasion which had brought us together. All except Tom, who, generally
dull and stupid enough, seemed excited into a kind of perverse and
ungainly liveliness, which increased into boisterous folly with every
rebuke from those older than himself. At length we arrived at
PENNY-BRIDGE, just below Mr. MACHELL’s house, when the stream was then
crossed, (I know not how it is now,) not by a bridge, as one might expect
from its name, but what are there called ‘hipping-stones,’ large blocks
of rock placed at intervals, so that the passenger had to skip from one
to another in order to cross the water. Tom challenged his companions to
go over on one leg,—a feat which many there could have performed, had
they not one and all felt themselves restrained from such a childish
frolic by the solemnity of the occasion. Now it is a strange trait in
human nature that the very feelings which held back the really brave,
seemed to give a momentary courage to the coward; and Tom undertook to
perform to-day what nobody would give him credit for ever thinking of on
any other day in the year. But the fate of all such rash adventurers—and
which every one hoped rather than expected—on this occasion befell Tom
Hebblethwaite. Just when he came to the largest stone, and the deepest
hole in the river, Tom’s courage and foot gave way together, and down he
soused over head and ears into the water, nothing being seen of him, for
a moment, but his hat, which, being the lightest part about him, (it was
a new one for the occasion,) refused to sink with the rest of his body,
and soon commenced a voyage towards PEEL CASTLE and the PILE of
FOUDREY,—a voyage which nobody present seemed inclined to interrupt. Tom
himself, however, was kindly fished up out of an element which seemed to
have been of service neither to his body nor to his mind; for, without
staying to thank his deliverers, he immediately commenced a rapid retreat
homewards, and, I dare say, remains unconfirmed, (except in his
sullenness and obstinate temper,) to the present hour! It was some time
before we could recover our composure, which had been ruffled by this
ludicrous event; but the sight of the assembly around the church and
church-yard of Ulverston effectually sobered the thoughts of even the
most volatile of our party; for there can be no sight more solemn than
that of a Confirmation in a fine open country, and in a church situated
like that of Ulverston, surrounded by scattered and towering hills, with
the broad ocean in the distance. There were the rural shepherds at the
head of their flocks, hastening to present their young lambs to the LORD,
that they might receive His blessing from the hands of His chief minister
on earth. Our own beloved pastor was already at his post, standing
waiting for us at the church-door in his well-known gown and cassock, and
ready to head us up to the rails of the altar. Way was made for him by
his younger brethren of the clergy, as he advanced steadily up the aisle,
followed by his children; and what was our surprise and delight to see
the Bishop himself, in his white robes, advance two or three steps to
meet him, and shake him most affectionately by the hand. There was a
smile of approbation on the faces of the surrounding clergy as they
witnessed this scene, which showed that no feeling of jealousy was
excited in their minds by this kindness on the part of the Bishop, but
that they all looked upon it in its true light—as a just reward of pious
and unpretending merit. How proud we all were at that moment of
belonging to the flock of ROBERT WALKER! We each felt as if we had a
personal share in his distinction, and many of us resolved then, I doubt
not, to do nothing which should bring disgrace upon a teacher so honoured
among his brethren as ours! This, sir, I have learned since to believe,
is a wrong feeling; we ought to follow the right path from higher motives
than a feeling of pride, either in ourselves or others. But surely our
human passions may sometimes justly be employed for good ends. What is
it but taking one of the Devil’s strongest and most wiry snares, and
twisting it into a three-fold cord to bind us faster to the altar?”
[Picture: Ulverstone Church]
CHAPTER XII.
Come on sir; here’s the place:—stand still.—How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight: The murmuring surge
That on th’ unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high:—I’ll look no more;
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
KING LEAR.
“YOU must prepare yourself,” continued the old man, to be somewhat
surprised with what I am going to relate to you, if you have not (as I
have) lived long enough in the world not to be much surprised at any
thing. Things are so mixed up in this world, and very trifling, or even
absurd events so often lead to very serious consequences, that I can
quite believe the stories one hears of the spilling of a cup of tea
creating a war between two nations, or the boring of a rat-hole causing
the inundation of Holland.
“One very fine morning, at this period of my narrative, Gawen
Braithwaite, a stout young man of rather more than my own age, the son of
a neighbouring statesman, and myself, sallied forth on an excursion of a
character not uncommon among the young men of that country in my early
days, and probably still prevailing,—which combined the three great
excitements to youth for any similar undertaking, viz. pleasure, danger,
and sometimes profit. This was, the gathering _ruddle_ in the SCREES of
Wastdale. This operation will require some explanation to make it
intelligible to you. _Ruddle_ is a stone strongly mixed with iron,
which, by wetting and rubbing, produces a deep red paint which hardly any
exposure to the weather can wash away, especially when stained upon an
oily substance like wool. Now this ruddle the shepherds of the mountains
use to mark their sheep with, that it may be known to whom they belong.
As the sheep range over a wide and unenclosed extent of moor and fell,
they often ramble far from home, and though each shepherd well knows
every one of his own sheep by face, yet strangers could not know to whom
a stray animal belonged, unless it bore some mark to point out its owner.
Hence the occupier of every sheep-farm has his own peculiar mark, which
has been used on that farm time out of mind, by which his sheep are known
all over the country-side; and at sheep-shearings, which are always times
of great festivity and rejoicing, the shepherds assemble from all parts
of the country, and choose out their own stray sheep from each flock as
it is shorn, appealing to their well-known marks as proofs of ownership.
These marks, as I said, are made by the mineral called _ruddle_, which,
being very scarce, has a considerable value in the market, fetching as
much as at least sixpence a pound. Now sixpences are not very abundant
in the pockets of country lads; and they are very glad to secure them,
even though it be but by one at a time, at the expense of wasting many
hours, which they value little, and at much risk of their necks, which
they value less. It happens that this _ruddle_ is principally to be
found in the most dangerous place in all the lake country—a place which
you must have seen, for it is visited by all tourists who wish to explore
by far the finest part of all that beautiful district—the SCREES of
Wast-water. These Screes are a long and lofty ridge of almost
perpendicular rocks, running from SCAW-FELL towards the sea, along the
whole southern side of the lake of Wastdale, and are of so brittle and
crumbling a nature, that almost the smallest pebble, set rolling from
above, will gather a host of them as it goes, till a whole army of little
stones rush pell-mell to the bottom of the rock and plunge headlong into
the dark lake below, at least fifty fathoms deep! It is on the face and
half way down the side of this shivery rock that the little veins of
_ruddle_ are to be found, and you may guess the steady step and firm
nerve which are required to descend the surface of the steep and loose
declivity, and avoid any disturbance of that rolling mass, which, once
commencing its movements, would to a certainty hurl the bold adventurer
to the bottom. Many lives have been lost in this perilous pursuit.
However, Gawen Braithwaite and I were not deterred by the danger, but
rather impelled by it to encounter a risk which we had often before tried
and escaped. Up Langdale, then, we sallied; and crossing Stye-Head, made
our way to the left under the peaks of Scaw-fell Pikes, through the
stormy gap of Mickle-door, and descended the face of the Screes with that
boldness of heart and step, which is the best pledge of safety. We were
on this day more than usually successful in the object of our search; and
before the sun had descended between the double peaks of the Isle of Man,
had filled our bags with the treasure which we so highly prized, and sat
down on the top of the Screes to eat our first meal since we left home,
and watch at the same time the last rays of the sun tingeing the sea with
gold, and the top of GREAT GAVEL with a deep purple—his base being
already lost in shadow. In the gaiety of our hearts we ended our repast
by smearing our faces with the _ruddle_: and, having added a few dark
lines to the portrait by the aid of some bastard coal which is there
found, we were quite prepared to startle to our hearts’ content any
rustic maiden that might have the misfortune to encounter us on our way
home—a feat not very uncommon in a country where amusements are not so
easily found as in towns like this. The lengthening shadows of the
evening soon warned us of the approach of night; and we commenced our
return with light hearts and heavy sacks of _ruddle_, keeping the high
ground and the slopes of the hill-sides rather than descending into the
valleys below, both because the ground was there more solid to the step,
and because—the truth must be confessed—we thought we were less likely to
meet with _ghosts_ on the open plain, than in the dark lurking-places and
shadowy recesses of the glens, which have been supposed, from time
immemorial, their favourite habitations! Yet, strange as it may appear,
this very avoidance of ghostly haunts led us not only into their chosen
dwelling places, but converted us into ghosts ourselves; as you shall
hear. Gawen Braithwaite was somewhat in advance of me as we crossed the
bold point of the crag which runs out between the vale of Langdale and
the dale that leads towards the foot of Hardknot, when he suddenly
disappeared among some close bushes of hazel, which here fringe the rock
from the river below almost to the crown of the hill. Conceiving that he
had stumbled under his weight among the hidden stones (for it was now
almost dark even on the hill tops) I hastened forward to his relief,
when, to my great surprise, I found that he had disappeared altogether
from view. I called aloud, and, receiving no answer, I became dreadfully
alarmed, thinking that _he_, who, I soon recollected, had no right to
poor Gawen, had flown off with him bodily! At last I heard his voice
from below feebly calling on me to help him, and then found that he had
fallen into a deep and unsuspected cavern, and was unable to get out
without my assistance. I descended carefully to the place where he was
lying, and found him not at all hurt; but he trembled exceedingly, and
putting his hand to his mouth as a signal for my silence, he pointed to
an object below, which put me at once into as great a fright as himself.
We could both see distinctly a faint glimmering of light, though far
beneath us; and as we held our breaths from very terror, sometimes
fancied we could hear the sound of human voices in the very bowels of the
hills. At last our doubts were changed into certainty; and gathering
courage by the assurance that the sounds which we heard were not
_inhuman_, our curiosity began to get the better of our fears, and we
quietly worked our way downwards among the rocks and closely-woven
bushes, till the light grew brighter, and the sounds fell more distinctly
on our ears. At last a sight burst upon us which astonished us both not
a little. Stepping quietly down upon a jutting projection of rock, we
obtained the full view of a large cavern, evidently the old working of a
slate-mine which had been long deserted, and the entrance to which (at
the opposite end from where we stood) had been almost forgotten even by
the natives. The hills thereabouts are, in fact, full of such old
workings. There, round a large fire, which answered the purpose both of
light and heat, we saw arranged a large circle of men, some standing,
some leaning against the rocks, and some sitting round the fire, while
one stood in the middle addressing them with great earnestness, and much
and very graceful action. I immediately recognized the orator as one
whom I had seen before, and much surprised and grieved was I to see him
under such circumstances. Have you any idea, sir, who he was?”
“Not in the least,” said I.
“It was the handsome stranger, the lover and loved of my poor sister
Martha! The whole secret was now out; the mystery was now at an end.
This man, whose appearance and occupations among our quiet mountains no
one could account for, was, in fact, a champion of the French Revolution,
and a spreader of the pestilent doctrines of Tom Paine! Whether he was
employed by others, or whether he came impelled only by his own perverted
zeal in this evil cause, was never known; but his object was to spread
the principles of Infidelity and Revolution (and when were these
principles ever separated?) among the miners of Cumberland, and, through
them, among the peaceful and pious inhabitants of the north! Can you,
sir, conceive a design more fiendish than this?—well worthy the exploits
of his first ‘father’ in the garden of Eden! There, however, in that old
and forgotten mine, he had secretly assembled the workmen and others
together, and was in the very midst of his exhortation when Gawen
Braithwaite and I became so unexpectedly a portion of his auditory. As
we recovered our self-possession, and found that we were completely
screened from view by the shadows which filled the whole of the upper end
of the cave, we could gradually trace out some faces that we knew; and
amongst the rest one or two whose presence in such company caused us no
little surprise. How little, sir, do we know the real opinions, even of
our next neighbours! There we saw William Tyson,—no relation of old
TOMMY TYSON, king of Wastdale-Head—for he is as honest a king as ever
reigned, and, at the same time, as good a subject to the Queen as ever
lived.”
“Honest king Tommy,” said I, “is dead.”
“Is he indeed?” said the old man, in a lower tone than he had been
speaking in just before; “I grieve to hear it; but all men, even kings,
must die; and I trust he has left a successor to his humble throne among
his native hills, as worthy to reign as himself and his ancestors.
William Tyson was a neighbour of our own, and owner of a very neat
homestead and large sheep-farm in the vale of Tilberthwaite. One could
see no possible reason why one so well to do in the world should feel any
dissatisfaction either with Church or State. But, sir, what has reason
to do with follies like these? William was a man ‘wise in his own
conceit,’ and I do not think Solomon was far wrong when he said of such a
one, that ‘there is more hope of a fool than of him.’ Well, sir, Gawen
and I lent our ears most attentively to catch the substance of the
handsome stranger’s address, and soon found that he was speaking of the
equality of civil rights, to which, he said, all men were born by nature.
‘All men,’ cried he, ‘come into the world in precisely the same
condition.’ ‘I do not see how that can well be,’ said a decrepid-looking
wretch sitting close to the speaker, ‘when I came into the world with a
withered arm and leg, which have hardly ever grown since, and Jack Strong
there was born with the limbs of a giant, and the strength of a buffalo!’
‘I speak not of natural, but of civil equality,’ said the stranger,
somewhat puzzled by the objection; ‘I mean that one man has as much right
to property as another.’ ‘Aye, aye,’ said William Tyson, much pleased
with this view of the subject, ‘I have long thought myself quite as much
entitled to Coniston Hall as Sir Daniel le Fleming himself, and should
much like to have the guiding of it for the rest of my days.’
“I wus ye may get it,’ said Peter Hoggarth, one of William’s own
shepherds, who was standing unexpectedly near his master; ‘_I_ shall be
satisfied with _your_ bonny holmes of Grey Goosthwaite, which I think I
can farm quite as well as my master!’
“William Tyson was evidently by no means pleased with this intrusion of
his own shepherd’s; for it was clear that he had no manner of intention
of resigning Grey Goosthwaite to his herdsman when he took possession
himself of the broad acres of Coniston Hall. So true is it, that all men
would level _up_ to those above them, none _down_ to those below them!
“The speaker now turned to the religious part of his subject, on which he
expressed himself with great fluency and plausibility. He stated that
much, which was mistaken for religion, was in reality nothing more than
early prejudice and weak superstition. He instanced this, by ridiculing
the strange belief in ghosts and spirits which was once so prevalent in
these valleys, but was now fast disappearing before the light of
advancing knowledge and science. ‘The miner,’ said he, ‘used to hear the
mysterious knocking, and the supernatural signals of the rock-demon,
where he now only listens to the echoes of the strokes of his own
pick-axe.’
“‘True,’ said a brawny miner, leaning upon his spade, ‘_I_ used to be
afraid of evil spirits in these dark holes of ours, and was driven to say
my prayers in a morning before I came to work, to keep them away; but I
am grown wiser now; and, for my part, I will never believe that there is
a devil at all, until I see him.’
“‘You may see him NOW, then!’ exclaimed a voice from the lower end of the
cave. ‘There are two of them!’ cried another; upon which the whole
assembly rose in the utmost terror, and rushed out of the cave, tumbling
one over another into the darkness without, and some not recovering their
feet till they had rolled to the very bottom of the hill. The stranger
was the last to lose his presence of mind; but even he, it seems, had
some latent suspicions that there might be such a being as the devil, for
he soon rushed after his audience towards the mouth of the cave, and was
lost in the gloom. This absurd termination of the meeting is easily
accounted for. The stone on which Gawen Braithwaite was standing had
been gradually sinking under his weight, and at last gave way altogether,
rolling half way down the upper part of the cave towards where the
audience were assembled. Gawen, of course, gave way with it, and in his
fall dragged me after him. The sight of two human beings making their
entrance into the cave with such a clatter in a place where no entrance
was known to exist, and the fiendish-looking figures which we had made
ourselves by besmearing our faces with the ruddle and coal, were too much
for the nerves of the valorous audience, who suspected, from what they
heard and saw, that the devil was really looking after his own; and so
they disappeared like magic, relieving us from the terror which we felt
at making so untimely an entrance into the assembly, as we had reason to
expect a by no means civil reception had we been discovered. Having
quite forgotten the disguised state of our faces, it was not till we
approached the light of their fire that we found out the cause of their
sudden terror; and you can well imagine how we enjoyed the success of our
very involuntary exploit. Yet there was indeed much to grieve my own
heart in what I had learned, for the first time, that night. My poor
sister Martha was, it now appeared, engaged, probably heart and hand,
certainly in her young affections, to one who was an enemy to GOD and
man, a disbeliever of the truth of the Gospel, a disturber of the peace
of his country! What course lay before me I knew not. I would not, for
my poor sister’s sake, mention the sad truth to my father and mother; for
I well knew that their indignation would know no bounds, and that they
would probably at once expel her from her home, thus driving her directly
into the arms of him, who would certainly be her ruin, both in body and
soul. I shrunk from mentioning the subject to my sister herself, for I
recollected that I was younger than she, and felt that I had no authority
to control her will, if, after knowing the character of the stranger, she
should still resolve to cling faithfully to his fortunes. At last, after
a sleepless night, and much inward prayer for light to guide me, I
determined to take the course which I am sure you will say was a wise
one—I resolved to lay the whole case before my best friend and natural
adviser, Robert Walker.”
[Picture: View of Scaw Fell]
CHAPTER XIII.
—An unlessoned Girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;
Happy in this she is not yet so old
But she may learn; and happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours, to be directed.
SHAKSPERE.
“ROBERT WALKER was less surprised at my history (which it took me a long
time to tell) than I had expected him to be. In fact he knew almost
every thing that was going on in his parish, and people often wondered
how he came to know so intimately matters concerning themselves, which
they had supposed were closely locked up in their own breasts alone.
When I told him of the pestilent doctrines which the stranger was
spreading among the miners and others of his flock, he immediately
reminded me that he had darkly hinted at this in the sermon which he
preached to us before our confirmation; the substance of which I have
just related to you. I thought he would have split his sides with
laughing when I told him of the way in which Gawen Braithwaite and I had
dispersed the assembly by our sudden and unintentional intrusion into
their councils; and tapping me playfully on the cheek, while his eyes ran
over with tears of mirth, he said, ‘Take care, my good lad, as long as
you live, that you never play the devil in any other character than you
did last night! He is a _kittle_ customer to deal with, and generally
has the best of it in the end with those who meddle too much with his
concerns. _Resist_ the devil,’ said he solemnly, ‘resist the devil and
he will flee from you—aye,’ he added, smiling once more at the
recollection, quite as fast as silly WILLIE TYSON and his man PETER!’
“‘And so they ran, did they?’ continued he, for he could not get the
amusing notion out of his head, ‘_very_ fast, eh?’
“‘Like rats out of a burning corn-stack,’ said I.
“‘I _do_ wish I had been with you,’ said the old man; ‘I would have set
up a halloo that would have rung in Willie’s ears till—till—till he gets
Coniston Hall!’ and he laughed once more till his sides shook again.
“His mood, however, was soon changed into sober sadness, when I proceeded
to explain to him how the handsome stranger had won the heart of my poor
sister Martha, and how deeply and unchangeably I feared her affections
were engaged. Martha was a great favourite with Mr. Walker, as indeed
she was with every one who knew her; and he saw at once the difficulty of
her situation. ‘Poor thing!’ said he, with a deep expression of
melancholy foreboding on his countenance, ‘what is to become of her! I
know her well: she has not given her heart hastily, nor hastily will she
withdraw it. What a fiend he must be to steal the affections of one so
good, so innocent, and so confiding! Bad men are always selfish; and
with all his professions of zeal for the liberty and instruction of
mankind, he could not forget his own interests, or restrain his passions.
’Tis always thus; they who deal with evil on a large scale, are almost
sure to indulge in a little private vice on their own account! Yet why
condemn him hastily? The man that could win the heart of _our_ Martha
must have in him something that is plausible at least, if not estimable.
She would not give away her diamonds for IRTON pearls. {78} Who knows
but the believing maiden may be even now converting the unbelieving
lover? I will speak to her on the subject, and that before I am a day
older. I think, my young friend, she will not hesitate to confess to me
her inmost thoughts?’
“‘I will answer for that,’ said I; ‘but how is the interview to be
brought about? I shrink from entering upon the subject with her myself,
and should be the unwilling bearer of any message which might lead her to
suspect that I had in any way played a false part towards her.’
“‘Leave that to me,’ said the old man, ‘I see no difficulty in the
matter.’ He turned to his little writing-table, which drew out from
beneath his book shelves, (for we were in his little room on the top of
the house which he had fitted up for his private study,) and wrote as
follows:
“‘My dear Martha,
I wish to see you tomorrow on particular business, and at eleven
o’clock. Bring your brother with you as a companion by the way.
Your affectionate Pastor,
Robert Walker.’
“This note removed every difficulty at once, as far as I was concerned.
I was thus not supposed to have any knowledge whatever of the occasion of
this summons, but was merely to be an attendant on my sister’s steps.
Now, sir, it is very remarkable, and I have never since been able to
account for it, that though I have generally well remembered (as you have
heard) the state of the sky and weather, and the little incidents of the
journey, on every other occasion that I have thought of sufficient
importance to relate to you, (for such things always make a deep
impression on the mind of a mountaineer,) yet, on this occasion—one of
the last that I shall ever forget—the whole landscape is to me a perfect
blank, and I have not the slightest recollection of any single event that
occurred from the moment when poor Martha and I left our father’s door,
to that when we stood before the parsonage of Seathwaite, and were
welcomed by Robert Walker into his dark and spacious dining-room! _That_
welcome, and the soft yet somewhat melancholy smile on his countenance, I
shall _never_ forget. As we stood together, looking out from the long
low window on the rich landscape before us, we saw the handsome stranger
cross the little foot-bridge that led from the other side of the Duddon
to the Parsonage, and make his way directly for the door of the house.
Martha, who was the first to observe him, turned very pale, as if on the
point of fainting, and said in an anxious low voice to Mr. Walker, ‘I
cannot meet him here!’ and made for the door as if to escape. The old
man laid his hand gently on her arm and said, ‘You are too late to avoid
him, but go behind the _squab_ if you wish not to be seen; you will be
safe enough there.’
“This squab was a long oaken seat, or settle, with a high wooden back,
running from the fire-place half way down the middle of the room. I dare
say such seats (and very uncomfortable they are) are still to be found in
most of the old farm-houses in the North.
“The stranger entered as Martha disappeared; and I was very much struck
with the ease and grace of his manner. He wore the look and air of one
who was on the best possible terms with himself and all the world. Much
as I felt disposed to dislike him, I could not help admiring both his
person and address. There was an awkwardness and nervous action about
Mr. Walker, which I now observed for the first time, that showed to great
disadvantage when compared with the stranger’s ease and self-possession.
“After courteously placing a seat for his visitor, Mr. Walker took his
accustomed place in his arm-chair in the corner, and then his wonted
calmness and dignity at once returned. The stranger was the first to
break the silence.
“‘Well, reverend sir,’ said he, with a bland smile on his face, ‘I am
here at your own request. How you found out my place of abode I am at
some loss to discover, and what your particular business may be with me,
I can still less conjecture. I shall doubtless learn both at your
convenience.’
“There was nothing in the words of this address to give the slightest
offence; yet there was something in the tone in which it was uttered, to
excite uncomfortable feelings in my mind, and I saw Mr. Walker slightly
colour, as if he felt somewhat nettled at the manner at least of the
address. Yet the feeling, if such existed, soon passed off; and he
resumed his usual calm yet somewhat firm expression of countenance as he
said:
“‘The second part of your difficulty, sir, you have a right to have
solved, as it shall soon be; with regard to the first it seems less to
the purpose. I ought in the first place to say, that it is simply in my
public character as the authorized preacher of the Gospel in this parish,
that I have taken what would otherwise seem a great liberty with a
perfect stranger, to request an interview with him, without first
assigning grounds for the request. That you have so readily complied
with it, I beg to offer you my thanks.’
“I was much struck with the somewhat stately form of language which Mr.
Walker in this case assumed—so different from his ordinary discourse with
his plain country parishioners. He took up the tone of the scholar and
the gentleman with more ease than I had thought it possible for one whose
course of life had been so long removed from the society of his equals.
“‘Sir,’ said the stranger, ‘before you proceed further, allow me to
protest against your assumption, that in your public character you have a
right to exercise over me any superintendence or control. I belong not
to your flock, I subscribe not to your creed. Even the tyrannical Church
of Rome professes to fetter the minds and torture the limbs of those only
who have at some period professed allegiance to her doctrines; and these
are not days when the Church of England can safely arrogate to herself a
power (however anxiously she may long to do so) which would rouse the
dormant spirit even of an Italian slave.’
“‘Pardon me,’ said Mr. Walker, with the utmost calmness; ‘over you I
neither claim nor wish to exercise any authority whatever. But there are
those over whose religious condition the laws both of GOD and man have
given me power and authority, and upon _them_ I am bound to exercise it,
both for their sakes and my own. The Church has devised a certain system
which she declares to be founded on Scripture, and propounds it to all
her people as their rule of faith and life. I, having given my full
assent and consent to that system, have accepted the office, under her
authority, of spreading and propagating that system among those committed
by her (under the Bishop) to my care. I am not, then, here to reason
out, either with you or my people, a new system, but simply to enforce
one long established by the Church at large. I am bound by my oath “to
banish and drive away all erroneous and strange doctrines,” and this by
every means by which the laws of GOD and man may aid me. While then you
are at full liberty, as far as I am concerned, to entertain any notions
you may please as to religion or politics; you are not, at the same time,
equally at liberty to spread them abroad among my flock, if I can by fair
means prevent it—and prevent it, by GOD’s blessing, I will!’
“The stranger smiled scornfully at the old man’s energy of expression,
and said; ‘My venerable old friend, attempt not what you cannot
accomplish. The day is gone by, when recluses like you, ignorant of the
world and of the strides which it has of late been making towards full
liberty of thought and action, could keep men’s minds in darkness by the
vain terrors of an expiring superstition. Be content to lament in your
chimney corner over the obstinacy of this perverse generation, and leave
the course of events to march on towards that high destination which
assuredly you cannot hinder.’
“‘You much mistake the matter,’ replied Mr. Walker, ‘if you suppose that
we, in these remote regions of the globe, are necessarily ignorant of the
on-goings of the world beyond our barren mountains. Our books are our
telescopes, which bring distant things distinctly before our observation;
and history tells me the staleness and the vanishing nature of those
theories which to you seem all novelty and permanence. Nor think that I
threaten without power to execute my threats. I shall not wait to cure
the evil which you may occasion; my duty is to _prevent_; and that I can
do by a power of the extent of which you are probably little aware. I
thank GOD it is a moral power, but not, on that account, the more easy to
be resisted. Recollect how long I have presided over these few sheep in
the wilderness, and then consider whether, by this time, they must not
well know the voice of their master! Why, sir, you could not hide your
head in a cottage between Eskdale Moor and Muncaster Fell, but I, did I
wish it, could know where it rested, and almost what it meditated, by
next morning! Take, then, my advice, and leave this country for ever. I
threaten you with no loss of life or limb; but if you are found within
these bounds after this solemn warning, your movements will be watched
and dogged by those who have it in their power most effectually to put a
stop to your designs. The mountain top will be no safeguard—the gloomy
mine no security. Nay, the very fiends themselves will rise in rebellion
at my bidding, and fling dismay into the hearts of those who rashly deny
their existence!’
“The stranger cast on the old man a look of the utmost surprise, as he
gave utterance to these last words. The scene in the mine, no doubt,
rushed upon his recollection; and he looked hard at Mr. Walker, as if he
wished to trace in his countenance some signs of his being privy to the
ghostly visitation of the night before. But nothing could be seen there
but the proofs of a mind determined to carry through its high resolves;
and it was with somewhat of a subdued tone that the stranger at last
resumed the conversation.
“‘I doubt not,’ said he, ‘that you have it in your power fully to execute
your threats. I have heard and seen enough already to believe it. But
why, sir—pardon me, I cannot account for it—why should _you_ show so much
zeal in a cause which seems so little deserving of your support,—a
Church, which has left merit like yours to pine in neglect amid these
barren mountains; and a State, which binds you to keep the peace among
these half-civilized barbarians, and does not reward your pains with even
the barren smile of its countenance?’
“The old man turned upon the stranger a look in which a lurking smile was
mixed up with much sternness of expression, and said: ‘Well may I be
anxious to remove such a tempter as you from my unsuspecting flock, when
you thus artfully assail what you doubtless deem the weak side of even
the shepherd himself! My lot indeed may seem to you to be somewhat hard;
but I answer in one word—a stronger than which the king himself cannot
use—I AM HAPPY. I am where my Master placed me, and that of itself is
enough for a good soldier of JESUS CHRIST. But, sir, even in a worldly
point of view I am happy, nay, to be envied by those who look with narrow
views (pardon me) like yourself, at what makes happiness here below. I
suppose you think wealth, power, and fame to be the three things most to
be desired to constitute a happy man; and in which of these am I so
deficient, as to give me ground for repining at the lot which has been
assigned me? With regard to wealth–though I certainly can boast of none
of the superfluities of life, yet by our own industry and occupation
(without which even abundance cannot give enjoyment) I and my wife have
acquired more of the good things of this life, than either of us, from
the condition of our birth, had a reasonable right to look for; and who
can justly complain, whose lot in life is better than his father’s? As
to power—I think you have already had abundant proof that I possess it,
in my own sphere of action, in no ordinary degree. What absolute
monarch, or what turbulent populace (and they are much the same) reigns
so uncontrolled as I over the hearts and wills (but, I am proud to add,
_through the affections_) of the people of Seathwaite? Power is mine,
such as Rome only dreamt of; the greater because it is never exercised.
And as for fame—the desire of which is perhaps the least blameable of our
earthly passions, because it springs out of our innate hope of
immortality—who has it more, in possession and in prospect, than the old
feeble individual before you? These mountains are visited by tourists
attracted by the beauty and splendour of our rural scenes; but the humble
residence of Robert Walker is not passed by as the least interesting
among them. The Lord of MUNCASTER CASTLE doffs that hat to his country
pastor, which he would not take off before his monarch on the throne.
{85} My children—and a fine healthy, though somewhat numerous race they
are—will hand down my name to the next generation, I trust, as
untarnished as they received it; and my children’s children, unless they
are strangely forgetful of the pious lessons which their fathers have
taught them, may hold it their highest honour to be descended from Robert
Walker; and find that name of itself a passport and a recommendation even
in what is called a cold and heartless world. We have lived here, sir,
my life-companion and I, so long, as almost to form part of the
landscape. Good Bishop Jeremy Taylor tells a story of an old couple in
Ireland, who had resided so long in the same village that if they had
given themselves out to be Adam and Eve, there was no one alive to
contradict then. We are almost in the same condition. While, then,
these rocks shall frown and that stream shall flow, my name, humble as it
may be, is assured of its earthly immortality. The future Poet, whom the
spirit of the Church and these divine scenes shall inspire with strains
that shall blend the music of earth with the higher notes of heaven, will
not omit my name from his pictures, when he paints my beloved DUDDON in
colours which shall last for ever; and who knows but some more lowly
historian, smit with the love of my most humble but sincere service to my
MASTER, shall hold up my name as a watchword to the fire-side of the
quiet cottager; and teach the farmer at his plough, and the weaver at his
loom, to call to mind my history; recommending to their sons patience,
and perseverance, and piety, by the example (oh, how weak, feeble, and
failing!) of Robert Walker!’
“The old man had risen from his chair, and paced the room with rapid
strides as he gave utterance to the last sentences of this prophetic
vision of his future history; and it was some time before his eye, which
was sparkling with pious gratitude to GOD for all His blessings, caught
that of the stranger, as it was fixed on him with the expression of a
cold and quiet sneer. His countenance immediately changed, and he
coloured slightly at having thus exposed himself, in his
open-heartedness, to the charge of a vanity, which was surely, in this
case, of a most pardonable nature. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I have become a fool
in glorying—you have compelled me. I have shown you that, on your own
selfish principles, I have indeed much to be thankful for. But we must
bring this matter to a close. I look for a promise from you, which you
must see it would be useless to withhold, that you will vex this quiet
district no longer with your presence.’
“‘I go,’ said he, ‘father; but I go not alone! You, and this simple
youth shall know that there is at least _one_ heart here which
sympathizes with my feelings, and will not shrink from sharing my
fortunes. Love, father, is stronger than’—
“‘I RENOUNCE HIM!’ exclaimed poor Martha, rushing forward from behind the
screen under which she had been sheltered during this remarkable
conversation, and standing erect in the middle of the room with her eye
boldly fixed on the face of the wondering stranger—‘I renounce him, now
and for ever! Oh Frederick!’
“I shall never forget her expression at that moment. ‘Father,’ she
continued, ‘I love him’—
“‘_Loved_ him, you would say, my child.’
“‘Nay, father, _love_ him still dearly, and will for ever love him!’
“‘Then fly with me,’ said the stranger, ‘to a land less inhospitable than
this’—
“‘No, Frederick! that cannot, _shall_ not be. At my baptism I was
married to Another, and with one who has stained his baptismal robes will
I _never_ be united!’
“This is some plot.’
“‘No, Frederick, believe it not. All is honourable, except—oh,
Frederick, why did you not tell me the truth? Begone; if you can, be
happy; but never see me more!’
“And they parted, and they never did see each other more!”
CHAPTER XIV.
SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament. . . .
I saw her, upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty. . .
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.
WORDSWORTH.
“THE gloom, which had for some time been lowering darkly round our house,
now burst over our heads with the fury of a thunder-storm. You must
often have observed, sir, that as all the little ailments of a man’s
body, which singly are insignificant enough, gradually combine together,
and produce death; so the misfortunes of life, long kept at a distance,
seem at last to come upon an individual or a family with one united
assault, and press it with irresistible force to the very ground. So it
was with us. My father, habitually silent and reserved, began to talk
more, especially to strangers, and to show a greater liveliness of manner
than we had ever observed in him before. He spoke about the value of his
land, and the produce of his crops, in a way to make me think that I had
a very comfortable prospect of inheritance before me, and I considered
myself already as one of the established _statesmen_ of the valley.
Alas! how puzzling is poor human nature! At the very time when my father
seemed most to rejoice in his possessions, he had just come to the
conviction that he could no longer retain them. He had never really felt
their value till they were about to pass away from him and his race for
ever! His father had been a somewhat expensive man in his habits, and
had mortgaged his little estate to the father of Tom Hebblethwaite, in
the hope, as times were then very good, of quickly redeeming it. But
worse times soon succeeded; and my poor father and mother, with all their
care and industry, were not able even to pay the interest of the sum
borrowed, so that the debt gradually increased in amount, and the
unavoidable issue was clearly foreseen. This disheartening news my
father took a quiet opportunity of communicating to me, my poor mother
standing by, and the silent tears rolling down her cheeks—not for
herself, but for her children.
“‘My dear lad,’ said he, ‘you must _fend_ for yourself. I have engaged
that you shall become apprentice to an engraver in Manchester, who is a
distant relation of your mother’s, and, I am told, in a very thriving
condition. Your mother and I have given you learning, and we hope, good
principles; we had wished to have given you more, but GOD’s will be
done.’
“A change now came over the whole course of my thoughts. It was like
telling me that I was to pass my days in another world, so little notion
had I of anything that was going on beyond the boundaries of my native
mountains; and I speculated, and wondered, till my mind became confused
and perplexed, and I was unable to attend to even the commonest concerns
of life. I will hasten over this distressing period, for it is too
painful to dwell on, even at this distance of time. I believe that age
magnifies the anxieties that are far off, as much as it deadens the pain
of those that are near. The recollection to me now, is more grievous
than was the reality at the time. Robert Walker took leave of me with
much sound advice, but with a cheerfulness that removed much of my
horror—for that was what I felt—at leaving, probably for ever, my native
hills.
“‘My good lad,’ said he, ‘you are only about to do what thousands have
done before you—leave these barren mountains for a scene of usefulness to
which you are evidently called by your heavenly FATHER. Many of my flock
have gone before you in the same path, and most of them, I thank GOD,
have been highly successful in their labours. Some of the highest and
richest merchants in Manchester drew their first breath in these humble
valleys, and were taught at my village school. Having here been taught
the lessons of frugality, industry, and attention to religious duties,
they were thus trained for the after-toils of life, and have become an
honour to their country and their Church. But as for you, I would rather
see you good than rich. The one, with GOD’s grace, you can be; the other
may depend on a thousand accidents. I have prepared a little present for
you, which I trust you will always cherish as proof of my good will. The
Bible I know you have, and its fitting companion and interpreter, the
Prayer-book: here is ‘Nelson’s Companion to the Fasts and Festivals of
the Church of England,’ the best book, next to the Prayer-book, that the
uninspired mind of man ever compiled; full of learning, full of piety,
full of prayer. Know this book well, and you will be wiser than your
teachers; for to understand and retain in one’s mind the contents of one
such book as this, is better than to read whole libraries, and to have
but a dim and misty recollection of them all; and here is another good
book, which you will find a valuable companion to you in some of your
silent and solitary hours—‘The Whole Duty of Man.’ Blessed be the memory
of the pious lady who wrote it! And may the blessing of GOD rest for
ever on the family which sheltered the saintly HAMMOND in his
persecutions, and produced her who left to the world this invaluable
legacy! {89} In these books you have a religious library which will meet
all your spiritual wants. Pray for me, as I shall not cease to pray for
you—for _this_ is the way to remember friends that are far off; and now
go, and the LORD be with thee!’
“But I had another parting of a very different kind to encounter—with my
poor sister MARTHA. Since her separation from her lover, she had gone
about her daily avocations with her usual, and even more than her usual
cheerfulness and quiet alacrity. Indeed her eye sparkled with more
brilliance, and her spirits rose to a higher pitch of excitement than I
had ever before observed. She grew perceptibly thinner, but no alarm was
thereby occasioned, as her colour was even heightened in brightness, and
her mind seemed peaceful and happy. Yet I had watched her with more than
common anxiety, and felt much alarmed for her state, though I could
hardly assign the grounds of my fears. A few days before it was proposed
that I should take my departure, she called me into her room after the
rest of the family had retired to rest, and desired me to sit down by her
side, with a seriousness of manner which seemed to show that she had some
important communication to make.
“‘Brother,’ said she, ‘we part soon; it may be sooner than you expect.’
“‘How so?’ said I.
“‘You must listen to my tale. We have never talked about _him_ since we
parted at Mr. Walker’s. I have never repented what I did then.’
“‘Oh, how nobly you acted, dear sister,’ said I, ‘and how little you seem
to have felt the shock of such a parting. How I love you for your
determination! You have never seen him since?’
“‘I saw him last night!’
“‘Indeed?’
“‘Yes—last night. He stood by my bed-side, looking most pale and
ghastly; and reproached me with deserting him, and leaving him to his
fate. He said that I might have saved him by converting him from his
evil ways, but now on me must rest the consequences of his ruin, both in
body and soul.’
“‘It must surely have been a troubled dream!’
“‘No, brother, it was a sad reality. I appeared to myself as wide awake
as I am at this moment, and though my reason tells me that he _could_ not
be there, I saw him with as sober a mind, and an eye as steady as I see
you now!’
“‘And how do you explain this strange delusion?’
“‘Easily—I am DYING! Look at this hand,’ said she, holding up her taper
fingers before the candle. I could distinctly see the flame through the
transparent skin, and trace the blue fret-work of the veins, as though
they had been traced with a lead pencil on a sheet of white paper. I saw
that all was over!
“‘Brother,’ said she, ‘I do not regret my past conduct in this matter; on
the contrary, I rejoice in it as the only proof of fidelity that I have
been permitted to give to the law of my divine MASTER. Could I believe
that I might have saved him—but no, I will not think it possible! I was
not to do evil that good might come. My Bible, Robert Walker, and my own
heart approve of what I have done; and if I die for it, it may be that I
shall live for it (through my SAVIOUR’s Blood) hereafter. Brother, pray
for me! I dread the coming night; but I trust to the LORD’s power to
drive away from my pillow evil thoughts, and evil spirits. My mind
begins to wander—I must to prayer. Come to me early to-morrow morning.
Good night, and GOD bless you!’
“I went early according to her request, anxious to hear her report of the
past night, and sincerely praying that it might have been more peaceful
than my own. I stood by her bed-side, and called her name: all was
still. I opened her window-curtain (bed-curtain there was none) and
gazed on her face. She was dead! Her hands were folded peacefully on
her breast, showing that she had passed away in prayer, and there was a
faint—a very faint—smile still lingering on her lips, as though at the
very moment when she closed her eyes on earth she had just caught a
glimpse of heaven.—Poor Martha!” {91}
After a pause, the old man proceeded—“I will say no more of my final
parting, because I would avoid my mother’s name. Behold me then in
SALFORD! Hard at work from morning till night, breathing the dense and
foggy air of Hanging-ditch, instead of the pure and invigorating breezes
of Tilberthwaite and Yewdale. Much have I learnt, from sad experience,
during my long life, of the condition of the labouring classes in this
busy hive of men, and much could I tell you of cruelty on the part of
masters, and of ingratitude and improvidence on the part of men. But I
will keep these matters for another occasion. Suffice it to say, that I
believe a manufacturing state may and _will_ become (though it may be
neither in my time nor yours) quite as happy and as healthy a one as that
of the best-regulated agricultural district. But, sir, the reformation
must begin at the other end—it must be from the top first, and then to
the bottom! I will tell you a little secret—_the men_, _as a body_, _are
quite as well educated for their station in life_, _as the masters_, _as
a body_, _are for theirs_. The next generation may see masters who have
been brought up to the trade of masters, and not merely men who have
become masters by good fortune; and then may we hope for a thorough
reform in the whole system of conduct of masters and men towards each
other; of which, till then, I almost despair. Meantime, if the Church
had fair play, she would throw her healing branch into the bitter waters
which surround us, and teach mutual love and forbearance to ‘all sorts
and conditions of men.’”
“I fully agree with you,” said I; “we have heard much of late of the want
of education among the poor; I hope we shall hear, soon, of the necessity
of a better system of education among the rich. But, my good old friend,
you are quite forgetting that your tale is about anything else than that
with which it professed to begin, ‘The Old Church Clock.’”
“Right! my dear sir; like many other old men I have allowed my tongue to
out-run my tale. Well, sir, Sunday came—a day of joy to me, both as a
rest from unusual labour, and as an opportunity of pouring out my soul in
prayer in the manner that I used to do in my native mountains; so that I
looked to be reminded of my temporal and eternal home, by joining once
more in the same form of worship with my absent parents, and my good old
pastor, Robert Walker. Little do they know of the beauty of a prescribed
form of prayer who have never offered it up in a distant land! Alas! how
were my hopes and expectations disappointed! I naturally entered the
first place of worship within my reach, expecting it to be, like
Seathwaite chapel, free and open to all comers. But I was woefully
mistaken! A well-cloaked and liveried beadle soon informed me that there
was no room for strangers, and that the aisle was the only place for me.
It was true that I had this advantage over the sleepers in the
well-cushioned pews around me, that I could kneel in prayer to GOD,
whilst the rest were compelled to sit in His presence while they asked
Him to forgive them their sins! Still it was most painful to me to
worship in communion with those to whom my joining with them in prayer
was an unwelcome act; and I now felt myself really a solitary amidst
crowds, when, not even in the presence of our common FATHER, had they any
sympathy with their homeless brother! Well, sir, time passed on; and
among my smaller grievances was the occasionally receiving, and indeed
deserving a reprimand from my over-looker, for having been behind my time
in a morning, at the early hour at which the work of our establishment
commenced. Six was the precise hour; and even a minute behind that time
subjected the truant to a serious fine. I well remember, one cold wintry
morning, looking anxiously for the first sight of the Old Church Clock,
as I crossed the Salford bridge into Manchester, and saw, to my horror,
that it pointed to exactly five minutes past that hour. There seemed to
my imagination an expression of strong displeasure in the hard outlines
of that old clock’s face, which administered a far stronger rebuke to me
than the violent and unfeeling language which was addressed to me by the
over-looker; and I resolved, if it were possible, not to fall into the
same disgrace again. The next morning I was, by the same clock, ten
minutes before my time. The old clock seemed to smile at my punctuality,
as I do now at the recollection. How apt is the youthful mind to put a
portion of its own overflowing life even into inanimate things! And what
dead thing is so like a living one as a clock?”
CHAPTER XV.
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
* * * * *
And, ere we came to Leonard’s rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy OLD CHURCH CLOCK,
And the bewildered chimes.
WORDSWORTH.
“I gradually established an acquaintance with this old Clock. It had
already proved itself a faithful friend—indeed the only one that I had
yet found in Manchester; for my mother’s distant relation was too much
involved in the all-absorbing pursuit of making money, to have any room
in his thoughts for the wishes and feelings of a poor country cousin like
myself. The Clock, however, had grown to be so intimate an acquaintance,
that I one day took advantage of a leisure hour to pay it a nearer visit;
and was very attentively looking up into its face from the foot of the
tower, in the space between it and the houses—which space was then
exceedingly narrow, (the houses are now happily taken down,) when my
shoulders were suddenly assailed by a very smart blow with a stick, from
some person from behind! I turned sharply round, as might be expected,
and saw a little active old man, dressed in a suit of rusty black, with a
hat somewhat of a clerical shape, and a pair of sharp grey eyes twinkling
under very long and very shaggy eye-brows, in the very act of raising his
cane for the purpose of repeating the salute. I immediately twisted the
offensive weapon out of his grasp, and seeing the reverend character of
the assailant, exclaimed, ‘_Nemo me impune_’—flourishing, at the same
time, the cane over his head, as if about to return the blow. Nothing
daunted with my threat, the little man stood his ground bravely; and
said, with a look of mingled fun and fury, ‘Who beat that bit of Latin
into your foolish head?’
“‘One,’ said I, ‘whose hand was quite as heavy as yours, though he did
not lay on half so hard as you do!’
“‘All the worse—all the worse. Had he struck harder then, you would have
needed it less now! But why do you stop up the way to church, and stand
gazing up to that tower, as if you were planning to rob the belfry?’
“‘I was thinking,’ said I, for I began to be more amused than angry with
the old man, ‘I was thinking, when your cane interrupted my meditations,
why it was that men placed clocks in the towers of churches!’
“‘That is easily answered, man; to teach you that time is a sacred
thing.’
“‘That is indeed an answer,’ I replied; ‘and one worthy of my old friend
Mr. Walker of Seathwaite!’
“‘Mr. Walker!’ exclaimed the old gentleman, in great surprise, ‘what
knowest thou of Mr. Walker? a very good man he is, and a very good
scholar—not of the University, though—but a good scholar, and an old
friend of mine; what knowest thou of him, man?’
“‘Know him! Why he is my old pastor and master—the best friend I have in
all the world! Oh, sir! If you know him, you must be a good man too!’
“‘Dont be too sure of that!’ said the old gentleman, somewhat pettishly;
‘there are two opinions on that subject, I promise you. Which of them
_I_ may entertain, is no concern of yours!’
“‘Well, sir, but I am sure if you are a friend of Mr. Walker’s, you will
do me one service for his sake—the greatest you ever did to a poor lad in
your life—you will tell me where I may go to church on Sundays.’
“‘His cane, which I had restored to him, dropped to the ground, and he
held up his hands in mute astonishment. ‘The lad’s lost his wits,’ he
said, as if to himself—‘_clean gyte_, as his old friend Robert Walker
would say! There he is, standing before a church door wide open to
receive him, and high enough for even his long legs to stride under, and
he coolly asks me where he may go to church on Sundays! Why, man,
_there_ you may go to church, not only on Sundays, but every day in the
week—and the oftener the better.’
“It was odd that this had never struck me before; but I had fancied, I
suppose from its size and beauty, that this was a church intended, like
those I had already tried, only for the accommodation of the rich; and I
said so to him whom I was addressing.
“The old gentleman smiled at my simplicity, but there was more expression
of kindness in his countenance than I had hitherto observed. ‘The
rich,’—said he, with a tone of contempt, ‘why, man, that is the PARISH
CHURCH, free to all alike, rich and poor, good and bad. The poor are by
far the greater number, and, between ourselves, rather the better behaved
and more attentive class, of the two. The rich take liberties with me
sometimes, which the poor _dare_ not—if they did, I would break every
bone in their skin! But,’ said he in a lower tone, ‘I dont think any of
them wish me much ill, after all.’
“Then, taking me by the hand, he said, ‘And so, my poor lad, you feared
to come into this church because you thought it was the church only of
the rich man! Come along with me, and I will soon provide you with a
sitting.’
“He dragged me with a rapid step through the church-door, and up the
middle aisle, till he came to a place which he doubtless knew to be at
that time unoccupied; and setting me down with great force in one corner
of a bench, he said, ‘There! sit there! That is your seat as long as you
occupy it punctually. If any one shall disturb you, say that old Rivers,
the Reverend Joseph Rivers, placed you there; and I should like to see
the man that dares disturb you after that!’ and he flourished his cane
with an emphasis which seemed to show that the consequences of so rash an
act would indeed be serious!
“Such, sir, was my introduction to the Parish Church, and such is the
favour—the inestimable blessing—which I owe to the Old Church Clock! How
often have I wished that the same blessing could be extended to the
multitudes of young men that pour annually from the country into this
great metropolis of manufactures and commerce, even if it were
accompanied with the sharp discipline of old Mr. Rivers’ cane, which I
experienced! Sir, thousands are lost—lost for ever—from the want which I
felt, and from which the Old Clock delivered me—want of church-room! It
gives them first the plea to spend the Sunday in idleness; and a Sunday
so spent is but a preface to one of vice and dissipation. Would that
there were a dozen Old Churches in this vast hive of human beings! Well,
sir, that seat I have occupied from that day to the present hour—full
five-and-forty years! They have been years of trial, and sometimes of
trouble to me; but I have always found my best consolation _there_.
During my days of toil and labour I was never absent from the Sunday
services; and now that a moderate competency and the advance of years
give me grounds for retirement from busy life, the daily services find me
a constant and delighted attendant. I find the daily temple worship the
best possible preparation for that service which I trust may soon be my
occupation in a higher sphere; the best soother of the passions; the
surest relief in sorrow. Within those walls I have escaped all those
anxieties which spring from religious doubts and differences, and have
said the same prayers, and listened to the same doctrines during the
lapse of half a century. The daily service flows on, in my ears, like my
native DUDDON—always the same, yet ever fresh and new. I have seen sects
rise and fall, and various forms of dissent flourish and decay; but they
have no more moved my mind than the fleeting lights and shadows, sunbeams
and storms, which pass successively over that venerable fabric, can
disturb its foundations, or even shake one pinnacle from its towers. In
those free sittings, so well thronged by pious worshippers, what changes
have I lived to behold! I have seen the grey head of many a faithful
soldier of CHRIST laid low, while its place in the ranks has instantly
been filled up by one as zealous and almost as grey as that which has
been removed. Nay, the shepherds of the flock have been smitten as well
as the sheep. I followed to the grave my old friend Mr. Joseph Rivers,
to whose blunt kindness, and friendship for my master Robert Walker, I
was so deeply indebted; and much was I gratified to see the flood of
tears that was shed by the poor over the old man’s grave! It was a proof
to me that men know how to value honesty and integrity, even though it be
clouded, as it sometimes is, by a hasty manner and a rough outside. And
I have followed to the grave one to whom I looked up with a feeling of
deeper reverence and gratitude—the pious Christian—the courteous
gentleman—the late venerable Head of our Church in this place. He was to
me not only a teacher, but, I may almost venture to say, a companion and
friend. How often have I hoped and prayed that he might be permitted to
out-strip me in length of days as far as he did in his Christian walk!
But it was not so ordained! Truly may I say of him, in the words of
Scripture, ‘That other disciple did out-run Peter,—and I came first to
the sepulchre!’”
The silent tears rolled down the old man’s cheek as he paused for a
moment to meditate on the tomb of his pastor.
“My tale,” he soon added, “is now at an end. It is probably, as I said,
but of little interest to any one but myself, and you who have so kindly
listened to it. Yet I shall not have told it to you in vain, if it lead
you to recollect that the poorest man you meet has his little history,
could he be induced to tell it; and his deep interest in the Church,
could he be led to think so. At all events,” he concluded, with a smile,
“you will not, I am sure, now blame me much, should you meet the Old Man
once more on the Victoria-bridge, on a Saturday night, and find him
setting his watch by—(even should it be a few minutes too slow)—THE OLD
CHURCH CLOCK.”
* * * * *
The End.
* * * * *
* * * * *
PRINTED BY CHARLES SIMMS AND CO., MANCHESTER.
FOOTNOTES.
{vii} It would be very interesting to trace the precise period when the
late culpable neglect of Church discipline (more especially in observing
the duty of daily prayer in churches) began to be generally prevalent.
It would seem to be soon after, and not before, the year 1720. The
author has now lying before him a daily journal kept by a collateral
ancestor, who was curate of Garstang Church-Town, an agricultural
district of this county, in the years 1723–4–5, from which it appears
that, even in that retired district, prayers were then said in the church
on all Wednesdays and Fridays, and all Saints’ days and Holydays
throughout the year. The labour of a curate then, (for the vicar was
non-resident,) was such as is seldom surpassed even by the often almost
intolerable toils of the present day. The following is a specimen of the
journal referred to:—
“APRIL, 1723.
“12. _Good Friday_. Read prayers, Mr. Hayward [the vicar] preached,
and we administered the sacrament to 236 communicants. After dinner
I went into Claughton [two miles off] to visit the sick.
“13. Mr. Hayward read prayers; I went into the parish, and
administered the sacrament at three private houses to sick and aged
people.
“14. _Easter Day_. I read prayers. Mr. Hayward preached; and we
administered the sacrament to 285 communicants. Afternoon: Mr.
Hayward read prayers, and I preached; and then went to visit a sick
child.”
The reader will be struck with the large attendance at the communion. We
have had sad fallings-off since the year 1723!
I cannot resist making one or two other extracts, showing the general
character of this curious little journal of the Rev. Thomas Parkinson:—
“FEBRUARY, 1722.
“1. Went to Street to visit Mrs. Salome, and administered the
sacrament to her. She is 103 years old, yet very perfect in memory,
sight, and hearing to admiration.
“APRIL, 1723.
“30. Studied hard yesterday in the afternoon and this morning, and
finished the 103rd sermon. At night I preached it for T. Raby, of
Tarnaker, at St. Michael’s. His son paid me 10s. Mr. Crombleholm,
the vicar there, came from London whilst I was there, who, in
conjunction with three more, had bought Rawcliff Demain and Tenants,
paying to the Board £11,260. It cost them near £1000 more in
hush-money, as they call it.
“OCTOBER, 1723.
“18. In the morning I went to visit William Grayston, who seemed
very penitent after an ill-spent life. I pray GOD forgive him.
“OCTOBER, 1723.
“28. In the morning I went to see W. Grayston, who had been
perverted by a Romish priest in his sickness, but, by the blessing of
GOD, I restored him to the Church, and administered the communion to
him after he had begged pardon. He gave me then £1. 18s. 6d. to
distribute, in way of restitution, to some he had unjustly injured.
“Nov. 2. Studied all the morning, and finished the 110th.
Afternoon: I went to see W. Grayston and old Mrs. Salome.”
P.S. I ought to add that the number of attendants at the communion,
above stated, was by no means unusual; for besides the communicants
being, on ordinary Sundays, at least one hundred, I find the following
entries in his next year’s Diary:—
“APRIL, 1724.
“3. _Good Friday_. I preached. Mr. Hayward, [who seems always to
have attended on these occasions,] read prayers, and consecrated. We
had a vast number of communicants, more than have been usually seen.
“4. Mr. Hayward read prayers. I went into the parish to visit sick
and impotent people; that is, such as cou’d not come to church.
“5. _Easter-day_. I preached in the forenoon. Mr. Hayward read
prayers, and consecrated. We had a great many communicants at those
three days of sacrament. [Palm Sunday was one.] At church we had
about 656 communicants, and I administered to about 60 impotent
people in the parish. I read prayers afternoon, and Mr. Hayward
preached.”
{xii} The following is Mr. Newton’s own account of the state of his late
parish in the hands of his successor, and that successor such a man as
Mr. Scott. The narrative is a melancholy one.
“I was very cordially received at Olney; the heats and animosities
which prevailed when I was there last, seemed in a great measure
subsided. There are, however, many who have left the Church, and
hear among the Dissenters; but I hope they have not left the LORD.
Mr. Scott has some, and some of the best, who are affectionately
attached to him. Mr. Scott is a good and upright man, and a good
preacher, but different ministers have different ways. He met with
great prejudices, and some very improper treatment, upon his first
coming to Olney. He found several professors who had more leaves
than fruit, more talk than grace; his spirit was rather hurt by what
he saw amiss, and by what he felt. By what I can learn from those
who love him best, he is very favourable and zealous in reproving
what is wrong; but an unfavourable impression he has received, that
the people at large do not like him, gives a sort of edge to his
preaching which is not so well suited to conciliate them. The best
of the Olney people are an afflicted people, and have been led
through great inward conflicts and spiritual distresses, and for want
of some experience of the like kind, he cannot so well hit their
cases,nor sympathize with them so tenderly as might be wished. He
has the best intentions, but his natural temper is rather positive,
than gentle and yielding. I was, perhaps, faulty in the other
extreme; but they had been so long used to me, that a different mode
of treatment does not so well suit them.”—_Southey’s Life of Cowper_,
vol. ii. p. 46.
Here the different success of the two consecutive incumbents is made to
turn entirely upon preaching, and that preaching entirely on difference
of _temper_. Would that they had both sought uniformity of preaching,
and of temper too, in their Prayer Book!
{xxxix} Mr. Walker’s charity being of that kind which “seeketh not her
own,” he would rather forego his rights than distrain for dues which the
parties liable refused to pay as a point of conscience.
{52} An “Old Man” is a heap of stones, of which many are erected on the
highest points of the loftiest mountains in the North of England.
{78} Pearls are or used to be found in the shell-fish in the river IRT,
on the west coast of Cumberland. It is much to be feared that there are
very few now left.
{85} There is a tradition that this is one of the families which claim
to wear a hat in the presence of Royalty.
{89} The Packington family.
{91} The history of Martha will remind some readers (though the facts
are very different) of that of Mary Robinson, commonly called “The Beauty
of Buttermere,” who was betrayed into a marriage by the notorious
Hadfield, under the feigned name of Colonel Hope. Hadfield was a man of
good birth and education, and was afterwards hanged for forgery. Mary
died not long since, the mother of a large family, in a good old age, a
subject of notoriety and curiosity to her dying day. Yet Robert Walker
loved his dead Martha _quite_ as much as his living Mary!
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