“‘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 preparedyoufor 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 toGodam 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 thatGodcan 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 ThyWORD,’ 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 isnofact, 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 ofGod.’
“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 RobertWalker, 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 thoseLakers, 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 handeddown 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,whatis 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 fromheavencame in the days of ourSaviour—any new lightsincethen, 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.”
Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leaveLess scanty measure of those graceful ritesAnd usages, whose due return invitesA stir of mind too natural to deceive;Giving the Memory help when she would weaveA crown of hope! I dread the boasted lightsThat all too often are but fiery blights,Killing the bud o’er which in vain we grieve.Wordsworth.
Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leaveLess scanty measure of those graceful ritesAnd usages, whose due return invitesA stir of mind too natural to deceive;Giving the Memory help when she would weaveA crown of hope! I dread the boasted lightsThat 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 amoften 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 toGod, 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 roofwas 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 hiswife’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.’
“‘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 roofwas 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 hiswife’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 mayThe help which slackening Piety requires;Nor deem that he perforce must go astrayWho treads upon the footmarks of his sires.’”
“‘Oh! gather whencesoe’er ye safely mayThe help which slackening Piety requires;Nor deem that he perforce must go astrayWho 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 relianceon 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 ofWalla-Barrow Crag, and through the delicious plain ofDonnerdale, gathering up the little mountain rivulets as it hurries on towards the sea, till, atSeathwaite, 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 whichshowed—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 asmyself 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 braesTo cool dark Passion’s heat;Nor think each stream, that wildly strays,To every eye is sweet:The fairest hues yon mountain wearsNo 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 braesTo cool dark Passion’s heat;The glittering stream, that wildly strays,Is sweet—but to the sweet!’
MARTHA’S SONG.
‘O speed not to our bonny braesTo cool dark Passion’s heat;Nor think each stream, that wildly strays,To every eye is sweet:
The fairest hues yon mountain wearsNo 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 braesTo 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 ofWalna, 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.”
The sun is bright, the fields are gayWith people in their best array,Through the vale retired and lowlyTrooping to the summons holy.And up among the woodlands seeWhat sparklings of blithe company!Of lasses and of shepherd groomsThat down the steep hills force their way,Like cattle through the budded brooms;Path or no path, what care they?White Doe of Rylstone.
The sun is bright, the fields are gayWith people in their best array,Through the vale retired and lowlyTrooping to the summons holy.And up among the woodlands seeWhat sparklings of blithe company!Of lasses and of shepherd groomsThat 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 ofWalna, 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 sometimesthinkso, 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 finishedlong before the usual hour, and we were all dressed in our very best and on our way forSeathwaiteChapel, soon after nine o’clock. The early rays of the sun lighted up ConistonOld 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 ofMorecambe, the dark mass ofPeel Castlestanding 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 toGod, that the light of HisGracemight 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 worshipGodwith 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 throughoutthe whole region in that still and silent air. What a picture had we then before us of theUNITYof the Church ofChrist! Though the paths of these men, in the world, might be different, yet they all met together in harmony in the House ofGod—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 theGood Shepherdof 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 somewhatmouldy 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 ratherforms, 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 ofChrist—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 astheyadvanced 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 ourGod, 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 ofChrist, and filling our minds, as we think of that sacred portion of the House ofGod, 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 ofGod. 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 wayHow ye theLordshall feare.‘Who is the man that would live long,And lead a blessed life?See thou refraine thy tongue and lipsFrom 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 ofGodaboveUpon the just are bent:His eares likewise do heare the plaintOf the poor innocent.’
‘Come neare to me my children deare,And to my words give eare:I shall ye teach the perfect wayHow ye theLordshall feare.
‘Who is the man that would live long,And lead a blessed life?See thou refraine thy tongue and lipsFrom 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 ofGodaboveUpon the just are bent:His eares likewise do heare the plaintOf 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 praisingGodby 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, mincingGod’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 theLord.’ The mighty sound rushed down the vale ofUlphalike 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 ofBlack Comb!Died away, did I say? Forgive me, sir, the lowly thought! Far higher than the cliffs ofHelvellyndid that holy psalm ascend; nor stayed it in its upward flight till it approached, as a memorial of sweet incense, the throne ofGod—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 framecould 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 ‘Godis love.’ All my dark fears vanished at thesound; 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!”
Even such a man (inheriting the zealAnd from the sanctity of elder timesNot deviating,—a priest, the like of whom,If multiplied, and in their stations set,Would o’er the bosom of a joyful landSpread true religion and its genuine fruits)Before me stood that day.The Excursion.
Even such a man (inheriting the zealAnd from the sanctity of elder timesNot deviating,—a priest, the like of whom,If multiplied, and in their stations set,Would o’er the bosom of a joyful landSpread true religion and its genuine fruits)Before me stood that day.
The Excursion.
“‘Mybrethren,’ 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,—‘Mydearbrethren, 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 ourLordto 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 ofGodcan slip from me in this house, even in the warmth and heat of a moment like this; and thoughts arisenowin 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 haveexperiencedtoo long the full enjoyment of that holy truth that “Godis 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 thegrey heads that I now see before me, there is hardly one who has been born again into the blessed kingdom of ourLordwithout 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 isone, 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 ofGod, 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, andsometimes, 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 ofGod—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 ofGodand the Word ofGod,—to teach us all the great, the essential doctrine of the text, “Godis 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! Howlike, too, are His bounties and loving-kindnesses in both these kingdoms! It is indeed “thesameGod, 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.Godis 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 dearSon. Love rules in grace as well as in nature. Love brought down theSaviourto die for you when you were dead—all dead—in trespasses and sins. Love sent down the HolySpiritto earth, by Whom ye were born again into the kingdom ofChrist, as ye were born into this world by the breath of the sameSpiritwhen 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, HisSon.’
“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 ofChrist’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.Godbe 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 issin, 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 pitchwillbe defiled. To be tempted ofthe 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 itismy 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’sword youmusttake, for you are too unlearned to judge of these deep matters for yourselves, and why notmine? 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—myeternallife 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 toGodand 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 ourown behalf, before the Bishop, in such a manner as might be expected fromRobert 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 nevercanforgive 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 fromYewdaletoUlverstonon 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 atPenny-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 thecoward; 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 towardsPeel Castleand thePileofFoudrey,—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 theLord, 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 ofRobert 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?”
Ulverstone Church
Come on sir; here’s the place:—stand still.—How fearfulAnd dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!The crows and choughs, that wing the midway airShow scarce so gross as beetles: Half way downHangs 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 buoyAlmost too small for sight: The murmuring surgeThat on th’ unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,Cannot be heard so high:—I’ll look no more;Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sightTopple down headlong.King Lear.
Come on sir; here’s the place:—stand still.—How fearfulAnd dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!The crows and choughs, that wing the midway airShow scarce so gross as beetles: Half way downHangs 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 buoyAlmost too small for sight: The murmuring surgeThat on th’ unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,Cannot be heard so high:—I’ll look no more;Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sightTopple down headlong.
King Lear.
“Youmust 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 gatheringruddlein theScreesof Wastdale. This operation will require some explanation to make itintelligible to you.Ruddleis 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 calledruddle, 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 thisruddleis 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—theScreesof Wast-water. These Screes are a long and lofty ridge of almost perpendicular rocks, running fromScaw-felltowards 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 tothe 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 ofruddleare 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 ofGreat Gavelwith 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 theruddle: 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 ofruddle, keeping the high ground and the slopes of the hill-sides rather than descending into the valleys below, both because the groundwas there more solid to the step, and because—the truth must be confessed—we thought we were less likely to meet withghostson 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 thathe, 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 notinhuman, 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 thelight 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 ourself-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 oldTommy 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; ‘Ishall be satisfied withyourbonny 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 levelupto those above them, nonedownto 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, ‘Iused 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 himNOW, 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 toGodand 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 wouldprobably 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.”