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.”
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 theOld 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 moreabroad 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 aspencer, 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 theOld 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 friendPeter Clareis 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 andforty 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, withGod’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 itYewdale. 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 abonny bit?—and so the old cock is still crowing on the top of the old thorn!”
“Indeed itwas,” 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 seriouslyvexed 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.
“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.
“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.
“Myearly 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 littleStatesman; 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 fatherdied, 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 hasdone 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—weshallknow each other, with joyshallmeet 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!
“And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,And shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school.”Shakspere.
“And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,And shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school.”
Shakspere.
“IBELIEVE,” 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 sureInever 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 thatI 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! Butwhat 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 thatGoddid 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,
“‘Godmade the country, but Man made the town.’”
“‘Godmade 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!”
But come,—I have it: Thou shalt earn thy breadDuly 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.
But come,—I have it: Thou shalt earn thy breadDuly 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.
Theold 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 vitalenergies 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, thathecan take an active part in forming his own character.Hecan 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 isoneschool-boy taste which we never lose sightof 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 toGodfor 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. Thisis 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.Everyman is an ignorant man who only knows hisownclass.”
“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 towealth 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!”
You call this education, do you not?Why, ’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocksBefore a shouting drover. The glad vanMove on at ease, and pause a while to snatchA passing morsel from the dewy greensward;While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation,Fall on the troupe of the ill-fated laggardThat cripples in the rear.Old Play.
You call this education, do you not?Why, ’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocksBefore a shouting drover. The glad vanMove on at ease, and pause a while to snatchA passing morsel from the dewy greensward;While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation,Fall on the troupe of the ill-fated laggardThat 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 whowas 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 wasthe 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:—‘Spellkingdom,’ 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, ‘youthink yourself, I dare say, a very fine fellow—Ithink 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 thisdelightfulsound 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.”
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 dearAs 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!
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 dearAs 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!
“Howchanged 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 myfeelings 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, areyouto blame for this?’ ‘No, mother, I amNOT,’ 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, andJoshua Princestood 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 moredelighted, 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,’ continuedJoshua, ‘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 ofJoshua 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 amoment 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. Norwasit the beating that he cared about. It was itsinjusticethat 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 broughthimto 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. PoorHerbert Knowleswas, 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 lookeddeath 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 belowIn a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.To Beauty! Ah, no! she forgetsThe charms which she wielded before;Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adoreFor 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’dBut 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 forbidBut 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 toHopewe will build,And look for the sleepers around us to rise;The second toFaith, which insures it fulfill’d;And the third to theLambof the great sacrifice,Who bequeath’d us them both when He rose to the skies!’”
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 belowIn a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty! Ah, no! she forgetsThe charms which she wielded before;Nor knows the foul worm that he fretsThe skin which but yesterday fools could adoreFor 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’dBut 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 forbidBut 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 toHopewe will build,And look for the sleepers around us to rise;The second toFaith, which insures it fulfill’d;And the third to theLambof the great sacrifice,Who bequeath’d us them both when He rose to the skies!’”
“Thisispoetry,” 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!”
—As in those daysWhen 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.
—As in those daysWhen 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.
“IAMnow,” 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 whichwas 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 readnow, slips away almost as soon as the book is laid down; but what I learnedthen, 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 ofGod’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 ofGod, andherfrom 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,—itbrings 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 thefactsof Christianity perfectly. I could tell all the events of ourSaviour’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 ofGodand man. My father, as I have said, was a strict disciplinarian; his word was law: and my fear ofGod, 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, joininga 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 ofGod. 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 eyeHad ne’er been dimm’d by fond hopes blighted;The halo of serenityStill kept her marble forehead lighted!’
‘The liquid lustre of her eyeHad ne’er been dimm’d by fond hopes blighted;The halo of serenityStill 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 ofholding 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 ofWalna 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 betweenConistonandSeathwaite. 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 ofWalna; 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. Hewas 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—‘Godbe 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?”
“You, Sir, know that in a neighbouring valeA Priest abides before whose life such doubtsFall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lieRetired from notice. . . .In this one man is shown a temperance proofAgainst all trials; industry severeAnd constant as the motion of the day. . . .Preaching, administering, in every workOf his sublime vocation, in the walksOf worldly intercourse between man and man,And in his humble dwelling, he appearsA labourer, with moral virtue girt,With spiritual graces, like a glory, crown’d.”“Doubt can be none,” the Pastor said, “for whomThis 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, theWonderful,Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,Deservedly have styled.”Wordsworth’s Excursion.
“You, Sir, know that in a neighbouring valeA Priest abides before whose life such doubtsFall to the ground; whose gifts of nature lieRetired from notice. . . .In this one man is shown a temperance proofAgainst all trials; industry severeAnd constant as the motion of the day. . . .Preaching, administering, in every workOf his sublime vocation, in the walksOf worldly intercourse between man and man,And in his humble dwelling, he appearsA labourer, with moral virtue girt,With spiritual graces, like a glory, crown’d.”“Doubt can be none,” the Pastor said, “for whomThis 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, theWonderful,Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart,Deservedly have styled.”
Wordsworth’s Excursion.
“Hearof 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. Howhumble 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.’
“‘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 inJesus, 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 speakinghis 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.’