This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: Public domain book cover]
The
Old Church Clock
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
BY
RICHARD PARKINSON, B.D.,
Canon of Manchester.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
LONDON:
J. G. F. AND J. RIVINGTON.
MANCHESTER: SIMMS AND DINHAM.
1843.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The Collegiate Church and Victoria Bridge Frontispiece
Broughton Church Following xviii
Ulverstone Church Following 64
View of Scaw Fell Following 68
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION v
MEMOIR OF ROBERT WALKER xix
The Old Church Clock
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 6
CHAPTER III 9
CHAPTER IV 12
CHAPTER V 17
CHAPTER VI 22
CHAPTER VII 29
CHAPTER VIII 37
CHAPTER IX 43
CHAPTER X 51
CHAPTER XI 60
CHAPTER XII 68
CHAPTER XIII 77
CHAPTER XIV 87
CHAPTER XV 95
[Picture: The Collegiate Church and Victoria Bridge]
INTRODUCTION.
A BRIEF history of the following homely little tale may perhaps be not
less interesting, and more edifying, than the tale itself. It was
written originally for the pages of _The Christian Magazine_, (a cheap
monthly publication, intended for circulation especially in the
manufacturing districts,) which is under the management of a young
clerical friend, who deserves the highest praise for the energy with
which he commenced, and the zeal and judgment with which he has hitherto
conducted it.
Like many more important events, the following story, which commenced
almost in jest, has ended almost in earnest. It was not at first
proposed that it should extend beyond three or four chapters; but having
nearly by accident carried his hero (so to style him) into the North for
a birth-place, a train of associations was awakened of which the author
could not forego the record. Though by birth and descent a native of
Lancashire, he had resided long enough in the region of the English Lakes
to become enamoured with its wild and romantic scenes, and intimately
acquainted with the manners and mode of thinking of its inhabitants; and,
among other charms of that sequestered district, not the least grateful
to his imagination was the character of ROBERT WALKER, for so long a
period incumbent of one of the most retired and romantic portions even of
that primitive country. Nor was it merely as an exemplary parish priest,
(and well does Robert Walker deserve the title of Priest of the Lakes, as
that of Apostle of the North has been assigned to Bernard Gilpin,) that
the character of this good man is to be regarded, but as one striking
instance out of many (if the history of our Parish Priesthood _could_ now
be written) in which the true liturgical teaching of the Church was
strictly maintained in the lower ranks of the ministry, when it had been
either totally discontinued or had withered down into a mere lifeless
form, in the higher. It cannot be denied that corruption began from
above,—secular patronage and loose foreign notions and manners first
influencing those in station and authority, and then naturally descending
downwards into the ranks of the Church; thus gradually corrupting the
whole mass to such an extent, that the chastisements which she has since
received from the whips and scorns of dissent became as wholesome as it
was deserved. Now, in the author’s mind, there was an apostolical
succession of duty as well as office in Robert Walker, which convinced
him,—and consoled him with the thought,—that there was nothing in the
Church system itself which necessarily led to that deadness in herself
and activity and success in those who dissented from her, which it was
too often his lot to witness during the first days of his ministry. {vii}
No doubt, hundreds of his brethren can look back, each to his Robert
Walker in his own district, by whose light his path was cheered when all
else seemed dark around him.
The history of Robert Walker, however, is calculated to teach a much more
important lesson than this; although it be one which seems so obvious to
_reason_, that it could hardly have been expected that any example should
be required, even to _enforce_ it. It appears quite evident, at the
first glance, that as Faith can only be illustrated, proved, and
confirmed by good works, so Doctrine can only be impressed, ingrafted,
and made practical by discipline. It is true that it may be conveyed
into the mind, and painted on the imagination, by distinct and impressive
oral teaching alone; but it can only become useful and even intelligible
to the great masses of men, by their being required to show, by some
outward act of their own, that they understand its utility, and make a
personal application of the truths which it conveys. When our SAVIOUR
Himself combined—never to be separated—outward acts and observances with
inward graces in the two holy Sacraments of His religion, He taught us,
at once by precept and example, that even the most solemn and mysterious
doctrines of His Church can only be properly impressed on the heart and
understanding by the observance of some corresponding and outward act, as
at once a sign of obedience, and a channel of further grace. This is the
system on which our Prayer Book is constructed. Are men to pray?—it
tells them when and how. Are they to believe certain _facts_ in their
religion?—it impresses them on the heart and memory by periodical
commemorations. Are they to believe certain _doctrines_?—it brings these
prominently forth at fixed times and seasons. And so on. Doctrine and
discipline, with the Church, go hand in hand, like faith and practice,
the result of both. Now all this seems so _reasonable_, that it might
hardly appear to require the test of experience to give it further
sanction; yet to that test we may fairly appeal; and the author has, in
his own mind, been constantly in the habit of doing so by the cheering
history of Robert Walker. Let us first look at the opposite side of the
picture, in the illustrious instance of NEWTON, the pious, laborious, and
eloquent minister of OLNEY. Here is a favourable specimen of the system
of spreading the Gospel by instructing the mind, and sanctifying the
feelings of the hearer, principally by oral teaching, without laying much
stress upon the necessity for prescribed outward observances. Yet what
is the result? No one can read COWPER’S beautiful letters with regard to
that place and time, and not be painfully convinced of the evanescent
nature of all impressions which are merely made by individual teaching on
individual minds, without some external bond of union by which a
religious society may be held together when the hand that first combined
it has been withdrawn; and some supply of fuel to rouse and rekindle the
slumbering embers, when the first light has been extinguished or removed.
Thus, nearly all traces of the teaching of that good man disappeared
almost as soon as his warning voice had ceased to sound in the ears of
his at the time willing hearers. {xii} But how different has been the
result in the case of the liturgical teaching and Prayer-Book discipline
of the humble Robert Walker! Even in his native valleys, not only a
pious remembrance of his character, but a willing obedience to his
precepts, still lingers. But especially in his descendants, numerous,
and scattered, and often in humble circumstances as they are found to be,
it is there that we find,—as we might most expect to find,—the impress of
his character, deeply, the author hopes, indelibly impressed; and showing
itself in a manner most edifying to the observer, and most confirmatory
of the far-seeing wisdom with which our own Church’s system of discipline
has been constructed. It has been the author’s good fortune, at
different periods of his life, to see, or to hear of-various members of
this favoured family, in almost every variety of station to which one
single race can well be supposed liable; but the result of his
observation has been always the same. Walker’s great-grandson, the Rev.
Robert Bamford, Vicar of Bishopton, who first brought this venerable
patriarch into notice beyond the boundaries of his native hills, by a
sketch of his character in the columns of the _Christian Remembrancer_,
(though partial attention had many years previously been drawn to him by
some letters in the _Annual Register_) was himself a clergyman of the
highest character and promise. One of Walker’s daughters, Mrs.
Borrowdale, who became a resident of Liverpool, retained to the last the
habits of obedience to the Prayer Book which she had been taught in
youth, and attended the daily service of St. Thomas’s in that town, till
it finally expired for want of the rubrical number of worshippers. But,
by a singular coincidence, the author was brought into contact with this
family in a way still more interesting to himself; and gladly would he
wish to convey to his readers’ mind that sympathy with his feelings,
which is necessary to enter fully into the moral of this little
narrative. The author, some years ago, was presented by a friend to a
living, and found there as curate one who had married the
great-grand-daughter of Robert Walker. Here generations had passed away
between the early stock and the last shoot of the tree; yet the connexion
between the two was by no means dissevered. The tree might still be
known by its fruit! She was one—(we may speak freely of the dead, as
they then become the common property of the Church)—she was one whom it
was not possible to know and not to love. With the liberal education
which a town residence affords, she yet retained much of the freshness of
manner and unaffected simplicity of address which belong to the
better-educated class of females in a country place, and which win the
heart more than the finest polish of artificial manners. Her real
anxiety for the comfort and pleasure of others, and total forgetfulness
of self, formed that highest species of flattery which no one can resist;
while her attention to domestic duties, her care for the poor, and her
punctual observance of religious services, combined to render her all
that one wishes to find in that most important of all stations—a curate’s
wife. She was proud—in the best sense of the word—of her descent from
Robert Walker; and Robert Walker would have been proud of her. She was
so attached to the place—and a less promising or more laborious post
could hardly be conceived—that she had often been heard to declare that
nothing should remove her from it, even should any chance deprive them of
the curacy. At length the author resolved to resign the living; and
among other reasons for doing so, one (of which he has the least reason
to be ashamed) was that he might be instrumental in procuring the
succession to it for those who were so well worthy to hold it. But,
alas! how mysterious are the ways of Providence! She, who had looked up
to this event as the highest point of her earthly ambition, was destined
never to enjoy the object of her hopes. Within a very few weeks after
this resignation, she was taken off by the immediate stroke of death, by
a complaint of which she had long entertained reasonable fears. Yet she
died, as she had lived, in the service of her Master and His Church. She
was found by her husband dead on the sofa, with the Prayer Book beside
her, open at the place where she had just been hearing her only child, a
boy of about eight years of age, read aloud to her, according to her
custom, the service for the day. Thus departed a true descendant of
Robert Walker! Thus the author’s leave-taking of his late flock was
converted into _her_ funeral sermon. He need not add _what_ topics would
naturally suggest themselves as appropriate to the melancholy occasion!
The author has thus put the reader in possession of some of the reasons
why the character of Robert Walker should have been one of especial
interest to himself: and he has now only to explain the artifice which
has been employed, in order that the public might have it before them in
all its beauty.
It is well known to all the readers of WORDSWORTH, that in addition to
the sketch which he has drawn of this primitive pastor in his great poem
of the Excursion, he has, in his notes to his sonnets on the River
Duddon, given a prose history of his life, from materials supplied by the
family, in language of the utmost simplicity and beauty. This little
memoir is, of course, locked up from the generality of readers in the
somewhat costly volumes of Mr. Wordsworth’s works; and the author has
often wished that it were reprinted in a separate form, for general
perusal, as a great man’s “Records of a Good man’s life.” Happening
then, as has already been said, to place the birth of his hero in the
North, the thought occurred to him so far to attempt a sketch of the
character of Robert Walker, as to justify him, in his own eyes, in
presenting to the Poet the request (even now an unreasonable one) that he
would permit his own true history of the Patriarch to accompany this
little narrative into the world. With this request Mr. Wordsworth has
kindly complied; thus conferring on the author a favour in addition to
many others previously received; and affording to his reader the
comfortable assurance that, in purchasing this otherwise meagre
production, he will at least receive, in the following memoir alone,
something well worth his money.
The author has only to add, that the little sketch, at the conclusion of
the tale, of the late Rev. Joshua Brooks, Chaplain of the Collegiate
Church, may probably look like a caricature to all except those who knew
him; and, (now that the publication is no longer anonymous) that the two
characters in the dialogue are both alike imaginary.
BROUGHTON CLIFF, MARCH 25, 1843.
[Picture: Broughton Church]
[From Mr. Wordsworth’s notes to his series of sonnets on the river
Duddon.]
THE reader who may have been interested in the foregoing Sonnets, (which
together may be considered as a Poem,) will not be displeased to find in
this place a prose account of the Duddon, extracted from Green’s
comprehensive _Guide to the Lakes_, lately published. “The road leading
from Coniston to Broughton is over high ground, and commands a view of
the River Duddon; which, at high water, is a grand sight, having the
beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland stretching each
way from its margin. In this extensive view, the face of nature is
displayed in a wonderful variety of hill and dale; wooded grounds and
buildings; amongst the latter, Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a
hill, rising elegantly from the valley, is an object of extraordinary
interest. Fertility on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in
the superior heights of Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the high lands
between Kirkby and Ulverstone.
“The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the banks of the Duddon, and
on its Lancashire side it is of various elevations. The river is an
amusing companion, one while brawling and tumbling over rocky precipices,
until the agitated water becomes again calm by arriving at a smoother and
less precipitous bed, but its course is soon again ruffled, and the
current thrown into every variety of foam which the rocky channel of a
river can give to water.”—_Vide Green’s Guide to the Lakes_, vol. i. pp.
98–100.
After all, the traveller would be most gratified who should approach this
beautiful Stream, neither at its source, as is done in the Sonnets, nor
from its termination; but from Coniston over Walna Scar; first descending
into a little circular valley, a collateral compartment of the long
winding vale through which flows the Duddon. This recess, towards the
close of September, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a
fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees faded, but perhaps none
fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated enough to show the
various objects in the valley, and not so high as to diminish their
importance, the stranger will instinctively halt. On the foreground,
little below the most favourable station, a rude foot-bridge is thrown
over the bed of the noisy brook foaming by the way-side. Russet and
craggy hills, of bold and varied outline, surround the level valley,
which is besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch trees. A few
homesteads are interspersed, in some places peeping out from among the
rocks like hermitages, whose site has been chosen for the benefit of
sunshine as well as shelter; in other instances, the dwelling-house,
barn, and byre, compose together a cruciform structure, which, with its
embowering trees, and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof like a
fleece, call to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most
cases, and nature every where, have given a sanctity to the humble works
of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a
harmony of tone and colour, a perfection and consummation of beauty,
which would have been marred had aim or purpose interfered with the
course of convenience, utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region
stands in no need of the veil of twilight to soften or disguise its
features. As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it would fill the
spectator’s heart with gladsomeness. Looking from our chosen station, he
would feel an impatience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by the
milkmaid, to wander from house to house, exchanging “good-morrows” as he
passed the open doors; but, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly
light gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an answering light
from the smooth surface of the meadows; when the trees are dusky, but
each kind still distinguishable; when the cool air has condensed the blue
smoke rising from the cottage-chimneys; when the dark mossy stones seem
to sleep in the bed of the foaming Brook; _then_, he would be unwilling
to move forward, not less from a reluctance to relinquish what he
beholds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, by his approach, the
quietness beneath him. Issuing from the plain of this valley, the Brook
descends in a rapid torrent, passing by the church-yard of Seathwaite.
The traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst of the wild and
beautiful scenery which gave occasion to the Sonnets from the 14th to the
20th inclusive. From the point where the Seathwaite Brook joins the
Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass through which the River makes
its way into the Plain of Donnerdale. The perpendicular rock on the
right bears the ancient British name of THE PEN; the one opposite is
called WALLA-BARROW CRAG, a name that occurs in several places to
designate rocks of the same character. The _chaotic_ aspect of the scene
is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while
dinner was preparing, and at his return, being asked by his host, “What
way he had been wandering?” replied, “As far as it is _finished_!”
The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with large fragments of rocks fallen
from aloft; which, as Mr. Green truly says, “are happily adapted to the
many-shaped waterfalls,” (or rather water-breaks, for none of them are
high,) “displayed in the short space of half a mile.” That there is some
hazard in frequenting these desolate places, I myself have had proof; for
one night an immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot where, with a
friend, I had lingered the day before. “The concussion,” says Mr. Green,
speaking of the event, (for he also, in the practice of his art, on that
day sat exposed for a still longer time to the same peril,) “was heard,
not without alarm, by the neighbouring shepherds.” But to return to
Seathwaite Church-yard: it contains the following inscription.
“In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died the 25th of June,
1802, in the 93rd year of his age, and 67th of his curacy at
Seathwaite.
“Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in the 93rd
year of her age.”
In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this notice:
“Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert Walker. He was curate of
Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was a man singular for his
temperance, industry, and integrity.”
This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the eighteenth Sonnet, as a
worthy compeer of the Country Parson of Chaucer, &c. In the Seventh Book
of the Excursion, an abstract of his character is given, beginning—
“A Priest abides before whose life such doubts
Fall to the ground;—”
and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, will
not be out of place here.
MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER.
In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at Under-Crag, in Seathwaite; he
was the youngest of twelve children. His eldest brother, who inherited
the small family estate, died at Under-Crag, aged ninety-four, being
twenty-four years older than the subject of this Memoir, who was born of
the same mother. Robert was a sickly infant; and, through his boyhood
and youth continuing to be of delicate frame and tender health, it was
deemed best, according to the country phrase, to _breed __him a scholar_;
for it was not likely that he would be able to earn a livelihood by
bodily labour. At that period few of these Dales were furnished with
schoolhouses; the children being taught to read and write in the chapel;
and in the same consecrated building, where he officiated for so many
years both as preacher and schoolmaster, he himself received the
rudiments of his education. In his youth he became schoolmaster at
Lowes-water; not being called upon, probably, in that situation, to teach
more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a
“Gentleman” in the neighbourhood, he acquired, at leisure hours, a
knowledge of the classics, and became qualified for taking holy orders.
Upon his ordination, he had the offer of two curacies; the one, Torver,
in the vale of Coniston,—the other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. The
value of each was the same, viz. five pounds _per annum_: but the cure of
Seathwaite having a cottage attached to it, as he wished to marry, he
chose it in preference. The young person on whom his affections were
fixed, though in the condition of a domestic servant, had given promise,
by her serious and modest deportment, and by her virtuous dispositions,
that she was worthy to become the helpmate of a man entering upon a plan
of life such as he had marked out for himself. By her frugality she had
stored up a small sum of money, with which they began housekeeping. In
1735 or 1736, he entered upon his curacy; and nineteen years afterwards,
his situation is thus described, in some letters to be found in the
Annual Register for 1760, from which the following is extracted:—
To Mr. —
_Coniston_, _July_ 26, 1754.
“SIR,
“I was the other day upon a party of pleasure, about five or six
miles from this place, where I met with a very striking object, and
of a nature not very common. Going into a clergyman’s house (of whom
I had frequently heard) I found him sitting at the head of a long
square table, such as is commonly used in this country by the lower
class of people, dressed in a coarse blue frock, trimmed with black
horn buttons; a checked shirt, a leathern strap about his neck for a
stock, a coarse apron, and a pair of great wooden-soled shoes, plated
with iron to preserve them, (what we call clogs in these parts,) with
a child upon his knee, eating his breakfast: his wife, and the
remainder of his children, were some of them employed in waiting upon
each other, the rest in teazing and spinning wool, at which trade he
is a great proficient; and moreover, when it is made ready for sale,
will lay it, by sixteen or thirty-two pounds weight, upon his back,
and on foot, seven or eight miles will carry it to the market, even
in the depth of winter. I was not much surprised at all this, as you
may possibly be, having heard a great deal of it related before. But
I must confess myself astonished with the alacrity and the good
humour that appeared both in the clergyman and his wife, and more so,
at the sense and ingenuity of the clergyman himself.” * *
Then follows a letter, from another person, dated 1755, from which an
extract shall be given.
“By his frugality and good management, he keeps the wolf from the
door, as we say; and if he advances a little in the world, it is
owing more to his own care, than to any thing else he has to rely
upon. I don’t find his inclination is running after further
preferment. He is settled among the people, that are happy among
themselves; and lives in the greatest unanimity and friendship with
them; and, I believe, the minister and people are exceedingly
satisfied with each other; and indeed how should they be
dissatisfied, when they have a person of so much worth and probity
for their pastor? A man, who, for his candour and meekness, his
sober, chaste, and virtuous conversation, his soundness in principle
and practice, is an ornament to his profession, and an honour to the
country he is in; and bear with me if I say, the plainness of his
dress, the sanctity of his manners, the simplicity of his doctrine,
and the vehemence of his expression, have a sort of resemblance to
the pure practice of primitive Christianity.”
We will now give his own account of himself, to be found in the same
place.
From the Rev. ROBERT WALKER.
“SIR,
“Yours of the 26th instant was communicated to me by Mr. C—, and I
should have returned an immediate answer, but the hand of Providence
then lying heavy upon an amiable pledge of conjugal endearment, hath
since taken from me a promising girl, which the disconsolate mother
too pensively laments the loss of; though we have yet eight living,
all healthful, hopeful children, whose names and ages are as
follow:—Zaccheus, aged almost eighteen years; Elizabeth, sixteen
years and ten months; Mary, fifteen; Moses, thirteen years and three
months; Sarah, ten years and three months; Mabel, eight years and
three months; William Tyson, three years and eight months; and Anne
Esther, one year and three months; besides Anne, who died two years
and six months ago, and was then aged between nine and ten; and
Eleanor, who died the 23rd inst., January, aged six years and ten
months. Zaccheus, the eldest child, is now learning the trade of
tanner, and has two years and a half of his apprenticeship to serve.
The annual income of my chapel at present, as near as I can compute
it, may amount to about £17 10s., of which is paid in cash, _viz._ £5
from the bounty of Queen Anne, and £5 from W. P., Esq., of P—, out of
the annual rents, he being lord of the manor, and £3 from the several
inhabitants of L—, settled upon the tenements as a rent-charge; the
house and gardens I value at £4 yearly, and not worth more; and I
believe the surplice fees and voluntary contributions, one year with
another, may be worth £3; but, as the inhabitants are few in number,
and the fees very low, this last-mentioned sum consists merely in
free-will offerings.
“I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with regard to the conduct
and behaviour of my auditory, who not only live in the happy
ignorance of the follies and vices of the age, but in mutual peace
and good-will with one another, and are seemingly (I hope really too)
sincere Christians, and sound members of the Established Church, not
one dissenter of any denomination being amongst them all. I got to
the value of £40 for my wife’s fortune, but had no real estate of my
own, being the youngest son of twelve children, born of obscure
parents; and, though my income has been but small, and my family
large, yet by a providential blessing upon my own diligent
endeavours, the kindness of friends, and a cheap country to live in,
we have always had the necessaries of life. By what I have written
(which is a true and exact account, to the best of my knowledge) I
hope you will not think your favour to me, out of the late worthy Dr.
Stratford’s effects, quite misbestowed, for which I must ever
gratefully own myself,
“Sir,
“Your much obliged and most obedient humble Servant,
R. W., Curate of S—.
“To Mr. C., of Lancaster.”
About the time when this letter was written, the Bishop of Chester
recommended the scheme of joining the curacy of Ulpha to the contiguous
one of Seathwaite, and the nomination was offered to Mr. Walker; but an
unexpected difficulty arising, Mr. W., in a letter to the Bishop, (a copy
of which, in his own beautiful hand-writing, now lies before me,) thus
expresses himself, “If he,” meaning the person in whom the difficulty
originated, “had suggested any such objection before, I should utterly
have declined any attempt to the curacy of Ulpha: indeed, I was always
apprehensive it might be disagreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as
they have been always accustomed to double duty, and the inhabitants of
Ulpha despair of being able to support a schoolmaster who is not curate
there also; which suppressed all thoughts in me of serving them both.”
And in a second letter to the Bishop he writes:—
“MY LORD,
“I have the favour of yours of the 1st instant, and am exceedingly
obliged on account of the Ulpha affair: if that curacy should lapse
into your Lordship’s hands, I would beg leave rather to decline than
embrace it; for the chapels of Seathwaite and Ulpha, annexed
together, would be apt to cause a general discontent among the
inhabitants of both places; by either thinking themselves slighted,
being only served alternately, or neglected in the duty, or
attributing it to covetousness in me; all which occasions of
murmuring I would willingly avoid.”
And, in concluding his former letter, he expresses a similar sentiment
upon the same occasion, “desiring, if it be possible, however, as much as
in me lieth, to live peaceably with all men.”
The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite was again augmented; and, to
effect this augmentation, fifty pounds had been advanced by himself; and,
in 1760, lands were purchased with eight hundred pounds. Scanty as was
his income, the frequent offer of much better benefices could not tempt
Mr. W. to quit a situation where he had been so long happy, with a
consciousness of being useful. Among his papers I find the following
copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty years after his refusal of the
curacy of Ulpha, which will show what exertions had been made for one of
his sons.
“MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE,
“Our remote situation here makes it difficult to get the necessary
information for transacting business regularly; such is the reason of
my giving your Grace the present trouble.
“The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering himself candidate for
deacon’s orders at your Grace’s ensuing ordination; the first, on the
25th instant, so that his papers could not be transmitted in due
time. As he is now fully at age, and I have afforded him education
to the utmost of my ability, it would give me great satisfaction (if
your Grace would take him, and find him qualified) to have him
ordained. His constitution has been tender for some years; he
entered the college of Dublin, but his health would not permit him to
continue there, or I would have supported him much longer. He has
been with me at home above a year, in which time he has gained great
strength of body, sufficient, I hope, to enable him for performing
the function. Divine Providence, assisted by liberal benefactors,
has blest my endeavours, from a small income, to rear a numerous
family; and as my time of life renders me now unfit for much future
expectancy from this world, I should be glad to see my son settled in
a promising way to acquire an honest livelihood for himself. His
behaviour, so far in life, has been irreproachable; and I hope he
will not degenerate, in principles or practice, from the precepts and
pattern of an indulgent parent. Your Grace’s favourable reception of
this, from a distant corner of the diocese, and an obscure hand, will
excite filial gratitude, and a due use shall be made of the
obligation vouchsafed thereby to
“Your Grace’s very dutiful and most obedient
“Son and Servant,
“ROBERT WALKER.”
The same man, who was thus liberal in the education of his numerous
family, was even munificent in hospitality as a parish priest. Every
Sunday, were served, upon the long table, at which he has been described
sitting with a child upon his knee, messes of broth, for the refreshment
of those of his congregation who came from a distance, and usually took
their seats as parts of his own household. It seems scarcely possible
that this custom could have commenced before the augmentation of his
cure; and what would to many have been a high price of self-denial, was
paid, by the pastor and his family, for this gratification; as the treat
could only be provided by dressing at one time the whole, perhaps, of
their weekly allowance of fresh animal food; consequently, for a
succession of days, the table was covered with cold victuals only. His
generosity in old age may be still further illustrated by a little
circumstance relating to an orphan grandson, then ten years of age, which
I find in a copy of a letter to one of his sons; he requests that
half-a-guinea may be left for “little Robert’s pocket-money,” who was
then at school; intrusting it to the care of a lady, who, as he says,
“may sometimes frustrate his squandering it away foolishly,” and
promising to send him an equal allowance annually for the same purpose.
The conclusion of the same letter is so characteristic, that I cannot
forbear to transcribe it.
“We,” meaning his wife and himself, “are in our wonted state of
health, allowing for the hasty strides of old age knocking daily at
our door, and threateningly telling us, we are not only mortal, but
must expect ere long to take our leave of our ancient cottage, and
lie down in our last dormitory. Pray pardon my neglect to answer
yours: let us hear sooner from you, to augment the mirth of the
Christmas holidays. Wishing you all the pleasures of the approaching
season, I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, yours affectionately,
“ROBERT WALKER.”
He loved old customs and usages, and in some instances stuck to them to
his own loss; for, having had a sum of money lodged in the hands of a
neighbouring tradesman, when long course of time had raised the rate of
interest, and more was offered, he refused to accept it; an act not
difficult to one, who, while he was drawing seventeen pounds a year from
his curacy, declined, as we have seen, to add the profits of another
small benefice to his own, lest he should be suspected of cupidity.—From
this vice he was utterly free; he made no charge for teaching school;
such as could afford to pay, gave him what they pleased. When very
young, having kept a diary of his expenses, however trifling, the large
amount, at the end of the year, surprised him; and from that time the
rule of his life was to be economical, not avaricious. At his decease he
left behind him no less a sum than £2000; and such a sense of his various
excellencies was prevalent in the country, that the epithet of WONDERFUL
is to this day attached to his name.
There is in the above sketch something so extraordinary as to require
further explanatory details.—And to begin with his industry; eight hours
in each day, during five days in the week, and half of Saturday, except
when the labours of husbandry were urgent, he was occupied in teaching.
His seat was within the rails of the altar; the communion-table was his
desk; and, like Shenstone’s schoolmistress, the master employed himself
at the spinning-wheel, while the children were repeating their lessons by
his side. Every evening, after school hours, if not more profitably
engaged, he continued the same kind of labour, exchanging, for the
benefit of exercise, the small wheel, at which he had sate, for the large
one on which wool is spun, the spinner stepping to and fro. Thus was the
wheel constantly in readiness to prevent the waste of a moment’s time.
Nor was his industry with the pen, when occasion called for it, less
eager. Intrusted with extensive management of public and private
affairs, he acted, in his rustic neighbourhood, as scrivener, writing out
petitions, deeds of conveyance, wills, covenants, etc., with pecuniary
gain to himself, and to the great benefit of his employers. These
labours (at all times considerable) at one period of the year, viz.
between Christmas and Candlemas, when money transactions are settled in
this country, were often so intense, that he passed great part of the
night, and sometimes whole nights, at his desk. His garden also was
tilled by his own hand; he had a right of pasturage upon the mountains
for a few sheep and a couple of cows, which required his attendance: with
this pastoral occupation, he joined the labours of husbandry upon a small
scale, renting two or three acres in addition to his own less than one
acre of glebe; and the humblest drudgery which the cultivation of these
fields required was performed by himself.
He also assisted his neighbours in haymaking and shearing their flocks,
and in the performance of this latter service he was eminently dexterous.
They, in their turn, complimented him with the present of a haycock, or a
fleece; less as a recompense for this particular service than as a
general acknowledgment. The Sabbath was in a strict sense kept holy; the
Sunday evenings being devoted to reading the Scripture and family prayer.
The principal festivals appointed by the Church were also duly observed;
but through every other day in the week, through every week in the year,
he was incessantly occupied in work of hand or mind; not allowing a
moment for recreation, except upon a Saturday afternoon, when he indulged
himself with a Newspaper, or sometimes with a Magazine. The frugality
and temperance established in his house, were as admirable as the
industry. Nothing to which the name of luxury could be given was there
known; in the latter part of his life, indeed, when tea had been brought
into almost general use, it was provided for visiters, and for such of
his own family as returned occasionally to his roof and had been
accustomed to this refreshment elsewhere; but neither he nor his wife
ever partook of it. The raiment worn by his family was comely and
decent, but as simple as their diet; the homespun materials were made up
into apparel by their own hands. At the time of the decease of this
thrifty pair, their cottage contained a large store of webs of woollen
and linen cloth, woven from thread of their own spinning. And it is
remarkable that the pew in the chapel in which the family used to sit
remained a few years ago neatly lined with woollen cloth spun by the
pastor’s own hands. It is the only pew in the chapel so distinguished;
and I know of no other instance of his conformity to the delicate
accommodations of modern times. The fuel of the house, like that of
their neighbours, consisted of peat, procured from the mosses by their
own labour. The lights by which, in the winter evenings, their work was
performed, were of their own manufacture, such as still continue to be
used in these cottages; they are made of the pith of rushes dipped in any
unctuous substance that the house affords. White candles, as tallow
candles are here called, were reserved to honour the Christmas festivals,
and were perhaps produced upon no other occasions. Once a month, during
the proper season, a sheep was drawn from their small mountain flock, and
killed for the use of the family; and a cow towards the close of the
year, was salted and dried, for winter provision: the hide was tanned to
furnish them with shoes.—By these various resources, this venerable
clergyman reared a numerous family, not only preserving them, as he
affectingly says, “from wanting the necessaries of life;” but afforded
them an unstinted education, and the means of raising themselves in
society.
It might have been concluded that no one could thus, as it were, have
converted his body into a machine of industry for the humblest uses, and
kept his thoughts so frequently bent upon secular concerns, without
grievous injury to the more precious parts of his nature. How could the
powers of intellect thrive, or its graces be displayed, in the midst of
circumstances apparently so unfavourable, and where to the direct
cultivation of the mind, so small a portion of time was allotted? But,
in this extraordinary man, things in their nature adverse were
reconciled; his conversation was remarkable, not only for being chaste
and pure, but for the degree in which it was fervent and eloquent; his
written style was correct, simple, and animated. Nor did his
_affections_ suffer more than his intellect; he was tenderly alive to all
the duties of his pastoral office: the poor and needy “he never sent
empty away,”—the stranger was fed and refreshed in passing that
unfrequented vale—the sick were visited; and the feelings of humanity
found further exercise among the distresses and embarrassments in the
worldly estate of his neighbours, with which his talents for business
made him acquainted; and the disinterestedness, impartiality, and
uprightness which he maintained in the management of all affairs confided
to him, were virtues seldom separated in his own conscience from
religious obligations. Nor could such conduct fail to remind those who
witnessed it of a spirit nobler than law or custom: they felt convictions
which, but for such intercourse, could not have been afforded, that, as
in the practice of their pastor, there was no guile, so in his faith
there was nothing hollow; and we are warranted in believing, that upon
these occasions, selfishness, obstinacy, and discord would often give way
before the breathings of his good-will and saintly integrity. It may be
presumed also, while his humble congregation were listening to the moral
precepts which he delivered from the pulpit, and to the Christian
exhortations that they should love their neighbour as themselves, and do
as they would be done unto, that peculiar efficacy was given to the
preacher’s labours by recollections in the minds of his congregation,
that they were called upon to do no more than his own actions were daily
setting before their eyes.
The afternoon service in the chapel was less numerously attended than
that of the morning, but by a more serious auditory; the lesson from the
New Testament, on those occasions, was accompanied by Birkett’s
Commentaries. These lessons he read with impassioned emphasis,
frequently drawing tears from his hearers, and leaving a lasting
impression upon their minds. His devotional feelings and the powers of
his own mind were further exercised, along with those of his family, in
perusing the Scriptures; not only on the Sunday evenings, but on every
other evening, while the rest of the household were at work, some one of
the children, and in her turn the servant, for the sake of practice in
reading, or for instruction, read the Bible aloud; and in this manner the
whole was repeatedly gone through. That no common importance was
attached to the observance of religious ordinances by his family, appears
from the following memorandum by one of his descendants, which I am
tempted to insert at length, as it is characteristic, and somewhat
curious. “There is a small chapel in the county palatine of Lancaster,
where a certain clergyman has regularly officiated above sixty years, and
a few months ago administered the sacrament of the LORD’s Supper in the
same, to a decent number of devout communicants. After the clergyman had
received himself, the first company out of the assembly who approached
the altar, and kneeled down to be partakers of the sacred elements,
consisted of the parson’s wife, to whom he had been married upwards of
sixty years; one son and his wife; four daughters, each with her husband;
whose ages, all added together, amounted to above 714 years. The several
and respective distances from the place of each of their abodes to the
chapel where they all communicated, will measure more than 1000 English
miles. Though the narration will appear surprising, it is without doubt
a fact that the same persons, exactly four years before, met at the same
place, and all joined in performance of the same venerable duty.”
He was indeed most zealously attached to the doctrine and frame of the
Established Church. We have seen him congratulating himself that he had
no dissenters in his cure of any denomination. Some allowance must be
made for the state of opinion when his first religious impressions were
received, before the reader will acquit him of bigotry, when I mention,
that at the time of the augmentation of the cure, he refused to invest
part of the money in the purchase of an estate offered to him upon
advantageous terms, because the proprietor was a Quaker;—whether from
scrupulous apprehension that a blessing would not attend a contract
framed for the benefit of the Church between persons not in religious
sympathy with each other; or, as a seeker of peace, he was afraid of the
uncomplying disposition which at one time was too frequently conspicuous
in that sect. Of this an instance had fallen under his own notice; for,
while he taught school at Loweswater, certain persons of that
denomination had refused to pay annual interest due under the title of
Church-stock; {xxxix} a great hardship upon the incumbent, for the curacy
of Loweswater was then scarcely less poor than that of Seathwaite. To
what degree this prejudice of his was blameable need not be
determined;—certain it is, that he was not only desirous, as he himself
says, to live in peace, but in love, with all men. He was placable, and
charitable in his judgments; and, however correct in conduct and rigorous
to himself, he was ever ready to forgive the trespasses of others, and to
soften the censure that was cast upon their frailties.—It would be
unpardonable to omit that, in the maintenance of his virtues, he received
due support from the Partner of his long life. She was equally strict in
attending to a share of their joint cares, nor less diligent in her
appropriate occupations. A person who had been some time their servant
in the latter part of their lives, concluded the panegyric of her
mistress by saying to me, “she was no less excellent than her husband;
she was good to the poor, she was good to every thing!” He survived for
a short time this virtuous companion. When she died, he ordered that her
body should be borne to the grave by three of her daughters and one
grand-daughter; and, when the corpse was lifted from the threshold, he
insisted upon lending his aid, and feeling about, for he was then almost
blind, took hold of a napkin fixed to the coffin; and, as a bearer of the
body, entered the Chapel, a few steps from the lowly Parsonage.
What a contrast does the life of this obscurely-seated, and, in point of
worldly wealth, poorly-repaid Churchman, present to that of Cardinal
Wolsey!
“O ’tis a burthen, Cromwell, ’tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven!”
We have been dwelling upon images of peace in the moral world, that have
brought us again to the quiet enclosure of consecrated ground, in which
this venerable pair lie interred. The sounding brook, that rolls close
by the church-yard without disturbing feeling or meditation, is now
unfortunately laid bare; but not long ago it participated, with the
chapel, the shade of some stately ash-trees, which will not spring again.
While the spectator from this spot is looking round upon the girdle of
stony mountains that encompasses the vale,—masses of rock, out of which
monuments for all men that ever existed might have been hewn, it would
surprise him to be told, as with truth he might be, that the plain blue
slab dedicated to the memory of this aged pair, is a production of a
quarry in North Wales! It was sent as a mark of respect by one of their
descendants from the vale of Festiniog, a region almost as beautiful as
that in which it now lies.
Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small distance from the Parsonage, has
been erected a mill for spinning yarn; it is a mean and disagreeable
object, though not unimportant to the spectator, as calling to mind the
momentous changes wrought by such inventions in the frame of
society—changes which have proved especially unfavourable to these
mountain solitudes. So much had been effected by those new powers,
before the subject of the preceding biographical sketch closed his life,
that their operation could not escape his notice, and doubtless excited
touching reflections upon the comparatively insignificant results of his
own manual industry. But Robert Walker was not a man of times and
circumstances: had he lived at a later period, the principle of duty
would have produced application as unremitting; the same energy of
character would have been displayed, though in many instances with
widely-different effects.
Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of Loweswater as a place
where Mr. Walker taught school, I will add a few memoranda from its
parish register, respecting a person apparently of desires as moderate,
with whom he must have been intimate during his residence there.
“Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great
As are his mounting wishes; but for me
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be.
HENRY FOREST, Curate.
Honour, the idol which the most adore,
Receives no homage from my knee;
Content in privacy I value more
Than all uneasy dignity.
Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being 25 years of age.”
“This Curacy was twice augmented by Queen Anne’s bounty. The first
payment, with great difficulty, was paid to Mr. John Curwen, of
London, on the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest,
Curate of Loweswater. Ye said 9th of May, ye said Mr. Curwen went to
the office, and saw my name registered there, &c. This, by the
Providence of GOD, came by lot to this poor place.
Hæc testor H. Forest.”
In another place he records, that the sycamore-trees were planted in the
church-yard in 1710.
He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four years. It is not
improbable that H. Forest was the gentleman who assisted Robert Walker in
his classical studies at Loweswater.
To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of which the following
verses are a part.
“Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu
Diffugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus;
Utendum est ætate, cito pede preterit ætas.”
With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and confirmatory of the above
account, Extracts from a Paper in the Christian Remembrancer, October,
1819: it bears an assumed signature, but is known to be the work of the
Rev. Robert Bamford, vicar of Bishopton, in the county of Durham; a
great-grandson of Mr. Walker, whose worth it commemorates, by a record
not the less valuable for being written in very early youth.
“His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were
industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quietness,
characterised the whole family. No railings, no idleness, no
indulgence of passion, were permitted. Every child, however young,
had its appointed engagements; every hand was busy. Knitting,
spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, making shoes, were by
the different children constantly performing. The father himself
sitting amongst them, and guiding their thoughts, was engaged in the
same occupations.
* * *
“He sate up late, and rose early; when the family were at rest, he
retired to a little room which he had built on the roof of his house.
He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves for his books, his
stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold
winter’s night, without fire, while the roof was glazed with ice, did
he remain reading or writing, till the day dawned. He taught the
children in the chapel, for there was no school-house. Yet in that
cold, damp place he never had a fire. He used to send the children
in parties either to his own fire at home, or make them run up the
mountain’s side.
* * *
“It may be further mentioned, that he was a passionate admirer of
nature; she was his mother, and he was a dutiful child. While
engaged on the mountains, it was his greatest pleasure to view the
rising sun; and in tranquil evenings, as it slided behind the hills,
he blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils and plants: a
constant observer of the stars and winds: the atmosphere was his
delight. He made many experiments on its nature and properties. In
summer he used to gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by
his entertaining description, amuse and instruct his children. They
shared all his daily employments, and derived many sentiments of love
and benevolence from his observations on the works and productions of
nature. Whether they were following him in the field, or surrounding
him in school, he took every opportunity of storing their minds with
useful information.—Nor was the circle of his influence confined to
Seathwaite. Many a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker,
and begged him to be as good a man.
* * *
“Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing and
hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even then, the
calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and
adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue, had
such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed
clergyman, without thinking of Mr. Walker * * * *. He allowed no
dissenter or methodist to interfere in the instruction of the souls
committed to his cure: and so successful were his exertions, that he
had not one dissenter of any denomination whatever in the whole
parish.—Though he avoided all religious controversies, yet when age
had silvered his head, and virtuous piety had secured to his
appearance reverence and silent honour, no one, however determined in
his hatred of apostolic descent, could have listened to his discourse
on ecclesiastical history, and ancient times, without thinking, that
one of the beloved apostles had returned to mortality, and in that
vale of peace had come to exemplify the beauty of holiness in the
life and character of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death,
his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this
misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually
decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He
never preached with steadiness after his wife’s death. His voice
faltered: he always looked at the seat she had used. He could not
pass her tomb without tears. He became, when alone, sad and
melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured.
He went to bed about twelve o’clock the night before his death. As
his custom was, he went, tottering and leaning upon his daughter’s
arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open
air. ‘How clear the moon shines to night!’ He said those words,
sighed, and laid down. At six next morning he was found a corpse.
Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing
followed him to the grave.”
THE OLD-CHURCH CLOCK.
CHAPTER I.
Trouble is a thing that will come without our call: but true joy will
not spring up without ourselves.
—BISHOP PATRICK’s “_Heart’s Ease_.”
One fine day last spring—(and fine days are not so common in Manchester,
at that season of the year, as to make them easily forgotten)—one fine
day I was crossing the new Victoria bridge, from the Manchester to the
Salford side of the river, when my attention was arrested by a
middle-aged person, (I had nearly written gentleman, but that word would
not have conveyed quite an accurate idea to the reader,) who was gazing
very steadily over the battlements, at the OLD CHURCH CLOCK. He was a
person whom I had often remarked strolling about the streets of the town,
and whom I felt myself to be perfectly acquainted with, by sight, though
I had no idea whatever of his name or occupation. Occupation, indeed, I
felt almost assured he had none, or at least not one which demanded any
considerable portion of his time; for, besides his age, which was
evidently too advanced to permit him to discharge any very laborious
duties, he was more abroad in the open air, than was consistent with any
constant or indispensable calling. His dress was of a description which
implied something above want, though not much; for, like its wearer, it
had seen better days; moreover, it showed its owner to be a man not given
to change; for it was of a fashion more in vogue thirty years ago, than
at the present time. Over a coat that had once been of a blacker dye
than now, he wore a _spencer_, or short great-coat, buttoned up to the
chin. His small-clothes were strictly what their name implies, closely
buttoned at the knees. His legs were comfortably encased in thick
woollen stockings, which received additional warmth from a pair of short
black gaiters, which clothed his ancles. Altogether he had rather the
air of a country schoolmaster, with more scholars than fees, taking the
air on a half-holiday. This respectable personage was (as I said) gazing
steadfastly at the OLD CHURCH CLOCK, over the battlements of the bridge:
he had his own watch in his hand, of ample size and antique appearance;
and I saw that he was going to regulate its time by that of the venerable
old time-teller in the tower of the Collegiate Church. Knowing that at
that moment the Old Church clock was not, as they say “quite right,” (for
friend PETER CLARE is sometimes much more attentive to the accuracy of
his own external appearance, than to the correctness of those measurers
of time, which her majesty’s subjects have committed to his regulation,)
I could not resist the inclination to caution one, whom I almost
considered an old acquaintance, against being led into error, by setting
his own watch to a clock which was at least five minutes behind the hour.
“My friend,” said I, (taking out my own watch at the same time, to give
some force to my words,) “that clock is six minutes too slow.” “It may
be so, sir,” said he, looking at me quite in the way that I had looked at
him, viz. as an old acquaintance, “it may be so, but I always set my
watch by that clock, every week, whether it be right or wrong!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed I, “that seems a strange fancy.” “It may be so,”
said he, “and perhaps it is. But, sir, I know that clock of old; five
and forty years I have gone by it, and it has never led me far wrong yet.
It has saved me some good thrashings, and more hard money; to say nothing
of better things it has done for me. It is now the oldest friend I have
in Manchester, and I keep up my acquaintance with it, by setting my watch
by it every Saturday; and, with GOD’s blessing, so long as I live in
Manchester, (and it is very likely, now, that I may live here till I
die,) I will set my watch by that clock, be it right or wrong!” There
was a mixture of joke and earnest in the old man’s manner, as he said
this, like one who feels that what he says seriously may yet be open to
ridicule; and I could not help replying, in a tone somewhat similar to
his own—“Well, I never heard so much said in favour of the Old Church
clock before! As we are walking in the same direction, perhaps you will
give me some particulars as to your acquaintance with that old clock, and
of the good which you have had out of it.”
“It will be rather a long story, sir: but I am getting to an age when it
is a pleasure to me to tell long stories, especially about myself—I have
little else to do.”
Here there was a pause of some duration; and I saw an anxious expression
on the old man’s features, either as if he was somewhat startled with the
task which he had undertaken, or did not quite know where to begin:
probably both feelings were in his mind, for in about half a minute, he
raised his eyes a little, which had been, till then, fixed on the ground,
and said, as if half to me and half to himself, “I think it will be best
to begin at the beginning. He will like to hear of my young days, and it
is a pleasure to me to go over them again. I was not, sir, born in
Manchester; indeed, I hardly ever knew any body that was! Many come from
Ireland, like pigs, and they live like pigs; and many from the north,
like woodcocks and fieldfares,—some grow fat like fieldfares, and some
grow lean like woodcocks!”
I now found that my new friend had some humour in his conversation; and I
confess, I did not like him the worse for it. He continued:—“I am from
the north. I was born in one of the wildest parts of the country you
ever saw, in the midst of lakes and mountains. It has been fashionable
lately to visit the lake country, but most persons go in their carriages
or on horseback, and they miss the very finest parts and the grandest
scenes. I did not think much of the beauties of the country then; but
since I left it, and came to live in this smoky dungeon, my heart has
often gone back to the place of my birth; and it now looks much more
beautiful in my mind than it did then to my eyes, or than it probably
would if I were ever to see it again.—I wonder if that will ever be!”—he
here half whispered to himself—“Sir, the house in which I was born stood
in one of the most retired parts of the lake country—a spot, I dare say,
never visited at all by strangers. They call it _Yewdale_. The house (I
see it now!) was low, and built of cobbles, but firm as a rock; one end,
indeed, had fallen in, and was used as a hen-roost and cart-house, but
the main part of the house was well slated with good brown flat stones,
out of Coniston Old Man, and had two chimneys at the top as tall and
round as a churn. The house stood on the side of the hill, just where
the road makes a turn to run right down upon Coniston Water Head. There
was a great broad plane tree at the end of it,”—“and a large thorn before
the door,” interrupted I, “with the top of it cut into the shape of a
cock.”
“Exactly so!” exclaimed he, looking up into my face with much surprise,
“why you have seen the very place!”
“To be sure I have, and that the very last summer, when I was strolling
about Yewdale and Tilberthwaite, the finest part of all the lake
country.”
“Eh, sir!” said he, his native dialect unconsciously returning with his
early recollections,—“Eh, sir, and is it not a _bonny bit_?—and so the
old cock is still crowing on the top of the old thorn!”
“Indeed it _was_,” said I; “but as I passed by, I saw a ladder reared up
to its side, and a decent looking man, apparently the owner, diligently
employed, with a pair of shears, in cutting off the cock’s tail!”
“Confound Tom Hebblethwaite,” said my companion, more seriously vexed
than I thought it possible for him to be,—“I wish—but I am a fool for
being angry with him—what better could be expected from him? At school
he was always a stupid fellow; he never could catch a trout out of the
lake in his life, and whenever he tried to rob a hen-roost, he was sure
to tumble down the ladder, and waken all the cocks and hens in the
parish!”
I was much amused at the reasons which the old man assigned why nothing
good could be expected from Tom Hebblethwaite, but said nothing more to
provoke his indignation, which I saw he soon became rather ashamed of.
After a pause he regained his wonted composure, and proceeded:—“In that
house I was born. My earliest recollection is the death of my
grandmother. I do not know how old she was, but she must have been near
a hundred years old. I yet remember her calling me to her bed side, just
before her death, giving me a shilling, which she seemed to have
concealed somewhere about the bed-clothes, and saying, in a deep and
earnest tone, ‘God bless you.’ She died that night. I have never
forgotten her blessing, and I have never parted with her shilling—I never
will!” There was a tear in his eye as he said this, and he paused for a
few moments in his narrative.