“Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody!”
SHAKSPERE.
“MY early days,” the old man continued, “were, as all the rest have been,
a mixture of happiness and troubles. I believe the troubles were, at the
time, rather the more abundant part, though, in looking back on my past
days I remember the bright spots more distinctly than the dark: just as,
in youth, I have stood on Yewdale crag, and distinctly seen the distant
top of Snafell in the Isle of Man, because a sunbeam happened to fall on
it, while all was dark and indistinct around it. My father was a little
_Statesman_; by which, as you know, is not meant, in Cumberland, any
thing like Lord John Russell, as such a term would be understood in
Manchester; for he never, I believe, read a newspaper in his life; nay,
probably never saw one, unless it might be upon Lady le Fleming’s hall
table, when he went, as he did, once a year, to Rydal, to pay his boon
rent to her, as lady of the manor. A statesman, in Cumberland, is the
owner of a little land; and as proud he is of his little holding, as Sir
Robert Peel can be (and proud indeed he may be!) of governing the state.
How long we had lived upon this little estate, I cannot tell, nor, I
suppose, any body else. There were no title deeds in existence; nor, I
believe, many wills, if any. When the father died, the son quietly
buried him in Hawkshead church-yard, and then as quietly stepped into his
shoes, wore out his old coats, (if they could be worn out,) and every
thing went on just as before. My father was the most silent man I ever
met with in my life. He never spoke unless he had something to say, and
that seemed to be only once or twice in the course of the day. He was
always the first up in the morning, and the last in bed at night, and
worked like a slave on his farm from sunrise to sunset. Of course I
could not understand his character then, but I have often tried to
understand it since he was taken away, and I became capable of
reflection. He never shewed me much kindness, but was never harsh,
though always firm. I had great respect for him, because I saw my
neighbours had; and I believe it is true, generally, that children learn
to value their parents a good deal by the way in which they see them
treated by indifferent persons. All my life I have always treated
parents with respect in the presence of their children.”
“Thank you, my good friend,” interrupted I, “for that hint; I will put
that down in my memorandum book.”
“As you please,” said he, smiling, “it will at least do no harm there;
nor, I believe, would it do any, if you were to put it into practice!
But to go on with my long story. My mother,—sir, I do not know how I
shall get on now. I feel a rising in my throat at the recollection of
her very name; and though she has been dead and gone many a long year,
yet every thing that she said, and every thing that she did—her quiet
smile—her linsey-woolsey petticoat—her silver shoe-buckles—her smooth
gray hair turned back in a roll over her calm forehead—her soft voice,
making the broad Cumberland dialect sweeter, even to the ear of a
stranger, than the richest music—her patience in pain—her unchanging
kindness to me in all my wayward moods and fits of passion—her regularity
in all her devotions, public and private, come at this moment as fresh
into my mind, as if she were sitting now in the corner of my little
dwelling in Salford, instead of sleeping as she has done for many a long
year, quietly and peaceably, in the south-east corner of Hawkshead
church-yard. There is no stone over her grave; but I could find it
blind-fold even now, though it is many a day since I have stood beside
it—and it concerns no one else to know where it is but myself. I
sometimes wish to be buried beside her—but what does it signify? we could
not know each other in the grave—we _shall_ know each other, with joy
_shall_ meet again hereafter!”
There was a passionate earnestness in the old man’s manner as he uttered
these last words, which differed strongly from the general quiet tone of
his narrative. I kept silence when he paused, out of respect for his
feelings, and waited for the return of his wonted calmness, which he was
not long in regaining.
“My mother taught me to read almost as soon as I could speak. The book
she used for that purpose was the Testament. It was almost the only book
in the house, except the Whole Duty of Man, and four or five black-letter
volumes, tinged with smoke from having lain for ages in the chimney
corner, the contents of which not the oldest man in all Yewdale even
pretended to understand. By the time I was five years old, being a
strong, hale boy, my father tried to make me useful about the farm, in
feeding the cows, or looking after the sheep; but it would not do. I had
hardly strength for the former task; and as to looking after the sheep,
the temptation of joining two or three similar shepherds in an expedition
of bird-nesting or nut-gathering, was always too strong to be resisted.
Proving thus unequal to these important duties, my father determined to
find me one which required, (in public opinion at that time,) abilities
of a narrower range. I heard him say one night to my mother, after I had
gone to my snug roost in the loft, where I generally slept like a top,—‘I
think there is nothing for it but to make the lad a scholar—may be a
parson.’ To this my mother readily consented; and the day after, I was
furnished with a satchel, and sent off, with two or three other boys of
the dale, to Hawkshead school, to be made a scholar!