—As in those days
When this low pile a Gospel Teacher knew,
Whose good works form’d an endless retinue:
Such priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays;
Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
And tender Goldsmith crown’d with deathless praise!
WORDSWORTH.
“I AM now,” the old man continued, “approaching the most important period
of my life. My school-days glided away peaceably, and in some measure,
profitably. I was quite able and willing to learn every thing required
of me by my masters, and had plenty of time to spare to follow all those
various sports and amusements which occupy the time and thoughts of
rustic lads in mountain regions. Bird-nesting, fishing, wrestling,
hunting, came each in their turn with the change of the seasons; and I
was growing up a hale, strong youth, happy in my home, and in good humour
with myself and all the world: and, sir, I cannot help remarking, by the
way, that good humour, like charity, ‘begins at home;’ for I never knew
any one yet who was dissatisfied and out of sorts with persons or things
around him, who had not first quarrelled with himself.”
“I really think there is much truth in that remark of yours,” said I.
“Depend upon it there is,” he continued. “Well, my happiness at that
period of my life might be said, as far as human happiness could be,—to
be perfect. But yet the religious state of my mind was not quite
satisfactory. I had learned, and not only well remembered, but
understood, every thing with regard to religion which was taught us at
school; and that, believe me, was not little. We were taught to repeat
our Catechism, with Archbishop Wake’s explanation of it, every week. We
read the Bible as a school-book, till we could almost repeat it from
beginning to end; and every story in it was as familiar to my mind as the
Lord’s Prayer. I know many have a strong objection to the use of the
Bible as a school-book, but I confess I am not among the number. On the
contrary, I hold that familiarity with the Scriptures in childhood is the
only way in which a knowledge of them can be so deeply impressed upon the
memory, as that the passages which we want shall always be at hand to
serve us at every turn. As we get older we may understand what we read
better, but we do not remember it so clearly or so long. What I read
_now_, slips away almost as soon as the book is laid down; but what I
learned _then_, is as fresh in my memory as my school-day sports, or my
first companions in life. I know it is objected, that an early
familiarity with the Scriptures is apt to bring them into contempt, and
that we are liable to attach false meanings to passages, which sometimes
cling to us through the rest of our lives. But surely, if this be the
effect, the fault is rather in those who put the Scriptures into our
hands, than in our early youth, in which we first begin to read them. I
only know that I learned to reverence even the outside of the book of
GOD’s Word from my poor mother’s reverent manner of using it. She never
opened the volume without an expression of countenance which showed that
she felt herself at that moment to be in the more immediate presence of
her Maker; and I still look upon the corner in which it was always put
aside, and call to mind its black cover, with her horn spectacles resting
upon it, with as much respect as the Roman Catholic is said to regard the
image of his saint. Mine, however, is no superstitious reverence, but a
pious regard for the Word of GOD, and _her_ from whose lips I was first
taught it; and, sir, when I read my Bible now, which I hope I do not much
neglect, I combine pleasure as well as well as profit,—it brings back to
me the happy recollections of my youth, as well as affords the
consolations of old age.”
“I quite agree with you,” said I, “as to the advantages of an early
acquaintance with the Bible. Whether it should be made a school-book or
not, depends entirely upon the capabilities and sound principles of the
teacher.”
“There you are right,” said he; “but mine were like the ‘words of king
Lemuel, which his mother taught him:’ and old Bowman, to do him justice,
drilled the somewhat dry catechism of the good Archbishop pretty soundly
into my memory. Yet, as far as I can recollect, I had not at that time
any very distinct notions of the value of the Gospel, as distinct from
natural religion, and the obvious duty of doing as I was taught. I knew
all the _facts_ of Christianity perfectly. I could tell all the events
of our SAVIOUR’s life, and enumerate accurately every doctrine taught by
Himself and His apostles. I knew the necessity of unity in the Catholic
Church, and understood the Creeds by which that unity was intended to be
secured. But I did not see how these things applied to myself, as guides
for my own thoughts and actions. My real religion, I believe, as far as
I can call back my thoughts at this distance of time, consisted a good
deal in fear, both of GOD and man. My father, as I have said, was a
strict disciplinarian; his word was law: and my fear of GOD, I cannot
help thinking, arose almost naturally out of the situation in which
nature had placed me. In very early life,—as far back as I can recollect
anything,—I underwent great alarm from what is a common occurrence in
that mountain range—a terrific thunder storm. The effect of the
lightning in that land of hill and valley, is very striking; and was
never more so than on that well-remembered day! Sometimes it seemed to
dance in wanton playfulness on the side of the mountain, and sometimes to
split it from the top to the bottom. Then the echoing thunder ran up one
valley and down another in that land of seams and ridges, coming back
again to the place which it had left, with a voice hardly weakened by its
circuit; and there, joining a new and equally loud report, the bellowing
became as confused and endless as it was startling. Then came the
thunder-shower, not in drops of rain, but solid sheets of water. The
white cataracts began foaming and rushing down the side of every hill,
and gushing out of every opening in the valleys, till they swelled our
little stream that winds beneath the house into a mighty and irresistible
torrent, sweeping every thing before it towards the lake with rapid and
resistless fury. But what most impressed my mind at the moment, was to
see a poor innocent sheep, as well known to me by face as Dash himself,
hurled down by the current, and bleating piteously, but in vain, for
help! This scene, and scenes like these, made a deep impression on my
mind; and I began to entertain a constant and solemn feeling of the
continual presence and irresistible power of GOD. This thought was
uppermost in my mind from morning till night; in the fields and on my
bed. It was doubtless valuable to me as a guide to duty, but it gave a
gloomy turn to my thoughts which was inconsistent with the buoyant
feelings of youth, and, as I have since discovered, not in harmony with
the true spirit of the Gospel.”
But I must now introduce to you another member of our family, to whom I
have as yet hardly alluded, for many painful reasons, but whose history
now begins to be blended with mine in a manner which renders all farther
avoidance of her tale impossible. I refer to my poor sister Martha! She
was several years older than myself; and at the time I am now speaking
of, had arrived at woman’s estate. She was a splendid specimen of a fine
well-grown mountain girl, except that she was rather paler than exactly
suits the taste of the hardy mountaineer; her paleness, however, arose, I
believe, not from any delicacy of frame, but from habitual
thoughtfulness. How she was admired and sought after by the shy rustics
of the neighbourhood! and, above all, how she was beloved by myself!
Alas!—in the language of a friend of mine, who, though unknown to fame,
is a true poet—at that period of her short life,
‘The liquid lustre of her eye
Had ne’er been dimm’d by fond hopes blighted;
The halo of serenity
Still kept her marble forehead lighted!’
“Her kindness to me seemed to arise from her having united the feelings
of a sister and a mother towards me. She was so much older than myself
as to be justified in using, as she sometimes did, the language of
authority; and yet not so far removed from me in years, but that she
could look upon me as a brother, and that I could treat her (as I too
often did) with at least a brother’s freedom. Thus, as I grew older, and
my mind expanded from the instruction I received at Hawkshead, I became
more and more to be regarded by her as a companion and less as a child.
Thus she, who had been a check upon me and a teacher, now began at times
to learn something from me, of which you may well suppose that I was very
proud; whilst I was daily growing in admiration of her industry, piety,
and patience. She assisted her mother in all the female labours of the
house and the little farm, and yet always kept herself as neat and nice
as if she had nothing else to do. All at once, her manner began to
change. Instead of her constant cheerfulness, she became anxious and
absent, though by no means fretful or impatient. Her paleness visibly
increased, and her step grew less elastic and light. She occasionally
absented herself from home without mentioning where she had been, or
asking me, as she used formerly to do, to accompany her. This was
noticed by myself long before it was perceived, or at least mentioned, by
either my father or my mother; for I began to entertain a jealous feeling
that her affections were, from some cause or other, weakening towards me;
yet, as she never mentioned the subject herself, a feeling of pride or
obstinacy checked me from being the first to seek an explanation.
“We stood in this situation with regard to each other just at the time
when I was approaching fourteen years of age, and a rumour ran through
the country that the Bishop was about to visit Ulverston for the purpose
of holding a Confirmation. This, as you may suppose, caused a great
sensation among the youths of my age in that retired neighbourhood, for
visitations were not so frequent then as they fortunately are now, though
surely if they were still more frequent, it would be a great blessing to
the country. For this solemn rite it was necessary that I should be
prepared. But we were a long way from our parish church of Seathwaite,
and we had been in the habit, for nearness, of frequenting Torver chapel,
though not resident in the district. I confess I looked forward to this
preparation with a mixed feeling of alarm and curiosity. I was alarmed
for fear that I should be found sadly deficient in the information
necessary to justify me in appearing before the Bishop; and I was curious
to know what steps my parents proposed to take to have me trained for the
proper participation in this solemn rite. I confess that a willingness
to postpone what I considered a somewhat evil day prevented me from
asking any questions on this subject. At last I overheard a conversation
between my parents one night after we had retired to rest (for our rooms
were so near, and the doors and walls so full of chinks, that everything
that passed was distinctly heard from one room to another) which led me
to expect that the very day after, I was to be put in a train for
preparation; but how, I had no means of gathering. Accordingly, after
the usual morning’s work of the farm was over, my father (which was very
unusual with him) went to his room to put on his Sunday’s clothes; and my
mother, with a pleased yet anxious expression on her countenance,
directed me to do the same. I asked no questions, for the reason I have
just mentioned, but quietly obeyed. We were soon on the way together.
“It was a fine bright autumn morning, when we set off on this remarkable
pilgrimage; I feeling that nothing but a most important matter could have
induced my father to lose a day’s work at this season of the year; and my
father and mother observing a perfect silence, both apparently wrapped up
in their own thoughts. Our way lay by a cart-track that led right up to
the top of WALNA SCAR, a fine bold cliff, which I dare say you have
climbed, for sight-seers find it a noble point for a prospect on their
way between CONISTON and SEATHWAITE. It was the time of the year when
the farmers in that country cut their turf for their winter stock of
firing, and all the able-bodied population are then to be found assembled
at their work on the hills. I felt assured therefore, that my parents
were seeking some labourer in the place where he was sure, at that
season, to be found; but how this could possibly concern me, I could not
conjecture. At last, after a toilsome climb, we reached to the top of
WALNA; and there lay before us a prospect, such as the eye can command, I
should think, in few other regions of the globe! Mountains of all shapes
and sizes lay tossed in wild confusion around us, like the billows of a
stormy sea! Lakes sparkled at our feet like looking-glasses for the
giants; while the mighty western ocean bounded almost half the prospect
round, as with a silver girdle. But this prospect had nothing to do with
our visit here; nor I believe did it once cross the mind of either my
father or my mother.
“They were anxiously looking out among the groups of turf-getters with
which the top of the hill was dotted, for some one who was apparently the
object of this unusual visit. As we went along, the labourers stopped to
speak and to gaze, for a country man in a holiday dress at that busy
season, was to them a rare sight. A few enquiries directed my father to
the object of his search: and we soon approached a group of labourers who
seemed so intent upon their work, that we stood close to them before we
were observed. They differed little from the little bands that were
toiling around them, except that the eye at once detected that they were
all of one family. There were four able-bodied men who wheeled the turf,
when cut, in barrows, to the ground where they were spread out to dry,
and three girls, somewhat younger, who laid them flat on the ground for
that purpose. The turf-cutter was evidently the father of all the rest.
He was a short and stout man, with ruddy cheeks, and hair as white as
snow. He was obviously very far advanced in years, but as active in his
occupation as if he had been a much younger man. He had on a check
shirt, and a coarse blue frock trimmed with black horn buttons, something
like the dress of a charity boy at Chetham’s Hospital, and not very
unlike a parson’s cassock. He was so intent upon his work that he did
not perceive our approach till my father spoke to him, when the little
old man turned suddenly round, with his spade uplifted in the air, as if
he was impatient of being interrupted in his labour. To my surprise, my
father immediately took off his hat, and my mother made a curtsey,
actions so unusual that I began to feel an involuntary respect for him to
whom such honours were paid. He returned the salute with a friendly bow
and smile which showed that such attentions were not new to him: and my
father taking me by the hand said, almost in the words of Scripture,
‘Sir, this is our son of whom I spake unto you.’ The old man stepped
forward, and laid his hand on my head, and said, with an expression of
countenance which I shall never forget—‘GOD be gracious unto thee, my
son!’ Had the hand of a patriarch of old been then upon me, it could not
have affected me more. It was ‘WONDERFUL WALKER;’ did you ever hear,
sir, of Wonderful Walker?”