Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites
A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the Memory help when she would weave
A crown of hope! I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o’er which in vain we grieve.
WORDSWORTH.
“I am afraid sir,” continued the old man, as we resumed our walk and our
conversation, “that you will begin to think my tale of things gone by
both tiresome and unprofitable. To me it is interesting, because, as I
tell my story, my mind goes back to the days of my youth, and the early
feelings, both of joy and sorrow, return to my heart as my narrative
calls them up, almost as freshly as when the scenes were acting before my
eyes. But that the task is unprofitable, I cannot help sometimes
confessing to myself, however pleasing it may be to my feelings. Walker,
and all that concerned him, are gone to the grave. The world has marched
on with wonderful strides since his day; his clumsy spinning wheel is now
rendered useless by machinery; and even in his own little vale, a child’s
hand can, in one short week, produce a greater quantity and a much finer
quality of well spun yarn than he, poor man, twisted together during the
long and laborious years of his whole life! Why, then, should one look
to him, and not to that child, as a model? I feel that it would be
absurd to take the latter rather than the former as an example, yet I
confess I cannot assign the reason for it: and thus it is, that when I am
told that the present age is in advance of the last, and ought rather to
be my guide than the ways of antiquity, I am often driven into a
difficulty, though never convinced;—what think you of the matter?”
“Your difficulty,” said I, “seems to arise from confounding progress in
arts and sciences with progress in moral and mental power. The one is as
different from the other as possible, nor does the existence of the one
at all imply the presence of the other. The child you have referred to
as being able to spin so much better than Walker,—could it reason like
Walker? would it act and feel like him?—By no means; and so neither may
an age, distinguished for mechanical progress, excel one of darkness with
regard to such matters, and yet devoted to pursuits and studies which
call forth the powers of the mind, and exercise the best qualities of the
heart. Shakspere and Milton might have made sorry cotton-spinners; no
farmer now would plough, like Elisha, with twelve yoke of oxen before
him, yet where is the farmer who would surpass the prophet in zeal, and
eloquence, and devotion to his Master’s service? Never fear, then, my
friend, that the example of good Mr. Walker can grow old and useless; we
can easily cut better peats than he did by the help of better tools, but
when shall we surpass him in shrewd observation of the face of nature, in
industry, in devotion to GOD, in kindness and good-will to man! Hear
what is said of him by a great-grandson, who may well be prouder of being
a descendant of Robert Walker, than if he had come of the purest blood in
Europe:—
“‘His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were
industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quietness,
characterized the whole family. No railings, no idleness, no
indulgence of passion were permitted. Every child, however young,
had its appointed engagements; every hand was busy. Knitting,
spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, making shoes, were by
the different children constantly performed. The father himself
sitting amongst them and guiding their thoughts, was engaged in the
same operations.
* * *
“‘He sat up late and rose early; when the family were at rest, he
retired to a little room which he had built on the roof of his house.
He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves for his books, his
stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold
winter’s night, without fire, while the 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 descriptions, amuse and instruct his children. They
shared all his daily employments, and derived many sentiments of love
and benevolence from his observations on the works and productions of
nature. Whether they were following him in the field or surrounding
him in school, he took every opportunity of storing their minds with
useful information.—Nor was the circle of his influence confined to
Seathwaite. Many a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker,
and begged him to be as good a man.
* * *
“‘Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing and
hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even then, the
calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and
adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue had
such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed
clergyman without thinking of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“‘He allowed no dissenter or methodist to interfere in the
instruction of the souls committed to his care: and so successful
were his exertions, that he had not one dissenter of any denomination
whatever in the whole parish.—Though he avoided all religious
controversies, yet when age had silvered his head, and virtuous piety
had secured to his appearance reverence and silent honour, no one,
however determined in his hatred of apostolic descent, could have
listened to his discourse on ecclesiastical history and ancient
times, without thinking that one of the beloved apostles had returned
to mortality, and in that vale of peace had come to exemplify the
beauty of holiness in the life and character of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“‘Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death,
his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this
misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually
decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He
never preached with steadiness after 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 seemed when alone sad and
melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured.
He went to bed about twelve o’clock the night before his death. As
his custom was, he went loitering and leaning upon his daughter’s
arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open
air. “How clear the moon shines to-night!” He said those words,
sighed, and lay down: at six next morning he was found a corpse.
Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing
followed him to the grave.’
“My good friend,” said I, when I had finished reading to him the above
beautiful extract, “I beg pardon for interrupting your narrative, but I
am sure you will forgive me on account of the subject, and because I
think what I have just read contains an answer to your question,—Why
should we imitate the ancients rather than the moderns? When the moderns
set us a better example than this, we will follow them with pleasure; but
they must excuse us if we wait till then. I would say, to those who are
anxious to set one age against another, and especially to magnify our own
at the expense of the past, (in the lines of a great and good man,)
“‘Oh! gather whencesoe’er ye safely may
The help which slackening Piety requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.’”
“They must take long strides,” replied the old man with a smile, “who put
their feet in the marks left by old Robert Walker! However, to my tale
once more.
“As I told you, I had for some time observed a change in the conduct and
spirits of my poor sister Martha, and the looks exchanged between the
good-looking stranger and herself led me to suspect, with the ready
feeling of jealousy, that he might be, in some way or other, the cause of
this great alteration. Yet I had never seen or heard of him before, as
being either a resident or a visitor in the neighbourhood; nor could I
conjecture how or where they had ever met. I determined, however, to
fathom the mystery, for my sister’s welfare was as dear to me as my own,
and I had at least as firm a reliance on her virtuous resolutions as I
had of mine. Nothing, indeed, could make me for a moment suspect (and
the event shows that it would have been criminal to suspect) that an
improper thought or design had ever crossed her well-regulated mind.
Observing her, one fine evening, during the week that these events
occurred, quietly leave the house after the labours of the day were
concluded, I determined to track her footsteps, though at such a distance
as carefully to avoid her observation. What a path did she select for
her evening’s ramble! Sir, you know the majestic shoulder of old
Wraynos, out of which the river Duddon takes its rise, a little silver
stream.—How it winds its way past the groves of Birker, under the
gigantic heights of WALLA-BARROW CRAG, and through the delicious plain of
DONNERDALE, gathering up the little mountain rivulets as it hurries on
towards the sea, till, at SEATHWAITE, it becomes a bold and brawling
stream, battling with the vast masses of fallen rock that encumber its
bed, and sprinkling the bushes that stand gazing into its current with a
perpetual dew. Down this romantic track did my sister haste with a step
as light and as timid as a mountain deer,—and, sir, the race of the red
deer of the mountain was not extinct in my day, but you often saw their
antlered heads gazing down upon you from heights which the most
experienced shepherd did not dare to climb. She did not, however, pursue
the Duddon as far down as Seathwaite, but turning up to her left, by the
side of a little feeder to the stream, entered the circular plain of a
small valley, which is one of the most retired and beautiful in the whole
region of the lakes. Every thing in it, houses, trees, and even men,
seem as old, and grey, and peaceful, as the hills which surround it!
Here my suspicions of the object of her journey were at once confirmed.
At the moment she entered the little circular plain of smooth green-sward
from below, the stranger whom we had encountered on the fell was seen to
issue from the shrubs that clothed the upper termination of the valley;
and they met in the centre with a punctuality which showed—though my poor
sister’s step seemed to slacken a little as they approached—that the time
and place of meeting were by no means accidental. As I gazed on his
manly form and graceful air, I could not but hope that all this augured
well for my sister’s future happiness, though there was an impression on
my mind, from whence gathered I could not explain, not altogether
favourable to the stranger. Perhaps, thought I, it arises from that
jealousy which is always felt towards those who are found to share in
those affections which we wish, however unreasonably, to keep solely to
ourselves. But what right had I to expect that my sister’s affections
should all her life be confined to her own domestic fire-side? I watched
them, therefore, with a mingled feeling, retire into one of the most
secluded parts of the glen, and hastened to ascend the rock under which
they had placed themselves as if to catch the last rays of the sun as
they threw a parting glance up the western opening of the dale. All
besides was black with shadow, and every singing-bird in the valley was
silent, except a solitary blackbird, who had taken his stand on the
highest twig of a towering birch that was still gilded with the light of
the sun. He whistled a few fine farewell notes to the day, and then
darted down into his thicket for the night. At that moment I heard my
sister’s well-known voice from below, soft and sweet, as if taking up the
song where the blackbird had left off his melody. The air was one
well-known in our valleys, but has not, I dare say, attracted the
attention of those caterers for the mart of music who gather up our
native melodies as men buy up our virgin honey, at a low rate, and dress
them out for higher prices, and a more fashionable circle. The words
were, I believe, her own; for she possessed a remarkable taste for
mountain ballads; or they might perhaps have been prepared for her by the
native poet, of whom I before spoke to you; for they conveyed a sentiment
which strangely harmonized with my own feelings with regard to the
stranger, and seemed to show that she, too, had her suspicions as to his
character, and was probably almost as ignorant as myself of his history.
Never did notes sound so sweetly on mine ear as at that moment did my
poor sister’s song! The time—the place—the feeling that the lines were
dictated by the true sentiments of the heart, all conspired to impress
them on my memory, and to convince me that there was a power in music to
reach the heart, which no other charm possesses, when the words, the air,
and the feeling are in perfect harmony with each other. I have prepared
for you a copy of the verses, but I cannot convey to you that which is
their greatest charm to me—the occasion on which they were first sung.
They have also been harmonized by a friend, who, like myself, has smelt
the heather in his youth, and has infused into the instrumental portion,
some of the feeling and spirit which breathed in my poor sister’s melody.
You are heartily welcome to both.
MARTHA’S SONG.
‘O speed not to our bonny braes
To cool dark Passion’s heat;
Nor think each stream, that wildly strays,
To every eye is sweet:
The fairest hues yon mountain wears
No sunshine can impart;
The brightest gleams, the purest airs,
Flow from a pious heart!
Clear be thy breast as summer breeze,
And tender be thy feeling,
’Twill give fresh verdure to the trees,
’Neath winter’s snow congealing!
Then speed not to our bonny braes
To cool dark Passion’s heat;
The glittering stream, that wildly strays,
Is sweet—but to the sweet!’
“How shall I paint to you the feelings which crowded upon my mind as I
wended my way homewards on that memorable evening! The darkening scene,
as I crossed the rugged crest of WALNA, was magnificent; and I have
always felt that the heart and imagination expand with the prospect. How
the littleness of human possessions strikes the mind, when we look over
the successive boundaries of a hundred lordships, and feel for the moment
permitted to possess, or at least to enjoy them, as much as their legal
owners! How do human passions die away under the balmy breath of heaven;
and the soul feel its original relationship to its eternal Author. Yet
anxiety for my sister’s welfare pressed upon my mind at that moment with
double force, because I alone was privy to her secret, and as yet only
knew it in a way which prevented me from employing my knowledge for her
good. Yet why should I interfere? was she not capable of regulating her
own conduct, and was there anything in what I had discovered inconsistent
with the prospect of a long course of happiness before her? With these
thoughts I reached home, and was soon after followed by my sister, whose
unusual absence had been quite unobserved by any other part of the
family, nor did I give any token that it had been noticed by myself.”