—An unlessoned Girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;
Happy in this she is not yet so old
But she may learn; and happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours, to be directed.
SHAKSPERE.
“ROBERT WALKER was less surprised at my history (which it took me a long
time to tell) than I had expected him to be. In fact he knew almost
every thing that was going on in his parish, and people often wondered
how he came to know so intimately matters concerning themselves, which
they had supposed were closely locked up in their own breasts alone.
When I told him of the pestilent doctrines which the stranger was
spreading among the miners and others of his flock, he immediately
reminded me that he had darkly hinted at this in the sermon which he
preached to us before our confirmation; the substance of which I have
just related to you. I thought he would have split his sides with
laughing when I told him of the way in which Gawen Braithwaite and I had
dispersed the assembly by our sudden and unintentional intrusion into
their councils; and tapping me playfully on the cheek, while his eyes ran
over with tears of mirth, he said, ‘Take care, my good lad, as long as
you live, that you never play the devil in any other character than you
did last night! He is a _kittle_ customer to deal with, and generally
has the best of it in the end with those who meddle too much with his
concerns. _Resist_ the devil,’ said he solemnly, ‘resist the devil and
he will flee from you—aye,’ he added, smiling once more at the
recollection, quite as fast as silly WILLIE TYSON and his man PETER!’
“‘And so they ran, did they?’ continued he, for he could not get the
amusing notion out of his head, ‘_very_ fast, eh?’
“‘Like rats out of a burning corn-stack,’ said I.
“‘I _do_ wish I had been with you,’ said the old man; ‘I would have set
up a halloo that would have rung in Willie’s ears till—till—till he gets
Coniston Hall!’ and he laughed once more till his sides shook again.
“His mood, however, was soon changed into sober sadness, when I proceeded
to explain to him how the handsome stranger had won the heart of my poor
sister Martha, and how deeply and unchangeably I feared her affections
were engaged. Martha was a great favourite with Mr. Walker, as indeed
she was with every one who knew her; and he saw at once the difficulty of
her situation. ‘Poor thing!’ said he, with a deep expression of
melancholy foreboding on his countenance, ‘what is to become of her! I
know her well: she has not given her heart hastily, nor hastily will she
withdraw it. What a fiend he must be to steal the affections of one so
good, so innocent, and so confiding! Bad men are always selfish; and
with all his professions of zeal for the liberty and instruction of
mankind, he could not forget his own interests, or restrain his passions.
’Tis always thus; they who deal with evil on a large scale, are almost
sure to indulge in a little private vice on their own account! Yet why
condemn him hastily? The man that could win the heart of _our_ Martha
must have in him something that is plausible at least, if not estimable.
She would not give away her diamonds for IRTON pearls. {78} Who knows
but the believing maiden may be even now converting the unbelieving
lover? I will speak to her on the subject, and that before I am a day
older. I think, my young friend, she will not hesitate to confess to me
her inmost thoughts?’
“‘I will answer for that,’ said I; ‘but how is the interview to be
brought about? I shrink from entering upon the subject with her myself,
and should be the unwilling bearer of any message which might lead her to
suspect that I had in any way played a false part towards her.’
“‘Leave that to me,’ said the old man, ‘I see no difficulty in the
matter.’ He turned to his little writing-table, which drew out from
beneath his book shelves, (for we were in his little room on the top of
the house which he had fitted up for his private study,) and wrote as
follows:
“‘My dear Martha,
I wish to see you tomorrow on particular business, and at eleven
o’clock. Bring your brother with you as a companion by the way.
Your affectionate Pastor,
Robert Walker.’
“This note removed every difficulty at once, as far as I was concerned.
I was thus not supposed to have any knowledge whatever of the occasion of
this summons, but was merely to be an attendant on my sister’s steps.
Now, sir, it is very remarkable, and I have never since been able to
account for it, that though I have generally well remembered (as you have
heard) the state of the sky and weather, and the little incidents of the
journey, on every other occasion that I have thought of sufficient
importance to relate to you, (for such things always make a deep
impression on the mind of a mountaineer,) yet, on this occasion—one of
the last that I shall ever forget—the whole landscape is to me a perfect
blank, and I have not the slightest recollection of any single event that
occurred from the moment when poor Martha and I left our father’s door,
to that when we stood before the parsonage of Seathwaite, and were
welcomed by Robert Walker into his dark and spacious dining-room! _That_
welcome, and the soft yet somewhat melancholy smile on his countenance, I
shall _never_ forget. As we stood together, looking out from the long
low window on the rich landscape before us, we saw the handsome stranger
cross the little foot-bridge that led from the other side of the Duddon
to the Parsonage, and make his way directly for the door of the house.
Martha, who was the first to observe him, turned very pale, as if on the
point of fainting, and said in an anxious low voice to Mr. Walker, ‘I
cannot meet him here!’ and made for the door as if to escape. The old
man laid his hand gently on her arm and said, ‘You are too late to avoid
him, but go behind the _squab_ if you wish not to be seen; you will be
safe enough there.’
“This squab was a long oaken seat, or settle, with a high wooden back,
running from the fire-place half way down the middle of the room. I dare
say such seats (and very uncomfortable they are) are still to be found in
most of the old farm-houses in the North.
“The stranger entered as Martha disappeared; and I was very much struck
with the ease and grace of his manner. He wore the look and air of one
who was on the best possible terms with himself and all the world. Much
as I felt disposed to dislike him, I could not help admiring both his
person and address. There was an awkwardness and nervous action about
Mr. Walker, which I now observed for the first time, that showed to great
disadvantage when compared with the stranger’s ease and self-possession.
“After courteously placing a seat for his visitor, Mr. Walker took his
accustomed place in his arm-chair in the corner, and then his wonted
calmness and dignity at once returned. The stranger was the first to
break the silence.
“‘Well, reverend sir,’ said he, with a bland smile on his face, ‘I am
here at your own request. How you found out my place of abode I am at
some loss to discover, and what your particular business may be with me,
I can still less conjecture. I shall doubtless learn both at your
convenience.’
“There was nothing in the words of this address to give the slightest
offence; yet there was something in the tone in which it was uttered, to
excite uncomfortable feelings in my mind, and I saw Mr. Walker slightly
colour, as if he felt somewhat nettled at the manner at least of the
address. Yet the feeling, if such existed, soon passed off; and he
resumed his usual calm yet somewhat firm expression of countenance as he
said:
“‘The second part of your difficulty, sir, you have a right to have
solved, as it shall soon be; with regard to the first it seems less to
the purpose. I ought in the first place to say, that it is simply in my
public character as the authorized preacher of the Gospel in this parish,
that I have taken what would otherwise seem a great liberty with a
perfect stranger, to request an interview with him, without first
assigning grounds for the request. That you have so readily complied
with it, I beg to offer you my thanks.’
“I was much struck with the somewhat stately form of language which Mr.
Walker in this case assumed—so different from his ordinary discourse with
his plain country parishioners. He took up the tone of the scholar and
the gentleman with more ease than I had thought it possible for one whose
course of life had been so long removed from the society of his equals.
“‘Sir,’ said the stranger, ‘before you proceed further, allow me to
protest against your assumption, that in your public character you have a
right to exercise over me any superintendence or control. I belong not
to your flock, I subscribe not to your creed. Even the tyrannical Church
of Rome professes to fetter the minds and torture the limbs of those only
who have at some period professed allegiance to her doctrines; and these
are not days when the Church of England can safely arrogate to herself a
power (however anxiously she may long to do so) which would rouse the
dormant spirit even of an Italian slave.’
“‘Pardon me,’ said Mr. Walker, with the utmost calmness; ‘over you I
neither claim nor wish to exercise any authority whatever. But there are
those over whose religious condition the laws both of GOD and man have
given me power and authority, and upon _them_ I am bound to exercise it,
both for their sakes and my own. The Church has devised a certain system
which she declares to be founded on Scripture, and propounds it to all
her people as their rule of faith and life. I, having given my full
assent and consent to that system, have accepted the office, under her
authority, of spreading and propagating that system among those committed
by her (under the Bishop) to my care. I am not, then, here to reason
out, either with you or my people, a new system, but simply to enforce
one long established by the Church at large. I am bound by my oath “to
banish and drive away all erroneous and strange doctrines,” and this by
every means by which the laws of GOD and man may aid me. While then you
are at full liberty, as far as I am concerned, to entertain any notions
you may please as to religion or politics; you are not, at the same time,
equally at liberty to spread them abroad among my flock, if I can by fair
means prevent it—and prevent it, by GOD’s blessing, I will!’
“The stranger smiled scornfully at the old man’s energy of expression,
and said; ‘My venerable old friend, attempt not what you cannot
accomplish. The day is gone by, when recluses like you, ignorant of the
world and of the strides which it has of late been making towards full
liberty of thought and action, could keep men’s minds in darkness by the
vain terrors of an expiring superstition. Be content to lament in your
chimney corner over the obstinacy of this perverse generation, and leave
the course of events to march on towards that high destination which
assuredly you cannot hinder.’
“‘You much mistake the matter,’ replied Mr. Walker, ‘if you suppose that
we, in these remote regions of the globe, are necessarily ignorant of the
on-goings of the world beyond our barren mountains. Our books are our
telescopes, which bring distant things distinctly before our observation;
and history tells me the staleness and the vanishing nature of those
theories which to you seem all novelty and permanence. Nor think that I
threaten without power to execute my threats. I shall not wait to cure
the evil which you may occasion; my duty is to _prevent_; and that I can
do by a power of the extent of which you are probably little aware. I
thank GOD it is a moral power, but not, on that account, the more easy to
be resisted. Recollect how long I have presided over these few sheep in
the wilderness, and then consider whether, by this time, they must not
well know the voice of their master! Why, sir, you could not hide your
head in a cottage between Eskdale Moor and Muncaster Fell, but I, did I
wish it, could know where it rested, and almost what it meditated, by
next morning! Take, then, my advice, and leave this country for ever. I
threaten you with no loss of life or limb; but if you are found within
these bounds after this solemn warning, your movements will be watched
and dogged by those who have it in their power most effectually to put a
stop to your designs. The mountain top will be no safeguard—the gloomy
mine no security. Nay, the very fiends themselves will rise in rebellion
at my bidding, and fling dismay into the hearts of those who rashly deny
their existence!’
“The stranger cast on the old man a look of the utmost surprise, as he
gave utterance to these last words. The scene in the mine, no doubt,
rushed upon his recollection; and he looked hard at Mr. Walker, as if he
wished to trace in his countenance some signs of his being privy to the
ghostly visitation of the night before. But nothing could be seen there
but the proofs of a mind determined to carry through its high resolves;
and it was with somewhat of a subdued tone that the stranger at last
resumed the conversation.
“‘I doubt not,’ said he, ‘that you have it in your power fully to execute
your threats. I have heard and seen enough already to believe it. But
why, sir—pardon me, I cannot account for it—why should _you_ show so much
zeal in a cause which seems so little deserving of your support,—a
Church, which has left merit like yours to pine in neglect amid these
barren mountains; and a State, which binds you to keep the peace among
these half-civilized barbarians, and does not reward your pains with even
the barren smile of its countenance?’
“The old man turned upon the stranger a look in which a lurking smile was
mixed up with much sternness of expression, and said: ‘Well may I be
anxious to remove such a tempter as you from my unsuspecting flock, when
you thus artfully assail what you doubtless deem the weak side of even
the shepherd himself! My lot indeed may seem to you to be somewhat hard;
but I answer in one word—a stronger than which the king himself cannot
use—I AM HAPPY. I am where my Master placed me, and that of itself is
enough for a good soldier of JESUS CHRIST. But, sir, even in a worldly
point of view I am happy, nay, to be envied by those who look with narrow
views (pardon me) like yourself, at what makes happiness here below. I
suppose you think wealth, power, and fame to be the three things most to
be desired to constitute a happy man; and in which of these am I so
deficient, as to give me ground for repining at the lot which has been
assigned me? With regard to wealth–though I certainly can boast of none
of the superfluities of life, yet by our own industry and occupation
(without which even abundance cannot give enjoyment) I and my wife have
acquired more of the good things of this life, than either of us, from
the condition of our birth, had a reasonable right to look for; and who
can justly complain, whose lot in life is better than his father’s? As
to power—I think you have already had abundant proof that I possess it,
in my own sphere of action, in no ordinary degree. What absolute
monarch, or what turbulent populace (and they are much the same) reigns
so uncontrolled as I over the hearts and wills (but, I am proud to add,
_through the affections_) of the people of Seathwaite? Power is mine,
such as Rome only dreamt of; the greater because it is never exercised.
And as for fame—the desire of which is perhaps the least blameable of our
earthly passions, because it springs out of our innate hope of
immortality—who has it more, in possession and in prospect, than the old
feeble individual before you? These mountains are visited by tourists
attracted by the beauty and splendour of our rural scenes; but the humble
residence of Robert Walker is not passed by as the least interesting
among them. The Lord of MUNCASTER CASTLE doffs that hat to his country
pastor, which he would not take off before his monarch on the throne.
{85} My children—and a fine healthy, though somewhat numerous race they
are—will hand down my name to the next generation, I trust, as
untarnished as they received it; and my children’s children, unless they
are strangely forgetful of the pious lessons which their fathers have
taught them, may hold it their highest honour to be descended from Robert
Walker; and find that name of itself a passport and a recommendation even
in what is called a cold and heartless world. We have lived here, sir,
my life-companion and I, so long, as almost to form part of the
landscape. Good Bishop Jeremy Taylor tells a story of an old couple in
Ireland, who had resided so long in the same village that if they had
given themselves out to be Adam and Eve, there was no one alive to
contradict then. We are almost in the same condition. While, then,
these rocks shall frown and that stream shall flow, my name, humble as it
may be, is assured of its earthly immortality. The future Poet, whom the
spirit of the Church and these divine scenes shall inspire with strains
that shall blend the music of earth with the higher notes of heaven, will
not omit my name from his pictures, when he paints my beloved DUDDON in
colours which shall last for ever; and who knows but some more lowly
historian, smit with the love of my most humble but sincere service to my
MASTER, shall hold up my name as a watchword to the fire-side of the
quiet cottager; and teach the farmer at his plough, and the weaver at his
loom, to call to mind my history; recommending to their sons patience,
and perseverance, and piety, by the example (oh, how weak, feeble, and
failing!) of Robert Walker!’
“The old man had risen from his chair, and paced the room with rapid
strides as he gave utterance to the last sentences of this prophetic
vision of his future history; and it was some time before his eye, which
was sparkling with pious gratitude to GOD for all His blessings, caught
that of the stranger, as it was fixed on him with the expression of a
cold and quiet sneer. His countenance immediately changed, and he
coloured slightly at having thus exposed himself, in his
open-heartedness, to the charge of a vanity, which was surely, in this
case, of a most pardonable nature. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I have become a fool
in glorying—you have compelled me. I have shown you that, on your own
selfish principles, I have indeed much to be thankful for. But we must
bring this matter to a close. I look for a promise from you, which you
must see it would be useless to withhold, that you will vex this quiet
district no longer with your presence.’
“‘I go,’ said he, ‘father; but I go not alone! You, and this simple
youth shall know that there is at least _one_ heart here which
sympathizes with my feelings, and will not shrink from sharing my
fortunes. Love, father, is stronger than’—
“‘I RENOUNCE HIM!’ exclaimed poor Martha, rushing forward from behind the
screen under which she had been sheltered during this remarkable
conversation, and standing erect in the middle of the room with her eye
boldly fixed on the face of the wondering stranger—‘I renounce him, now
and for ever! Oh Frederick!’
“I shall never forget her expression at that moment. ‘Father,’ she
continued, ‘I love him’—
“‘_Loved_ him, you would say, my child.’
“‘Nay, father, _love_ him still dearly, and will for ever love him!’
“‘Then fly with me,’ said the stranger, ‘to a land less inhospitable than
this’—
“‘No, Frederick! that cannot, _shall_ not be. At my baptism I was
married to Another, and with one who has stained his baptismal robes will
I _never_ be united!’
“This is some plot.’
“‘No, Frederick, believe it not. All is honourable, except—oh,
Frederick, why did you not tell me the truth? Begone; if you can, be
happy; but never see me more!’
“And they parted, and they never did see each other more!”