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Old Church Clock

<h1>The Old Church Clock</h1> BY RICHARD PARKINSON, B.D., Canon of Manchester. <ANTIMG alt="The Collegiate Church and Victoria Bridge" title= "The Collegiate Church and Victoria Bridge" src="images/fp.jpg" /> <h2>p. vINTRODUCTION.</h2> 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 p. vienough 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 p. viiand 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 p. viiihis brethren can look back, each to his Robert Walker in his own district, by whose light his p. ixpath 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 p. xthis; 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 p. xiimpresses 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 p. xiiwithdrawn; 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 p. xiiiresult 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 p. xivto 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 p. xvand 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 p. xvithe 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 p. xviito 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 p. xviiithat, 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. <ANTIMG alt="Broughton Church" title= "Broughton Church" src="images/pxviii.jpg" /> <h2>p. xix[From Mr. Wordsworth’s notes to his series of sonnets on the river Duddon.]</h2> 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 p. xxand 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 p. xxiclothing 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 p. xxiithe 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. <blockquote>“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. p. xxiii“Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in the 93rd year of her age.” </blockquote> In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this notice: <blockquote>“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.” </blockquote> 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— <blockquote>“A Priest abides before whose life such doubts Fall to the ground;—” </blockquote> and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, will not be out of place here. <h2>MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER.</h2> 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 p. xxivhim 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:— <blockquote>p. xxvTo 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.” * * </blockquote> Then follows a letter, from another person, dated 1755, from which an extract shall be given. <blockquote>p. xxvi“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.” </blockquote> We will now give his own account of himself, to be found in the same place. <blockquote>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 p. xxviipledge 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 p. xxviiithe 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.” </blockquote> 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 p. xxixdifficulty 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:— <blockquote>“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.” </blockquote> 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 p. xxxbeen 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. <blockquote>“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 p. xxxia 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.” </blockquote> 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 p. xxxiitable 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. <blockquote>“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.” </blockquote> 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 p. xxxiiicuracy, 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 p. xxxivof 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 p. xxxvindulged 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 p. xxxviupon 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 p. xxxviiembarrassments 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 p. xxxviiiminds.  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 p. xxxixsame 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, p. xlto 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! <blockquote>“O ’tis a burthen, Cromwell, ’tis a burthen, Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven!” </blockquote> We have been dwelling upon images of peace in the moral p. xliworld, 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 p. xliilater 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. <blockquote>“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.” </blockquote> p. xliiiIn 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. <blockquote>“Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu Diffugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus; Utendum est ætate, cito pede preterit ætas.” </blockquote> 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. <blockquote>“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. </blockquote> *     *     * <blockquote>p. xliv“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. </blockquote> *     *     * <blockquote>“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 p. xlvwas 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. </blockquote> *     *     * <blockquote>“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. </blockquote> *     *     * <blockquote>“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 p. xlvipreserved 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.” </blockquote> <h2>THE OLD-CHURCH CLOCK.</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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