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<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3> <blockquote>“Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;  Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody!” Shakspere. </blockquote> “My early days,” the old man continued, “were, as all the rest have been, a mixture of happiness and troubles.  I believe the troubles were, at the time, rather the more abundant part, though, in looking back on my past days I remember the bright spots more distinctly than the dark: just as, in youth, I have stood on Yewdale crag, and distinctly seen the distant top of Snafell in the Isle of Man, because a sunbeam happened to fall on it, while all was dark and indistinct around it.  My father was a little Statesman; by which, as you know, is not meant, in Cumberland, any thing like Lord John Russell, as such a term would be understood in Manchester; for he never, I believe, read a newspaper in his life; nay, probably never saw one, unless it might be upon Lady le Fleming’s hall table, when he went, as he did, once a year, to Rydal, to pay his boon rent to her, as lady of the manor.  A statesman, in Cumberland, is the owner of a little land; and as proud he is of his little holding, as Sir Robert Peel can be (and proud indeed he may be!) of governing the state.  How long we had lived upon this little estate, I cannot tell, nor, I suppose, any body else.  There were no title deeds in existence; nor, I believe, many wills, if any.  When the father died, the son quietly buried him in Hawkshead church-yard, and then as quietly stepped into his shoes, wore out his old coats, (if they could be worn out,) and every thing went on just as before.  My father was the most silent man I ever met with in my life.  He never spoke unless he had something to say, and that seemed to be only once or twice in the course of the day.  He was always the first up in the morning, and the last in bed at night, and worked like a slave on his farm from sunrise to sunset.  Of course I could not understand his character then, but I have often tried to understand it since he was taken away, and I became capable of reflection.  He never shewed me much kindness, but was never harsh, though always firm.  I had great respect for him, because I saw my neighbours had; and I believe it is true, generally, that children learn to value their parents a good deal by the way in which they see them treated by indifferent persons.  All my life I have always treated parents with respect in the presence of their children.” “Thank you, my good friend,” interrupted I, “for that hint; I will put that down in my memorandum book.” “As you please,” said he, smiling, “it will at least do no harm there; nor, I believe, would it do any, if you were to put it into practice!  But to go on with my long story.  My mother,—sir, I do not know how I shall get on now.  I feel a rising in my throat at the recollection of her very name; and though she has been dead and gone many a long year, yet every thing that she said, and every thing that she did—her quiet smile—her linsey-woolsey petticoat—her silver shoe-buckles—her smooth gray hair turned back in a roll over her calm forehead—her soft voice, making the broad Cumberland dialect sweeter, even to the ear of a stranger, than the richest music—her patience in pain—her unchanging kindness to me in all my wayward moods and fits of passion—her regularity in all her devotions, public and private, come at this moment as fresh into my mind, as if she were sitting now in the corner of my little dwelling in Salford, instead of sleeping as she has done for many a long year, quietly and peaceably, in the south-east corner of Hawkshead church-yard.  There is no stone over her grave; but I could find it blind-fold even now, though it is many a day since I have stood beside it—and it concerns no one else to know where it is but myself.  I sometimes wish to be buried beside her—but what does it signify? we could not know each other in the grave—we shall know each other, with joy shall meet again hereafter!” There was a passionate earnestness in the old man’s manner as he uttered these last words, which differed strongly from the general quiet tone of his narrative.  I kept silence when he paused, out of respect for his feelings, and waited for the return of his wonted calmness, which he was not long in regaining. “My mother taught me to read almost as soon as I could speak.  The book she used for that purpose was the Testament.  It was almost the only book in the house, except the Whole Duty of Man, and four or five black-letter volumes, tinged with smoke from having lain for ages in the chimney corner, the contents of which not the oldest man in all Yewdale even pretended to understand.  By the time I was five years old, being a strong, hale boy, my father tried to make me useful about the farm, in feeding the cows, or looking after the sheep; but it would not do.  I had hardly strength for the former task; and as to looking after the sheep, the temptation of joining two or three similar shepherds in an expedition of bird-nesting or nut-gathering, was always too strong to be resisted.  Proving thus unequal to these important duties, my father determined to find me one which required, (in public opinion at that time,) abilities of a narrower range.  I heard him say one night to my mother, after I had gone to my snug roost in the loft, where I generally slept like a top,—‘I think there is nothing for it but to make the lad a scholar—may be a parson.’  To this my mother readily consented; and the day after, I was furnished with a satchel, and sent off, with two or three other boys of the dale, to Hawkshead school, to be made a scholar! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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