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<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3> <blockquote>I’ve wander’d far, I’ve wander’d near,    I’ve liv’d with low and high, But ne’er knew I a thing so dear    As my own Mother’s eye! It swell’d with grief, when grief was mine;    It beam’d, when joy was given; On earth no sun like it could shine—    How glows it now, in Heaven! </blockquote> “How changed to my eye was now that mountain road, by which, in the early morning, I had hastened, full of joy and expectation, to Hawkshead School!  Not that there was any change in reality; for the evening sun shone as bright in the West over my returning path, as its morning beams had gilded my eastern track.  The cows were once more lowing in the valleys for the evening milking.  The cuckoos were shouting to each other from glen to glen, as if they alone had a right to be heard in their own domain.  The lark was whistling a highland fling in the sunbeams, and dancing to his own merry music in the very centre of the sky.  But all this was lost upon me; for my spirits had sunk to the very lowest point of despair, and I was thinking, in melancholy sadness, of the reception I should meet with at home, all black and bruised as I was; and of the blank which would sadden my poor mother’s face, when she hastened to meet me, and hear my account of the adventures of the day.  My little companions, to do them justice, sympathized with my feelings; for though they said little to comfort me, yet they restrained their boyish mirth within a reasonable compass; and tried to conduct themselves as if nothing particular had happened—all that could be expected from youths like them.  I shall never forget my feelings when Dash rushed out, wagging his tail, and bounding with joy at my approach, and then, suddenly looking me in the face, turned round with his tail between his legs, and ran into the house as though he had been guilty of some serious doggish fault, and expected instant chastisement!  ‘Surely,’ thought I, ‘if Dash does not know me, my own mother wont!’ and so it proved; for at first sight she hardly recollected who it was, so changed was I in appearance.  But her experience in the history of schoolboys was much greater than my own; and I saw at once that she comprehended the whole matter before I had said a word to her.  She looked deadly pale for a moment; but all she said was,—‘My dear boy, are you to blame for this?’  ‘No, mother, I am NOT,’ said I, with a firmness which I saw at once carried conviction to her heart, and I felt I had made peace with one of my parents.  But the worst, I knew, and so did my mother, was yet to come.  My father was of another stamp, and viewed matters in another light.  He saw, too, and comprehended at a glance what had happened; but, quite independent of the right or wrong of the question, his determination was that all such proceedings should be put down with the strong hand.  I saw, therefore, that I was to be severely beaten; for my father was not one who did these things by halves.  It was not anger, it was not want of feeling, that impelled him to this course; it was a strong, though in this case surely a mistaken, sense of duty.  My mother and I, both knowing his character and feelings, knew it was in vain to remonstrate; so I stood with terror, and my poor mother stood as pale as death, prepared for the worst.  Just at that moment, and when the feelings of all the party, my father’s included, were almost past endurance, the door flew open with some violence, and Joshua Prince stood in the middle of the room!  ‘Dont strike the boy,’ said he, in a firm voice that seemed resolved to be listened to, ‘dont strike the boy, for he does not deserve it.’  Had an angel from heaven appeared to us at that moment, my mother and I could not have been more delighted, nor hardly more startled than we at first were at his most unexpected and most timely appearance; and in truth, I believe my father was not the least relieved of the whole party.  The uplifted rod dropped by his side, as it were by instinct; and he looked at Joshua with an expression of respect which led me to hope that the crisis of my fate was past.  In the neighbourhood of large grammar schools there is always much interest felt in their proceedings among those inhabitants of the district who have little or no immediate connexion with them.  They are proud of the success of the best scholars—even those who are no scholars whatever themselves—and the head boy of a school is always spoken of with great respect, especially by those who are in any way connected with the place, either through their children or their own early education.  My father, therefore, had a strong feeling of almost reverence for Joshua Prince, though he had hardly ever seen him before; and would have at once obeyed him, even in a matter less agreeable to his feelings.  The rod, therefore, at once fell idly to his side. “‘I thought it possible,’ continued Joshua, ‘that you might beat him, and so I came to tell you that he does not deserve it.  He was ill-used by Tom Hebblethwaite, and he fought like a man.  Send him to school to-morrow, and I will see that he comes by no harm—good night!’—and Joshua disappeared in the gloom.  Now, sir, you may talk of great and generous actions, but I do not think you will easily mention one which, as far as it goes, will surpass this of Joshua Prince.  You will recollect that he was, after all, but a boy; young and thoughtless; delighted with the battle, and pleased that he had done justice to the conqueror, if such I could be called.  He lived down the valley towards Newby Bridge, nearly four miles from school, and in almost an opposite direction to Yewdale.  Yet all at once, when more than half way home, and with the prospect of supper before a hungry boy brightening as he goes, it flashes across his mind that I may possibly be chastised undeservedly for the day’s occurrences, and he hesitates not a moment as to what steps he should take.  He turns aside across hill and valley, bog and stream, where there is no footpath even for the goat, forgets his supper and his evening fishing-rod, and all to save a little boy whom he never saw before from a beating which, from its frequency at school, and from the way in which he had encouraged the battle, he might have been expected to care very little about.  Nor was it the beating that he cared about.  It was its injustice that dwelt upon his mind.  The brave have an instinctive admiration of bravery; and he did not like to think that the little boy should be ill-used, or rather misunderstood, who had shown such firmness and courage in the school-yard.  These were Joshua’s motives; and verily he had his reward.  The gratitude towards him of our whole family, including my sister, (of whom I shall speak by and by,) was such that there was nothing that we would not have done for his sake.  Yet he never seemed to expect any thing; or to show that he thought himself to have done any thing extraordinary.  He paid me very little attention at school; none, in fact, beyond what he showed to most of the younger boys; except that when any injury was attempted towards me by any of those who were stronger than myself, he was always ready to see justice done me.  Favouritism he scrupulously avoided.  An acquaintance between us thus commenced, which ripened almost into friendship as I grew older, and before he left us for college.  But, what is most remarkable, his kindness towards me seemed to increase, rather than diminish, by absence.  Many a kind message of advice did he send me by fellow-pupils while I remained at school; and he has more than once visited me in my quiet dwelling in Salford, though he has had an earl’s son under his care; and has brought him to see the ways of Manchester, and taught him to sympathize with its toiling population.  These, sir, are the links, which bind all the parts of English society together, stronger than chains of brass!  These good old schools are like rivets which run through the whole body politic; hence it was that the earl’s son, Joshua Prince, and your humble servant, became fast friends for life!” The old man’s face glowed as he said this, with a feeling which showed that he was a patriot to the back bone.  His poverty, and his age, in the ardour of the moment, were quite forgotten.—His school-days were as fresh on his mind as if they had hardly yet passed away; and I felt thankful to Providence as I experienced how deeply he has infused happiness into natures and conditions where the hasty observer might scarcely be able to observe a trace of it. He continued—“I will not detain you longer with the history of my school-days; I have something far more important, and I hope, more interesting to speak of,—my first religious impressions.  But I cannot help just mentioning one early companion who was soon lost to us all, but whose character made a deep impression upon myself and many of my school-fellows.  He was but the son of a poor labourer, but showed an early talent for poetry, and produced some pieces of very great merit, which I wish I could recollect now, as they would be a comfort to me in my solitary hours; but he sank, in decline, to an early grave; and all his verses, I fear, died with him; for though many of his poems were committed by his school-fellows to memory, yet none have recorded any of them in writing.” “Your story,” said I, “reminds me of an exactly similar case, (and doubtless there are hundreds such,) which happened nearly thirty years ago, at a school very like your own,—that of Richmond, in Yorkshire.  Poor Herbert Knowles was, like your young companion, taken from one of the lowest stations in life, and sent by kind friends to Richmond school, with the intention of his being afterwards removed to college.  But the hand of death was upon him.  He was of a gentle and pious mind, and of a sickly frame.  He knew that his days were fast drawing to a close, and a few weeks before he died he wrote the following verses at night in Richmond Church-yard, which show the way in which he looked p. 27death in the face, and the faith and hope which pointed beyond the grave.  As you are fond of poetry, I will repeat the verses to you, and they may perhaps somewhat console you for the loss of your friend’s:— ‘LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE, BY HERBERT KNOWLES. It is good for us to be here: if Thou wilt let us make here three tabernacles, one for Thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.  Matthew, xvii. 4. <blockquote>      Methinks it is good to be here;          If Thou wilt, let us build: but for whom?       Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.       Shall we build to Ambition!  Oh, no!          Affrighted he shrinketh away:       For see, they would pin him below In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.       To Beauty!  Ah, no! she forgets          The charms which she wielded before;       Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.       Shall we build to the purple of Pride,          The trappings which dizen the proud?       Alas! they are all laid aside; And here’s neither dress nor adornment allow’d But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.       To Riches?  Alas! ’tis in vain;          Who hid, in their turns have been hid:       The treasures are squandered again, And here in the grave are all metals forbid But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.       To the pleasures which Mirth can afford?          The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?       Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute at their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here.       Shall we build to Affection and Love?          Ah no! they have wither’d and died,       Or fled with the spirit above: Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.       Unto Sorrow?  The dead cannot grieve,          Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,       Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watch-word, the only one here.       Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?          Ah, no! for his empire is known;       And here there are trophies enow: Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.       The first Tabernacle to Hope we will build,          And look for the sleepers around us to rise;       The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill’d; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath’d us them both when He rose to the skies!’” </blockquote> “This is poetry,” exclaimed the old man, when I had finished reciting the above beautiful lines,—“and piety as well as poetry.  The youth who, with his own death full in view, could give utterance to such holy thoughts, and in the darkness of the night, with the dead of old lying around him and beneath his feet, must surely be gone to heaven!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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