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<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3> <blockquote>         —As in those days When this low pile a Gospel Teacher knew, Whose good works form’d an endless retinue: Such priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crown’d with deathless praise! Wordsworth. </blockquote> “I AM now,” the old man continued, “approaching the most important period of my life.  My school-days glided away peaceably, and in some measure, profitably.  I was quite able and willing to learn every thing required of me by my masters, and had plenty of time to spare to follow all those various sports and amusements which occupy the time and thoughts of rustic lads in mountain regions.  Bird-nesting, fishing, wrestling, hunting, came each in their turn with the change of the seasons; and I was growing up a hale, strong youth, happy in my home, and in good humour with myself and all the world: and, sir, I cannot help remarking, by the way, that good humour, like charity, ‘begins at home;’ for I never knew any one yet who was dissatisfied and out of sorts with persons or things around him, who had not first quarrelled with himself.” “I really think there is much truth in that remark of yours,” said I. “Depend upon it there is,” he continued.  “Well, my happiness at that period of my life might be said, as far as human happiness could be,—to be perfect.  But yet the religious state of my mind was not quite satisfactory.  I had learned, and not only well remembered, but understood, every thing with regard to religion which was taught us at school; and that, believe me, was not little.  We were taught to repeat our Catechism, with Archbishop Wake’s explanation of it, every week.  We read the Bible as a school-book, till we could almost repeat it from beginning to end; and every story in it was as familiar to my mind as the Lord’s Prayer.  I know many have a strong objection to the use of the Bible as a school-book, but I confess I am not among the number.  On the contrary, I hold that familiarity with the Scriptures in childhood is the only way in which a knowledge of them can be so deeply impressed upon the memory, as that the passages which we want shall always be at hand to serve us at every turn.  As we get older we may understand what we read better, but we do not remember it so clearly or so long.  What I read now, slips away almost as soon as the book is laid down; but what I learned then, is as fresh in my memory as my school-day sports, or my first companions in life.  I know it is objected, that an early familiarity with the Scriptures is apt to bring them into contempt, and that we are liable to attach false meanings to passages, which sometimes cling to us through the rest of our lives.  But surely, if this be the effect, the fault is rather in those who put the Scriptures into our hands, than in our early youth, in which we first begin to read them.  I only know that I learned to reverence even the outside of the book of God’s Word from my poor mother’s reverent manner of using it.  She never opened the volume without an expression of countenance which showed that she felt herself at that moment to be in the more immediate presence of her Maker; and I still look upon the corner in which it was always put aside, and call to mind its black cover, with her horn spectacles resting upon it, with as much respect as the Roman Catholic is said to regard the image of his saint.  Mine, however, is no superstitious reverence, but a pious regard for the Word of God, and her from whose lips I was first taught it; and, sir, when I read my Bible now, which I hope I do not much neglect, I combine pleasure as well as well as profit,—it brings back to me the happy recollections of my youth, as well as affords the consolations of old age.” “I quite agree with you,” said I, “as to the advantages of an early acquaintance with the Bible.  Whether it should be made a school-book or not, depends entirely upon the capabilities and sound principles of the teacher.” “There you are right,” said he; “but mine were like the ‘words of king Lemuel, which his mother taught him:’ and old Bowman, to do him justice, drilled the somewhat dry catechism of the good Archbishop pretty soundly into my memory.  Yet, as far as I can recollect, I had not at that time any very distinct notions of the value of the Gospel, as distinct from natural religion, and the obvious duty of doing as I was taught.  I knew all the facts of Christianity perfectly.  I could tell all the events of our Saviour’s life, and enumerate accurately every doctrine taught by Himself and His apostles.  I knew the necessity of unity in the Catholic Church, and understood the Creeds by which that unity was intended to be secured.  But I did not see how these things applied to myself, as guides for my own thoughts and actions.  My real religion, I believe, as far as I can call back my thoughts at this distance of time, consisted a good deal in fear, both of God and man.  My father, as I have said, was a strict disciplinarian; his word was law: and my fear of God, I cannot help thinking, arose almost naturally out of the situation in which nature had placed me.  In very early life,—as far back as I can recollect anything,—I underwent great alarm from what is a common occurrence in that mountain range—a terrific thunder storm.  The effect of the lightning in that land of hill and valley, is very striking; and was never more so than on that well-remembered day!  Sometimes it seemed to dance in wanton playfulness on the side of the mountain, and sometimes to split it from the top to the bottom.  Then the echoing thunder ran up one valley and down another in that land of seams and ridges, coming back again to the place which it had left, with a voice hardly weakened by its circuit; and there, joining a new and equally loud report, the bellowing became as confused and endless as it was startling.  Then came the thunder-shower, not in drops of rain, but solid sheets of water.  The white cataracts began foaming and rushing down the side of every hill, and gushing out of every opening in the valleys, till they swelled our little stream that winds beneath the house into a mighty and irresistible torrent, sweeping every thing before it towards the lake with rapid and resistless fury.  But what most impressed my mind at the moment, was to see a poor innocent sheep, as well known to me by face as Dash himself, hurled down by the current, and bleating piteously, but in vain, for help!  This scene, and scenes like these, made a deep impression on my mind; and I began to entertain a constant and solemn feeling of the continual presence and irresistible power of God.  This thought was uppermost in my mind from morning till night; in the fields and on my bed.  It was doubtless valuable to me as a guide to duty, but it gave a gloomy turn to my thoughts which was inconsistent with the buoyant feelings of youth, and, as I have since discovered, not in harmony with the true spirit of the Gospel.” But I must now introduce to you another member of our family, to whom I have as yet hardly alluded, for many painful reasons, but whose history now begins to be blended with mine in a manner which renders all farther avoidance of her tale impossible.  I refer to my poor sister Martha!  She was several years older than myself; and at the time I am now speaking of, had arrived at woman’s estate.  She was a splendid specimen of a fine well-grown mountain girl, except that she was rather paler than exactly suits the taste of the hardy mountaineer; her paleness, however, arose, I believe, not from any delicacy of frame, but from habitual thoughtfulness.  How she was admired and sought after by the shy rustics of the neighbourhood! and, above all, how she was beloved by myself!  Alas!—in the language of a friend of mine, who, though unknown to fame, is a true poet—at that period of her short life, <blockquote>   ‘The liquid lustre of her eye Had ne’er been dimm’d by fond hopes blighted;    The halo of serenity Still kept her marble forehead lighted!’ </blockquote> “Her kindness to me seemed to arise from her having united the feelings of a sister and a mother towards me.  She was so much older than myself as to be justified in using, as she sometimes did, the language of authority; and yet not so far removed from me in years, but that she could look upon me as a brother, and that I could treat her (as I too often did) with at least a brother’s freedom.  Thus, as I grew older, and my mind expanded from the instruction I received at Hawkshead, I became more and more to be regarded by her as a companion and less as a child.  Thus she, who had been a check upon me and a teacher, now began at times to learn something from me, of which you may well suppose that I was very proud; whilst I was daily growing in admiration of her industry, piety, and patience.  She assisted her mother in all the female labours of the house and the little farm, and yet always kept herself as neat and nice as if she had nothing else to do.  All at once, her manner began to change.  Instead of her constant cheerfulness, she became anxious and absent, though by no means fretful or impatient.  Her paleness visibly increased, and her step grew less elastic and light.  She occasionally absented herself from home without mentioning where she had been, or asking me, as she used formerly to do, to accompany her.  This was noticed by myself long before it was perceived, or at least mentioned, by either my father or my mother; for I began to entertain a jealous feeling that her affections were, from some cause or other, weakening towards me; yet, as she never mentioned the subject herself, a feeling of pride or obstinacy checked me from being the first to seek an explanation. “We stood in this situation with regard to each other just at the time when I was approaching fourteen years of age, and a rumour ran through the country that the Bishop was about to visit Ulverston for the purpose of holding a Confirmation.  This, as you may suppose, caused a great sensation among the youths of my age in that retired neighbourhood, for visitations were not so frequent then as they fortunately are now, though surely if they were still more frequent, it would be a great blessing to the country.  For this solemn rite it was necessary that I should be prepared.  But we were a long way from our parish church of Seathwaite, and we had been in the habit, for nearness, of frequenting Torver chapel, though not resident in the district.  I confess I looked forward to this preparation with a mixed feeling of alarm and curiosity.  I was alarmed for fear that I should be found sadly deficient in the information necessary to justify me in appearing before the Bishop; and I was curious to know what steps my parents proposed to take to have me trained for the proper participation in this solemn rite.  I confess that a willingness to postpone what I considered a somewhat evil day prevented me from asking any questions on this subject.  At last I overheard a conversation between my parents one night after we had retired to rest (for our rooms were so near, and the doors and walls so full of chinks, that everything that passed was distinctly heard from one room to another) which led me to expect that the very day after, I was to be put in a train for preparation; but how, I had no means of gathering.  Accordingly, after the usual morning’s work of the farm was over, my father (which was very unusual with him) went to his room to put on his Sunday’s clothes; and my mother, with a pleased yet anxious expression on her countenance, directed me to do the same.  I asked no questions, for the reason I have just mentioned, but quietly obeyed.  We were soon on the way together. “It was a fine bright autumn morning, when we set off on this remarkable pilgrimage; I feeling that nothing but a most important matter could have induced my father to lose a day’s work at this season of the year; and my father and mother observing a perfect silence, both apparently wrapped up in their own thoughts.  Our way lay by a cart-track that led right up to the top of Walna Scar, a fine bold cliff, which I dare say you have climbed, for sight-seers find it a noble point for a prospect on their way between Coniston and Seathwaite.  It was the time of the year when the farmers in that country cut their turf for their winter stock of firing, and all the able-bodied population are then to be found assembled at their work on the hills.  I felt assured therefore, that my parents were seeking some labourer in the place where he was sure, at that season, to be found; but how this could possibly concern me, I could not conjecture.  At last, after a toilsome climb, we reached to the top of Walna; and there lay before us a prospect, such as the eye can command, I should think, in few other regions of the globe!  Mountains of all shapes and sizes lay tossed in wild confusion around us, like the billows of a stormy sea!  Lakes sparkled at our feet like looking-glasses for the giants; while the mighty western ocean bounded almost half the prospect round, as with a silver girdle.  But this prospect had nothing to do with our visit here; nor I believe did it once cross the mind of either my father or my mother. “They were anxiously looking out among the groups of turf-getters with which the top of the hill was dotted, for some one who was apparently the object of this unusual visit.  As we went along, the labourers stopped to speak and to gaze, for a country man in a holiday dress at that busy season, was to them a rare sight.  A few enquiries directed my father to the object of his search: and we soon approached a group of labourers who seemed so intent upon their work, that we stood close to them before we were observed.  They differed little from the little bands that were toiling around them, except that the eye at once detected that they were all of one family.  There were four able-bodied men who wheeled the turf, when cut, in barrows, to the ground where they were spread out to dry, and three girls, somewhat younger, who laid them flat on the ground for that purpose.  The turf-cutter was evidently the father of all the rest.  He was a short and stout man, with ruddy cheeks, and hair as white as snow.  He was obviously very far advanced in years, but as active in his occupation as if he had been a much younger man.  He had on a check shirt, and a coarse blue frock trimmed with black horn buttons, something like the dress of a charity boy at Chetham’s Hospital, and not very unlike a parson’s cassock.  He was so intent upon his work that he did not perceive our approach till my father spoke to him, when the little old man turned suddenly round, with his spade uplifted in the air, as if he was impatient of being interrupted in his labour.  To my surprise, my father immediately took off his hat, and my mother made a curtsey, actions so unusual that I began to feel an involuntary respect for him to whom such honours were paid.  He returned the salute with a friendly bow and smile which showed that such attentions were not new to him: and my father taking me by the hand said, almost in the words of Scripture, ‘Sir, this is our son of whom I spake unto you.’  The old man stepped forward, and laid his hand on my head, and said, with an expression of countenance which I shall never forget—‘God be gracious unto thee, my son!’  Had the hand of a patriarch of old been then upon me, it could not have affected me more.  It was ‘Wonderful Walker;’ did you ever hear, sir, of Wonderful Walker?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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