CONTENTS.
Introduction | |
Memoir of Robert Walker | |
The Old ChurchClock | |
Chapter I | |
Chapter II | |
Chapter III | |
Chapter IV | |
Chapter V | |
Chapter VI | |
Chapter VII | |
Chapter VIII | |
Chapter IX | |
Chapter X | |
Chapter XI | |
Chapter XII | |
Chapter XIII | |
Chapter XIV | |
Chapter XV | |
INTRODUCTION.
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 enough 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 and 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 his brethren can look back, each to his Robert Walker in his own district, by whose light his path 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 this; 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 impresses 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 withdrawn; 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 result 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 to 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 and 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 the 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 to 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 that, 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.
[From Mr. Wordsworth’s notes to his series of sonnets on the river Duddon.]
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 and 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 clothing 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 the 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.
“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.
“Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in the 93rd year of her age.”
In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this notice:
“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.”
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—
“A Priest abides before whose life such doubts
Fall to the ground;—”
and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, will not be out of place here.