The Old Church Clock

by Richard Parkinson

“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 death 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.

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!’”

“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!”

CHAPTER VII.

—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.

“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.”