“At this point in our conversation a young man joined our party, whom I had for some time observed strolling about, and occasionally addressing some of the various parties engaged in cutting turf on the fell. He was good looking, and dressed in the prevailing fashion of the time, that is, very much as I am at present, for my outward man has stood still in its attire for the last forty years. It was evident that he was no native of the north, and might be one of those Lakers, who, in that early period, though not in such numbers as at present, visited the lakes during the summer season, to enjoy the beauties of their scenery, and imbibe health and strength from the pure breath of their mountain breezes. He evidently eyed our Reverend friend with much curiosity; and respectfully touching his hat, said with a smile, ‘Your outward attire, father, has in my eyes a somewhat primitive appearance.’ Mr. Walker, if he felt the sneer, did not seem to notice it, but replied with plain simplicity, ‘I flatter myself, sir, that my dress is such as at once becomes my character, and bespeaks my office. It is coarse in its texture, for the materials of it were spun by my own hand; but its form is such as has been handed down from time immemorial as belonging to the priest’s office, and I see no reason, sir, why the priest’s vesture should not be as unchangeable as his creed.’
“‘Unchangeable! venerable sir, what is unchangeable? Is not the human mind, in our days, gradually but irresistibly marching onwards, from the darkness of ignorance to the broad daylight of liberty and knowledge? Is not this an age of new light?” “It may be so,” said the priest, “but if my creed be true, the last new light from heaven came in the days of our Saviour—any new light since then, must, I fear, have a different origin!’
“The stranger did not seem disposed to pursue the conversation further, but, slightly touching his hat, took his leave. We also paid our parting respects to the pastor, and commenced our journey home. The stranger joined us before we had advanced far on our return, and certainly we found him a most intelligent and agreeable companion. He had seen much of foreign countries, and mentioned many circumstances with regard to them and their customs, which made a deep impression on my youthful imagination. He accompanied us to the door of our house, which was opened by my sister; and, much to my surprise, she received him with an expression of countenance, and a conscious blush on her cheek, which showed that it was not the first time that they had met. My curiosity was excited, and I resolved, if possible, to find out the stranger’s history and occupation.”
CHAPTER IX.
Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites
A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the Memory help when she would weave
A crown of hope! I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o’er which in vain we grieve.Wordsworth.
“I am afraid sir,” continued the old man, as we resumed our walk and our conversation, “that you will begin to think my tale of things gone by both tiresome and unprofitable. To me it is interesting, because, as I tell my story, my mind goes back to the days of my youth, and the early feelings, both of joy and sorrow, return to my heart as my narrative calls them up, almost as freshly as when the scenes were acting before my eyes. But that the task is unprofitable, I cannot help sometimes confessing to myself, however pleasing it may be to my feelings. Walker, and all that concerned him, are gone to the grave. The world has marched on with wonderful strides since his day; his clumsy spinning wheel is now rendered useless by machinery; and even in his own little vale, a child’s hand can, in one short week, produce a greater quantity and a much finer quality of well spun yarn than he, poor man, twisted together during the long and laborious years of his whole life! Why, then, should one look to him, and not to that child, as a model? I feel that it would be absurd to take the latter rather than the former as an example, yet I confess I cannot assign the reason for it: and thus it is, that when I am told that the present age is in advance of the last, and ought rather to be my guide than the ways of antiquity, I am often driven into a difficulty, though never convinced;—what think you of the matter?”
“Your difficulty,” said I, “seems to arise from confounding progress in arts and sciences with progress in moral and mental power. The one is as different from the other as possible, nor does the existence of the one at all imply the presence of the other. The child you have referred to as being able to spin so much better than Walker,—could it reason like Walker? would it act and feel like him?—By no means; and so neither may an age, distinguished for mechanical progress, excel one of darkness with regard to such matters, and yet devoted to pursuits and studies which call forth the powers of the mind, and exercise the best qualities of the heart. Shakspere and Milton might have made sorry cotton-spinners; no farmer now would plough, like Elisha, with twelve yoke of oxen before him, yet where is the farmer who would surpass the prophet in zeal, and eloquence, and devotion to his Master’s service? Never fear, then, my friend, that the example of good Mr. Walker can grow old and useless; we can easily cut better peats than he did by the help of better tools, but when shall we surpass him in shrewd observation of the face of nature, in industry, in devotion to God, in kindness and good-will to man! Hear what is said of him by a great-grandson, who may well be prouder of being a descendant of Robert Walker, than if he had come of the purest blood in Europe:—
“‘His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates were industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, quietness, characterized the whole family. No railings, no idleness, no indulgence of passion were permitted. Every child, however young, had its appointed engagements; every hand was busy. Knitting, spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, making shoes, were by the different children constantly performed. The father himself sitting amongst them and guiding their thoughts, was engaged in the same operations.
* * *
“‘He sat up late and rose early; when the family were at rest, he retired to a little room which he had built on the roof of his house. He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves for his books, his stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold winter’s night, without fire, while the roof was glazed with ice, did he remain reading or writing till the day dawned. He taught the children in the chapel, for there was no school house. Yet in that cold damp place he never had a fire. He used to send the children in parties either to his own fire at home, or make them run up the mountain’s side.
* * *
“‘It may be further mentioned, that he was a passionate admirer of nature; she was his mother, and he was a dutiful child. While engaged on the mountains, it was his greatest pleasure to view the rising sun; and in tranquil evenings, as it slided behind the hills, he blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils and plants; a constant observer of the stars and winds. The atmosphere was his delight: he made many experiments on its nature and properties. In summer, he used to gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by his entertaining descriptions, amuse and instruct his children. They shared all his daily employments, and derived many sentiments of love and benevolence from his observations on the works and productions of nature. Whether they were following him in the field or surrounding him in school, he took every opportunity of storing their minds with useful information.—Nor was the circle of his influence confined to Seathwaite. Many a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker, and begged him to be as good a man.
* * *
“‘Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of seeing and hearing that venerable old man in his 90th year, and even then, the calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and adorned by the wisdom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue had such an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed clergyman without thinking of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“‘He allowed no dissenter or methodist to interfere in the instruction of the souls committed to his care: and so successful were his exertions, that he had not one dissenter of any denomination whatever in the whole parish.—Though he avoided all religious controversies, yet when age had silvered his head, and virtuous piety had secured to his appearance reverence and silent honour, no one, however determined in his hatred of apostolic descent, could have listened to his discourse on ecclesiastical history and ancient times, without thinking that one of the beloved apostles had returned to mortality, and in that vale of peace had come to exemplify the beauty of holiness in the life and character of Mr. Walker.
* * *
“‘Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous to her death, his health and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. But this misfortune gave him such a shock, that his constitution gradually decayed. His senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He never preached with steadiness after his wife’s death. His voice faltered: he always looked at the seat she had used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. He seemed when alone sad and melancholy, though still among his friends kind and good-humoured. He went to bed about twelve o’clock the night before his death. As his custom was, he went loitering and leaning upon his daughter’s arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments in the open air. “How clear the moon shines to-night!” He said those words, sighed, and lay down: at six next morning he was found a corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a grateful blessing followed him to the grave.’
“My good friend,” said I, when I had finished reading to him the above beautiful extract, “I beg pardon for interrupting your narrative, but I am sure you will forgive me on account of the subject, and because I think what I have just read contains an answer to your question,—Why should we imitate the ancients rather than the moderns? When the moderns set us a better example than this, we will follow them with pleasure; but they must excuse us if we wait till then. I would say, to those who are anxious to set one age against another, and especially to magnify our own at the expense of the past, (in the lines of a great and good man,)
“‘Oh! gather whencesoe’er ye safely may
The help which slackening Piety requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.’”