“The venerable preacher gave utterance to these words with a passionate earnestness which went to the hearts of all present, and very few who heard them will ever forget either their sound or their meaning. He then proceeded more calmly to press on his hearers their several duties to God and to each other, and dismissed the vast assembly with his blessing, given with all the dignity of a patriarch. I need not relate to you how crowded was his mid-day meal,—how attentively listened to his evening sermon. Suffice it to say, that we were instructed in every point of the solemn vow which we were about to take, on our own behalf, before the Bishop, in such a manner as might be expected from Robert Walker. I must, however, mention two events more, connected with this little history of our Confirmation, the one very ridiculous, the other almost sublime; because they have each their proper moral attached to them. Among the other candidates for Confirmation was our old friend Tom Hebblethwaite, whom I have long since forgiven for the sound beating he gave me at Hawkshead, but whom I never can forgive for cutting off the old cock’s tail! Tom was stupid and sullen as usual, but at the same time, thanks to old Bowman’s birch, had acquired information enough about his catechism to prevent Mr. Walker from absolutely refusing him his ticket. Accordingly, he was one of the party who started off together from Yewdale to Ulverston on the morning on which the confirmation was to be held in the church of that town, by the Lord Bishop of Chester. We were a sober and steady young party, attended by our parents, and one or two god-fathers and god-mothers who knew their duty; and the mirth, which generally attends such meetings of the youth of both sexes, was sobered down into quiet and decorous conversation by the seriousness of the occasion which had brought us together. All except Tom, who, generally dull and stupid enough, seemed excited into a kind of perverse and ungainly liveliness, which increased into boisterous folly with every rebuke from those older than himself. At length we arrived at Penny-Bridge, just below Mr. Machell’s house, when the stream was then crossed, (I know not how it is now,) not by a bridge, as one might expect from its name, but what are there called ‘hipping-stones,’ large blocks of rock placed at intervals, so that the passenger had to skip from one to another in order to cross the water. Tom challenged his companions to go over on one leg,—a feat which many there could have performed, had they not one and all felt themselves restrained from such a childish frolic by the solemnity of the occasion. Now it is a strange trait in human nature that the very feelings which held back the really brave, seemed to give a momentary courage to the coward; and Tom undertook to perform to-day what nobody would give him credit for ever thinking of on any other day in the year. But the fate of all such rash adventurers—and which every one hoped rather than expected—on this occasion befell Tom Hebblethwaite. Just when he came to the largest stone, and the deepest hole in the river, Tom’s courage and foot gave way together, and down he soused over head and ears into the water, nothing being seen of him, for a moment, but his hat, which, being the lightest part about him, (it was a new one for the occasion,) refused to sink with the rest of his body, and soon commenced a voyage towards Peel Castle and the Pile of Foudrey,—a voyage which nobody present seemed inclined to interrupt. Tom himself, however, was kindly fished up out of an element which seemed to have been of service neither to his body nor to his mind; for, without staying to thank his deliverers, he immediately commenced a rapid retreat homewards, and, I dare say, remains unconfirmed, (except in his sullenness and obstinate temper,) to the present hour! It was some time before we could recover our composure, which had been ruffled by this ludicrous event; but the sight of the assembly around the church and church-yard of Ulverston effectually sobered the thoughts of even the most volatile of our party; for there can be no sight more solemn than that of a Confirmation in a fine open country, and in a church situated like that of Ulverston, surrounded by scattered and towering hills, with the broad ocean in the distance. There were the rural shepherds at the head of their flocks, hastening to present their young lambs to the Lord, that they might receive His blessing from the hands of His chief minister on earth. Our own beloved pastor was already at his post, standing waiting for us at the church-door in his well-known gown and cassock, and ready to head us up to the rails of the altar. Way was made for him by his younger brethren of the clergy, as he advanced steadily up the aisle, followed by his children; and what was our surprise and delight to see the Bishop himself, in his white robes, advance two or three steps to meet him, and shake him most affectionately by the hand. There was a smile of approbation on the faces of the surrounding clergy as they witnessed this scene, which showed that no feeling of jealousy was excited in their minds by this kindness on the part of the Bishop, but that they all looked upon it in its true light—as a just reward of pious and unpretending merit. How proud we all were at that moment of belonging to the flock of Robert Walker! We each felt as if we had a personal share in his distinction, and many of us resolved then, I doubt not, to do nothing which should bring disgrace upon a teacher so honoured among his brethren as ours! This, sir, I have learned since to believe, is a wrong feeling; we ought to follow the right path from higher motives than a feeling of pride, either in ourselves or others. But surely our human passions may sometimes justly be employed for good ends. What is it but taking one of the Devil’s strongest and most wiry snares, and twisting it into a three-fold cord to bind us faster to the altar?”
CHAPTER XII.
Come on sir; here’s the place:—stand still.—How fearful
And dizzy ’tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air
Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight: The murmuring surge
That on th’ unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high:—I’ll look no more;
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.King Lear.
“You must prepare yourself,” continued the old man, to be somewhat surprised with what I am going to relate to you, if you have not (as I have) lived long enough in the world not to be much surprised at any thing. Things are so mixed up in this world, and very trifling, or even absurd events so often lead to very serious consequences, that I can quite believe the stories one hears of the spilling of a cup of tea creating a war between two nations, or the boring of a rat-hole causing the inundation of Holland.
“One very fine morning, at this period of my narrative, Gawen Braithwaite, a stout young man of rather more than my own age, the son of a neighbouring statesman, and myself, sallied forth on an excursion of a character not uncommon among the young men of that country in my early days, and probably still prevailing,—which combined the three great excitements to youth for any similar undertaking, viz. pleasure, danger, and sometimes profit. This was, the gathering ruddle in the Screes of Wastdale. This operation will require some explanation to make it intelligible to you. Ruddle is a stone strongly mixed with iron, which, by wetting and rubbing, produces a deep red paint which hardly any exposure to the weather can wash away, especially when stained upon an oily substance like wool. Now this ruddle the shepherds of the mountains use to mark their sheep with, that it may be known to whom they belong. As the sheep range over a wide and unenclosed extent of moor and fell, they often ramble far from home, and though each shepherd well knows every one of his own sheep by face, yet strangers could not know to whom a stray animal belonged, unless it bore some mark to point out its owner. Hence the occupier of every sheep-farm has his own peculiar mark, which has been used on that farm time out of mind, by which his sheep are known all over the country-side; and at sheep-shearings, which are always times of great festivity and rejoicing, the shepherds assemble from all parts of the country, and choose out their own stray sheep from each flock as it is shorn, appealing to their well-known marks as proofs of ownership. These marks, as I said, are made by the mineral called ruddle, which, being very scarce, has a considerable value in the market, fetching as much as at least sixpence a pound. Now sixpences are not very abundant in the pockets of country lads; and they are very glad to secure them, even though it be but by one at a time, at the expense of wasting many hours, which they value little, and at much risk of their necks, which they value less. It happens that this ruddle is principally to be found in the most dangerous place in all the lake country—a place which you must have seen, for it is visited by all tourists who wish to explore by far the finest part of all that beautiful district—the Screes of Wast-water. These Screes are a long and lofty ridge of almost perpendicular rocks, running from Scaw-fell towards the sea, along the whole southern side of the lake of Wastdale, and are of so brittle and crumbling a nature, that almost the smallest pebble, set rolling from above, will gather a host of them as it goes, till a whole army of little stones rush pell-mell to the bottom of the rock and plunge headlong into the dark lake below, at least fifty fathoms deep! It is on the face and half way down the side of this shivery rock that the little veins of ruddle are to be found, and you may guess the steady step and firm nerve which are required to descend the surface of the steep and loose declivity, and avoid any disturbance of that rolling mass, which, once commencing its movements, would to a certainty hurl the bold adventurer to the bottom. Many lives have been lost in this perilous pursuit. However, Gawen Braithwaite and I were not deterred by the danger, but rather impelled by it to encounter a risk which we had often before tried and escaped. Up Langdale, then, we sallied; and crossing Stye-Head, made our way to the left under the peaks of Scaw-fell Pikes, through the stormy gap of Mickle-door, and descended the face of the Screes with that boldness of heart and step, which is the best pledge of safety. We were on this day more than usually successful in the object of our search; and before the sun had descended between the double peaks of the Isle of Man, had filled our bags with the treasure which we so highly prized, and sat down on the top of the Screes to eat our first meal since we left home, and watch at the same time the last rays of the sun tingeing the sea with gold, and the top of Great Gavel with a deep purple—his base being already lost in shadow. In the gaiety of our hearts we ended our repast by smearing our faces with the ruddle: and, having added a few dark lines to the portrait by the aid of some bastard coal which is there found, we were quite prepared to startle to our hearts’ content any rustic maiden that might have the misfortune to encounter us on our way home—a feat not very uncommon in a country where amusements are not so easily found as in towns like this. The lengthening shadows of the evening soon warned us of the approach of night; and we commenced our return with light hearts and heavy sacks of ruddle, keeping the high ground and the slopes of the hill-sides rather than descending into the valleys below, both because the ground was there more solid to the step, and because—the truth must be confessed—we thought we were less likely to meet with ghosts on the open plain, than in the dark lurking-places and shadowy recesses of the glens, which have been supposed, from time immemorial, their favourite habitations! Yet, strange as it may appear, this very avoidance of ghostly haunts led us not only into their chosen dwelling places, but converted us into ghosts ourselves; as you shall hear. Gawen Braithwaite was somewhat in advance of me as we crossed the bold point of the crag which runs out between the vale of Langdale and the dale that leads towards the foot of Hardknot, when he suddenly disappeared among some close bushes of hazel, which here fringe the rock from the river below almost to the crown of the hill. Conceiving that he had stumbled under his weight among the hidden stones (for it was now almost dark even on the hill tops) I hastened forward to his relief, when, to my great surprise, I found that he had disappeared altogether from view. I called aloud, and, receiving no answer, I became dreadfully alarmed, thinking that he, who, I soon recollected, had no right to poor Gawen, had flown off with him bodily! At last I heard his voice from below feebly calling on me to help him, and then found that he had fallen into a deep and unsuspected cavern, and was unable to get out without my assistance. I descended carefully to the place where he was lying, and found him not at all hurt; but he trembled exceedingly, and putting his hand to his mouth as a signal for my silence, he pointed to an object below, which put me at once into as great a fright as himself. We could both see distinctly a faint glimmering of light, though far beneath us; and as we held our breaths from very terror, sometimes fancied we could hear the sound of human voices in the very bowels of the hills. At last our doubts were changed into certainty; and gathering courage by the assurance that the sounds which we heard were not inhuman, our curiosity began to get the better of our fears, and we quietly worked our way downwards among the rocks and closely-woven bushes, till the light grew brighter, and the sounds fell more distinctly on our ears. At last a sight burst upon us which astonished us both not a little. Stepping quietly down upon a jutting projection of rock, we obtained the full view of a large cavern, evidently the old working of a slate-mine which had been long deserted, and the entrance to which (at the opposite end from where we stood) had been almost forgotten even by the natives. The hills thereabouts are, in fact, full of such old workings. There, round a large fire, which answered the purpose both of light and heat, we saw arranged a large circle of men, some standing, some leaning against the rocks, and some sitting round the fire, while one stood in the middle addressing them with great earnestness, and much and very graceful action. I immediately recognized the orator as one whom I had seen before, and much surprised and grieved was I to see him under such circumstances. Have you any idea, sir, who he was?”
“Not in the least,” said I.
“It was the handsome stranger, the lover and loved of my poor sister Martha! The whole secret was now out; the mystery was now at an end. This man, whose appearance and occupations among our quiet mountains no one could account for, was, in fact, a champion of the French Revolution, and a spreader of the pestilent doctrines of Tom Paine! Whether he was employed by others, or whether he came impelled only by his own perverted zeal in this evil cause, was never known; but his object was to spread the principles of Infidelity and Revolution (and when were these principles ever separated?) among the miners of Cumberland, and, through them, among the peaceful and pious inhabitants of the north! Can you, sir, conceive a design more fiendish than this?—well worthy the exploits of his first ‘father’ in the garden of Eden! There, however, in that old and forgotten mine, he had secretly assembled the workmen and others together, and was in the very midst of his exhortation when Gawen Braithwaite and I became so unexpectedly a portion of his auditory. As we recovered our self-possession, and found that we were completely screened from view by the shadows which filled the whole of the upper end of the cave, we could gradually trace out some faces that we knew; and amongst the rest one or two whose presence in such company caused us no little surprise. How little, sir, do we know the real opinions, even of our next neighbours! There we saw William Tyson,—no relation of old Tommy Tyson, king of Wastdale-Head—for he is as honest a king as ever reigned, and, at the same time, as good a subject to the Queen as ever lived.”
“Honest king Tommy,” said I, “is dead.”
“Is he indeed?” said the old man, in a lower tone than he had been speaking in just before; “I grieve to hear it; but all men, even kings, must die; and I trust he has left a successor to his humble throne among his native hills, as worthy to reign as himself and his ancestors. William Tyson was a neighbour of our own, and owner of a very neat homestead and large sheep-farm in the vale of Tilberthwaite. One could see no possible reason why one so well to do in the world should feel any dissatisfaction either with Church or State. But, sir, what has reason to do with follies like these? William was a man ‘wise in his own conceit,’ and I do not think Solomon was far wrong when he said of such a one, that ‘there is more hope of a fool than of him.’ Well, sir, Gawen and I lent our ears most attentively to catch the substance of the handsome stranger’s address, and soon found that he was speaking of the equality of civil rights, to which, he said, all men were born by nature. ‘All men,’ cried he, ‘come into the world in precisely the same condition.’ ‘I do not see how that can well be,’ said a decrepid-looking wretch sitting close to the speaker, ‘when I came into the world with a withered arm and leg, which have hardly ever grown since, and Jack Strong there was born with the limbs of a giant, and the strength of a buffalo!’ ‘I speak not of natural, but of civil equality,’ said the stranger, somewhat puzzled by the objection; ‘I mean that one man has as much right to property as another.’ ‘Aye, aye,’ said William Tyson, much pleased with this view of the subject, ‘I have long thought myself quite as much entitled to Coniston Hall as Sir Daniel le Fleming himself, and should much like to have the guiding of it for the rest of my days.’