“The old man turned upon the stranger a look in which a lurking smile was mixed up with much sternness of expression, and said: ‘Well may I be anxious to remove such a tempter as you from my unsuspecting flock, when you thus artfully assail what you doubtless deem the weak side of even the shepherd himself! My lot indeed may seem to you to be somewhat hard; but I answer in one word—a stronger than which the king himself cannot use—I AM HAPPY. I am where my Master placed me, and that of itself is enough for a good soldier of Jesus Christ. But, sir, even in a worldly point of view I am happy, nay, to be envied by those who look with narrow views (pardon me) like yourself, at what makes happiness here below. I suppose you think wealth, power, and fame to be the three things most to be desired to constitute a happy man; and in which of these am I so deficient, as to give me ground for repining at the lot which has been assigned me? With regard to wealth–though I certainly can boast of none of the superfluities of life, yet by our own industry and occupation (without which even abundance cannot give enjoyment) I and my wife have acquired more of the good things of this life, than either of us, from the condition of our birth, had a reasonable right to look for; and who can justly complain, whose lot in life is better than his father’s? As to power—I think you have already had abundant proof that I possess it, in my own sphere of action, in no ordinary degree. What absolute monarch, or what turbulent populace (and they are much the same) reigns so uncontrolled as I over the hearts and wills (but, I am proud to add, through the affections) of the people of Seathwaite? Power is mine, such as Rome only dreamt of; the greater because it is never exercised. And as for fame—the desire of which is perhaps the least blameable of our earthly passions, because it springs out of our innate hope of immortality—who has it more, in possession and in prospect, than the old feeble individual before you? These mountains are visited by tourists attracted by the beauty and splendour of our rural scenes; but the humble residence of Robert Walker is not passed by as the least interesting among them. The Lord of Muncaster Castle doffs that hat to his country pastor, which he would not take off before his monarch on the throne. [85] My children—and a fine healthy, though somewhat numerous race they are—will hand down my name to the next generation, I trust, as untarnished as they received it; and my children’s children, unless they are strangely forgetful of the pious lessons which their fathers have taught them, may hold it their highest honour to be descended from Robert Walker; and find that name of itself a passport and a recommendation even in what is called a cold and heartless world. We have lived here, sir, my life-companion and I, so long, as almost to form part of the landscape. Good Bishop Jeremy Taylor tells a story of an old couple in Ireland, who had resided so long in the same village that if they had given themselves out to be Adam and Eve, there was no one alive to contradict then. We are almost in the same condition. While, then, these rocks shall frown and that stream shall flow, my name, humble as it may be, is assured of its earthly immortality. The future Poet, whom the spirit of the Church and these divine scenes shall inspire with strains that shall blend the music of earth with the higher notes of heaven, will not omit my name from his pictures, when he paints my beloved Duddon in colours which shall last for ever; and who knows but some more lowly historian, smit with the love of my most humble but sincere service to my Master, shall hold up my name as a watchword to the fire-side of the quiet cottager; and teach the farmer at his plough, and the weaver at his loom, to call to mind my history; recommending to their sons patience, and perseverance, and piety, by the example (oh, how weak, feeble, and failing!) of Robert Walker!’
“The old man had risen from his chair, and paced the room with rapid strides as he gave utterance to the last sentences of this prophetic vision of his future history; and it was some time before his eye, which was sparkling with pious gratitude to God for all His blessings, caught that of the stranger, as it was fixed on him with the expression of a cold and quiet sneer. His countenance immediately changed, and he coloured slightly at having thus exposed himself, in his open-heartedness, to the charge of a vanity, which was surely, in this case, of a most pardonable nature. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I have become a fool in glorying—you have compelled me. I have shown you that, on your own selfish principles, I have indeed much to be thankful for. But we must bring this matter to a close. I look for a promise from you, which you must see it would be useless to withhold, that you will vex this quiet district no longer with your presence.’
“‘I go,’ said he, ‘father; but I go not alone! You, and this simple youth shall know that there is at least one heart here which sympathizes with my feelings, and will not shrink from sharing my fortunes. Love, father, is stronger than’—
“‘I RENOUNCE HIM!’ exclaimed poor Martha, rushing forward from behind the screen under which she had been sheltered during this remarkable conversation, and standing erect in the middle of the room with her eye boldly fixed on the face of the wondering stranger—‘I renounce him, now and for ever! Oh Frederick!’
“I shall never forget her expression at that moment. ‘Father,’ she continued, ‘I love him’—
“‘Loved him, you would say, my child.’
“‘Nay, father, love him still dearly, and will for ever love him!’
“‘Then fly with me,’ said the stranger, ‘to a land less inhospitable than this’—
“‘No, Frederick! that cannot, shall not be. At my baptism I was married to Another, and with one who has stained his baptismal robes will I never be united!’
“This is some plot.’