“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 cure: 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 became, 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, tottering 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 laid 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.”
THE OLD-CHURCH CLOCK.
CHAPTER I.
Trouble is a thing that will come without our call: but true joy will not spring up without ourselves.
—Bishop Patrick’s “Heart’s Ease.”
One fine day last spring—(and fine days are not so common in Manchester, at that season of the year, as to make them easily forgotten)—one fine day I was crossing the new Victoria bridge, from the Manchester to the Salford side of the river, when my attention was arrested by a middle-aged person, (I had nearly written gentleman, but that word would not have conveyed quite an accurate idea to the reader,) who was gazing very steadily over the battlements, at the Old Church Clock. He was a person whom I had often remarked strolling about the streets of the town, and whom I felt myself to be perfectly acquainted with, by sight, though I had no idea whatever of his name or occupation. Occupation, indeed, I felt almost assured he had none, or at least not one which demanded any considerable portion of his time; for, besides his age, which was evidently too advanced to permit him to discharge any very laborious duties, he was more abroad in the open air, than was consistent with any constant or indispensable calling. His dress was of a description which implied something above want, though not much; for, like its wearer, it had seen better days; moreover, it showed its owner to be a man not given to change; for it was of a fashion more in vogue thirty years ago, than at the present time. Over a coat that had once been of a blacker dye than now, he wore a spencer, or short great-coat, buttoned up to the chin. His small-clothes were strictly what their name implies, closely buttoned at the knees. His legs were comfortably encased in thick woollen stockings, which received additional warmth from a pair of short black gaiters, which clothed his ancles. Altogether he had rather the air of a country schoolmaster, with more scholars than fees, taking the air on a half-holiday. This respectable personage was (as I said) gazing steadfastly at the Old Church Clock, over the battlements of the bridge: he had his own watch in his hand, of ample size and antique appearance; and I saw that he was going to regulate its time by that of the venerable old time-teller in the tower of the Collegiate Church. Knowing that at that moment the Old Church clock was not, as they say “quite right,” (for friend Peter Clare is sometimes much more attentive to the accuracy of his own external appearance, than to the correctness of those measurers of time, which her majesty’s subjects have committed to his regulation,) I could not resist the inclination to caution one, whom I almost considered an old acquaintance, against being led into error, by setting his own watch to a clock which was at least five minutes behind the hour.
“My friend,” said I, (taking out my own watch at the same time, to give some force to my words,) “that clock is six minutes too slow.” “It may be so, sir,” said he, looking at me quite in the way that I had looked at him, viz. as an old acquaintance, “it may be so, but I always set my watch by that clock, every week, whether it be right or wrong!” “Indeed!” exclaimed I, “that seems a strange fancy.” “It may be so,” said he, “and perhaps it is. But, sir, I know that clock of old; five and forty years I have gone by it, and it has never led me far wrong yet. It has saved me some good thrashings, and more hard money; to say nothing of better things it has done for me. It is now the oldest friend I have in Manchester, and I keep up my acquaintance with it, by setting my watch by it every Saturday; and, with God’s blessing, so long as I live in Manchester, (and it is very likely, now, that I may live here till I die,) I will set my watch by that clock, be it right or wrong!” There was a mixture of joke and earnest in the old man’s manner, as he said this, like one who feels that what he says seriously may yet be open to ridicule; and I could not help replying, in a tone somewhat similar to his own—“Well, I never heard so much said in favour of the Old Church clock before! As we are walking in the same direction, perhaps you will give me some particulars as to your acquaintance with that old clock, and of the good which you have had out of it.”
“It will be rather a long story, sir: but I am getting to an age when it is a pleasure to me to tell long stories, especially about myself—I have little else to do.”
Here there was a pause of some duration; and I saw an anxious expression on the old man’s features, either as if he was somewhat startled with the task which he had undertaken, or did not quite know where to begin: probably both feelings were in his mind, for in about half a minute, he raised his eyes a little, which had been, till then, fixed on the ground, and said, as if half to me and half to himself, “I think it will be best to begin at the beginning. He will like to hear of my young days, and it is a pleasure to me to go over them again. I was not, sir, born in Manchester; indeed, I hardly ever knew any body that was! Many come from Ireland, like pigs, and they live like pigs; and many from the north, like woodcocks and fieldfares,—some grow fat like fieldfares, and some grow lean like woodcocks!”