CHAPTER X.

The sun is bright, the fields are gay With people in their best array, Through the vale retired and lowly Trooping to the summons holy. And up among the woodlands see What sparklings of blithe company! Of lasses and of shepherd grooms That down the steep hills force their way, Like cattle through the budded brooms; Path or no path, what care they?

WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE.

“You recollect that in our interview with Robert Walker on the top of WALNA, we were directed by him to assemble at his church on the following Sunday, the children to commence their preparation for Confirmation, and the parents to present their offspring and themselves to derive comfort and instruction from the occasion. Never did a brighter sun shine on the world than that which rose on that memorable morning! Why, sir, does the sun shine brighter on a Sunday than on any other day in the week?”

“I cannot,” said I, sniffing, “give a reason for that which does not exist; but I can see a reason why good men should sometimes _think_ so, from their mistaking the warmth and light of gratitude springing up in their own hearts on that holy day, for the rays of the sun above them!”

“It may be so,” said the old man, “but I shall live and die in the belief that there was something warmer and brighter in the sun on that blessed morning, than I ever felt either before or since. The early work of the day, (and in a farm like ours there is always some labour which must necessarily be attended to even on the Sunday,) was finished long before the usual hour, and we were all dressed in our very best and on our way for SEATHWAITE Chapel, soon after nine o’clock. The early rays of the sun lighted up Coniston OLD MAN, {52} so that you might count every stone in his body. As we descended the slope of the mountain side for the vale of the Duddon, you might see a thousand white threads of water pouring down from every height that surrounded the valley, (for there had been a heavy shower of rain in the night,) and all rushing, with headlong impetuosity, into the brawling stream below. Then you could trace that stream, winding its beautiful way, now in sunshine, and now in shadow, till it gradually widened into a broad estuary, and lost\ itself in the bay of MORECAMBE, the dark mass of PEEL CASTLE standing calmly amidst the waves, as if to mark the boundary between the broad river and the ocean. This sight of itself prepared the mind for the religious impressions which were to follow; even a child like me seeing in the picture before him an emblem of the hasty bustle of time and the quiet repose of eternity; and I could not resist putting up a silent prayer to GOD, that the light of His _Grace_ might continue to shine upon the days of my short and feverish life as the sun in heaven was then glittering upon the mountain rills, now so bright and busy, and in a few hours doomed to become silent and still, as though they had never been. But another sight, still more impressive, broke on our view as we turned the crest of the little hill from which we first looked down on the chapel to which we were tending. Nothing, I believe, puzzles strangers so much, on visiting our Lake country, as to find out where all the people live. The houses of the district are placed in such odd nooks and corners, so buried under little knolls or spreading trees, and so like the old grey rocks about them in colour and shape, that an inexperienced traveller might roam through half that mountainous region, and fancy that its only inhabitants were sheep, rooks, and wanderers like himself. In the mining districts, too, one half of the inhabitants live under ground during the week, and it is only on a Sunday, when they come up to worship GOD with their brethren, that they see the light of the blessed day. Hence it is on Sundays only, that any man, native or stranger, can get a real sight of the whole population. Now, at the moment I speak of, just as we got a first view of the whole valley round Mr. Walker’s chapel, the whole population of the district burst on our sight at once. They were seen pouring over every height, and hurrying down the breast of every hill, of all ages, and in dresses of almost every variety of hue. The matrons, in their scarlet cloaks, which shone brightly among the green heather, were walking carefully along in groups of two or three, talking over, no doubt, the events of the week since they last met, the occasion that now more especially brought them together, and, it must be confessed, perhaps now and then mixing with more serious topics a little of the passing scandal of the country-side. The old grey-coated farmers, with stout sticks in their hands, said a few words on the subject of prices at the last Broughton sheep and wool fair; while the young men and maidens, laughing a little more loudly than the day justified, and walking a little nearer each other than their elders always quite approved, seemed to select, by way of preference, the most rugged and slippery paths they could find. In front of all rushed on the children and dogs, the latter, even at church, the better behaved if not the more intelligent party of the two. I would rather take my chance in the next world with some of the good dogs that I knew in Seathwaite, than some of the beasts in human shape that I have met with since I left it! Well, sir, all these were seen pouring at once down the hill sides, as lighthearted and cheerful as the larks over their heads. There could be no mistake as to the point to which, straggling as they seemed to be in their course, they were all finally aiming; for the little chapel-bell of Seathwaite was sending forth its sharp sound, not much louder than a mountain cuckoo, but still distinctly enough to be heard throughout the whole region in that still and silent air. What a picture had we then before us of the UNITY of the Church of CHRIST! Though the paths of these men, in the world, might be different, yet they all met together in harmony in the House of GOD—they all aimed at one point—they all hoped to be saved by the same faith. Here there was indeed ‘one house appointed for all living’—to pray in during life, to rest in after death. They all took Seathwaite chapel on their road to heaven! The bell which called them together to prayer was not much larger than a sheep bell, but it was obeyed by all the flock with a readiness which shewed how anxious they all were to be included within the fold of the GOOD SHEPHERD of their souls. Doubtless He was present in spirit. His minister on earth, as far as that little flock was concerned, was there in person; ready, as he always was, to see his flock, and administer to their spiritual comforts. There he stood, at the door of his humble parsonage, in his stuff gown and cassock, and his silver locks streaming in the wind, greeting every one as he passed by his door on the way to the chapel, and listening kindly to any little intelligence, either of joy or of sorrow, which the events of the last week might have brought forth. What a crowd there was assembled within and around that humble chapel, on that Sunday morning! There was not sitting or rather kneeling room for one half of the congregation. For though probably the number of candidates for Confirmation did not much exceed a dozen, yet Mr. Walker’s expressed wish, (and his wish was law,) had brought together all the parents, god-fathers and god-mothers, and elder brothers and sisters of every candidate, that they might be, on that occasion, reminded of their own Christian duties. These, together with a number of strangers attracted by the unusual circumstances, swelled the congregation to an amount far exceeding what the little chapel could contain; and so they stood about the door, or sat upon the walls and grave-stones of the church-yard, which, to a mountain-race on a fine autumn morning, formed quite as agreeable a temple of worship as the close-packed and somewhat mouldy space within. We, as being somewhat visitors and I a candidate, were civilly accommodated with seats by one to whom we were well known, and so heard and saw every thing that passed. There was no distinction of seats, or rather _forms_, in that little house of prayer. The forms all looked to the east, being entered from one small aisle which ran up from the west door to the altar. The people sat in families, but without distinction as to rank, all going to the place where their fathers had worshipped before, from time immemorial. The only difference was, that as each by degrees grew old and deaf, they advanced a step nearer the altar, that they might be able better to hear and see the clergyman. Thus the more sacred part of the building was surrounded by those who from age and spiritual experience deserved to be exalted in the Church of CHRIST—they were, as it were, the Elders round about the throne—they were a connecting link between minister and people—they were looked up to by those who sat behind, as their parents and examples; and no doubt it was an ambitious wish in the hearts of many of the younger, that as _they_ advanced in years they might be thought worthy to fill that honoured circle, and receive the respect which they were then paying to their elders. Surely, sir, this is a more becoming way of encircling the altar of our GOD, than by crowding its steps with idle and ill-mannered boys, as is too often the case in town churches, putting those at the head who ought to be but at the entrance of the Church of CHRIST, and filling our minds, as we think of that sacred portion of the House of GOD, with the image of a school-master with his ferula instead of a priest in his holy vestments!”

“I am nearly of your mind,” said I, smiling at the quaintness of his notion, “but you must recollect that necessity has no law.”

“True,” said he, “most true. Well, sir, there we were, waiting in anxious expectation for the stopping of the little tinkling bell, and the arrival of the clergyman, for no one thought of sitting down till he appeared. At length he advanced, with a grave face, and placid countenance, bowing slightly to all as he passed, but with his eyes fixed right before him till he reached the little altar, over the rails of which hung the surplice. This was reverently placed on his shoulders by a man almost as old and grey-headed as himself, and evidently dressed in some of the minister’s old raiment. The effect of this robing in the sight of the congregation was very impressive. You saw as it were with your eyes the putting off of the man and the putting on of the minister. The world was lost for a time, and shrouded by the clean white robe of the messenger of GOD. I have often thought that vestries, in and out of which the minister of a large town church pops as in a play, destroy the effect which was certainly produced on my mind by this robing of Robert Walker in the sight of the people. The service began with a psalm, selected and given out by Walker himself. His voice was rather thin from age, but clear and distinct, for he had lost none of his teeth, and his reading of the lines was like the sound of an instrument of music. He read each verse separately, and separately they were sung. The lines which he chose were the following from the Old Version of the Psalms, which he always used not only as being more near the original and more devotional in their spirit than the new, but as consisting mainly of words of one syllable, and expressly adapted to the plain-song of congregational singing. When shall I forget the musical cadences with which he gave out the following simple lines from the 34th psalm?

‘Come neare to me my children deare, And to my words give eare: I shall ye teach the perfect way How ye the LORD shall feare.

‘Who is the man that would live long, And lead a blessed life? See thou refraine thy tongue and lips From all deceit and strife.

‘Turn back thy face from doing ill, And do the godly deed: Inquire for peace and quietnesse, And follow it with speed.

‘For why? the eyes of GOD above Upon the just are bent: His eares likewise do heare the plaint Of the poor innocent.’

“I wish, sir, you had heard the way in which the giving out of the first verse of this psalm was responded to by the congregation! There was no praising GOD by deputy—no leaving this delightful part of the service to a few women in pink bonnets, and men in well-curled locks, stuck up in a gallery in front of a conceited organist, mincing GOD’s praise in softly warbled tones, and ready to sing to-morrow with just the same zeal and devotion in a Roman Catholic Chapel or an Italian Concert Hall, if they are equally well paid for their professional services. No, sir! every man, woman, and child sung for themselves, lustily, and with a right good will. They sung the air in a minor key, as is always the case among the inhabitants of mountain districts, perhaps because they learn to pitch their notes to the echoes of their native valleys; but it had from that circumstance a more solemn and devotional effect. It was taken up by those without the doors with the same zeal as by those within, for all knew the air as familiarly as their own names. Here was a strict compliance with David’s precept, ‘Young men and maidens, old men and children, praise ye the name of the LORD.’ The mighty sound rushed down the vale of ULPHA like the bursting of a mountain cataract; nor, for aught I can tell, was it checked in its onward course till it had scaled the heights of the surrounding mountains, and died away at last, in a gentle whisper, on the lonely summit of BLACK COMB! _Died away_, did I say? Forgive me, sir, the lowly thought! Far higher than the cliffs of HELVELLYN did that holy psalm ascend; nor stayed it in its upward flight till it approached, as a memorial of sweet incense, the throne of GOD—there to be heard again when earthly sound shall be no more!”

There was a single tear on the old man’s withered cheek as he said this, and a twitching about the rigid muscles of his mouth, which showed that his iron frame could still vibrate to the gentle recollections of his youth. He paused in his narrative; and there was a solemn silence between us of some minutes’ duration. At length he resumed—

“The saying of the Church Service followed with the same calm solemnity and devotion with which it began. It was clear that the object of the priest was to forget himself, and lead the worshippers to forget him, in the high service in which both were engaged; and in this he fully succeeded. It was not till the worship prescribed by the Church was ended, and the last Amen had died on the ear, that a sensation of curiosity seemed to run through the assembly, and those without began to crowd nearer the door, as though something unusual was about to take place, and they were anxious to catch words less familiar to their ears than the well-known language of the Prayer Book. There was little preparation necessary for the sermon. The preacher did not leave his place to change his sacred vestments for a black gown, as is now the general fashion. His place of prayer was also his place of preaching. I should explain that what we call the reading-desk was placed in the north-east corner of the little chapel, having two ledges for his books, one looking to the south, and the other (which also formed the door) to the west. On the former rested the Prayer Book, and on the latter the Bible; so that when he prayed, he naturally turned to the altar,—when he read the Scriptures, towards the people. When he began to preach, therefore, he simply turned to the people as when he had read the lessons, resting his sermon on the Bible—no bad foundation, you will say,” added the old man with a smile, “for a scriptural discourse! His text was a very short and simple one but had he sought the whole Bible through, he could not have found one better adapted to my state of mind than the one he chose—my disposition being at that time, as I before observed, to take a somewhat gloomy and severe view of the Gospel; it was ‘GOD is love.’ All my dark fears vanished at the sound; and I waited not to hear the reasons to be convinced that the essence of the Gospel is indeed ‘glad tidings’ to mankind. There was an unwonted appearance of excitement about the preacher as he gave forth his text, and turned over the leaves of the manuscript which lay before him, looking first at it, and then at the crowd of upturned and expecting faces before him with an expression which I did not at first comprehend. He paused before he commenced his sermon, as if he could hardly read his own hand-writing, and yet nothing could be plainer or more distinct than his penmanship, even to the end of his days. At last he seemed to have made up his mind. He closed his sermon with a force which seemed to shew that he had come to a final determination, and deliberately put it into the pocket of his cassock; he then cleared his voice, paused for an instant, and commenced as follows. You will not expect me to remember every word of the discourse; indeed, perhaps you will be surprised that I should remember it at all; but the substance of it, and often the very words and looks of the preacher still cling to my memory, with a firmness of which nothing can deprive them but the coming grave!”