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 p. 2abroad 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 p. 3forty 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!”

I now found that my new friend had some humour in his conversation; and I confess, I did not like him the worse for it.  He continued:—“I am from the north.  p. 4I was born in one of the wildest parts of the country you ever saw, in the midst of lakes and mountains.  It has been fashionable lately to visit the lake country, but most persons go in their carriages or on horseback, and they miss the very finest parts and the grandest scenes.  I did not think much of the beauties of the country then; but since I left it, and came to live in this smoky dungeon, my heart has often gone back to the place of my birth; and it now looks much more beautiful in my mind than it did then to my eyes, or than it probably would if I were ever to see it again.—I wonder if that will ever be!”—he here half whispered to himself—“Sir, the house in which I was born stood in one of the most retired parts of the lake country—a spot, I dare say, never visited at all by strangers.  They call it Yewdale.  The house (I see it now!) was low, and built of cobbles, but firm as a rock; one end, indeed, had fallen in, and was used as a hen-roost and cart-house, but the main part of the house was well slated with good brown flat stones, out of Coniston Old Man, and had two chimneys at the top as tall and round as a churn.  The house stood on the side of the hill, just where the road makes a turn to run right down upon Coniston Water Head.  There was a great broad plane tree at the end of it,”—“and a large thorn before the door,” interrupted I, “with the top of it cut into the shape of a cock.”

“Exactly so!” exclaimed he, looking up into my face with much surprise, “why you have seen the very place!”

“To be sure I have, and that the very last summer, when I was strolling about Yewdale and Tilberthwaite, the finest part of all the lake country.”

“Eh, sir!” said he, his native dialect unconsciously returning with his early recollections,—“Eh, sir, and is it not a bonny bit?—and so the old cock is still crowing on the top of the old thorn!”

“Indeed it was,” said I; “but as I passed by, I saw a ladder reared up to its side, and a decent looking man, apparently the owner, diligently employed, with a pair of shears, in cutting off the cock’s tail!”

“Confound Tom Hebblethwaite,” said my companion, more seriously p. 5vexed than I thought it possible for him to be,—“I wish—but I am a fool for being angry with him—what better could be expected from him?  At school he was always a stupid fellow; he never could catch a trout out of the lake in his life, and whenever he tried to rob a hen-roost, he was sure to tumble down the ladder, and waken all the cocks and hens in the parish!”

I was much amused at the reasons which the old man assigned why nothing good could be expected from Tom Hebblethwaite, but said nothing more to provoke his indignation, which I saw he soon became rather ashamed of.  After a pause he regained his wonted composure, and proceeded:—“In that house I was born.  My earliest recollection is the death of my grandmother.  I do not know how old she was, but she must have been near a hundred years old.  I yet remember her calling me to her bed side, just before her death, giving me a shilling, which she seemed to have concealed somewhere about the bed-clothes, and saying, in a deep and earnest tone, ‘God bless you.’  She died that night.  I have never forgotten her blessing, and I have never parted with her shilling—I never will!”  There was a tear in his eye as he said this, and he paused for a few moments in his narrative.