CLAUDE CLIFTON'S STORY OF HIS LIFE. "O blest retirement, friend to life's decline." A few miles outside a large and thriving town, in the interior of England, stands the picturesque villa of Laurelton. As a rural retreat, for comfort, beauty, and repose it is, perhaps, unrivalled. The great world of business and life is not far off. An hour's drive along a pleasant road will bring you into the bustling streets of the busy town. And yet all round the villa nature is fresh, exuberant, primeval. From the front, which looks southward, slopes a green and sunny valley, where the cattle in the summer find the sweetest pasture, and the bees in the spring the earliest flowers. Through this valley winds a quiet still river, rush-grown and reedy, and beyond the river is a woody elevation that has the appearance of being the outskirts of an ancient forest. To the west is a splendid sheet of water, surrounded by luxuriant and overhanging foliage, and studded with small islands, on the largest of which stands a Swiss hut, built on piles, and peeping out on the lake from amid embowering trees. Behind the house, at some distance from the road, rises a steep and rugged hill, covered with gorse and fern at the base, while towards the summit huge irregularly-shaped peaks of grey granite jutt out in sharp outline against the sky. Eastward the country is undulating and woody, and over a chain of blue mountains, in the distance, the morning sun must climb ere he can pour his golden radiance on the flower-wreathed latticed windows of Laurelton Villa. The building itself is in the antique style, and its old-fashioned porch, its fantastic gables, its walls overgrown with the creeping vine, the trailing honeysuckle, and the clinging ivy, accord well with the romance and the picturesqueness of the scenery around. It is indeed a charming retreat; a poet, a monk, a heart-sick courtier, or a world weary merchant might find its hermit-like repose and monastic seclusion refreshing to his soul, for that old hall seems to stand alone with nature and God. No other human habitation can anywhere be seen. The hill hides town and village from view. Granite rocks have hitherto forbid the near approach of the shrieking engine and the rumbling train, and but for the smoke of the peasant's cot, or the gipsys' camp-fire-but for the ringing of the woodman's axe, that echoes from the forest, the clang of church bells from the village hard by, and the din of merry voices from the hill side, where the townsfolk have their summer picnics, the inhabitants of the old hall might often deem themselves, not only the sole monarchs, but the sole denizens of the scene. It is a golden autumn morn. The grey mist skims along the hills and rolls away westward, westward, as if the fingers of Aurora were drawing aside the curtain that had veiled a sleeping world. Nature is trying to look fresh, and happy and immortal, as if the time of her decay were not nigh, and the shadow of Death had never swept over her face. But there is a sadness in her smile that the eye may not see, but the heart can feel. A solemn stillness reigns everywhere-but hark! the wind sighs a long, hollow, dirge-like sigh, and then sinks to rest, and the toll of slow and muffled bells creeps in upon the ear. Every window of the villa is darkened; at the door, on each side, stand two sable-clad mutes. Presently, over the holly hedge that skirts the garden the nodding plumes of a hearse may be seen, and then, in long and sad procession, weeping mourners come forth, and follow the hearse and the mourning coach as they move on toward the gates. The slow and measured tramp of the procession is heard along the road, wayfaring men stop and gaze and pass on; near the village the procession is lengthened; tradesmen, labouring men, farmers join it, and at last it winds into the graveyard of the old parish church, which has cast its sacred shadow for centuries on the sleeping generations below. All the village is at the funeral, for Old Father Clifton, the silver-haired patriarch of Laurelton Manse, has passed away, and all the village knew and loved him. Children are there, for the old man loved children, and rarely had he gone into Guysmore but some little ones left their play and plucked his coat "to share the good man's smile." Old men and old women are there, and down their hard and wrinkled faces trickle honest tears of sorrow, for they had known Claude Clifton when he and they were children, and, though he had grown rich and they had kept poor, he was a friend and brother to them to the last. It was an affecting sight to see that crowd of rustics come to pay their last tribute of respect to the good old man; and after the vicar had read the burial service over him, (for though Claude Clifton was a Dissenter, and a staunch one too, the worthy vicar did not scruple to call him "our dear departed brother,") and after the coffin had been lowered into the large family vault of the Claudes, and the procession had gone back to the Manse, it was equally touching to see how the villagers could not go to their homes, but stood in the graveyard or at the doors of their cottages in small groups, fondly dwelling on the memory, and eagerly talking over the virtues of their lost friend. "We shall miss him from the meeting," said one, we shall miss him sadly. For a twel' month, wet or dry, his place wa' ne'er empty, till the last fortnight." "We shall miss him more at our homes," said another, "for he used to go about among us, good soul, like a Father, and never could any poor body be sick but he went to the room, or any be in want but he sent 'em something in a kind gentle way, or in trouble but he went and talked we' 'em to comfort 'em. He was a good angel to us all, that he was, and we shall know what he was worth now he's gone. It'll be many a long day before we see the like o' him." 6 ""Twas but yesterday," said a third, "yesterday was a week, he saw my poor old father, and he was ailing then the good man was, and, said he, John, we shall not see many more suns rise, but I hope we shall soon be where there'll be no need of sun nor moon, where the good Lord who has given us light in our hearts all along will be our Everlasting Light.' Amen,' said my father, and where we shall meet the old men, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the rest of them who have gone into the city before us."" "Heaven wouldn't be Heaven without such as him," was the reply, "and I can't help thinking the angels would give him some loud huzzas as he went in at the gates, and, as for old father Abraham, many's the time he'll walk arm in arm wi' him along the golden streets.' "It seems to me Earth'll be worse off without him than Heaven would be-we can't spare him so well here as they can there.” And so they talked till mid-day, and again in the evening too, for all began to feel more and more the worth of the good Father Clifton. On Sunday the village synagogue, in which he had been a regular and devout worshipper, was crowded, and the son of an old schoolfellow of his preached the funeral sermon. A deep solemnity pervaded the congregation, and young Charles Merle, who had not long since left college to become the pastor of a church in the neighbouring town, spoke nobly and well of his father's old friend. He said among many other things, how Claude Clifton had come among them to die, and how he had made Laurelton Manse an outpost of Heaven, and brought down he knew not what blessings on Guysmore; how all his life long he had lived in communion with the Unseen and Eternal, and death was then an easy transition for him, for the good man had made earth heaven by doing God's will and hallowing His name; how the stream of his life was fed by two tributaries, one a strong onward-flowing current that sparkled clear and bright in the morning sunshine, and that was Action, the other deep, calm, softly gliding, reflecting on its smooth glassy surface the blue sky and the stars of heaven, and the trees and the flowers of earth, and that was Contemplation; and how at last as his life-stream flowed out into the Ocean of the Eternal, the murmurs of whose everlasting music only the spiritual ear can catch, it seemed that from that awful and solemn sea fresh breezes blew, and bright green waves came rolling in, and it was as the full flood-tide of Heaven, the meeting of the waters of the Everlasting with the waters of earth, when the good man passed away. As the mourning worshippers left the chapel, and looked round on nature, it was as if God were saying the same things, and preaching the same sermon to them, in His own blessed way. The golden grain was standing in shocks in the fields. It was the mellow autumnal hour when earth is so calm and beautiful as its life begins to decay, when the sky is a deeper blue, and the woods a darker green, with only here and there a withered leaf, sad monitor of Death. And Claude Clifton's was a mellow autumnal age, and yet a green old age, he was ready for the sickle of the great Reaper, and ripe for the Eternal garner of God. He came to his grave in a full age, "like as a shock of corn cometh in his season." Some of the story of his life the preacher gave-extracts from memorials written by Claude Clifton himself. We shall not quote these, but shall give the story entire. It is a plain and simple story, but we trust our readers will find it, as we ourselves have found it, not without interest and instruction. It is the story of a good and brave man, who went forth into the world to fight the Battle of Life, and returned laden with trophies of success-returned to die in the friendly arms of that Nature which had nurtured his childhood, and inspired his youth, and in whose calm and placid smile he had ever found an image of the beneficence and love of his Father and his God. Ye who repine morosely at the frowns of fortune, and weep in despair because of the sternness of fate, who think that the dreams of youth can never become the sober realities of maturity, nor the longings of the heart find satisfaction amid the woes, and sorrows, and disappointments of life, attend to the story of Claude Clifton, the hoary-headed patriarch of Laurelton Manse. CHAPTER I. IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF AND MY PARENTAGE TO THE READER. "At first, the infant Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms." In the quiet rural retirement, that Providence permits me in my old age to enjoy, my memory naturally reverts to the days of my youth. As the sun is sinking in the west he gives many a fond look to those eastern hills, over which he first arose. It is my purpose to record as well as to recall some of the scenes of my early life, and perhaps to follow up the narrative to the present time. My numerous diaries and journals will assist me; and I would rather make up my life story from them myself, and then commit them all to the flames, than trust them to the hands and eye of another. It is enough that the heart should know its own bitterness, and with some, at least, of its joys no stranger should intermeddle. I suppose, too, that had I, in my old age, any literary ambition I could not fix upon a better theme than this to write about, for it is said, and, I think, with truth, that every man may write, at least, one good book, the story of his own life. But what little ambition I may once have had of this sort, has long since died out from my heart, and it is for the quiet pleasure thereof, and in the hope that I may teach to whomsoever it may concern the moral of my life, that I now wield my pen. When we reach threescore years and ten we survive not only hundreds of our friends and relations, but we seem also to survive our selves. And with my good George Herbert I may now say, "And now, in age, I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write, I was born at the village of Guysmore, on the thirteenth of December, 1779. My father was a gardener, and was usually regarded in the village as a remarkable man. He was the best read man in Guysmore. What few newspapers and books he could borrow from the hall he eagerly devoured, and the butler, with whom he was very intimate, told him all he knew of passing events. At a time when but few poor people could read and write, this gave my father great importance and authority with his neighbours, and he was universally recognized as the oracle of the village. All difficult questions were taken to him to be solved, and from him there was no appeal. What he shook his head at as beyond his power of comprehension remained an Shakspeare. unpenetrable mystery in Guysmore ever afterwards. In the time of the American war of Independence, and the French Revolution which followed, my father became a great politician. He would gather together a large throng of peasantry, in the evening, on the village green, and harangue them on the dignity of man and the divine rights of human nature, telling them, with flashing eyes and exultant voice, how the Lord was fighting the battles of the people on the other side the Atlantic, and bidding them look forward to the time when the conflict would be renewed in old England. But no one could call my father an idle and discontented demagogue. He worked hard to maintain his family, and was as honest and godly a man as any in the three kingdoms. As a gardener he had exalted notions of his profession. To be a gentleman and a lord, he would say, was a great thing, no doubt; to be a farmer, or tiller of the soil, was greater, for husbandry was a more ancient and honourable profession than being a gentleman; but to be a gardener, he maintained, was to belong to the most ancient and honourable order of nobility, for Adam was the founder of that order, he was the first gardener and the first man; before dukes, earls, kings, Adam was, of purer blood and nobler soul that they. would, therefore, always call himself Gardener Clifton, and that, he said, was a higher title than Lord Clifton, and the patent of that nobility was in divine letters, and dated as far back as from the creation of the world. But I am forgetting myself. It was a cold, bitter cold day, they tell me, when I was ushered into the world; but I took kindly to life, from the first, and when they toasted my little toes by the log fire, or fed me from the maternal fount, the smile of satisfaction that played over my countenance told how I had concluded that there was at least something cheerful in this cheer.. less world, and that I need not be always crying, crying, crying, because I had had the misfortune to be born into it. On all hands it was agreed that I was a fine boy, and though the wife of the parish clerk, who had never had any children herself, and had a secret grudge against everybody who had, but especially against my mother, who was a staunch meetinger, though she would not admit that He was anything like so large and healthy-looking a child as the vicar's, which was a perfect beauty, yet even she could not forbear joining in the universal opinion, and confessing that after all I was a fine boy. My father had a strange love for the name of Adam, and had unsuccessfully pleaded for this name when my two eldest brothers appeared. When I was about a week old, they tell me-and knowing my father's peculiarities I can well believe it-that he deliberately took the Family Bible down from the shelf, dusted it, pulled out his spectacles, rubbed them, took an old grey goose quill, dipped it in the old ink-horn, and marched up stairs with them, and drew close to my mother's side, and confidentially yet half entreatingly whispered, "Adam Clifton, born December 13th, 1779.-The Lord be praised." My mother shook her head and smiled. He begged her, he implored her to assent. He declared he should be the happiest man in Guysmore if she would, for the dream of his life would be realized, he should unite all nobility in a son of his house who should bear the noblest name, and follow the noblest profession in the world. My mother refused to yield, and with reluctant yet obedient hand he wrote "Claude," instead of "Adam," in the Bible Register, and ever since that day I have rejoiced in that name. It was my grandfather's name, and my mother's maiden_name, and as I honour their memory I have seen no reason to regret it. And that I was rightly named day by day showed, for not a day passed but my mother declared I was growing more and more like the Claudes. I had grandfather's smooth placid brow, and bow-shaped upper lip, and soft, dark, dreamy eyes, and the very tones of my voice promised to be as deep and sonorous as his. And many were the tears that trickled down my mother's cheeks as she saw in my face the features of her sainted father. Time unfolded to me the mystery of those tears, as it unfolded to me much else of her hopes, and fears, and prayers, of which more hereafter. To be continued. Correspondence. TO THE EDITOR OF THE GENERAL BAPTIST MAGAZINE. DEAR SIR, AS I and brother Barrass were appointed by the Association to visit Yarmouth, and obtain information respecting the state of our religious cause there, we think it will be the readiest way of giving information to the whole Connexion to make our report, if you please, through our own Magazine. Yours truly, March, J. JONES. July 28th, 1858. On Tuesday, July the 6th, we went to Yarmouth, which, in the days of railway excursions to the sea, it is scarcely necessary to say for the information of your readers, is an important seaport, on the eastern shores of our island home. It contains, we were informed, about 30,000 inhabitants, and twenty-two places of worship. The General Baptist cause, it appears, was introduced into this town, by that great and good man, Thomas Grantham, about the year 1686. Taylor's History informs us that, "Having nursed the interest at Norwich to a state of considerable maturity, he removed to Yarmouth, in which populous town he likewise raised a church, which soon became numerous." Vol. i., p. 224, In 1776, it was received into the New Connexion, when it consisted of nearly fifty members. and the prospect was encouraging. We hear no more of it till 1782, when the members were reduced to twenty, and religion was very low. "It seems, says the historian, to have languished for some time beyond this period, and then to have expired." Vol. ii., p. 201. The truth of this conclusion is doubtful, as, without much difficulty, we found an ancient chapel, which, at that period, must have been respectable. It has a good mahogany pulpit, a gallery on three sides, and is fitted up with baptistry and pews, which still indicate considerable respectability. Several persons, with whom we conversed, remember when it was well attended; and some of the more respectable inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood have descended from those that were members of this church and congregation. The chapel will accommodate about two hundred persons; it has recently had a new roof and other repairs, and is in a good situation, though in one of those obscure passages with |