Chapter 72
desired effect—the three oaks—winifred—things of time—with god's will—the preacher—creature comforts—croesaw—welsh and english—chester
The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said that with the blessing of God he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were; 'for I like it not,' he continued, 'as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here.' I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth—we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds; that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farm-house.
Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me, 'This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances.' After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak.
Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. 'I am glad to see thee moving about, young man,' said she, in a soft, placid tone; 'I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?—Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?' I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said, 'Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?' 'Very little,' I replied, 'but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long.' The woman was silent for some moments, and then said, 'I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself—they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow.'
Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree, 'Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night.' 'True,' said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English, 'We hoped to have heard you speak to-night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup—to-morrow, with God's will, we shall hear you.' 'And to-night, also, with God's will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither.' 'They will be hither presently,' said Mary, 'for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome.' And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which he said, 'Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you.' A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart.
The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed, 'I shall soon be back, Peter; I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company'; and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. 'Set it down, Jessy,' said the mistress to the girl, 'and then betake thyself to thy rest, I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends.' The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, 'Ay, truly, we were both forgetful'; and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said, 'Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts, that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?' 'I cannot eat,' I replied, 'but I think I could drink a little milk'; whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying, '"Croesaw." That,' added he, with a smile, 'is Welsh for welcome.'
The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk, and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. 'Mary,' said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, 'every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?' 'The two eldest understand a few words,' said the woman, 'but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. Who, I have heard him say, would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?' 'I for one,' said the preacher, somewhat hastily; 'not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced.' 'You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person,' said the woman; 'as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings.' 'That's no bad observation,' said the preacher, 'and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account.' 'They jog on very well now,' said the woman; 'but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester.' 'Ha, ha!' said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; 'he told you that, did he?' 'Yes,' said Mary; 'once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and the English, and the Welsh beat the English, and hanged the mayor.' 'Your husband is a clever man,' said Peter, 'and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No! then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was —— ——. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That —— was a very fine, noble—God forgive me, what was I about to say!—a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here—let us change the subject.'
They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart.
'Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night.
'I am afraid he is,' said Winifred, 'yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn.' '
Chapter 73
morning hymn—much alone—john bunyan—beholden to nobody—sixty-five—sober greeting—early sabbaths—finny brood—the porch—no fortune telling—the master's niece—doing good—the groans and voices—pechod ysprydd glan
I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. 'Good morning,' said Peter, 'how dost thou feel?' 'Much better,' said I, 'than I could have expected.' 'I am glad of it,' said Peter. 'Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast,' pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill bearing the tray upon her head.
'What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?' said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. 'Do,' said I; 'as I do other days, what I can.' 'And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?' said Peter. 'Why not?' said I; 'what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday.' 'Art thou aware,' said the wife, interposing, 'what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?' 'No,' said I, 'I did not know that it was Sunday.' 'And how did that happen?' said Winifred, with a sigh. 'To tell you the truth,' said I, 'I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time.' 'And yet of what infinite importance is time,' said Winifred. 'Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?' 'I do not think,' said I, 'that I am so near my end as I was yesterday.' 'Yes, thou art,' said the woman; 'thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?' 'Cast into the earth, perhaps,' said I. 'I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man.' 'Who is Mr. Petulengro?' said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. 'Master of the horse-shoe,' said I; 'and, according to his own account, king of Egypt.' 'I understand,' said Peter, 'head of some family of wandering Egyptians—they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?—but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ——. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family.' 'Who was he?' said I. 'John Bunyan,' replied Peter, reverently, 'and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile.' 'No,' said I, 'I will not go and hear.' 'Wherefore?' said Peter. 'I belong to the church,' said I, 'and not to the congregations.' 'Oh! the pride of that church,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, 'exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members. Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,' said Peter, again addressing me; 'there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill.' 'No,' said I, 'I do not mean to go to church.' 'May I ask thee wherefore?' said Peter. 'Because,' said I, 'I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves and the tinkling of the waters.'
'Then thou intendest to remain here?' said Peter, looking fixedly at me. 'If I do not intrude,' said I; 'but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody—perhaps you wish me to go?' 'On the contrary,' said Peter, 'I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question—Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?' 'No,' said I; 'had I known there had been poison in the cake I certainly should not have taken it.' 'And who gave it thee?' said Peter. 'An enemy of mine,' I replied. 'Who is thy enemy?' 'An Egyptian sorceress and poison-monger.' 'Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee—of what did she complain?' 'That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.' 'I do not understand thee—is she young?' 'About sixty-five.'
Here Winifred interposed. 'Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man,' said she; 'I trust thou dost bear no malice against her.' 'No,' said I, 'I bear no malice against her.' 'Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?' 'By no means,' said I; 'I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject.' 'In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?' 'Both now and for ever,' said I. 'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much; I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us.' 'My exhortation!' said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; 'thou forgettest what I am—I—I—but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting.'
Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me.
And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother—a quiet sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.
And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.
For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.
Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.
But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook, I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.
Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.
'Good-day,' said I, 'pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.'
'Good-day,' said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book.
'That's a nice book you are reading,' said I.
The girl looked at me with surprise. 'How do you know what book it is?' said she.
'How do I know—never mind; but a nice book it is—no love, no fortune-telling in it.'
The girl looked at me half offended. 'Fortune-telling!' said she, 'I should think not. But you know nothing about it'; and she bent her head once more over the book.
'I tell you what, young person,' said I, 'I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?'
'I never wager,' said the girl.
'Shall I tell you the name of it,' said I, 'O daughter of the dairy?'
The girl half started. 'I should never have thought,' said she, half timidly, 'that you could have guessed it.'
'I did not guess it,' said I, 'I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it.'
'Why so?' said the girl.
'Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the Dairyman's Daughter?'
'Where do you come from?' said the girl.
'Out of the water,' said I. 'Don't start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?'
'No,' said the girl, heaving a sigh; 'I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea'; and here she sighed again.
'The sea is a wide gulf,' said I, 'and frequently separates hearts.'
The girl sobbed.
'Why are you alone here?' said I.
'I take my turn with the rest,' said the girl, 'to keep at home on Sunday.'
'And you are—,' said I.
'The master's niece!' said the girl. 'How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?'
'Who are those you call my friends?' said I.
'Peter and his wife.'
'And who are they?' said I.
'Do you not know?' said the girl; 'you came with them.'
'They found me ill by the way,' said I; 'and they relieved me: I know nothing about them.'
'I thought you knew everything,' said the girl.
'There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?'
'Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?'
'Never,' said I.
'Well,' said the girl, 'this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.'
'And what is their reason for doing so?' said I; 'would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?'
'I know not their reasons,' said the girl, 'but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind—'
'Thank you,' said I, 'I will now depart.'
'Hem!' said the girl, 'I was wishing—'
'What? to ask me a question?'
'Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling.'
'Do you wish me to tell your fortune?'
'By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know—'
'When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know—this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the Dairyman's Daughter when you have nothing better to do.'
It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest.
About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent—all was silent—but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim, 'Pechod Ysprydd Glan—O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said—she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated—'Pechod Ysprydd Glan—O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired.
Now 'pechod Ysprydd Glan,' interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost.
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