Translator’s Preface
Ir has long since struck me that there are more things in Welsh literature than are dreamt of in the average English reader’s philosophy. One of the best of such things, in its own particular line, that I have come across, is the story of which I here present a not very rigidly textual translation, my aim having been to act as the author’s interpreter rather than to cling, with undeviating fidelity, to the extreme niceties of a literal rendering.
For the word “Seiat,” in the original, I give “Communion;” a very beautiful word, in itself, which I trust will prove acceptable. The “Seiat” is as peculiarly a Calvinistic Methodist Church institution as Calvinistic Methodism is peculiarly a Welsh Nonconformist denomination. Originally, no doubt, a corruption of the English word “Society,” “Seiat,” has, by long user, acquired a special signification for which “Society” would now furnish but a meaningless or absurd equivalent; as, I think, the English reader who takes the trouble to try the word in the text will at once see.
There is, I know, one objection to “Communion;” but, after weighing it against the many objections which exist to each and all of the other words suggested, I had no difficulty in discerning the side of the scale which kicked the beam.
Slips, I fear, the book is almost bound to contain, the exigencies of publication, in view of the holding of the National Eisteddfod of Wales at Wrexham, having demanded a high pressure rate of work such as I did not at first contemplate.
I am sure, however, that that large English public to which I appeal, will be no less indulgent to me than the comparatively limited Welsh one has been before which the author made his first appearance; and that, as he was, so shall I be, given the chance of successive editions in which to rectify my mistakes. The Translator.
Cardiff, August 20th, 1888. The translator, in his Preface to the original edition, referred to the “high pressure” brought to bear on the process of issuing the book at that time; an unexpected demand for the delivery of the book by a certain date, and the consequent “rush” for copy, led him to anticipate the probability of “slips” appearing in that Edition.
Unfortunately, this proved to be the case, but in this Edition a more faithful rendering into English of the idioms peculiar to certain districts in North Wales is presented to the reader.
For instance, to North Walians the term “Communion” means “The Lord’s Supper,” and therefore it is inappropriate as an equivalent for “Seiat,” by which term is meant the meeting together of those persons received into full membership of the Church, and who assemble once a week for the purpose of relating their spiritual experience, &c. The word “Society” has replaced “Communion” where the latter stood for “Seiat.”
There were several other slips, such as “clean shoe” for “clên shoe.” The latter expression is in common use in many North Wales districts, and like “fine,” “grand,” “champion,” “ripping,” “spiffing,” and the Lancashire “gradely,” conveys different shades of meaning to those acquainted with its use. Other words have been dealt with, and we hope that the alterations made will make this remarkable novel still more acceptable to those who are interested in the idioms, sayings, doings, customs, views, etc., in both the social and religious circles of North Wales some sixty years ago.
Since then great changes have gradually crept into the social and religious life of the people, but this story of a past period told by Daniel Owen is the most treasured of all Welsh novels; why this should be, is best left to the reader to discover.
The Publishers.
Introduction
The Minister of Bethel has now for some time been peacefully reposing beneath the turf of the valley. In his day he was reckoned a wise and an unassuming man, those best acquainted with him being wont to say there was more in him than was seen on the surface. Although as a minister of the Gospel he was “a public character,” as it is called, he was always averse to making a parade of himself. As a preacher he was not popular, chiefly because he could not sing, which was a great drawback. Nevertheless, he had at all times something to say which was well worth the listening to; and I have heard men of mature judgment aver that his sermons, were they printed, would compare favourably with the best productions of the Welsh pulpit. Indeed, the few things from his pen which appeared in the Tractarian were attributed to Dr.——, and were read with avidity. In those days, writers’ names were not appended to their productions in that valuable quarterly. Even if they had been, probably no one would have gone to the trouble of reading the contributions of Rhys Lewis.
His pastorate was, on the whole, a happy and a successful one. It must be admitted, however, that this was but an accident of the situation, due chiefly to the fact that the majority of the Church to which he ministered were possessed of a good deal of common sense and just a little of Christian feeling.
Although he could be pleasant and sociable enough in company, he always preferred the seclusion of his library. There were times when, forgetting himself, he indulged too much this love of solitude, and on more than one occasion the deacons felt compelled to call his attention to the neglect of his public duties. He occasionally suffered from lowness of spirits, and it was thought by some people that something weighed upon his mind, the nature of which not even his nearest and dearest friends were cognisant of. Others, again, attributed the cause to a disordered nervous system. Possibly the following history, of his own composition, may throw a little light upon the question which of the two suppositions was correct.
The Minister of Bethel died in the midst of a useful career, and whilst he was yet comparatively young, without a single blot upon his character. Recently, while under direction of the executrix, arranging the books of the deceased, preparatory to their sale, I lighted upon a bulky M.S., which, on examination, I found to be autobiographical. Thinking there might be something of interest in it, I obtained permission to take it home with me, where, as soon as I found leisure, I gave it a careful perusal. Apart altogether from the fact that the writer explicitly says so (as will be seen hereafter), the order and context of the M.S. make it obvious that he did not intend it to be printed. So pleased, however, was I by the perusal that I asked consent to publish the work, which I now give to my readers in the hope that they will derive from it a satisfaction equal to my own. At the same time, I feel that some apology for its appearance is necessary. The opening chapters are childish and frivolous, although harmless. They are, however (so I believe), faithful to Nature, and reflect the feeling and experience of a great many. As the history proceeds it gathers strength and solidity. Furthermore, it will be found to contain descriptions of some remarkable old characters, worldly and religious. For obvious reasons, I have changed the names of the author and others who are referred to, which is all the liberty with the text I felt I had the right to take. Lest the reader should meet with anything in these pages not exactly to his taste—as, for instance, that free treatment which sometimes borders on the profane, or an over minuteness of description—I must ask him to bear constantly in mind the fact that the author did not write his history with a view to its publication.
Biography
In my time I have read many biographies, and I can neither measure nor value the amusement and instruction I got thereby. There is, possibly, quite as much genius—sense, at any rate— in biography as there is in any branch of literature, for the reason, it may be assumed, that the author generally knows something of his subject, which is not always indispensable in other directions. At the same time, however ably and faithfully the biographer may describe the public character of his subject, we are frequently grieved to think how little he knew, after all, of the inner consciousness of the man. We feel also, how well it were with the biographer, and with the reader likewise, had he been able to put questions to the man long lying in his peaceful grave. It is here that autobiography has a groat advantage over biography; although, on second thoughts, I fancy a life-history written by another, and not by the subject himself, is the more trustworthy after all. True, there are facts and feelings at the command of the man who writes his own life, which another, let his talent and fidelity be what they may, can never obtain. Nevertheless, when one writes his own history, and is at the same time conscious of the fact that it is to be published, he becomes the prey of diffidence, of a fear lest others may think he has over-estimated himself; the consequence being that he does not claim for himself the character and station which would unhesitatingly be assigned him by another.
I have many times thought I should like to have an accurate memorial of the life of an ordinary individual like myself. In all the biographies I have read the subjects were great and remarkable in some way or another, had moved in circles I could never enter, and had passed through circumstances to which I was wholly strange. And although I knew it to be possible it was these considerations which made the memoir worth the writing, I, at the same time, felt how delightful it would be to read the history of a commonplace man—one who had moved in circles and met with experiences similar to my own. Are there not thoughts and feelings that were never given utterance to simply because they were commonplace, in the same way that many of Nature’s beauties remain unnoticed because they are everywhere met? Is want of loveliness the reason why the daisy has not attracted the attention of the florist, and kindled the enthusiasm of the bard? Or is it because the flower is seen in every field, and trodden upon by every cow? Did the robin redbreast and the gold-finch begin to descant upon the beauties of Nature, the modest primrose would come in for a goodly share of their praise, although it is but the untrimmed hedge-row which the flower adorns. I am inclined to think the man was never born of whom the honest life-history would not be interesting. Are there not, in every career, circumstances worth the chronicling, thoughts of the heart to which neither their owner nor anyone else has given voice? I have often fancied that one great difference between the common man and the uncommon was that the latter could give expression to what he thought and felt, while the former either could not or would not attempt to do anything of the kind. What made me think so was this: When reading some eminent author, or listening to leaders of congregations, I instinctively perceived they were saying nothing wholly new to me, but merely that they were able to give form to, and set forth in words, that which I myself had either felt or thought previously, but which I was wholly unable to express; in other words, that they were able to read those heart-secrets which I had for years been trying in vain to spell. I was already conscious of the possession of such thoughts and feelings; but they were asleep, or rather napping. and all the masters did was to knock at the door of the sleeping apartment, with such effect that its occupants rubbed their eyes and sprang up.
I have a mind to write the history of my own life, not for others, but for myself; certainly not for print, but rather as a help to self-communion. I know well enough there is no fear of any one’s writing my biography after I am dead. A hundred years hence no one in this world will know more about me than if I had never been. With thousands upon thousands of my contemporaries, I shall be reposing peacefully in the silence of oblivion. And yet I do not like the thought of this; although, what help is there, since it is the fate of all of us, the common people? Why is man so unwilling that his name shall be forgotten after his death, when nor remembrance nor forgetfulness can do him either good or evil? The dead, I imagine, derive quite as much satisfaction from the stone which marks their resting place as do those tender friends who placed it there. Their bones lie easier with a memorial overhead! Immortality! hast thou aught to do with this?
I want to write my own history, I say; but not, thank Heaven, to print it, for were that the case, I should not be then, as I am now, able to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, because I should have the reader to study as well as myself. Rhys! what have you to say for yourself? Be sure you tell the truth. This I shall do. and should either friend or relative meet with my writing, be it known to him that 1 have not one word thereof to withdraw.