Evan Jones of Gwernyffynon, Husbandman

Carrying back my mind to the period of childhood, how wonderful the reflection that I am still the same being, spite of all the changes that have taken place in my thoughts and inclinations! Comparing the child to the man, how unlike and yet how like they are! I would not for the world deny my personality, nor change my consciousness for that of another. I have frequently stopped to pity the river Alan at the point where it loses itself in the Dee. From Llanarmon-yn-Ial down to Cilcain, through the Belan, along the vale of Mold, how brave and bright and beautiful it looks! But on nearing Holt its face changes, the sorrow being plainly depicted upon it of its pending absorption by the Dee. I do not know how other men feel, but as for me, I am happy to think I am ever the same being, and I would not for anything it were otherwise, for is it not that way madness lies? “He is beside himself,” goes the saying, does it not, when we speak of one who has become insane? Well, I am happy in being able to cast back my memory and, following the course of my life through its various epochs, circumstances and views down to the present hour, to reflect that I am individually still the same. And I am even more happy to think that, when taking the leap, I cannot tell how soon, into the great world of eternity, I shall even then be my former self, and that my identity will not, like poor old Alun’s, be lost in another. How strange and wonderful! At the end of a thousand ages I shall still possess the same consciousness that I did when walking in my mother’s hand to chapel!

But to return to my childhood. If I am to tell the truth—as I have resolved to do—I must confess that I did not at all relish going to chapel. The service was much too long for me. It was not always I was able to sleep through it, and when awake nothing pleased me but the singing. While the preacher talked on and on for ever, as I thought, I suffered intolerable pain in the legs, and it was as much as mother could do to soothe me. Mother was a Methodist of the Methodists, and clung fast to the faith and traditions of the fathers. Blessings on her! One of her most sacred beliefs was in the necessity of a strict observance of the Sabbath. I dared not as much as talk of play, or look at a toy on the Lord’s Day. I was obliged to sit still and look serious at a time when I had not the slightest notion of the difference between one day and another. Did I become restless or sportive, mother would say Jesus Christ was angry with me, and that I should never go to Heaven, but would, instead, be thrown into the “burning fire.” This grieved me greatly. I could not for the life of me make out how, if Jesus was as fond of little children as mother said he was, he could be so rigidly averse to my playing on the Sunday. At last I hated seeing the Sabbath approach, knowing I should be sure to offend Jesus. On one occasion I asked mother what sort of a place Heaven was? She replied, in an endeavour doubtless to adapt herself to my understanding, that it was a land wherein all the inhabitants kept everlasting Sabbath. My countenance fell upon the instant, and I told her emphatically I would never go there. O! the blow it gave her! I see, now, her dear face darkening, and the tears coming into her eyes. I threw my arms around her neck, and said I would go to Heaven for her, my mother’s sake, only I hoped that Jesus Christ would let me play just a little bit when I got there.

Poor old mother! with the best intentions in the world, she set about my religious training in the most awkward way that could have been devised. Dear old mother! Ignorant and uneducated thyself, thou wert yet, to my mind, the best mother in the world. I doubt not but that thy prayers in my behalf, have, in some measure, been answered. Now at the age of man what would I give for one look at thy countenance; for one more chance of atoning for every ill word I have spoken, and every act of disobedience I have committed towards thee? Dost thou know the many trials and temptations I have undergone since the day when we escorted thee to the cold churchyard? How I have marvelled that not all my disobedience, not all my wickedness, ever lessened by one single grain thy love for me. I have met with many a faithful friend since, but not one who loved me like thee—who didst love me more than thine own life. Cold is the world, and strange without thee. I have no one left who understands me, no one who can enter into my feelings, like thee. Before I write another line, let others think what they will of me for so doing, I must pay one more visit to the “rough stone and double-lettered” which covers thy last resting-place.

My Sunday School reminiscences are confused and indeterminate. I am sure, however, of this much—that it was not there I was taught my letters. I do not remember ever being put to learn the A B C; either I must have known the alphabet intuitively, or, what is more likely, mother must have taught it me at some period of which I have no recollection. I am quite certain my first teacher was Evan Jones, the Gwernyffynon husbandman, and equally certain it was from a little book, something like the Primer of these days, he gave me my lessons. What makes me so sure about it is this: that it was as “A b, Ab,” I used to speak of Evan to my mother, that being my lesson—a b, ab; e b, eb; ob, ob, &c.

A decent old fellow was Evan Jones, who on the Sunday, wore a blue coat with bright buttons, and breeches with leggings of grey. We were six or seven in Evan’s class; and his method of imparting instruction was to take one of us upon his knee and give him a lesson whilst the rest indulged in play. After a lesson each all round, Evan considered he had done his duty, and at once proceeded to take a nap. Whilst so occupied—his chin sunk deeply into his vest, and the great coat collar almost level with the top of his head—I reckoned, not once nor ten times, the whole of the buttons on his clothing. I remember at this very minute their exact number. If I took oath to anything, I would take it to this. that it was seven buttons he had on each legging, five on the knees of his breeches, four on each side of his coat, with two behind, and seven upon his waistcoat. Evan had an enormous watch—in these days they would have called it a timepiece—which he carried in his breeches pocket. I asked my mother once, why Evan did not wear his watch in his waistcoat pocket after the manner of the gentlemen up at the Hall. Her answer was that it was a great sin to wear a watch in the waistcoat pocket, and that no one ever did so but those who had not ’-felt the rope.” I did not know at that time what “feeling the rope” meant; but 1 fancied it must be some tremendous and incomparable means for the making of a good man. So fond was I of Evan Jones that I cannot describe my satisfaction ever afterwards at the fact that it was in his breeches’ pocket he kept his watch instead of in his waistcoat. Attached to Evan’s watch was a bit of black ribbon, attached to that again being a white shell, an old coin, and a red seal.

We, the boys of the class, felt a burning desire to get that watch into our hands. One warm Sunday afternoon Evan had discharged his duty as usual, and fallen into a profound sleep. We knew this to be the case from his loud snoring, which we had never previously heard. Here then the long looked for opportunity had come! Will Bryan, the oldest of us, volunteered his services. and to this no one had any objection. The watch was abstracted from the sleeper’s pocket, and handed round for inspection, each lad in turn putting it to his ear. The class was located in the highest corner of the chapel-loft, known as “Gibraltar,” and was consequently a somewhat secluded spot. Evan’s watch had twice made the circle of the class, and was in my hand, We were putting our heads together how best to return it to its original home without disturbing the owner, when a voice thundered above us the words, “What are you up to here?” In my fright I dropped the watch, smashing the glass to atoms; simultaneously our teacher jumped up as though some one had stabbed him in the small of the back. The thunderer was Abel Hughes, our superintendent, whose velvet-cap-surmounted head was peering angrily over the top of the seat. Our teacher was too unnerved to take notice of his watch.

“Is it sleeping you are, Evan Jones?” asked Abel severely.

“No—meditating,” was Evan’s sheepish reply.

“Meditating indeed! Meditating; and your class playing with your watch, eh? I must bring your case before the Teachers’ Meeting, sir,” sniffed Abel, and away he went in high indignation.

While Evan was taking in the situation I began to cry—a business I could always get through very effectively. No one had touched the watch since it fell from my hands. Evan looked at the damaged article and at me alternately, after which he picked it up, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and placed it in the breast pocket of his blue coat. Seeing the great distress I was in, he took me upon his knee and—although I knew he believed me guilty of the whole mischief—said soothingly, “Never mind, sonnie; it is’nt much after all.”

I have thought since it was some sort of a fellow-feeling of guilt which made Evan so wondrous kind. Anyhow, the kindness only made me cry the more, and by the time I got home, my eyes were swollen to an extent which made it impossible to conceal the story from my mother. All she said to me was, “Well, we will see to-morrow.”

She was as good as her word. She saw; and I felt.

I do not know for certain whether the case of Evan Jones, of Gwernyffynnon, was brought before the Teachers’ Meeting; but I have every reason to believe it was, because always after that, when Evan settled down for a nap, he strictly charged us to be on the look out, and to be sure to wake him up on the approach of Abel Hughes; to which instruction we were ever faithful. I remember well that, as a class, we regarded Abel’s prohibition of Evan Jones’s nap after each had been given his lesson, as an act of unpardonable arrogance and tyranny.

Were this history to be published some one would perhaps be found to say, “How much better the teachers and the arrangements of the Sunday School are now than they were then.” Possibly so. Evan Jones was only one of many such; but taking his virtues with his failings into account, he was as good a teacher as most of those of our day. Young though I was when he died, I have a two-fold respect for him. It was under him I learned to read. I have by heart many of my mother’s sayings concerning him, as for example:—“A man is Evan with the root of the matter in him.” “Evan Gwernyffynnon is greater on his knees than he is up -standing.” “Evan knows well what it is to feel the cord.” “A man of secrecy is Evan Jones.” “Had Evan as much learning and money as he hag grace, he would have been a Justice of the Peace long before now, and the occupant of the Hall would be but a beggar in comparison.” These maxims of my mother, and many others like them, were as Latin to me at the time, and it was only in the course of years I came to understand them. It is a pleasure to call to mind the days when I was studying my mother’s classics. As already intimated, I have every reason to believe that Evan Jones, despite his faults, was a fine character, and one who had proved the great things of our religion. Whilst in his class, I considered his habit of sleeping through a portion of the service more of a virtue than of anything else, because it gave us children a chance of play. When I call to mind the fact that he was compelled to work hard for a livelihood, and to get up at five every morning, I can excuse him from the bottom of my heart. If I go to Heaven I shall search for him, in order to thank him for all he did to me. But how silly of me! I keep thinking of Evan in Heaven in breeches and leggings and a blue coat. I cannot picture him otherwise attired.