The Subject of Education

I remember perfectly well what was passing through my mind whilst being carried home upon Bob’s back after that unparalleled flogging I had received at the hands of the old Soldier; and it was this: ‘Shall I receive another beating from my mother, I wonder, on her coming to hear of my wickedness?” I put the question to Bob, who assured me I would have no need of another beating for a twelvemonth at the least. Wounded though I was, the reflection that the punishment was over brought its happiness. My mind ran upon Bryan and Beck. Poor fellows! Punishment was still awaiting them, if not at the hands of the Soldier, at those of their parents, for certain. True, I had been made a scapegoat for them in the school, but that was all over now, and I was more fortunate than they. Has not this been my experience at every period of life? Does not the small trial awaiting me loom larger in my eyes than the great trial passed? It never occurred to Bob to ask me what I had done to deserve so severe a thrashing from the master: but that was the very first question put me by mother on my entrance into the house. Never in my life having concealed from her the truth, I told her, weeping. the story of the tying of the wooden leg in the Church. 1 could not help noticing that Bob enjoyed the narration immensely. Mother, however, was differently affected, and it was with difficulty that Bob managed to save me from another beating. On examining my body and seeing the great red weals which covered it, her tone changed wonderfully, and she gave other evidence of her close kinship to me.

I remember, as well as if it were yesterday, looking upon myself as one who had come through much, and feeling a sort of satisfaction that I had scars to show, which enlisted the sympathy of my mother. But I wondered she blamed so little of the Soldier. I do not wonder at it now, because her purpose, doubtless, was to impress my mind with the fact that I had deserved my chastisement. She told me I was a naughty boy, and wept, I then thought, for my wickedness; although I am sure by this time it was for my bruises. She said many things which I cannot now call to mind. Of these, however, I am certain:— “That there was sense even in soldiering; that there was a difference between beating a child and battling against Bony; that a wooden leg was but a wooden leg after all.” But the most cheering words which greeted my ears were those in which she declared I had had quite enough of schooling; that I had been under instruction for well nigh a whole year, and that it was high time I set about doing something. Neither once nor twice had mother told us that too much learning spoiled a child, and had led one here and there to the gallows, adding that she had never had a day’s schooling herself, save at the Sunday School, and that not a penny had been spent on the education of my grandfather and grandmother. Still they knew “what was what,” had found the truth, were blameless in their lives, respected by their neighbours, and had died in peace.

Mother was a woman of strong. feelings, and remarkably free of speech. She must also have had an excellent memory, because she invariably clenched her words with a passage of Scripture, or a verse of Vicar Pritchard’s, or the Bard of Nant’s, although not often from the latter without the addition, ‘It is a great pity Thomas never found grace.” Upon this particular occasion she directed Bob’s attention and my own to divers of the Proverbs of Solomon, hurrying on her cloak and bonnet the while, and then going out. Bob looked through the window in order to see what direction she took, and said, “Rhys! mother, mark you, is going over to put the old Soldier through his drill. Let us have that story of the wooden leg once more.”

I went over the story a second time, and, I must admit, it came much more easily now my mother was absent. Hardly had I finished when she returned, looking calmer than when she left the house, but much more serious and troubled. After she had taken off her cloak and bonnet, sat down and wiped her eyes with her apron, the following conversation took place—that is, in substance, and, as far as I can recollect it, in words, too.

“Bob,” said she, “without saying anything of the trouble I have had with your father, this is the saddest day I have lived to see. I had hoped better things of you, things tending to salvation. I thought you would have been a bit of a succour to me. But whilst I fancied that the good seed prospered, behold the tares appearing. An enemy hath done this.”

Mother, as I said before, would often use a Scriptural idiom. Bob, although a chair was close by, squatted, collier-fashion, on his haunches, leaning his back against one of the supports of the mantelshelf.

“Well mother, what’s the matter now?” he asked. ‘The enemy, otherwise Satan, is always troubling you; and one might think, from your talk, that the old fellow never found time to think, or take notice of, anything or anybody but ourselves, for nothing ever happens in our history from morning till night that you do not see the devil’s hand in it. For my own part, if such is the case, I think it about time now he gave somebody else a turn. I have no great liking for his company, and I don’t care if he heard me say so, either. Besides, I can’t see what there is in our family to require that particular attention on the Devil’s part which you are in the habit of attributing to him, and it is my opinion that he must neglect a good deal of his business with other people quite as deserving of his notice as we are; for, clever as he may be, he is but finite after all.”

“Bob,” said mother, “I am sorry to hear you speak so lightly of matters of such weight. We are not without knowledge of his devices who goeth about like a roaring lion seeking those whom he may devour. That which I have greatly feared hath come upon me. I have, over and over again, said that this newspaper, half of which is lies, would be sure to prove your ruin, and yet you must have your head constantly inside it, instead of reading your Bible. When I was a girl we never heard of a newspaper save up at the Hall, and with some few of the uncircumcised Saxons—an idle, pleasure seeking, fox hunting lot. No one who set store by his soul ever thought of reading anything but the Bible, Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” Charles’s “Bible Dictionary,” and Gurnal’s book. But now, forsooth, everybody must have his newspaper, and his English book, of which no one understands the contents. And what is the result? Why, a generation of people who have not the fear of God before their eyes, who are under no dispensation, who are proud, and ostentatious, thinking more of finery than of salvation, knowing more of every thief than of the thief on the Cross, and of every death than of the Death which was life unto the world. Those are the fruits for you, Bob.”

“You err, mother,” returned Bob, “those are not the fruits of reading newspapers, but the fruits of a depraved heart. You remember the Apostle says, ‘Give attendance to reading.’”

“So he does, my son; but to reading what? Not the newspaper, but Holy Scripture, which is able to make us wise unto salvation. And the same Apostle also says, ‘Meditate on these things, and in these things remain;’ but how is it possible for you or anyone else to remain in the things when you have your nose in the newspaper everlastingly? Beware, my boy, beware!”

“The world goes ahead, mother,” remarked Bob, “and it is no use your thinking that things should remain as they were when you were a girl.”

“Goes ahead!” said mother, in a loud voice, “yes, fast enough, but whither, pray? Nearer heaven? I don’t know. Are the means of grace better relished now than they used to be Is there more of hearing of the Gospel, and of following in the footsteps of the ministers of God’s Word? Do you, in these days, see the people in harvest time leave their labour in broad bright day to go and listen to the stranger? Hardly. They’d much rather go to a concert or competitive meeting to stamp their feet and shout ‘Hooray!’ and ‘En-koh!’ after some comic song than to a sermon to cry ‘Hallelujah,’ and ‘Glory to God,’ for free grace. If that is what you call ‘going ahead,’ give me ‘going back,’ say I, Bob.”

“At the period you refer to,” returned Bob, “the Gospel was new to Wales, and people naturally took greater interest in it; but by this time we have been long accustomed to the truth, and let us hope there is none the less of real religion in the land.”

“New! Do you know what you are talking about?” asked mother, in a bit of a temper. “Is the Gospel not as new to-day as it ever was to those who feel its need.

‘Some new virtue in that dear death shall ever come to light.’ Glad tidings of great joy the Gospel is, and always will be. No, goodness help us all at the end of a thousand ages, if it is “long accustomed’ we are to be. I am surprised to hear you speak like that, you, a lad who have read so much. The Gospel was not a new subject—Wales was acquainted with it time out of mind—but it was the people who had got a new heart, new spirit, new relish for it, through reading the Word, prayer to God, and an outpouring of the Holy Ghost. But now, as I have said, people read the paper instead of their Bible, and have a greater taste for concert and eisteddfod than for the means of grace. And there is no room to expect a blessing and an increase in the ministry while things remain as they are.”

“You must admit, mother,” said Bob, “that there is a greater hearing of the Word, that we have more chapels and opportunities of religious exercise, and more preachers of the Gospel now than ever. At the time you speak of, there were but a few poor folk connected with the cause, and our preachers, as a rule, were but plain men, ill-informed, and uneducated. Nowadays our best and most respectable people are religionists, while our ministers, for the most part, are men of refinement and culture.”

“You have spoken truly, Bob,” replied mother. ‘There is more of hearing, and we are thankful for that, but the question is, is there more of believing? There is room to fear—I hope I am mistaken—that religion in these days has become more of a fashion than a matter of life. Many, I fear me, come to chapel, not to see the Saviour, like those wise men of old, but to be seen of others; and our congregation is often more like a flower-garden than like people who have come to listen to the Gospel. ‘Poor folk,’ it is true, were those who joined the cause at the commencement, as I have heard your grandmother say, and as I myself have to some extent seen. But they, look you, were rich in grace, and heirs of the life eternal. How many can you name of these ‘spectacle’ people, as you call them. who are noted for grace and piety, and a terror to the ungodly of the neighbourhood? Do you ever see the drunken and the idle skulking off to their holes when a spectacle one comes in sight, as I have known them do before the ‘poor folk?’ And as to these fine chapels, they are very convenient, I admit; but, do you know what, I have often feared—I hone I am wrong—there will be more of rejoicing in heaven over the barns and the dwelling-houses than over them. You ruffled me a little, Bob, by speaking so slightingly of the old preachers. You too, I see, like many others in these days, have learned to think meanly of God’s servants of old. ‘Plain and uneducated’ they were, it is true, but don’t you call them ignorant in my hearing, it’s best for you. They had been taught the way to heaven, Bob; while as to the Bible, they had that at their fingers’ ends. And where can you find their equal in these days?”

“Nothing was farther from my mind, mother,” said Bob, “than speaking disrespectfully of the old preachers. They were pious, holy men, without a doubt, but they wouldn’t do for these days, when education has made such strides, and congregations are so much better informed than they were at that time.”

“Wouldn’t do!” I mother said, raising her voice. “Wouldn’t do for whom, do you think? They did for God then, and surely to goodness they ought to do for us now. Wouldn’t do, indeed: Nothing would please me better than to see one of them given the chance. Were old Llecheiddior permitted to visit us once more, you should just see the racket there would be here directly. Do you know what? One of the old preachers would set a congregation afire, spectacle folk and all, in the time it takes a whole waggon-load of these students to fumble for their pocket handkerchiefs.

“You have always gone against the ‘Students,’ and indeed, against education generally, mother,’ returned Bob. ‘But it is not meet for you to kick; the best men we have are splendid scholars, and do all they can in the interest of education, particularly the education of preachers. And what would have become of us by this time but for our learned men, some of whom you yourself think very highly of?”

“I gone against learning, Bob! No, name of goodness. But I will say this much, that it is not necessary to give a lot of education to poor children; and that it is not learning that makes a great preacher; else Dick Aberdaron, the greatest scholar the world ever saw, would have made the best preacher. But goodness help him, with his cats and his filth. Education is all well enough where it is wanted, and if sanctified by grace, but a curse, otherwise, to my way of thinking.”

“Paul, your great friend,” observed Bob, “was a great scholar, and he would never have done what he did unless he had been.”

“How can you prove that asked my mother. “That he sat at the feet of Gamaliel does not show he was a great scholar. Don’t you fancy, even if you do understand polikits, you understand your Bible better than your mother. It was the conversion on the way to Damascus that made Paul great; before then he was great in nothing except as a persecutor, and you and I would never have heard of him but for that Conversion. And I’ll tell you another thing: it was but a poor price Paul put upon worldly knowledge; and had they wanted to make him a Doctor or a Mister of Harts, he would have told them directly, “I never took it upon me to know anything save Jesus Christ, and him crucified.’ A thousand times better to him the title ‘Paul, servant of the Lord,’ than ‘Doctor Saul of Tarsus.’ Do you know what? I have no patience hearing you and others talk of education, education ever and always, just as if education could make main and mountain, and was a good enough substitute tor the grace oi God. Does Education, I wonder, teach people not to respect their elders. Grace of God does nothing of the kind—that I do know.”

“What are you alluding to, mother?” asked Bob.

“You know very well what I am alluding to, I warrant me. Is it the newspaper, the general enlightener, that taught you to beat an old man who lost a limb by fighting for his country? Bob, I am astonished that you, a boy who never got a day’s schooling, should thus bring disgrace upon the cause, and shame to the face of your mother. Go and ask the old man’s pardon at once, for shame to you.”

“Ask his pardon—Never,” said Bob. “Even if I was a little hasty, I did nothing but my duty by him, and if ever again I see the old Soldier or any one else, were he as big as a giant, beating Rhys as mercilessly as I saw him being beaten to-day, I am not his brother if I do not then what I did just now, should it be in my power. It is so nature teaches me.”

“It is not depraved nature that should govern you, my son,” said mother mournfully, “but the new birth. The Word says distinctly you should be “no striker.”

“A verse for a bishop, and not for a collier, mother,” remarked Bob.

“Bob,” returned my mother, “your heart has become hardened. I never thought those English books and newspapers would have had such an effect upon you. I am glad now, although I did it in a bit of a hurry, that I called with Abel Hughes to tell him the story before anyone else had the chance, and induced him to come and speak to you in the Society to-morrow night. If other people wish to conceal their children’s disobedience and wickedness, I do not. Pray for grace, my son,” and, burying her face in her apron, she began to cry—a proceeding which always put an end to the controversy, as far as Bob was concerned.

Although still broad daylight, I was sent to bed to be healed of my wounds. Unable to sleep, I fell to musing and pondering over one particular expression which mother had used to Bob—“the trouble I have had with your father.” What could that mean?