Will Bryan on the Nature of a Church

I passed a day and a night in bed, for the healing of my wounds, but was very little better when I got up. I felt as though I had been sleeping in starch, so stiff were my limbs when I attempted to move. But for all my pain, the thought that I had “finished my schooling” was more than sufficient to sustain me under the trial. Mother looked low-spirited, and I noticed that she frequently sighed. I fancied I knew what was troubling her, and was stricken to the heart with grief to think it was my wickedness which had brought it all about. Still she did not reproach me, and the only difference in her demeanour towards me was that she was silent and serious. She never as much as asked me how I felt, lest, I imagine, that should make me think the severe whipping I got was anything but what I richly deserved. And yet I knew very well she much desired to find out.

I think, if I am not deceiving myself, that I had in me, even when rather young, a certain quickness in understanding broad hints and signs, and that, to some extent, I possess the faculty still. I perfectly recollect that when a neighbour came to our house, my mother, so that I might not understand the conversation, would speak in parables, observing to her friend, that ‘little pigs had long ears,” and thinking, in her innocence, that I could not tell what that meant. But I knew very well that I was the little pig, and was always fairly able to follow the dialogue, although she thought it was Latin to me. She fancied I did not see her that morning furtively watching my attempts to move. The fact was I could read her heart as plainly as if she carried it in her hand. Oh! how unworthy was I of the care, the solicitude, and the love that heart contained towards me! I did not know at the time what it was that weighed most heavily upon her mind. It was the knowledge that circumstances demanded the infliction of church discipline upon her sons.

In the course of the day, I got to know that Will Bryan and John Beck were hanging around the house anxious to see me. Whilst mother was looking after a loaf in the oven, I stole out, and in a corner of the garden my two companions and myself had a long confidential chat. On comparing notes, I found that our proceedings in the Church and at school were known to all the neighbourhood, that Bryan and Beck had had a thrashing from their parents, which, as they themselves admitted, was not worth talking of in the same breath as mine from the master. This admission made me think once more that I was one who had “come through much,” and I began to consider myself a kind of hero. I learned further that neither of my friends had been to school that day, that Beck had got permission to stay at home until his father found an opportunity of speaking with the master, but that Bryan, though distinctly ordered off to school by his father, had been “playing truwels.” In the course of conversation I made two remarks which had a great effect upon the boys. One was that mother said I had had quite enough of schooling. Both stared enviously and incredulously at me, as though they could not possibly comprehend how such happiness could fall to the lot of any human creature. After numerous manifestations of astonishment, Bryan, addressing me, said, “Rhys! I would be willing for the old Warrior to tie my hands behind my back, make me stand an hour on one leg, and then to break a new cane across my shoulders, if the gaffer yon’ (meaning his father), would but say the same thing to me.”

Beck gave a nod, which signified that for the same reward he would be perfectly willing to undergo the same ordeal. Not less was their wonder when I told them that Bob’s case, my own, and Bryan’s would be brought before the Society that very night. Beck, being a Churchman, could not clearly make out what “Society,” and “brought before the Society” meant, until after Will Bryan had given him the explanation following. Will had a special gift of definition with respect to anything which he fancied he himself understood, and it was in this way he defined for Beck the nature and object of a Society.

“Do you see, Jack,” said he, “Society means a lot of good folk who think themselves bad, coming together every Tuesday night, to find fault with themselves, and run each other down.”

I don’t understand you,” said Beck.

“Well,” said Will, ‘look at it in this way: you know old Mrs. Peters, and you know Rhys’s mother here—it is not because Rhys is here that I say it—but everybody will tell you they are a couple of good, pious women. Well, they attend the Society, and Abel Hughes goes up to them and asks what is on their minds. They reply that they are a very bad lot, guilty of I don’t know how many things, Mrs. Peters very often crying as she says it. After that Abel Hughes will tell them they are not so bad as they think, gives them a piece of advice, repeats a lot of verses for them, and then moves off to some one else, who will carry on in the same way, and so the whole round, until it gets to be half-past eight o’clock, when we all go home.”

“There is nothing of that sort in the Church,” observed Beck. “We have no ‘Society,’ and I never heard anyone of us run himself down.”

“That is where the difference between Church and Chapel comes in,” said Will. “You Church people think yourselves good when you are bad, while Chapel people think themselves bad when they are good.”

“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Beck, ‘that all who belong to the Society are good people, and that all who belong to the Church are bad?”

“All,” returned Will, “who take the Sacrament in Chapel are good people, although they think themselves bad, and all who take the Sacrament in Church think themselves good, while more than half of them are bad. There is the old Soldier—you know very well he takes Sacrament on Sunday morning, just to please Mr. Brown, while every Sunday night he goes boozing to the Cross Foxes till he is too blind to see his way home again. Did he belong to Chapel, look you, he would get the kick out pretty sharp. But when did you see anybody expelled from Church?”

Beck was not a ready controversialist, and so Bryan went on with his exposition of what was meant by “being brought before the Society.”

“You see,’ he said, “when any one belonging to the Society does wrong—even they, you know, are not perfect— someone else must needs go to the elders and split upon him; and next Society, after that, Abel Hughes will call him to account, If he should be badly off, like William the Coal, Abel makes him come up to the bench before the Big Seat; but if he is a swell, like Mr. Richards the draper, Abel goes up to him.”

“Well, and what does Abel do with the man? Take him to jail?” asked Beck.

“No danger,” was Will’s reply. “Abel will inquire into the business, and invite one or two of those present to say a few words. If the sinner is repentant, and, like William the Coal, lays the blame on Satan, saying he will never do it again, they forgive him, but if, like Mr. Richards the draper, he won’t say anything at all, they refuse him the Sacrament for three months or more, or even expel him from the Society. There is not much harm about the thing, you know, but it is a bit of a bother. I would much rather not go to Society to-night; only I must, or there will be a row over yonder.”

Though younger by some years than Bryan, I looked upon the Society as something much more important than this, Mother had taught me to do so. But, for that matter, Will looked lightly upon everything, and that proved his ruin. To proceed, however. Beck’s last words made a great impression upon me. They were these:—

Boys, I like the order of the Church better than the order of the Chape!. All who belong to Church can do just as they like, without anyone to call them to account. Each minds his own business, which is the best way too, I think.”

Bryan was usually a zealous advocate of chapel, but it was clear that he was disposed to agree with Beck upon this point; so by way of conclusion he said:—

“This is how it is, John: it is more comfortable in the Church, but more safe in the Chapel.

As far as my memory goes, this was the first discussion I I ever heard on Church Government, and it left a deeper impression on my mind than many an one heard later between persons of greater importance and assertiveness. I, at any rate, could not look on church discipline in the same light that Will Bryan did; and great was my anxiety at the thought of going to the Society that night.

The time of going arrived; and seeing Bob getting himself ready, Mother did not think it necessary to speak to him on the matter. She and I started together towards the chapel, but after we had taken a step or two she turned back, and I heard her say, “Bob, don’t be stubborn to-night, I beg of you;” and we then went on our way.

Recalling that Society, I cannot help thinking of several of the old characters, who have, by this time, to use Mrs. Tibbet’s phrase “gone to their ’count.” There’s Abel Hughes, of whom I have said something already. A God-fearing man, firm in the faith, and strong-minded, was Abel. His one fault, as far as I am aware of, was his severity. There was harmless Hugh Bellis, gentle, tender-hearted man, who always wept during sermon, eager for the forgiveness of all, no matter what the sin committed. The least religious-minded would admit Hugh to be an exceedingly pious man. There was Edward Peters, precise, and careful about the books, but crabbed, and unpopular with the children, because he would not allow them to leave in the middle of the service. Never a word did he speak in public, save in connection with the collections and the pew-money. A good man at bottom, who had the confidence of the church. There was Thomas Bowen the preacher: lively, zealous, impulsive, constantly making mistakes and apologizing for them. There was Mr. Richards the draper, a proud, showy person, at all times pushing to the fore, and with everybody desirous of keeping him back. There was William the Coal, poor, small of body and of mind, soft, and easily persuadable. He was called William the Coal, because some member or other of his family had, time out of mind, sold coal by the penn’orth. Every winter, when work was slack, William was constant at the Society; but when spring came, he would take to drinking over-much, and be excommunicated in consequence. He was forgiven many a transgression because he was not considered quite like other people. I heard mother say that William had the root of the matter in him, but that trunk and branches were too weak to withstand the cross-wind. I was of the same opinion, for William, every time he prayed, would shed tears, and to my boyish mind, everyone who wept while praying must be a very pious man indeed, a notion which sticks to me still. There was John Lloyd, too, of unpleasant memory: tall, thin. sharp-featured, coarse-skinned, and fidgetty; diligent in the “means,” and always finding fault with something or somebody. “The Old Scraper,” Will Bryan called him. He was a shocking miser, on which account he never came under church censure, for his love of money prevented him from getting drunk, or frequenting forbidden places. He set a rigid face against tea meetings, concerts, and every gathering to which the token with the King or Queen’s head was a passport. He was always great on economy. and the necessity of making provision for the future. His concern for spirituality in religion was something tremendous, and he doubted, very often, there was too much talk of money and of preaching for money. Mother tried to believe that he, too, had the root of the matter, but she feared it was worm-eaten somewhere, with the result that his leaves had become soured. Yes, there is Seth also, the witling youth, of whom I shall have to speak hereafter, as of one whose story marks an epoch in my life. And there were many others I might name, a few of whom will come under notice again.

There was an unusually large gathering at the Society that night. Hardly anyone had stayed away. I have noticed that the news that someone is to be disciplined is always an effective means of bringing the friends together. There is something in the nature of good people similar to that in people who are not good, which prompts them to go and see a man being hanged. Will Bryan and I sat next each other in the midst of the children, and I marvelled to find him so thoroughly unconcerned. The meeting was begun by Thomas Bowen, whom I carefully listened to for any reference he might make to myself. But he made none. Whilst Thomas was praying, Will whispered in my ear, “If they ask us anything, let us say, like William the Coal, that we’ll never do it again, and they are sure to forgive us.” Will said a great many other things, but I was too much occupied to notice them. The verse-recitals of the children were taken by Abel Hughes, who, when it came to Will’s turn and mine, passed us both by without asking us for ours. The storm had evidently begun, and although I held my head down, I knew that all were looking at me, and felt their eyes burning right through my velvet jacket. Glancing under my brows, I saw Will, with head up, looking about him wholly unabashed. After Abel had done with the children, Thomas Bowen said a word in general, and then invited Hugh Bellis to speak. Hugh made some observations on the Sunday’s sermons, expatiating forcibly upon the blessing he had received therefrom. Thomas Bowen, upon this, asked whether anyone else had anything to say upon the same subject. After a while Edward Peters got upon his feet, and reminded the brethren that the quarter’s seat money was due. Then there was silence, and a consultation between Abel and Thomas Bowen. I heard the former say, “You do it, Thomas,” to which the other replied, “No, you do it, Abel.”

I see Abel, velvet cap on head, get upon his feet, looking serious and agitated. I would have been glad were I able to chronicle the words of that true and honest man just as he delivered them, but I cannot. I remember his saying something of an “unpleasant circumstance,” of “children of the Society behaving like the children of the -world,”. of “scandal brought upon the cause of religion,” of the “necessity of enforcing church discipline,” and so forth. He spoke at length and with severity, winding up by naming brother Bob, me, and Bryan, as the offenders.

Abel having sat down, John Lloyd observed that the church wanted to know from its officers what had been the nature of the transgression.

“Hark at the old scraper,” said Will in my ear.

Abel replied that he believed our transgression was well known to John Lloyd and everyone else then present, and that it would not be wise to repeat the circumstances. Thomas Bowen here rose suddenly to his feet, and said something to the following effect:—

“My brethren, children will be children, and we should all remember that we were children ourselves once. I am very sorry for this business. Abel Hughes has done quite right in calling attention to it, but what can we do except give these poor lads a word of advice? Remember, my brethren, I am not speaking of Robert Lewis now, he is of age and sense; but as to William Bryan and Rhys Lewis—they are young and innocent; and well-behaved, decent lads they are, too. Who repeats his verse better than William or Rhys? It is a great pity the boys should have done wrong. Have you anything to say William, my son?”

“I’ll never do it again,” replied Will.

“Good boy,” said Thomas. “Are you sorry for what you did?”

“Yes,” said Will, at the same time giving me a pinch in the leg, which made me cry.

“And do you say the same thing, Rhys?” queried Thomas, adding, “but there, we have no need to ask Rhys anythinz, his face is bathed in tears already. Abel Hughes, do you hear what the boys say? They are sorry for the thing, and they’ll never do it again. What could we ourselves do better than repent us of our fault, and resolve not to commit such another. What are we to do with the boys, Abel Hughes?”

“Do what you like with them,” replied Abel savagely.

“Well, brethren,” said Thomas, “we cannot do better with these boys than give them a word of advice and send them away, inasmuch as we have another and weightier matter to attend to.”

Thomas Bowen having given us a kindly word of advice, told us to go home like good children. No sooner had he spoken than the youngsters rushed out for the fastest. I had just passed the doorway when Will Bryan caught me by the arm, and gave me a “right wheel” down the side of the chapel. I felt offended with him, and asked him why he had pinched me so sorely in the chapel?

“To make you cry, you silly,” he replied. “I knew very well you hadn’t a word to say for yourself; so crying did the job, you see. Didn’t I tell you they would let us off? But we must find out what becomes of Bob.”

In the side wall of the old place of worship was a door opening upon the steps which led to the gallery, through which Margaret of the chapel-house used to.enter for the purpose of opening and shutting up the building, and which was consequently not locked on this night. I divined Will’s purpose instantly, but nothing was left me but to follow him, for he had some strange influence over me which I could not withstand. Will softly opened the door, and closed it in the same manner. In the darkness he whispered, “take off your clogs, and put them there on that side; I’ll place mine on this, so that we shan’t make any mistake when we come down.” I did so, and heard Will say, “Now up we go as soft as mice.” And up we went, on all fours, Will leading the way, until we reached his favourite spot, the clock pew. There we sat out the whole hearing of Bob’s case; and I could, I think, repeat the pleadings almost word for word. But to what purpose? The occasion is too painful for me to linger long over it. Words were spoken there sharp as sword- thrusts, particularly by John Lloyd, with whom I grew furious, because, let Bob’s offence be what it might, I knew him to be a hundred thousand times a better man than Lloyd. Bob might have been wrong in setting upon the old Soldier as he did, but he did it in order to prevent a greater wrong to me; and I knew him to have so large and feeling a heart that he would sacrifice his life, not for me alone, but for any one whom he saw being wronged. As for John Lloyd, he had a love for nothing but money, and had a heart no bigger than a spider’s. And yet this was the man who slavered his dirtiest over Bob that night! I am afraid I have never forgiven him, believing, as I do, it was his insulting words that made Bob so stiff-necked. I knew my brother could have borne the sharp, stern reproof of Abel Hughes, and that Thomas Bowen’s loving expostulation would have soothed the wounded heart of him, but the poisoned darts of a narrow-minded hypocrite like this made him hardened and obstinate; and we heard him protesting before them all that he had nothing to repent of.

Never shall I forget that half hour in the clock pew. I was annoyed with Bryan for his unseemly behaviour. While Bob’s cause was being argued, Will was cutting his name with his pocket knife on the seat, and passing remarks on the various speakers; doing so, too, in such a loud tone of voice that I constantly found myself begging him to be quiet, for fear we should be discovered. ‘I felt so much for Bob that I could not help crying, observing which, my companion asked sarcastically whether I had the toothache. It appears strange to me now that. my impressions of several people in that Society wherein I was brought up, should have been formed whilst I sat in the clock pew. I had seen, for some time, what the end of the business was going to he, and fell to thinking of the dreadful blow it would give my mother, who had never dreamt that Bob would be excommunicated. But nothing else could happen, with Bob declaring he would do the same thing again under the same circumstances. Will Bryan, whilst occupied in the work of carving his name on the seat, observed several times that Bob was “missing it.” ‘If he only did like William the Coal,” he continued, “put the blame on Satan, and say he’d never do it again, it would be all right; but if he goes on like that, he is sure to get the kick out.” For all his light-headedness, before a few minutes were over Will proved himself a true prophet. Thomas Bowen did his best to get Bob to admit that he had been to blame, but could not succeed. Abel Hughes did the same, with the like result. The officers of the church were bound to do their duty. Abel Hughes got up to take the vote of excommunication. The old man’s voice trembled, and the words stuck in his throat, as he did so. The usual sign of assent was given, and Bob was no longer a member with the Calvinistic Methodists. Almost simultaneously Abel sank to his knees, and in prayer prayed, if man ever prayed in his life. I have wondered hundreds of times that the supplication on Bob’s behalf was never answered.

Would the Church have excommunicated Bob had it known the consequences of the act? I hardly think so.