Seth

As intimated, I must say something about the witling youth, Seth, whose acquaintance marks an epoch in my history. A remarkable character was Seth. I do not recollect when I first got to know him. I have drained my memory without obtaining from it anything but—Seth, the same in stature, appearance, age, and disposition always. If someone asked me when did I first see the crab tree near our house, and could I tell the different changes that had taken place in the form of its branches, I should be obliged to answer in the negative. The one particular incident 1 Remember in its history is, that the owner of the Hall ordered it to be cut down. And when the hard-hearted woodman applied his axe to its roots, making the chips fly, and the tree came tumbling down to earth, I felt as if I had lost a dear old friend. It furnished me, now and then, with a crab, which, though it set my teeth on edge in the eating, was sweet in the absence of something better. This is about all the notion I can form of the size and history of that crab tree up to the day it was cut down. It is much the same with regard to Seth. Up to the time of his death his history presents but one period, with nothing in it but Seth: a fresh-complexioned youth, inclined to be tall, thin, and bony, with a slight stoop of the shoulders, a little bit of a chin which almost lost itself in the neck, a mouth nearly always half open, small, blue, meaningless, if rather merry eyes, a somewhat irregular nose, a forehead retreating almost into line with the crown, which was high, narrow, and jutted out over the long nape.

Simple, harmless folk were his parents, who lived in a cosy little cottage a little way out of the town. Thomas Bartley, the father, was by trade a shoemaker, or, more strictly speaking, a cobbler, for he never made shoes. Neither he nor his wife, Barbara, was reckoned to belong to the class of knowing ones. Indeed, both were usually looked upon as not being altogether square-headed; consequently—Seth. Neither knew a single letter of the alphabet; neither ever went to Church or chapel, except once a year, on the day of harvest thanksgiving. I heard Thomas, more than once, say that in his younger days he attended Sunday School regularly for four or five years, and he believed that, had he stuck to it a few years longer, he would have mastered the A. B. C. I heard him boast, also, that he had several times been to hear John Elias, Williams of Worn, and Christmas Evans; but when asked what sort of preachers they were, his unvarying answer was: “Save us! they were rough uns—awful rough!” These two old fogies, Thomas and Barbara Bartley, were wondrously innocent and happy. Thomas’s besetting sin was a tendency to take God’s name in vain, although, one might fancy, it was not from any want of reverence that he did it. He would not for a great deal, have done any work on the Sabbath, and would not have expected a blessing had he been guilty of such a thing. But he saw no harm in spending hours every Sunday, with his pipe in his mouth, watching the pig feed, and calculating how long it would take to become fit for the knife, what it would weigh, would it be advisable to make black puddings and brawn, should he keep or sell the offal, to which of his neighbours was he under obligation to send a bit of spare-rib, and so forth. Thomas thought it no harm in the least that he and Barbara should spend the Sabbath talking of things like these, but he wouldn’t for the world have worn his leather apron an hour on that day. My brother Bob was very fond of taking his shoes to be mended to Thomas Bartley, for the sake of drawing the old man out; and I have seen him laugh till the tears came when relating to my mother the queer notions he had learned during some of these visits. Mother was frequently troubled with rheumatism, and I remember she had a bad attack on one occasion just as Bob had returned from a visit to Thomas. Bob told the following story as one of the old shoemaker’s latest, and although my mother was never, at any time, fond of fun, she could not repress a smile at the natural way in which Bob mimicked old Bartley’s method of speaking.

“How’s your mother, Bob?” asked Thomas.

“Very bad, Thomas Bartley,” replied Bob. “Suffers very much from the rheumatis, you know; sleeps very little from the pain.”

“—save us! Save us!” said Thomas. “D’ye know, Bob, I don’t und’stand that Great King, look you; don’t und’stand Him, at all. A woman like your mother, who never did anything in the world agenst Him, to be plagued like that always, always. Don’t und’stand Him, ’deed to you.”

“You think too highly of my mother, Thomas Bartley,” remarked Bob. ‘She finds fault with herself very often, and fears every day she will not be saved in the end.”

“Not saved in the end! What’s the matter with the woman? I never in my life heard anything wrong of her; did you, Barbara?”

“Not I, name o’ goodness,” said Barbara.

“Of course not,” said Thomas, “and nobody else, either. But look here, Bob, you’re a scholar, and Barbara and I have often thought of asking you, only we always forget—Does’nt the Book say there’ll be a lot of us saved at the last?”

“It speaks of a great multitude which no man can number,” replied Bob.

“To be shwar! Did’nt I tell you, Barbara? The talk these ignorant people make! It’s my belief, look you, Bob, if we are honest and pay our way, and live somethin’ near the mark, we shall all be saved. Don’t you want soles as well as heels for these? They’re beginning to go, you know; better have them vamped too,”

Many similar things did I hear Bob relate. But it is of Seth I was speaking. I have often heard of people who have been so unfortunate as to come into the world non compos mentis, as the saying is, that they have in them some craft and cunning beyond other people. But there was nothing of this in Seth. I believe him to have been perfectly harmless, and I know he had a heart of wondrous love and tenderness. Whatever was asked of him he would do, if it were in his power, and everything he had was shared with someone else. To me, his heart seemed always in the right place; but, poor fellow, his head was always wrong. Of a truth, he was in sense but a child, although in size a man. Whatever thoughts might have flitted through his brain, his power of expressing them was of the poorest; his talk was childish, and his words were few. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew Seth and respected him, on account of his affliction, presumably. Even all the dogs, in town and country, knew Seth, and wagged their tails at him. Seth never passed one of them without patting its head, and giving the creature, alter his own fashion, the heartiest greeting. Now I think of it, he had one special gift—that of remembering the names of dogs, horses, and other animals. He did not spend much time at home. Somehow he was happier everywhere than in the house of his father and mother. Did I happen to rise early, I would be sure of seeing Seth. Did I stay out late, Seth would cross my path at some point. Was there anything on in the town, one of the first I would see at it was Seth. Did a house take fire, or a haystack, there was Seth also. At every preaching meeting, concert, and lecture, Seth made one of the congregation; he was free of every place, asked for a ticket by no denomination or sect.

He attended all the services at our chapel regularly, listening attentively to every word, although nobody imagined he understood the least bit of what was said. I have reason, by now, to doubt the accuracy of the general verdict. I remember many times watching his countenance while the minister was speaking, and seeing a gleam of intelligent enjoyment steal across it. The gleam was but a transient one, it is true, and on vanishing left the face vacant and expressionless as before, but it gave the countenance an appearance sufficiently differing from the ordinary one to attract my attention. When asked what the preacher had been saying, he could remember, or at any rate, could reproduce, nothing but the name Jesus Christ. There is reason to believe that he thought highly of every preacher, for nothing gave him greater pleasure than the holding of a preacher’s horse, or showing him where the chapel was. When either of these things fell to his lot, he would relate the circumstance to his companions with great gusto. Although Seth, as I have remarked, was in age and size a man, his associates were children always.

He came ‘to the Children’s Society regularly, and repeat his verse as the children did. It was the one verse always: “Jesus Christ the same yesterday and to-day, and for ever.” Mother, myself, and others tried in vain to find out who had taught it him. It was as if the words had grown up with him, and so filled his mind that there was no room for any other. It being the same verse he was always repeating, Abel Hughes, I remember, passed him by on one occasion in the Society without asking him for his verse, seeing which Seth broke out into bitter lamentations, and would not be comforted. We, children, being very fond of Seth, the greater part of us joined him in the crying I, as I remember well enough, was tear-shedding at a particularly beautiful rate, for it did not take much, at any time, to make me cry. Although Abel, as I have already said, was a determined, self-possessed man, I never saw him in such a fix. He pulled the strangest faces, and could not, for the life of him, utter a word. Presently he attempted to soothe Seth’s grief, but in vain. I knew Abel felt sore for what he had done, and as some sort of atonement for it, he rewarded Seth next day with a hymn book, to the complete healing of the latter’s wounds. That hymn book was the only thing I knew Seth refuse to share with another. Nothing would have bought it of him; he carried it to every service, opening it towards the middle during the singing, and almost always holding it upside down. Seth had noticed that some kind folk would show their page to those near them who had not caught the number of the hymn; so he, on the slightest sign of hesitation in anyone, would go straight up and show his open book, as if he were quite sure of the place,

Seth behaved very strangely at times in chapel, and in a manner which must have been trying to a strange preacher. The congregation, being well used to it, did not notice him. He would rise up suddenly, put his foot upon the bench in front of him, rest his right elbow upon his knee, and, chin in hand, would never take eyes off the preacher. Seeing Will Bryan, and myself, and others taking down the text and the heads of sermon, he would now and again show a great desire to imitate us; and some wag or other having furnished him with a large square of white paper and a long stick of pencil, there would Seth be seen holding the paper in his right hand, and the pencil in his left, waiting, with anxious face, for the preacher to give out the text, when, full of business, he would scribble his sheet with the strangest characters ever seen. But he soon tired of this work, and returned to his old form of an unbroken stare into the eyes of the preacher. Remembering his demeanour, and also that he at all times sat right opposite the minister, I have wondered that he did not upset the gravity of more than one of our visitants. Seth possessed something very much like the spirit of worship. I heard Margaret of the chapel-house relate that she generally found him waiting her to open the door, and that directly she had put the place to rights, and turned her back, he would walk into the Big Seat, take up the Bible, and utter a low peculiar sound, as if reading. He would then go upon his knees, and say no end of things, nobody knew what, even if he knew himself. As soon, however, as some one put in an appearance, Seth would desist, and softly direct his steps to his accustomed seat.

Seth and I were great friends; not because we were of like minds, I trust. At times, when mother refused to let me out to play, I used to see Seth lingering about the house, for hours at a stretch, awaiting my release. I do not know what made him take so much to me, but sure I am, it always distressed him greatly to see me put upon by some of the other boys. Remembering his delicate health, I am ashamed to think how often he was horse for me. Altogether, I am certain he must have carried me scores of miles, and that quite uncomplainingly. Given a halfpenny or a penny, which happened frequently, he never failed to consult me as to what he should do with it, my invariable advice being—spend it. But I must hasten on, inasmuch as I have something more important to say regarding my connection with the lad.

I noticed one day that Seth looked very ill, coughed badly, and cared nothing for the play; although he made no complaint. Indeed, I never did hear him complaining. Next day Seth did not leave the house. The day after, I went to look for him, and found him in bed. On my entrance into his room, he looked wildly at me; then, his countenance brightening, he held out his hand, and cried “Rhys!” A few minutes later he lost all recollection of me, and began calling me by strange names. He talked on incessantly, but I could not make sense of anything he said. In vain did his mother try to keep him quiet. He sat up in bed, and pointed with his finger to an empty corner of the room, as if he were seeing something there, he could not tell us what. His look frightened me; and with a heart almost breaking with sympathy for him, I slid quietly down the stairs. In the kitchen I found Thomas Bartley, pacing to and fro, in heavy grief. The first thing he asked me was, did Seth recognise me. My decisive answer cheered him greatly. Presently, however, his sorrow returned, and he observed, “The doctor says he’s got the fever, Rhys! Save us! Save us: Ask your mother, my lad, to pray a bit for him. Save us! What if I was to lose him!”

Had Seth been the greatest genius in the world, his parents could not have been more concerned about him. My friend continued in the same state for days. I visited him daily— sometimes twice a day. Will Bryan and I were all of his old companions who were admitted to his room. It was seldom he recognise! us. I forget whether it was the eighth or the ninth day of his illness that Will Bryan came to our house late at night with the news that Seth had “altered,” and that he was calling for me. Although it was nearly bed- time, I got my mother’s permission to go and see him. On the way, Will said to me, “I fear, look you, that Seth is going to clear out;” by which he meant that Seth was on the point of death. Although speaking in this manner, Will was perfectly serious. When we reached the house, Thomas Bartley gave us cheerful greeting, and told us Seth was much better. My heart leaped with joy at hearing this. We went softly up the stairs. Old Barbara and a female neighbour were sitting by the bedside, looking secretly pleased.

“He has been asking for you for some time,” said the neighbour to Will and me.

Seth lay perfectly still, with a cheerful smile upon his face, which also wore a look of strange beauty. One who did not know him would, as far as appearances went, have said he was perfectly intelligent. Will and I were struck dumb nearly at seeing him so little like his old self. I should have mentioned that Seth always spoke of himself in the third person. For example, when going anywhere, he would not say “I am going,” but “Seth is going to such and such a place.” And so, in every circumstance, he would speak of himself as if he were some one else. We, his companions, had adopted the same style of speech in conversation with him. After Will and I had entered the room, Seth, holding out a thin white hand to us, and greeting each by name, requested his mother and the neighbour to go down into the kitchen, which they immediately did. When we had the apartment to ourselves, I bent over him and said, “Seth is better.”

“Yes, Seth is better,” he faltered.

“Does Seth want to say anything to Rhys?” I asked.

He gave me a cheerful, bright, intelligent look, which reminded me of one of those gleams I have spoken of “as occasionally stealing across his countenance in chapel. Then he repeated the verse I had heard hundreds of times upon his lips m the Children’s Society: “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.” There was something in the recital which made me think it came, not from the tongue, but straight from the heart. He continued to gaze at me as if he expected to be asked something else. I did not know what to say to him. Presently I murmured, “Seth’ll get better directly.”

“No,” said he, “Seth ’ont get better. Seth never agen play with Rhys. Seth go to Abel’s chapel no more. Seth’s goin’ away, far away, to—to,” and he pointed with his finger upwards, as if he could not find the proper word.

“Heaven.” suggested I, but that was not the word he was seeking, for he presently gave the sentence in its entirety:

“Seth’s going away, far, far, to the great chapel of Jesus Christ.”

That was poor Seth’s idea of Heaven—“the great chapel of Jesus Christ.” I had for some time noticed that Will Bryan, who stood behind me, was breathing in short gasps, as though he had caught a cold. In school I had seen the old Soldier break his cane to pieces over Will’s back without as much as a tear or a cry from him; but this hearing of our innocent old companion, Seth, talk of dying, and of going afar, was more than Will could stand; and, to use his own expression, he “cleared out” down the stairs, leaving me alone with Seth. When Will had gone, Seth looked about him, and seeing that:o one but he and I were present, said:—

“Rhys’ll pray.”

I understood the request at once, but did not know what to: do. I had thought that no one should pray with the sick but a preacher. He re-iterated, with greater earnestness of look:—

“Rhys’ll pray.”

I could not refuse. I was glad by this time that Will had gone away, fearing he might jeer at me for it afterwards. I fell on my knees by the bedside, and prayed as best I could. I do not now remember what were the words I used, but I know I asked Jesus Christ to make Seth well again, after which I got into a mist, and had to fall back upon the Lord’s Prayer. When asking Christ to restore my friend to health, I knew the prayer came from the bottom of my heart. At this juncture I felt Seth’s thin light hand resting upon my head. He kept it there while I was repeating the Paternoster. I waited a little to see if he would take it away, but he did not. It got to weigh more and more heavily upon me, and grew cold, cold, sending a strange indescribable shiver through my very soul. I gently removed the hand, and, trembling in every limb, rose to my feet. Seth’s eyes were wide open, and had in them a far-away look, I thought. I spoke to him, but he made no reply; I called him by name, but he was at too great a distance to hear. Before me was but an empty tenement, clean and bright though the windows were. His harmless—I had almost said sinless—soul had taken flight, to use his own words, “far away, to the great chapel of Jesus Christ.”

When I realised the fact that he was dead, I set up a great loud cry, and, next minute, his mother and the neighbour were by my side. I shall not try to describe the scene, although it was one I can never forget. It would be cruel to attempt a picture of the wild uncontrollable grief of parents who had strength neither of mind nor of religion to sustain them under so severe a trial. I hastened home with a heavy heart. It was a goodish distance from Seth’s house to ours, and I was obliged to traverse it alone, Will Bryan having left some time before me. It was a bright moonlight night, the sky being cloudless, and the shining stars appearing sunk into immense distance. I fancied the moon to be gazing steadfastly at me, and the stars beckoning ceaselessly upwards. The more I looked at them, the harder they seemed to look at me. I asked myself had Seth gone past them yet, or was he only on his way thither? How long would it take him to get to heaven, and would he reach there before I reached home? together with a host of similar questions. It appears strange to me, by this time, that something should have got into my head that night that I was to become a preacher. Whence the thought came, or who sent it, I know not; but I date from that night my desire to become a preacher. Was it the hand of witling Seth upon my head at the moment he was hanging between both worlds that first consecrated me for the work? My sermons are sorry enough, so often, that many people would believe me if I said that such was the case.

But I am digressing. I had two or three fields to cross on my way home. My path, too, skirted the Hall park. Although fairly brave, considering I was but a stripling, I must confess I was not without my fears on that night. I hurried along, however, using every effort to keep my spirit up. When I got to the wood, I saw something in human shape sitting on the hedge, right by the side of the path I was to take. I started, and my heart began to beat so violently that I could fancy I not only felt, but heard its throbbings. It was late at night, and it required as much nerve to retreat as to advance. Summoning up all the courage I possessed, I advanced at a rapid rate. On nearing the man, I found he had a gun in his hand, and concluded that he was the game-keeper at the Hall, whom I knew well. All my fears vanished on the instant. The moon was by this time behind the wood, so that I could not see things clearly. When within a few yards of the man, I said. in a loud voice, “Good night, Mr. Jones.” I was answered in harsh, unpleasant tones.

“Wait a bit, Rhys Lewis! Don’t walk quite so fast, for fear you might drop across some of your relations.”

I stood stock still, and saw it was not Mr. Jones, but some one else, who carried an old-fashioned double-barrelled gun.

“Don’t be afraid,” the stranger went on, “I shan’t shoot you now, if you do as I tell you. Take a seat by the hedge here, so that I may have a talk with you.”

I tremblingly obeyed. I fancied I ought to know that voice; but then the appearance of the man was wholly new to me. When I had taken my seat in the manner ordered, the man laid his gun to rest against the hedge, so close to me that I could see the glitter of the yellow caps upon its nipples. Without another word the man charged his pipe, and struck a match. In the glare of the flame I instantly recognised that face, and nearly fainted with terror at the sight. Confronting me were the ugly, villainous features of the dirty, bad fellow, whom I saw coming into our house late at night some years previously, and whom I had dubbed “the Irishman.” A considerable change had taken place in him since then. For one thing, he appeared sturdier by a good deal. He began to question me, closely and authoritatively, concerning mother and Bob, and especially about the owner of the Hall and his game-keepers. I kept back nothing, fearing him so much that my clothes stuck to my skin with cold sweat, and he seeming much diverted by my fright. He kept me there a long time, some of the words he let drop having the effect of opening my eyes to our family history. I had had my doubts previously; but now I saw clearly through the whole. The Irishman, for that was the only name by which I knew him, was busily questioning me, when, in the very midst of a sentence, he suddenly paused. He snatched up his gun, and, taking his pipe from his mouth, paused to listen attentively. The silence was simply oppressive. Next minute he gave a vigorous pull at his pipe, as if fearing the fire would go out, and then took to listening attentively once more. I fancied I heard footsteps advancing quickly along the path by which I had come. The Irishman drew his hat down tightly over his head, and I heard, at no great distance off, a low signal whistle. Without saying a word, my strange companion jumped to his feet, cleared the hedge at a bound, and disappeared into the wood. Simultaneously I, like a frightened stag, was diminishing the distance between that spot and our house. A bullet would hardly have overtaken me. On reaching the highway, I stopped to take breath, and heard first one gun-shot and then another, followed by shouting and a disturbance. I proceeded quickly along, and almost directly met my brother Bob, to whom, briefly, I related what had occurred. He, on his part, warned me not to say a word to mother or anyone else on the subject, adding, that the time had now come when I ought to know that which had hitherto been kept from me, and that he would tell me all when we were in bed. He fulfilled his promise, and I his command, for, from that day to this, I have never mentioned a word to any living soul of what took place on that night near the Hall park.

Said I not appropriately that Seth’s acquaintance had formed an epoch in my history? How much more, by the morrow, did I know about my family; and, let me hope, how much better a boy had I become!