Will Bryan

Seth’s funeral was the first I ever was at, and such have been the changes introduced in connection with this ceremony during the last thirty years, that I have thought it might not be uninteresting to note a few facts in relation thereto. About that period the more enlightened Methodists of shire were teaching the people to abolish the silly custom of beer-drinking at burials. I was in Thomas Bartley’s house on the eve of Seth’s funeral, when Abel Hughes paid a visit to the mourning family. Abel endeavoured to draw some useful moral from the sad occasion, and it was evident that Thomas and Barbara Bartley were touched to the quick under his instruction. But directly Abel alluded to the practice of drinking beer at funerals, and expressed the hope that Seth’s parents were not going to perpetuate it, Thomas raised his head, and, with a look of displeasure, remarked: “Abel Hughes, you don’t think I am going to bury my son as if he were a dog, do you? No, there will be bread and cheese and beer for all who come, if my eyes are still open.”

Abel seriously argued the point with him, but without avail.

“No, no, Abel Hughes,” he declared, “even if Seth wasn’t like other children, I aint going to bury him with a cup of tea” —wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve.

He was as good as his word. When Will Bryan and I went there, early on the morrow afternoon, we saw upon the table half a cheese, with a knife by its side, a loaf of white bread, a good-sized jug, full of beer, a number of new pipes, and a small plate containing tobacco. We were received by Thomas Bartley in person, whose first word to us was:—

“William, put something to your mouth; Rhys, put something to your mouth.”

As for me, I did not feel anything the matter with my mouth, and I fancy Will felt no differently, for I noticed him staring at Thomas Bartley, who, finding we did not know what he meant, cut a chunk of bread and cheese, and filled a small glass of beer for each of us. I marvelled how Will Bryan could drink the stuff without pulling faces. I had great difficulty in swallowing my portion, of which the effects became speedily known to me. I felt myself, all at once, on wonderfully good terms with everybody. I fancied my hands had grown remarkably fine and large, and I had a great desire either to sleep or laugh, I could not tell clearly which. I knew that neither the one nor the other proceeding was proper at such a place, and, strongly exerting myself against the influence of the glass, refused to put anything more “to my mouth.” Divers of our old neighbours, who had arrived before us, were enjoying their pipes. Several more came in after us, Thomas Bartley greeting every one upon his entrance with the same words: ‘Put something to your mouth,” whereupon the new-arrival would walk straight to the beer jug, pour out a glass, and cut himself a bit of bread and cheese. Everyone kept his hat on, and each in turn spoke of this, that. and the other thing, which had no sort of connection with Seth’s death. Nearly everybody smoked and expectorated upon the floor, which was somewhat thickly strewn with white sand. The jug was many times replenished. The man who last helped himself placed the glass opposite him who sat on his left, and turned the handle of the jug in the same direction. When anyone forgot to do his duty within a reasonable space of time, someone else, more impatient than his brethren, would cry: “Whom does the handle point to?” which was a signal for the man towards whom the handle pointed, either to drink up, or turn the handle toward his neighbour. This business went on for an hour and a half or two hours, until here and there a member of the company had taken about as much as he could comfortably hold, and had undergone a considerable change of countenance. I remember, to this day, the tailor, James Pulford, a little, talkative fellow, with a face that was ordinarily as pale as death, but which was, on this afternoon, as rosy as any farm labourer’s I ever saw.

A few minutes before we turned out for the churchyard, two men came in from the next room, with pewter vessels in their hands, something like those now used for administering the sacrament, only larger, and with handles ornamented with lemon peel. One contained what was termed “mulled ale,” but which might have been more properly called “boiling ale;” and the other “cold ale,” both being highly spiced. Directly these vessels made their appearance, every man took his hat off, and in the midst of a silence like the grave’s, the cup-bearers went around, serving out both kinds of drink in exactly the same manner, and with almost exactly the same seriousness, as we administer the Lord’s Supper. What it all meant I did not, and do not, to this day, know. This ceremony gone through, all put on their hats again, and resumed the conversation. Shortly afterwards, Dayid the Carpenter took a plate round, the men contributing a shilling, and Will Bryan and I sixpence a-piece, that being the customary proportion. I ought to have said that Abel Hughes came in a few minutes before the time for “raising the body,” as it is called, and that when Thomas Bartley asked him to “put something to his mouth,” he declined—which greatly offended Thomas Bartley. When the time came for starting, it was found that not one of those who had come to the funeral was accustomed to pray in public, with the exception of Abel Hughes, but the refusal to “put something to his mouth,” had so annoyed Thomas Bartley that the latter would not ask his services. I saw him speaking in the ear of David the Carpenter, who was a very worldy-minded man. When the body was laid upon the bier, every man dropped his hat over his ear, as if listening to something the article had to say. The women from the other apartment hurried to the windows, and looked through, holding pocket handkerchiefs to their mouths; David the Carpenter fell on his knees beside the bier, and rattled through the Lord’s Prayer at express speed, just for all the world as if he were counting a score of sheep.

Then came the procession to the cemetery. Will Bryan and I walked on either side of Thomas Bartley, I carrying the evergreens, and Will the gravel for the adornment of Seth’s grave. In Church, while Mr. Brown was galloping over the Burial Service, I noticed that several of those present had fallen into a deep sleep, among the rest being James Pulford, whose nose was neatly disposed along his waistcoat. At the termination of the service at the grave, David the Carpenter ascended a tombstone, and, on behalf of the family, thanked the neighbours for their kindness in coming to the funeral, adding that Thomas and Barbara Bartley wished to express the hope that, at some day not far distant, they would have the opportunity of returning a similar compliment to each one, and that the father of the departed desired they should all meet at the Crown, now the service was over. After the bedecking of the grave, those present, Abel Hughes, Will Bryan and myself, excepted, made straight for the Crown. ‘Will would have gone too, but for fear of a row at home. While we were in Church, a houseful of women took tea with Barbara, my mother being one of the invited. I do not know what went on at the Crown, but some hours later I saw Thomas Bartley returning home between two neighbours, and although they were all pretty quiet over it, I fancied there was some disagreement between them as to which side of the road it was best they should walk on. Shortly afterwards, I heard James Pulford go by our house singing:—

Were all this put into print, some people would doubtless wonder and disbelieve; but others, I know, would bear testimony to the accuracy of the description, and say that its fault is its brevity, and that it does not convey the whole truth. I have refrained from noting all the unseemly things which took place in connection with Seth’s funeral. Of a mercy, what a reform there has taken place by this time. And there is yet room for more. If the beer has been banished, tea and coffee, beef and ham, have taken its place. When strangers from a distance attend a funeral, it may be proper, no doubt, to make provision for them. But what reason can be given for all the junketing that is now seen on such occasions among the neighbours. Some poor families will prepare a costly feast, and that simply for the sake of people who live close by. The maintenance of such a foolish custom is a cruel hardship towards the poor, and unseemly in the last degree, I should fancy.

Seth buried, there remained to me but one bosom friend only —Will Bryan; and the conviction constantly forced itself upon me that our acquaintance was not to continue long. Will had an open, kindly heart, and a lively, daring spirit; but, day by day, the consciousness strengthened in me that he was not a good boy. He spoke contemptuously of the strict rules of the Society; and it was but rarely he called people by their right names. He had a nickname for nearly everyone he knew. John Lloyd, as I have observed, he called “old Scraper;” Hugh Bellis, the deacon who wept during sermon, ‘old Waterworks;’? Thomas Bowen, popular with the children, “old Trump;” Abel Hughes, who wore knee-breeches, and had thin legs, “old Onion.” He had an “old” to every name. He never mentioned his parents save as “the gaffer yonder,” and the “old pea-hen yonder.” I have observed that truly did my mother say there was some serious defect in that lad’s character who was in the habit of calling his father “gaffer,” “governor,” and the like. I do not deny but that this aptitude for finding descriptive names for people would have been a special talent in Will, had it been turned to right use. Some of these satirical designations have stuck to their owners to this day; but it would be ill were I or anyone else to specify them. I did not take any particular notice of this tendency in Will until on one occasion he referred to my mother as “the old Ten Commandments.” This offended me greatly, and Will perceiving I did not like the name, never used it again. Thinking the matter over to-day, I cannot help seeing some appropriateness in the designation, for my mother was ever and always giving us commandments of some sort, and charging us to do this thing or that. When I reflect that my mother was a woman of some penetration, I rather wonder she should have permitted me to associate so much with Will Bryan. On second thoughts, however, I see nothing in the world to wonder at. I never, in my life, knew a lad who had such a knack of putting himself on good terms with everybody. His impudence, his handsome. cheery face. his bold, brave bearing, his musical voice, and smooth, witty tongue, were weapons which he used to some purpose always. He understood my mother to a nicety. I heard her, more than once say, when low-spirited, that a visit from Will would half cure her. I have seen her smile, and obliged to use a strong effort not to laugh outright, at some of those pleasantries of Will’s for which, had I used them even in the self-same words, she would have boxed my ears. I know she often felt she put up with too much of this kind of thing in Will, and, as a salve to her conscience, she would give him bits of good advice in return. Let the following conversation serve as an illustration of many such:—

“Will, my boy, you’ll do a deal of good or of harm in this here world. I hope to goodness you’ll get a little grace.”

“There’s plenty of it to be had, isn’t there, Mary Lewis? But I never like to take more than my share of anything, you know.”

“Don’t talk lightly, Will; you can never get too much grace.”

“So the gaffer yonder says, always; but it is’nt a good thing, you know. Mary Lewis, to be too greedy.”

“And who’s your ‘gaffer,’ pray?”

“The old hand, you know—my father,” replied Will.

“Will,” said my mother, severely, “I charge you not to call your father ‘gaffer’ and ‘old hand’ again. I never, in my life, knew good to come of children who called their father and mother ‘him yonder’ and ‘her yonder,’ or ‘the old hand yonder’ and ‘the old woman yonder.’ Don’t you let me hear you call your father by any such stupid names again, you mind, now.”

“All right,” said Will. “Next time I shall call him Hugh Bryan, Esquire, General Grocer and Provision Dealer, Baker to his Royal Highness the Old Scraper, and——.”

Before he could finish his story he had to bolt, mother after him, weapon in hand. For all his mischievousness mother was never angry with him. “He’s a rough “un, that boy,” she would often say. “Ifhe got grace, he’d make a capital preacher.” A remark of this kind made me a little jealous. She never told me I would make a preacher, although that had become the chief desire of my life by this time, and I knew Will Bryan never intended to be one.

I do not think mother regarded Will as anything worse than a mischief-loving lad, until he began brushing up his hair from his forehead, or, as it was then called, making a Q,. P.” When she saw a white parting upon Will’s head, and signs that he oiled his hair, his fate was sealed for ever. It troubled me much to think my mother should take this innovation so seriously, because I thought Will looked splendidly in his “Q. P,” and I longed for permission to imitate him. I was quite tired of my mother’s fashion of cutting my hair, which was to clap a large butter-basin upon my head, and shear around the edges until my head looked for all the world like a haycock newly thatched. I saw there was no hope of improvement upon this method; especially in the light of the following observations, made by my mother to Will Bryan, directly she saw his “Q. P.”:—

“Will, my boy, I used to think you a good lad, for all your foolishness. But I see the devil has found the weak spot in you, too.”

“What’s the matter now, Mary Lewis? I haven’t killed anybody of late, have I?” asked Will.

“No, I hope not,” replied mother. “But then you ought to kill the old man.”

“Whom do you mean, Mary Lewis? Is it the gaffer yonder? No, name of goodness; I shan’t kill the old hand. What would become of me? I should starve.”

“No, Will, it is’nt your father I mean, but the old man who is in your heart.”

“Old man in my heart! There is no old man in my heart, I’ll take my oath.”

“Yes, there is, Will, and you’ll come to know it some day.”

“But when did he get in there, Mary Lewis?” asked Will. “He must be a very little ’un—less than Tom Thumb.”

“He was in your heart before you were born, and he’s bigger than the giant Goliath,” replied mother. “And unless you take a smooth stone from the river of salvation, and sink it deep in his forehead, he is sure to cut your head off with his sword.”

“But how am I to drive a stone into his forehead, if he is in my heart?” said Will. “And being there, how can he cut my head off with his sword?”

“You know who I’m talking of, Will,” said mother; ‘it is the old man of sin, I mean.”

“O! now I understand you. Why don’t you speak plain, Mary Lewis? But isn’t there sin in the hearts of all of us, according to the old—father yonder?”

“There is, my boy,” said mother; “and it breaks out in your head, in the shape of that silly ‘Q. P.’”

And, at this juncture, my mother attacked fluently and unsparingly, the evil habit of brushing the hair off the forehead. Will felt the rebuke, and walked almost haughtily away.

“Rhys,” said my mother, after he had gone, “don’t you have much truck with Will Bryan from this time out. Pride has taken possession of his heart. I’m surprised Hugh Bryan should permit such a thing. If Will were son of mine, I’d cut his hair in a jiffey, that I would. There he is, I know, looking at himself in the glass, every day, to feed his vanity. Thank Heaven, there never was a looking glass in our family till your brother Bob brought one here; and I could have wished in my heart that that had never crossed my door-step. Your grandmother used to say that people, by looking in the glass, saw the Evil One, and I can easily believe it. I don’t know what’ll come of the rising generation, unless there is a speedy revival.”

And mother sighed from the bottom of her heart.