The Beginning of Troubles

Said my mother to me one day:—

“You are getting to be a big boy, Rhys, and, as things are, I can’t afford to keep you running and romping about any longer. Your brother began work in the mine long before he was your age, and younger boys than you are earning their bit every day, I warrant me. But what you are fit for, I don’t know, and can’t think of. It is a hard case you should be carrying your head in the wind at this age, and your mother no better than a widow, if as good. You are not strong, that is plain enough, or it is to the colliery you should go, straight away; you are not scholar enough for a shop-keeper, and even if you were, I have no money to give you a start. How I could raise five or ten pounds to apprentice you, I don’t know. Even if ten shillings were to get you into the best shop in the town, I couldn’t tell where to turn my head to look for them. And yet, you must think of doing something for a livelihood. Your feet are nearly on the ground, and, like the dog, you wear the same suit Sundays and weekdays. If you earned only enough to keep yourself in clothes, it would be something. Food is so dear, and your brother’s wages are so small, that as much as I can do is to make both ends meet, and scrape an occasional penny towards the Cause. Ana you’d wonder greatly if you knew how much I am obliged to moither and scheme to keep things straight. As Thomas of Nant says:—

If this strike they talk of in the work takes place, I really don’t know what’ll becomes of us. I only hope we’ll have the means of living honestly, whatever happens. Up to now, thanks to the Great Ruler, we have been able to pay our way remarkably well, though obliged to live hard. But I never saw good come of keeping children too long without setting them to work; it only brings them up to mischief.

“I don’t dispute but that I could persuade James Pulford, the tailor, to take you on. But he is an unmannerly, good-for-nothing man, who often gets drunk; and I fear your soul would not receive fair play, which is the main thing after all. I would rather see you a godly chimney sweep, than an ungodly clerk of the peace. Perhaps, you’d tell me, the children would be calling after you,

Well, let them. That would break no bones in you. You’d have a dry back and a trade at hand always. Id rather see you a tailor than a farm- servant. The weather or some other thing stiffens and freezes the souls as well as the bodies of people of that sort, I’m thinking; and being always in the company of animals makes them very much like animals themselves. I never in my life saw a set so listless and with less of the man in them, as one of the brethren used to say. These farm-servants are somehow like slaves. They are too shy to raise their heads, save in the stable, or on the day of ploughing for the best. How I pitied them the night I was at Vaenol! It was cold and wet, and when the men, poor things, came in to supper, with not a dry rag about them, they went to that long table, you know of, near the window, far from the fire. There were some half a dozen of them, I should fancy; and they came into the house softly, and sat on the benches each side of the table, with their heads hung down, and their eyes looking up under their brows, just as if they had been thieving all day instead of toiling hard in muck and moisture. And not one of them spoke a word. All I heard was the sound they made in eating pottage, and even that finished in a crack. For about a quarter of a minute or so they watched, from under their brows, the eye of the husbandman, and when he gave the signal, there came a bit of a noise of moving feet and benches, when out the poor wretches went in a row. I pitied them from my heart. They did not look like men, somehow. I reflected at the time that two of them were members of the same church as Mr. Williams their master, one of the two, Aaron Parry, being an extraordinary man in prayer. I was very sorry to see such a distance kept between master and man. I’ll never believe the Saviour likes a thing of that kind.

“But this is what I was going to say:—I wouldn’t for the world see you become a farm-servant. I almost begin to think your brother Bob was right, and that a little learning always came in handy, only not too much of it. If you’d had a bit more schooling, I shouldn’t mind a feather asking old Abel to take you into his shop. He wouldn’t, surely, after all our acquaintance, have refused. But I may as well say no more about that. Thomas Bowen told me, coming from the Society, it was high time you were taken into full membership, and I should like to see you coming forward, if you have properly considered the matter. You have mastered the chapter from the Instructor,* I know, and have learned, a long time since, those portions of the Gospels which give an account of the ordinance of the Lord’s Supper. But it is necessary, my son, you should pray that your mind be bent in the right direction, lest you be found unworthy. I wish from my heart to see you apprenticed to the heavenly calling before you are apprenticed to a wordly one.

She said a great many things in addition; indeed mother was quite capable of going on in this strain all day long. It was plain that the time had come when I must think of earning my bread. I was older in the head, and knew more of mother’s affairs and troubles than she suspected. My heart burned with a desire to help her. We all three depended entirely upon Bob’s earnings, but these, hard though he worked, were barely enough to keep him in proper food and clothing. The coal market was pretty brisk, but a swarm of officials and overseers—greedy, rapacious strangers—pocketed, ate and drank up all the profits of the Red Fields Colliery, while the poor workmen and their families were half-starved. Bob, who was one of the oppressed, had for some time past been chafing under the infliction, and it was obvious that his righteous indignation, long pent-up, would, one day, burst its bounds. I learned from some of the colliers’ children that Bob was a person of considerable influence with his fellow-workmen; that he had taken the chair at a meeting, held a short time previously, to consider the advisability of asking for an advance of wages, and that he had made a capital speech. I felt proud of him, and not without cause, for he had taken great pains with me. Never did he tire of guiding me in my studies, and I am more indebted to him than to any man living for the direction my life has taken. True, after his excommunication, he never spoke to me of religion or on religious subjects, unless I first spoke to him. But whatever other knowledge he could impart to me, he, to the best of his ability, did. He made me promise solemnly, more than once, that I would never become a collier, even if I was obliged to go out to beg. Likely enough it was the insufferable tyranny and arrogance he himself had experienced which made him ask this of me. But he need not have been so insistent; I never had the slightest inclination to go to “the work.” Bob’s daily complaints of the hard labour and the oppression had created an unconquerable disgust in me towards employment in the coal-mine.

Besides this, I was secretly cherishing the desire to become a preacher, and I fancied it must be a long way from the pit’s bottom to the pulpit. The notion might have been a foolish one, but I thought it was easier climbing the pulpit from any place than from a coal-pit. Not a living soul knew my predilection, and I have no fear now that anyone will get to know. I have completely failed to explain to myself, or find out, the moving cause of my wish to become a preacher. I should have been glad to hear the experiences of others, if there are any, who have been similarly situated. I admit that the motive was not the right one, namely, the desire to do good, and the conversion of sinners from the error of their ways; for that, at the period of which I am speaking, had not yet entered my mind. I am strongly inclined to believe it was some sort of admiration of the order that possessed me, unless it was something worse, namely, a proud ambition. I remember picturing myself a great, portly, pulpit-filling personage (which I never have been), preaching with a zest, with people listening for very life, talking about me, and praising me, when the sermon was over. I would be doing my history an injustice if I were to say that I knew nothing of religious impressions. After all the trouble mother had taken with me, it would have been a miracle almost had I remained unimpressed. I was cognisant, long before this time, of serious moments, of the fear of sinning against God, and dying the death of the wicked. But I cannot, in any way, account for the irrepressible desire I felt, and that whilst I was yet a mere lad, to become a preacher. I am sorry, even to this day, that I did not confide to mother what was lurking in my heart, not only because she would have given every welcome and encouragement to the desire, but also because I feel that I deprived her of the greatest joy and pleasure I could have extended to her in her bitter troubles. I know I could not possibly have better filled her cup of happiness than by disclosing my determination to, one day, become a preacher. But I kept it all locked up in my own breast. I am not flattering myself, nor relating any but a simple fact, when I say that I was, at that time, more thoughtful than my associates; and although touched to the quick by Will Bryan’s ridicule, when he called me “the holy one,” I was conscious of a hidden purpose which he could neither understand nor in the least sympathise with. I took the greatest interest in every preacher, and never tired of talking about the order to any one who would talk to me.

By constant application, and with Bob’s help, I had become a better scholar than mother took me to be. I could read and write, both Welsh and English, tolerably well. Induced by John Joseph, at the Children’s Meeting, I had, for some time, been in the habit of taking down the text on Sundays, with as many as I could of the heads of sermon. I remember being very angry with some preachers because they did not divide their texts, and very pleased with William Hughes of Abercwmnant, because his heads of sermon were pretty much alike, whatever text he took. They were usually three in number, and ran somewhat as follows:—

I often foresaw and wrote out these divisions during his exordium, and before he had named them. The old preacher had one habit for which I often wondered he had not been called to account. Towards the end of his sermon he always said, “One other word before I finish.” He would speak a hundred words or more. He would next say, “One word again, before I leave you,” and go on for five or ten minutes. A third time he would say, “One other word before I take my departure,” and we were sure of a long speech after that. I thought it strange that he, a preacher, should not be called to account for telling stories. Will Bryan would often make such conduct his excuse for saying that which was not true. John Joseph used to praise me for being able to repeat the heads of sermon—which pleased me greatly. About this time John established a class for teaching young men the elements of music and grammar, which speedily grew into one for competitive recitations, essay-writing, and religious controversy. It had many members, but I am afraid to name them, lest I should be obliged to go into their histories. Will Bryan was a member, but it was not often he took part in our public gatherings. His favourite business was to poke fun at our mistakes and shortcomings—a business he pushed to an extent which made him odious to the majority of the young men, who resolved, if they could do so anyhow, to get rid of him. Will was the only member who brushed his hair away from his forehead; and at a properly-convened meeting a resolution was passed that no one should be a member of that Society who was found guilty of “making a Q. P.” Will was consequently expelled. He cared nothing for that. To avenge his disgrace, he nicknamed us “The Society of Flat-hairs;” and, like the rest of his nicknames, this one stuck to us as long as we were in existence. Our minds received impressions which were never obliterated, and there was created in us a taste for things religious, which we could never be too thankful for, by these meetings.

Shortly after Will’s expulsion from the society, his name and mine were brought before the Society as candidates for full membership. Our applications were submitted by Thomas Bowen, the preacher, who was at all times zealous in behalf of the youth of the church, and particularly careful they should not be left too long out of full membership. He was constantly urging parents to press home the matter to their children’s minds, and duly to prepare them for such an event. On the other hand, Abel Hughes would speak of the circumspection necessary in, and the danger of, the reception into full membership of those who were not of ripe knowledge and experience. Preacher and deacon being thus at opposite extremes, occasionally squabbled over the point. Thomas Bowen had long been talking of my coming forward, while Abel Hughes advised they should take time and go slow. In the end Thomas Bowen conquered, and so one night we were called up to the bench in the centre of the chapel, for examination. I and others of the same age were anxious to be admitted, but Will Bryan would have preferred being left alone. Doubtless he feared the examination, for he had taken but little interest in religious questions, although in natural ability he was far above us all. If I remember rightly, we were six in number, and I sat at one end of the bench, while Will Bryan, unconcerned as usual, sat at the other. Abel Hughes got up and began the examination with me. He was rather hard on me, but I pulled through better than I expected. I knew from Thomas Bowen’s voice and manner that I was answering satisfactorily, for he smiled, threw his legs about, one over the other, nodded to Hugh Bellis, and muttered, “Ho!” “H’m!” after each reply, as if he meant to say, “Not so bad, really.” Abel proceeded with the two lads next me, with the same satisfactory result. He then sat down, and invited Thomas Bowen to take the remaining three. Thomas Bowen got up, thrust both hands into his trousers’ pocket, assumed a satisfied look, and, addressing the deacon, said, “Well, Abel Hughes, have you been pleased? Tell me, was I not right, in thinking the boys were quite fit to be received? Have I not said so for months? But we will proceed.”

And he did proceed, with the fourth youth and the fifth. He did not, I thought, put such difficult questions as Abel Hughes had done, and the answers came quite easily. After an answer he considered rather a good one, he would turn to Abel with a significant look, as much as to say, “What do you think of that, Abel? Will it do?” Presently it came to Will Bryan’s turn. Said Thomas to him, “William, my boy, you’re a little older than the rest of the boys, and ought, in my opinion, to have been admitted long ago; but there are people here who believe in taking time. I will not make my questions hard for you, although I know, were I to do so, you could answer them well enough. Will you tell me, William, my boy, how many offices appertain unto the Lord Jesus in his character as a Mediator?”

“Three,” replied Will.

“Hah!” ejaculated Thomas. “Three!’ Do you hear, Abel Hughes? Three! I Had Dr. Owen himself been here, he couldn’t have answered better. These boys know a great deal more than you think, Abel Hughes. The Children’s Meeting, and that other one, have not been held in vain, you see. The boys have listened and observed more than we imagine, I assure you. I have always said this. Yes sure, ‘Three.’ Well, William, my son, will you name them?”

“Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” said Will.

A titter went through the chapel. Thomas Bowen looked as if some one had hit him with a hammer over the back of the neck. He sat down, in shame and chagrin, and fixed his gaze upon his boot-tips, uttering not a word save “H’m!”

“Go on, go on, Thomas Bowen,” said Abel, eagerly.

Thomas pretended not to hear him.

I do not know whether it was mischief or ignorance that prompted Will to answer as he did, because he was wag enough and careless enough for the one thing or the other. Abel Hughes evidently believing it was not possible Will could be so ignorant as the answer implied, spoke sharply to him, and by way of punishment, submitted to the church the proposition that we five should be received into full membership, leaving Will out until his knowledge and experience had matured. It was unanimously carried.

Will did not care a jot for what had happened. Directly we left the meeting he laughed heartily, and declared he did not want to become a full member, adding, “It was a good job the old hand and the old pea-hen weren’t in the Society to-night.” I felt now, more than ever, there was some serious defect in Will’s character; and yet I loved him greatly. Hardly were we out of chapel before he took hold of my arm, saying, “Let us go to the Colliers’ Meeting.” I did not as much as know that such a meeting was to be held, but Will somehow knew of every public gathering that took place. Seeing no harm in going, I went with him. It was an open air meeting. The night was a lovely one in summer. On approaching, I heard a great noise, and shouts of “Hear, hear,” and “Hooray!” There were many hundreds present. I cannot express my astonishment when I found it was my brother who was addressing the crowd. My heart gave a jump. I believed everything he said to be perfect truth, for it never entered into my head he could be mistaken. Will and I pushed to the front, Will shouting “Hear, hear!” before he could catch a word of what was spoken. Never shall I forget my brother’s appearance. He stood upon a high mound, with a number of the principal colliers at the Red Fields Pit about him, and a tremendous crowd below. He held his hat in his left hand, and had his right extended. His eyes glowed like lamps in water, his lips trembled, his face was deathly white, and formed as strong a contrast to his beard and hair as if it had been a snowball set in soot. I remember wondering why Bob’s face was so pale, while preachers’ faces were so red, when speaking. I knew, from his appearance, that every joint, bone, and sinew of him were agitated right through, and I thought to myself what a splendid preacher he would have made, if he had not been expelled from the Society for that trifling fault of his. I had never heard him speak in public previously, and wondered where he got all those words which dropped so fluently from his lips. His audience laughed, groaned, vociferated. They were entirely in his hand. I think I could reproduce all I heard of his address; but to what purpose? Well would it have been for him had he never said a word that night. His subject was the injustice and hardship suffered by the workmen, by reason of the arrogance and incapacity of the officials. He proved, to the satisfaction of those who heard him, that the “Lankies” knew nothing of Welsh mining operations, that they oppressed the men, and ruined the masters by their conduct. At the conclusion of the speech there were loud cheers, in the midst of which I ran home to tell my mother what I had seen, and what a capital speaker Bob was.

Mother sat before the fire, pleating her apron. On my entrance, she looked up at me with a pleased expression, and complimented me on the way I had passed my examination. I, on my part, hastened to tell her all about Bob—what a splendid orator he was—how the people had shouted their applause, and so forth. Instead of rejoicing at the news, as I expected her to do, her face assumed a serious look, which was wholly inexplicable to me.

“Well, well, she said, with a heavy sigh, “the sweet is never without the bitter. Something tells me that trouble will come of this. The day of trial is at hand. Oh! I for grace to say nothing rash!” And she fell into a deep study, in the course of which she kept on pleating her apron and looking steadfastly into the fire.

I was sorry now I had told her the story, although I could not comprehend why it should have vexed her to such an extent. I went to bed thoroughly dispirited, chiefly because I did not understand the reason of my mother’s sadness. The night was far advanced when Bob returned, and although I could not, from my bed, make out what was said, I heard hot words between him and mother, in the sound of whose voices I fell off to sleep.

How true were my mother’s fears! While the most reckless and extravagant of sinners were reposing peacefully on down that night, in the midst of plenty and luxury, with a whole continent between the wolf and their doors, and whilst I was sleeping heedlessly on my bed of straw, the trouble my mother had prophesied was already stalking to and fro before our cabin door, ready to seek admission, yea, even though he knew that inside there was at least one who feared her God above many. And that God knows she never spent six hours of her waking life without sending Him a prayer!