Abel Hughes

It might be thought that all who have paid a little attention to men and their habits, have observed, among others, the three classes following. First, those who have once been almost entirely under the sway of the Devil and their own evil dispositions, but who, through some good fortune, have been brought under the divine influence of the Gospel, and have found mercy—“the former things have passed away, and behold all things are made new.” Their passions are held in control, their hearts and course of life changed, and even their consciences, as it were, saying ever of the Evil One, “he hath nothing in me.” ‘What a heavenly beauty distinguishes this section of my fellow men! Then again there is the other class, with whose hearts religion has something to do, and who themselves have something to do with religion, but the signs are palpable that the Prince of this World has something to do with them, also. On particular occasions the cloven hoof comes to sight. They appear as if both heaven and hell laid claim to them. And yet, when we hear them pray and tell their experiences, we are, like a jury trying a man for his life, very ready to give them the benefit of the doubt. The important thing for them and for me to remember is that there will be no doubt as to our characters in the great day to come. Then there is the third class: those who profess no connection of any kind with religion, but in whose mode of life there are, yet, a great many virtues. They are honest, straightforward, amiable, and obliging, kind towards both man and beast, and would sooner wrong themselves than wrong anyone else. Their innocence is as a remnant of the stuff from which our first parents were made. As already said, they are not religious in the accepted sense of the term, and yet there are many of religion’s fruits growing upon them. They have not sullied their conscience with impious acts, nor read or thought enough to cause uneasiness and doubt, and so are pretty happy. To me, there is a great attraction about this class of people, and there have been times when I have envied their lot.

To this last category belonged Thomas and Barbara Bartley, but it was possibly their kindness towards mother and me in our trouble, which made me, in after days, look upon their like with interest and admiration. While we were in that family distress I have already described, I remember wondering greatly at the lukewarmness displayed by the officers of the church of which my mother was no obscure member, and comparing it to the ready kindness and sympathy of Thomas and Barbara Bartley. I could not help communicating what I had noticed to mother, who, however, would on no account have me entertain a poor opinion of our leaders. Conformably to her usual mode of speech, she said:—

“This is quite in the order of things. my son. There is something which causes the brethren to behave a little coldly towards us. Perhaps the Great Ruler is keeping the best wine until the last. If we are fit objects of succour, the Head of the Church will take care of us in His own good time.”

I had not to wait long before finding that my mother was pretty near the right; for, early on the following morning, we were visited by our revered old deacon, Abel Hughes, of whom I have already had occasion, more than once, to speak. Were it his biography, and not my own, I was writing, I should have a great many interesting things to tell about him. I flatter myself I have marched with the times pretty closely, considering my disadvantages. But somehow, old-fashioned notions, formed when I was a boy, will cling to me, spite of myself. I am almost ashamed to own them, but for the life of me, I cannot eliminate them from my mind. Were I asked by some young man from an English town for my views on this subject or that, I should give them easily and honestly; but underneath them all I know there would arise others of a very different kind, formed long ago, and impossible to get rid of. One of these is my notion of a church deacon. Is not Theophilus Watkin, Esq., of Plas Uchaf, who, by incomparable management of the world, made his fortune in a very short time, who lives and dresses in a style becoming his exalted station, who keeps a liveried servant and takes his wife and daughters in full dress to all the principal concerts—is not he an ornament to the big seat of the Methodist Chapel at Highways? Is he not liberal to the cause, generous to the poor of the church, does he not respect and hospitably entertain the ministers of the Word? True, he never goes to the Monthly Meeting, and is absent a good deal from Sunday School; but then we should remember his position, and the society in which he moves. He is zealous for the pastorate, and humble and self-denying at Church Meetings, where he allows the minister to do all the speaking. Is he not a worthy official, and a great acquisition to the cause? Yes, exceptionally so, and I feel proud of him. Again, there is Alexander Phillips (“Eos Prydain,”) the hard-working young choir-leader, expert in the business of looking after the church books, ready at planning and getting up a concert, trim in appearance—is he not a very admirable man? He, too, is a little reserved in the Society, but it would be almost impossible the brethren could hold a tea party, or get up a competitive meeting without the aid of his invaluable services. An agreeable man, fond of his joke, but of proper behaviour always. Take him through and through, he is of admirable use to the cause, and is considered by the multitude, myself included, a good deacon, And yet my antiquated notion will whisper to me that they are not the men I have named who come up to the diaconal standard, The type and pattern which this notion persists in placing before my mind is to be found in Abel Hughes.

He was a man of this kind: somewhat advanced in years, wearing knee-breeches, dark coat and vest, a black kerchief, tied several times about the neck, a broad-brimmed, low-crowned beaver hat, the face clean shaved up to within half an inch of each ear, whence depended a tiny lock, and the hair cut parallel with the heavy brows which overlooked a thoughtful face. This is one side of the picture. It has another: a man strong in the Scriptures, well versed in, and an earnest enforcer of, the teachings of the Gospel, loyal to Monthly Meeting and Association, constant at service, of ready and original views, inspiring and tear-compelling when upon his knees, whether at prayer meeting or commencing service for the preacher; precise, almost to the point of harshness in the matter of church discipline, but tender hearted and pious-dispositiored; blameless in life, an enemy of vain show and frivolity, one who expected all who belonged to church, yea, even the children, to behave seriously and with decorum. Such was Abel Hughes, and it was he who first gave me a notion of the sort of man a deacon should be, a notion which, however erroneous, remains embedded in the depths of my consciousness. Reason disposes me to believe that the model deacon is to be found between Abel Hughes and some people who are called deacons in these days, but who are no more than ministers’ lodginghouse keepers, or clerks of the church. In Abel Hughes, mother saw a man almost without fault, and that, very likely, because her ideas of the world and its ways, of religion and its doctrines, were about on a level. Both deacon and member ate the same spiritual food, drank the same spiritual wine, and frequently exchanged notes on the subject of practical religion. In chapel, as at the house, they were most unassuming and homely; and, after the manner of old people, never addressed each other as Mr. and Mrs.

I know very well there was no one mother, in her trouble, would have more wished to see than Abel Hughes, and nothing would have pleased me better than to have been able to chronicle fully the talk which ensued upon his visit. But I cannot, Although I have an excellent memory, and had a pretty long head, even at that time, I got to feel that the conversation was a very different one from that with Thomas Bartley, and that much of it was above my comprehension. At the same time, I am not willing to pass on without an effort to commemorate at least a portion of the talk, for mother said some things as to the value of personal religion which have clung to my mind. When Abel entered the house, as usual without knocking, mother gave him a look almost of hauteur; but I perceived that there was a moisture in her eyes, and the working of the corners of her mouth and throat showed that she was obliged to summon all her energy to prevent herself from bursting into tears. Abel held out his hand, and said:—

“Well, Mary, and how are you?”

“Wonderfully well, considering,” replied my mother. “I am troubled on every side, yet not distressed; perplexed, but not in despair; cast down, but not destroyed.’”

“I was certain, Mary,” said Abel, “you knew where to look for help, whatever your troubles were; otherwise I would have come here sooner, very likely.”

“Well,” returned mother, “I hope I don’t want much nursing. I’m not like the woman of the ‘London House,’ Abel, who stayed weeks away from chapel because the deacons did not call upon her when she had a bit of a toothache. No, do you think that, at my age, I haven’t learned to walk? But it would have been no harm in the world, Abel, had you come to inquire for me a little sooner, especially after all the ’quaintance between us; although, mind you, if you didn’t come here for a month I should not think any the less of you. Indeed Abel, I feel almost thankful you didn’t come, because if you had, I should not catch the sight I did of the One

Joseph, you know, Abel, caused every man to go out from him before he made himself known to his brethren; and I rather hope that my present trouble is but a cup placed in the sack’s mouth, so that I may be brought to know the Ruler of the country.”

“I am glad to find you in the green pastures, Mary,” said Abel.

“Where did you expect to find me, Abel?” asked my mother. “Not out on the common, surely? After all our religious professions it would be hard if we found ourselves without a shelter on the day of storm. If 1 am not deceiving myself— which I fear I very often do—I have, by this time, nothing worth talking of but the pastures. As you know, Abel, I am wholly without help, and worse off than if I were a widow The son who was my sole support has been sent to gaol ’’—and she buried her face in her apron, quite overcome by her feelings.

“There are in the Truth words like these, Mary,” said Abel. “I have been young, and now am old and yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. The Lord trieth the righteous, but the wicked and him that loveth violence, His soul hateth. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all. Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart.’ I am pretty certain, Mary, that light has been sown for you, though it be night with you now, and that you shall see it budding and sprouting in this world, even if you are not permitted to see it in full growth. Be of good comfort, trust in the Lord, and He will deliver you out of all your tribulations.”

“I try to be so, Abel, as well as I can,” said mother. “But hearing you speak, I can’t help thinking of Thomas of Nant’s words. Thomas, I know, was not religious, but he said a great many good things, and I think it was he who said this one:—

Yet I feel very thankful to you for your cheering words, and Ive been wondering and wondering why you didn’t come here sooner, Abel.”

“I did not give much thought to you, Mary,” said Abel. “I was sorry to miss you from chapel on the Sunday, although I did not expect to see you, under the circumstances. Bob was not a member with us, although he was more like what a member should be than many of us. No one had a word to say against his character, and he was admittedly one of the best teachers in Sunday School. But these strikes are very queer things, Mary. They have come to us from the English; they are not ours, and I fear they will do much harm to the country and to religion. We, as brethren, considered we ought to take time. Bob was one of the leaders, and of necessity so, because for understanding and the gift of speech he stood high above them all. Nobody doubts his honesty of purpose; indeed many of the wiser ones sympathised with the colliers in their agitation for an advance of wages and against the tyranny of their employers. But no one, with a grain of sense in his head, to say nothing of grace in his heart. could justify their attack upon the overseer, and hunting him out of the country. According to first accounts, Bob was one of those who were guilty of this act, and had I run straight hither to sympathise with you, someone would be found to say that we were no better than the agitators, the great cause would suffer, and the excellent name we enjoy would we calumniated. I am happy to tell you, Mary, that no one, by this time, believes in Bob’s guilt, although he is suffering as if he were guilty. Men who were eye-witnesses of the whole transaction, and who can tell the truth as well as anybody, positively testify that he and John Powell strove hard to prevent the rash act. I have other good news for you. The men having resolutely refused to work under Mr. Strangle, the masters have paid him off and sent for Abraham, the former manager, who has entered upon his duties anew. The work will re-start to-morrow. For this we are indebted to Mr. Walters the attorney, who succeeded in getting employers and workmen together and in acting as interpreter and arbitrator between them. I understand that had this been done at first, the whole trouble would have been spared; because the masters have found out, by this time, it was not without cause Bob and his associates had complained against Strangle. So you see Mary, that things are not so bad after all.”

“So, they’ll surely let Bob out of prison now that they find he is innocent and that all he said was correct.”

“No, I fear, Mary, we can’t expect that. When the magistrates make a mistake, they never try to put it right. They are like the man who, having told a lie, thinks the best thing he can do is to stick to it.”

“But is it possible,” mother asked, “that Mr Brown, the clergyman, can go up into the pulpit to preach—if he does preach, too—of justice and mercy, after he has been upon the bench assisting the owner of the Hall in administering injustice?”

“He’ll preach—if, to use your own expression, he does preach, too—just the same, or perhaps better than ever, Mary.”

“I’ll defy him to preach any worse, Abel, if I rightly heard him,” said mother. “But where people’s consciences are, I don’t know. I am very thankful it is with religion I am, and not in the Church of England.”

The two proceeded, for some time, to talk about religion and its consolations. I could see that Abel’s visit was a great blessing to my mother. She appeared happier, not the least of the things which made her go being Abel’s declaration that no one now believed in Bob’s guilt. Very soon, however, she and I got to know it was impossible to live on happy feelings. It was long to wait for my brother’s release. Wages having been brought so low under Mr. Strangle’s management, mother had nothing at her back on which to subsist. For about three weeks our friends were very kind to us; but as often happens in similar circumstances, time wore away the sharp edge of sympathy. Five weeks yet remained of Bob’s imprisonment. Never shall I forget those weeks! Hither from pride, or some other reason, I never confided, even to my greatest friend, that I, at one time, experienced a want of food. I confess it now. I believe it impossible any man can realise such a situation who has not been placed in it himself. A state of perfect health with the stomach filled as with voracious lions with nothing to appease them, is one which I cannot describe; but I know, from experience, what it is to have been in it many times. Mother was not given to complain, and was possessed of a spirit of foolish independence, otherwise we need never have been in want. I, who had inherited her weakness, would not admit, even to Will Bryan, that I suffered the pangs of hunger. I am certain, however, that he guessed as much, because I saw him, on sundry occasions, going into the house and bringing out a great piece of bread and butter, or bread and meat. After a bite or two he would pull a wry face, and say he had no appetite and that he must throw the food away if I didn’t take it. The lions raged, and rather than allow him to do that, I would accept it from him. Ah, Will! thou understoodest my proud heart as well as thou knewest of my empty stomach!

Such small things as we were able to spare, mother sold, taking care that the purchasers were strangers, always. She was terribly afraid the chapel people would get to know we were in such straits, for what reason I cannot tell, unless it was the one I have hinted, namely, a spirit of independence or false pride. I think she was guilty even of dissimulation on two or three occasions, but I hope that under the circumstances it was excusable. Once when we were without a single grain of food in the house, and after a long abstinence, we went over to Thomas and Barbara Bartley’s, under pretence of congratulating them on their coming to service—a matter to which I shall have to refer again. I have no doubt whatever, in my own mind, that mother rejoiced in her heart to find the two old folk had begun to attend chapel; but there was some secret understanding between us that we should not be allowed to leave Thomas Bartley’s house without a capital meal. We went there three times, on one excuse and another, and not once did we come away fasting or empty-handed. The period is a painful one to speak of, and I hasten on, leaving untouched many incidents of distress which rise vividly before me as I write. One, however, I cannot pass by without particular reference. It was between breakfast and dinner times, that is with other people, breakfast time and dinner time having no special signification for us. We had not tasted a bit since the middle of the previous day. Weak and dispirited, I tried to pass the time reading. Mother sat by, still and meditative. Presently she got up, put on her bonnet, and then sat down again for a brief while. She got up a second time, put her cloak about her, and, after a little musing, sat down once more. Evidently she was in some deep conflict of mind. I heard her mutter something of which all I could make out was “meal” and “bread.” Hardly could I take in the meaning of the first word; as to the last, I felt in no great need of it. After a minute or two she rose resolutely to her feet and fetched, from the back room, the recticule in which she used to carry things from the shop when Bob was at work. I asked her where she meant to go to.

“Well, my boy,” she replied, ‘it is no use in the world moping about here. We can’t hold out much longer, look you, and they say it is the dog that goes shall get. I’ll go far enough so that no one’ll know me.”

I divined her purpose instantly, and became heart-sick at the thought. Placing my back against the door, I declared, with a loud cry, that she should not go, adding we could hold out until the morrow at least. It did not take much to persuade her. She put her basket by, and took off her cloak and bonnet. Having given way a little to our feelings, I fancied my hunger had entirely left me and that I could go for many days without food. If there is one act of my life which affords me more satisfaction than another at this minute, it is the one by which I prevented mother from leaving the house, as described. Had I let her go, my faith in God’s promises would be less than it is to-day. I cannot describe the pleasure which the reflection brings me that, despite the hard pass we were brought to, she was laid to rest without having ever gone out to beg. We did not cross the threshold that day. The hours dragged slowly along. When night came, we heard a loud sharp rap at the back door of the house, and both got up to answer it. We opened the door, but, there being no one in sight, we were about to shut it again, when we saw something on the door-step. It was a small brown-paper bundle, neatly packed. On taking it into the house, I found my mother’s name clumsily written upon it. The hand-writing was not unfamiliar to me. The package was, in one sense, like the heart of the sender—it contained a great many good things which brightened the face of my mother. And yet the mystery surrounding them made her pause before putting them to use. Next moment, however, she said:—

“David, look you, once, when in want, did eat of the shew-bread, and the Saviour afterwards justified him for so doing. And although we know about as much as the mountain-gate where these good things have come from, I don’t think we shall be doing wrong in using them.”

Inasmuch as she never asked me could I guess, I did not give her the slightest hint whence the package came. Had I done so, I question whether she would have touched the contents, for I strongly suspected that the sender had not acquired them honestly.

My noble friend! I know very well thou would’st have shared the last bit with me, and that, although thou did’st not afterwards mention that parcel to me, nor I to thee, I was as certain thou wert the sender as I am that it was from thy hand I received the bread and butter of the previous day.