Converts

Time passed, as it always does, bringing with it, as it always brings, not only its troubles, but its consolations. Through the kindness of overseer Abraham, our cupboard was no longer empty, the lions no longer raged within my stomach. The nearer the prospect of Bob’s release, the brighter did my mother’s face become. And yet I knew from her talk and demeanour that she was not without her fears for his appearance, for the effect of an unjust imprisonment upon his spirit, and a thousand and one other things which a careful mother troubles herself about under circumstances of this kind. John Powell had already come home, and although he could not give much account of Bob, the two having been confined apart, mother, by “pumping and stilling,” had been able to extract enough from him to make her look forward with fear and anxiety to the day of my brother’s return. Before that day came round, two things happened which cheered her greatly. Not to enlarge (as I sometimes say in my sermon, although I deliver myself of every word I originally intended), I will merely touch upon the occurrences.

The visits which our revered old deacon, Abel Hughes, paid to our house were of such common occurrence that I took but little notice of them, save on some special occasion like the one I have already chronicled. But I have good reason to remember one visit, about a fortnight before Bob came out of gaol. Mother and he had been conversing for some time; I, wholly heedless, being occupied in writing at the table near the window, for you must know I had not forgotten Bob’s advice to apply myself to the work of self- improvement, so that I might not become a collier like him. My attention was suddenly arrested by Abel’s saying to mother:—

“It is high time, Mary, for that boy to think of doing something, especially as matters are as they are with you now.”

“I am of the same mind as you exactly, Abel,” replied mother. “But what he is able to do, I don’t know. He isn’t strong, nor much of a scholar.”

“But he is a big lump of a boy to be doing nothing, Mary.”

“Exactly,” said mother.

“I could do with a lad in the shop there, now, if I were sure Rhys would answer the purpose.”

“The very thing I had been thinking of, dozens of times, Abel,” said mother; “only I feared Rhys wasn’t scholar enough. I knew he’d get fair play for his soul with you, and I fancy you’d have no trouble with him. He’s a fairly good lad, considering. It’s a very odd thing, Abel, but the older I get the more I see, with Bob, poor fellow, that a little learning comes in wonderful handy; only not too much of it—I’ll stick to that.”

“What’re you doing there, Rhys?” queried Abel, coming towards me, and adding, “Do you know what? you write a very decent hand. Tell me, who taught you

“Bob,” I answered timidly.

“Can you cipher? Can you do simple addition?”

I fear I smiled, almost sarcastically, in replying:

“I can do addition, subtraction, multiplication and division of money.”

“What’s he saying, Abel?” asked my mother.

“Oh! only that he knows how to reckon money,” replied Abel.

“Rhys!” said mother, with a reproving look; “I never caught you in an untruth before. Do you want to break your mother’s heart, or what? Haven’t I had enough trouble already, without your going to tell a lie before my very face? The old saying is a true one, Abel: no one knows what it is to rear children. I tell you, honestly, I don’t want to deceive you; but he has never had any money to handle. I’m surprised at you, Rhys, for saying such a thing to Abel Hughes.”

Many of the old Methodists believed, I rather fancy, that laughter was not “becoming to the Gospel.” I never remember previously hearing Abel Hughes give vent to his feelings in this particular fashion; and so unused was he to the business that his laugh was more of a cross between a screech and a groan than anything else. Laugh, however, he did.

“Don’t disturb yourself, Mary /ac/i,” he said. ‘Rhys and I are only talking of the Tutor’s rules for calculating money.”

“Ho, say so! I never knew Mr. Tudor had any such rules, although I’ve heard he’s got plenty of money, and that he takes good care of it, too. If he were to come here to reckon my money, he could leave his ‘rules’ at home, goodness knows. The children of these days know more than their parents, or they think so, at any rate. But as you und’stand each other, go on.”

On we went, Abel questioning and I replying. Without flattering myself, I am certain Abel was astonished to find I knew as much as I did—I who had had such little schooling— and he admired Bob for the trouble he had taken with me.

“I hope Bob has taught him nothing wrong, Abel,” remarked my mother. “They take so much to English, these days, that you can’t tell what’s taking place in your own house.”

Abel assured her that Bob had been doing only good in teaching me these things; which, coming from him, was a sweet morsel unto her.

“I often quarrelled with Bob,” said mother, “because there was too much book and slate going on, and too little of the Bible. I am glad, however, to hear you say that he taught the boy no harm; although I’ll stick to it, there is in the youth of these days too great a tendency to neglect the Bible.”

Not to amplify, as I have already said, the result of Abel’s visit that night was an agreement between mother and him that I was to go on a month’s trial to his shop, eating at his table, but coming home to sleep. This is one of the two things I referred to as bringing comfort to mother, as much comfort, I am certain, as many a mother has had on the appointment of her son to a post under government; a great element in such comfort being the reflection that my “soul would get fair play,” as she expressed it.

The other thing which cheered her greatly was the fact that Thomas and Barbara Bartley continued to attend service, and that there was every reason to believe the Truth was, to some extent, working upon their minds. I have said that mother and I used often to visit Thomas and Barbara, and have intimated that there was a kind of understanding between us, during our time of want, that we should not be permitted to leave our neighbours’ house fasting. I should, however, be doing mother a great wrong if I let it be understood that this was her only or her chief object. No, I think she felt as much interest in their salvation as Paul did in that of his “kinsmen according to the flesh.” She watched carefully the manner in which the couple listened to the Sunday’s sermons, and on Monday morning would visit them to know how much of the truth they had comprehended and what effect had been left upon their minds. I am under strong temptation to relate a few of the conversations which occurred on these visits; but lest some people should think I am over-drawing my mother’s zeal and devotion, I refrain. In the course of examining them, and of explaining things, in the simple language of the truth, I heard Thomas Bartley several times say:—

“Its a shocking pity you don’t happen to belong to the Ranters, Mary. You’d make an uncommon good preacher.”

Our chapel friends understood, well enough, it was my mother who had been instrumental in bringing Thomas and Barbara to the means of grace. Great was their wonder and joy to see two old folk, who, although living quite close to the chapel, had spent their lives wholly heedless of religion, but who, at last, gave their presence at every public meeting. “If your brother’s imprisonment,” mother would say, “has been the means of bringing Thomas and Barbara Bartley within sound of the Gospel, and especially if it will be the means of bringing them to Christ, I shall never repent of the bargain. I much think, look you, that the truth has laid some hold of my old neighbours’ minds, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised to see Thomas and Barbara come to Communion before Bob returns home. I fancy I am about as good a Calvinist as anybody I have met, but the devil must have farmed it badly with Thomas and Barbara. There is in both good soil for Gospel seed; it has none of the thorns and briars of envy and deceit, nor the reeds and fens of fleshy lusts. In a manner of speaking, the spirit will have less work there in making a new heart. Bob used to talk a deal, as you know, of Thomas and Barbara’s ignorance ° and harmlessness, of which he made a lot of fun. Nothing would please me better, when he comes home, than to be able to tell him that both were saved. You may think I’m talking nonsense perhaps, Bob himself not being in the Society; but I can’t help thinking—can’t for the very life of me help thinking —that Bob is one of us. And something keeps telling me that he’ll return to the Society directly. What is your opinion?”

I received, in connection with Thomas and Barbara Bartley’s history, a lesson which I have never forgotten, namely, that those preachers whom some people term small are a much better blessing to a particular section of their hearers than those who are considered great. I remember that Thomas and Barbara received but little good from the ministration of the preachers whom my brother Bob styled favourites; while both would praise highly those whom he held almost in contempt. This pleased mother greatly, because she took it to verify her oft-repeated remark to my brother that everybody was not a Paul or a Peter, and that, although the fact had not been noted, many had been saved under Thaddeus, or the Master would not have called him to the work.

A few days afterwards, as we were at breakfast, mother observed: “This is the last Sabbath for Bob, poor fellow, to be in the house of bondage; thanks for it. And yet I’m almost afraid to see him come home, lest his spirit hath hardened under trial. I wonder who is to preach next Sunday? Were Bob home to-day I know he wouldn’t care much for the minister. He was always disposed to under-rate William Hughes, of Abercwmnant. But I think William is one of the chosen, and I get a blessing from hearing him. Although we shall, no doubt, have to-day, as usual, as Bob used to put it, ‘the object noted,’ ‘the act attributed,’ and ‘the duty enjoined,’ it does’nt a bit matter; for William Hughes is sure to say something worth the hearing and the doing. Let us hope his Master will be with him, and that he will effect a conversion.”

William Hughes kept his appointment. It is rarely a little preacher does not, except he be little enough to imitate the failings of a great one. I remember well the text that morning —‘Turn ye to the stronghold, ye prisoners of hope.’ I fancied everybody was thinking of my brother Bob when William Hughes was speaking of the prisoners. The old preacher appeared unsually spirited, and was listened to with the most marked attention. I have my notes of his sermon before me as I write. On looking them over, I find they contain the soundest doctrine; but, marvellous to relate, the ordinary divisions are not preserved. Possibly I was careless in taking down. They run thus:—I. The objects noted—prisoners. II. The provision made by grace on their behalf—a stronghold. III. The duty enjoined—turning to the stronghold,

I recollect mother helped the service to such an extent that I momentarily expected to hear her jubilating; as she did once under Cadwaladr Owen’s ministration, at which Bob was so offended that he would not speak to her for two whole days together. I recollect, further, that Abel Hughes, towards the middle of the sermon, rose from his usual place under the pulpit, and posted himself in front of the Big Seat—a sure sign, always, that the preacher was saying something exceptionally good. Why I took such particular notice of our deacon’s conduct was, possibly, because I had heard my mother say to him, more than once, after arousing sermon: “Well, Abel, you too were obliged to come out of your kennel to-day.” To me, a sufficient proof that William Hughes excelled himself on that morning is afforded by the imperfection of my notes; my experience being that when a preacher speaks sluggishly I can take down nearly the whole sermon, but, if he has a swing and go about him, I forget my book and pencil and lose myself in what he says.

On coming out of chapel I found Thomas and Barbara Bartley waiting for mother. All three, engaged in earnest conversation, walked homewards together, Will Bryan and I keeping a little to the rear. Although it was Sabbath morn, I could not help telling Will that I was going apprentice to old Abel. Struck with surprise, and with a look of commiseration for my fate, he said,

“Good-bye, my hearty. This child (striking his chest), would sooner go apprentice to a roller-up or barber. You’ll never more have any liking for play or laughter. From this time out you’ll get nothing in the world but Society and a verse; and before this day month, I’ll take my oath, you’ll have been obliged to learn to groan like an Irishman with the toothache, and to pull a face as long as a fiddle. You’ll be fit for heaven any day then. Rather than go ’prentice to the old onion, this child (striking his breast again), would go footman to the King of the Cannibal Islands. I’m sorry for you Rhys; but since the thing is settled—fire away. This chap (striking his breast once more), would sooner go oyster-fishing to the top of Moel Fammau than go ’prentice to old Ab.”

I knew Will was honestly speaking his mind, but having told him I did not look upon my future in the same serious light that he did, I was surprised at his reply.

“Listen here, old hundredth. I think it about time we made a preacher or a deacon of you, I’ll swear.”

Will little guessed I could desire nothing better than to be made the former, were it in his power. To avoid his gibes I kept the reflection to myself.

On reaching home I found my mother humming a tune, and although she was almost speechless, I never knew her to give so many signs of inward happiness. I imagined it was the “stronghold,” of which the preacher spoke, which made her heart rejoice, but I don’t remember that she said a word about the sermon, beyond this alone—that William Hughes “had felt his feet under him,” which was her way of indicating that a preacher had found inspiration. At six o’clock that evening, William Hughes had another successful meeting, of which my

memoranda are as follow:— Text:—“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Heads:—1, The objects noted—Those who labour and are heavy laden. 2. The duty enjoined—“Come unto me.” 3. The precious promise unto those who obey—“I will give you rest.” I do not remember anything in particular about the sermon. In the Society, after service, Abel Hughes put the customary question—“Is there anyone who has remained afresh?” I wondered what made him ask, seeing he himself was looking straight at two who had “remained afresh.” John Lloyd (he whom Will Bryan had named “the Old Scraper,”) in reply said that which everybody knew already, namely, that Thomas and Barbara Bartley had remained.

“Ho! will you have a word with them, William Hughes?” said Abel, addressing the preacher, adding, “you must not expect much from them; they have not been hearers for long.” He thereupon sat down beside the preacher, in whose ear, so I have imagined, he whispered all he could, in half a minute, tell about the converts. After some slight demur, the preacher got to his feet and, with hands crossed upon his back, under his coat-tails, walked, as if reluctantly, towards Thomas and Barbara. As far as I can remember, the conversation which ensued was somewhat after this fashion:—

“Well, Thomas Bartley,” the preacher began, “I know nothing about you, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us, freely, a little of your history.”

“I will, name of goodness,” replied Thomas. “Father and mother were poor people, and I was the youngest of three children. There’s none left cept me; and I don’t know of anybody belonging to us but one cousin down in England, if he’s alive. It’s a dying-out sort of——”

“I didn’t mean you to give the history of your family,” the preacher interposed. “What I wanted to know was a little of your own experience. What made you and your wife remain behind to-night?”

“O! beg pardon,” said Thomas. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. Barbara and I, for weeks past, have been thinkin’ a lot about comin’ to the Society to you. Mary Lewis told us it was high time, and that we could never do anythin’ better. So, hearin’ you a-beggin’ of us so earnestly this mornin’ to turn to the stronghold, we both made up our minds to stay to-night; because we knew very well it was to us you was referrin’.”

Barbara nodded her concurrence.

“You did well,” remarked the preacher; “and I don’t doubt but that the friends here are very glad to see you. Very likely you look upon yourself as a great sinner, Thomas Bartley?”

“Well, I’ll say this much,” replied Thomas, “I never nursed a spite towards anybody, as Barbara knows; and I always try to live honest.”

“I am glad to Lear it; it isn’t everybody can say that much,” Mr. Hughes observed, adding, “but we are all sinners, you know, Thomas Bartley.”

“Yes, yes,” said Thomas. “Bad is the best of us; but I’m thinkin’ some are worse’n others.”

“Can you read, Thomas Bartley?” asked the minister.

“I’ve a grip of the letters, nothin’ more; but I’m awful fond of hearin’ others read,” replied Thomas.

“It’s a great loss not to be able to read; and it has got somewhat late in the day for you to think of learning,” Mr. Hughes observed.

“I know I’ll never learn, ’cause there’s nothing quick about me, most the pity,” said Thomas.

“Not having heard very much of the Gospel, Thomas Bartley, and not being able to read, you should be doubly diligent, in attendance on the means of grace from this time out,” said Mr. Hughes.

“If we live,” returned Thomas, “Barbara and I have made up our minds to come reg’lar to the service, ‘cause the time passes better by half here’n if we stayed mopin’ at home. To tell you the truth, Mr. Hughes, we find great pleasure in chapel, and if we’d a-known it sooner, we’d have been here these years; but no one ever asked us till Mary Lewis a’most forced us to come.”

“What gives you such pleasure in chapel, Thomas Bartley?” asked the preacher.

“Indeed, I can’t tell you guzzactly, but Barbara and I feel much more what-d’you-call-it, since weve been comin’ to chapel.”

“Very good,’ remarked the preacher. “But what do you think of ‘the stronghold’ I tried to say something about this morning?”

“Well,” replied Thomas, “I thought you spoke up nicely about it, only I couldn’t catch guzzactly all you said. But Mary Lewis explained to us on the way home that Jesus Christ dyin’ for us was the stronghold, and that trustin’ Him for salvation was turnin’ to the stronghold. I thought so too, only I couldn’t speak my mind.”

“Whoever this Mary Lewis is,” observed the preacher, she is pretty near the mark on that head.”

“Yes, I warrant her. Mary is a real good ’un, sure to you, Mr. Hughes,” rejoined Thomas.

It had been obvious for some time, so I heard mother say, that Mr. William Hughes did not understand his customer. After a moment’s hesitation, he made one more attempt to bring Thomas to a point.

“Thomas Bartley,” said he, “will you tell me what call was there that Jesus Christ should die for us?”

“Well, so far’s I can make out,” replied Thomas, ‘it was nothin’ in the blessed world, only he himself liked it.”

“But wasn’t there anything in us which necessitated his dying, Thomas Bartley?” asked the preacher.

“Nothing at all, to my mind,” replied Thomas. “P’raps I’m wrong, though; only I fancy no one told him to do it, and that he took everybody by surprise, as they say.”

Mr. Hughes looked, once more, as if he had been pitched from his saddle. Turning to Barbara he said:—

“Well, Barbara Bartley, can you read?”

“A grip of the letters, same as Thomas,” was her reply.

“Will you tell us a word as to your feeling?” said Mr. Hughes.

“Same as Thomas, guzzactly,” returned Barbara.

William Hughes retraced his steps to the Big Seat, saying: “Abel Hughes, you know our friends here better than I do.”

Abel got upon his feet. Although but a lad, I knew that if anyone could find out whether a spark of the divine fire had descended upon the souls of Thomas and Barbara, it was Abel. I never saw his like, I’m thinking, at probing the soul of a man, whatever reputation he bore.

“My dear old neighbours,” said our senior deacon, in a voice trembling with emotion, “I need not tell you that my heart rejoices to see you making effort to turn to that stronghold we heard so sweetly spoken of this morning. I hope, and for that matter believe, that your intention was perfectly good in staying with us to-night. I, my friends, feel,” he went on, turning towards the congregation, “that I have been severely reproved here to-night, and I trust we all felt the same, when Thomas Bartley told us that no one except Mary Lewis ever asked him and his wife to come to the means of grace. Let us be ashamed and repent. Well, Thomas Bartley, I’ll try and talk so that you can understand me. Do you find any change in your disposition and mind, these days, different to what you used to, we’ll say three months ago?”

“A great change, ’deed to you, Abel Hughes,” replied Thomas Bartley.

“Well, tell us, in your own way, what it is,” said Abel.

“You never met my worse at speakin’, Abel Hughes; but before I began comin’ to chapel, Barbara nor me never thought anythin’ on the blessed earth about our end. But now there isn’t a day goes over our heads that we don’t talk about it. I think a good deal of what’ll happen to us when we go from here— will Barbara and I be together, and shall we be comfortable?”

“That’s right, Thomas,” said Abel. “What do you think you must get here, so that you may be made comfortable after going from here?”

“Well,” replied Thomas, “I can’t tell you, guzzactly. But I’m thinking it’s trust in Christ, as Mary Lewis says.”

“Don’t change your mind as to that, Thomas bach,” said Abel. “You and I, and all of us, will be quite safe if we only trust in Him. You had a son, Thomas, who has gone to Him, without doubt. Seth, innocent as he was, got to know the Man; and I cannot wish you both, or myself, better than to be able to tell, as clearly as Seth did, where he was going to.”

At mention of Seth great tears fell down Thomas’s cheek, so choking his utterance that it was quite impossible to get another word from him. Barbara’s check apron became wet with the same kind of moisture. Abel Hughes was a stern man, but he had a large heart; and when he wept, his tears, like summer rain, took effect on everything round about, save the rocks. So happened it this time, for he was completely overcome. Presently regaining his composure, he asked the church to signify its assent to the reception of Thomas and Barbara Bartley into membership. Before any hand could be raised, John Lloyd asked whether Thomas Bartley was an abstainer?

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

Abel, without taking it upon him that he had heard John Lloyd’s question, declared the Bartleys to have been duly admitted.

I sat near the Big Seat. After the preacher had brought the Society to a close, I saw Thomas Bartley go up to the chief deacon. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he asked:—

“Abel Hughes, is there any entrance to pay to-night?”

“No, Thomas,” replied Abel with a smile. “You’ll have an opportunity of putting something on the church book by and bye.”

“To be shŵar,” said Thomas, and away he went.