An Elegy in Prose

Before bringing to an end what I consider to be the second epoch of my history, and before saying anything of the time I found myself alone and realising the fact that I had entered upon the battle of life, I must deal a little further with two or three characters who have already received no small notice from me—one of them more particularly.

During the whole period of my mother’s stay with Thomas and Barbara Bartley she found a fostering care and attention at their hands as great as any she could have expected or desired. Her chief employment, as long as she lived at the Tump, was the preparation of the two old folk for admission into full church membership; and that was no slight task. It took her some weeks to coach them, as the saying is, before she felt sufficiently confident in asking Abel Hughes to call them forward for reception. When that took place, there was a deal of amusement in the Society. Their answers were simple and original, causing some to laugh, others to cry, and a few to laugh and cry, both. ‘The limits I have set myself will not permit a description of the occurrences at that Society. In answering some questions Thomas would look doubtfully and half in fear ut mother, just as some lad may be seen watching his father while reciting his verse at church meeting; and he referred to her, more than once, in words, as an authority in doctrine. On the whole, Thomas gave pretty general satisfaction with respect to his knowledge and fitness for admission. Not altogether so well did Barbara pass her examination. It was very difficult to get more from her than that she thought and felt, “same as Thomas.” Barbara clearly looked upon herself as a duplicate of her husband, and inasmuch as Thomas had answered aright, she seemed to think it needless wasting time with her. The two, as I have observed in a previous chapter, thought and acted exactly alike, with a unison and similarity such as that of two eyes on one string. Now I call them to mind, I am almost tempted to go a step further. and to say that they had the same consciousness, and that there was more of identity than of individuality in them. They were like a clock with two faces, always indicating, to the minute, the same time of day. On the strength of Thomas’s answers Barbara, like himself, was unanimously received into church membership, with all its privileges. The old couple went home that night arm in arm, close-joined as a double-kernelled nut, feeling excessively happy and magnifying the importance of the event. Mother had looked forward to the occasion with the greatest interest and anxiety, for she regarded Thomas and Barbara as special disciples of her own. And I know she took pleasure in the thought that her labour, instruction and prayers had not been in vain.

This was the last time mother was in chapel. As I have already intimated, her health had been for some time declining, and her strength failing her. “Between one Euroclydon and the other,” to use her own words, she had been “tossed rather badly of late.” Her end was hastened by Bob’s sudden death. She saw that the staff on which she leaned was broken, and that she had neither health nor strength enough to earn her own livelihood. She dreaded being dependent upon the kindness of friends, and especially upon parish charity, for help; and she seemed to me like one who had raised a finger at the King of Terrors, and beckoned him to her. Death had no sting for her, heart and contemplation haying long since found a home on the other side. She was no money-lover; and I believe she looked upon the little she had saved when Bob was getting good wages, added to what was realised by the sale of the furniture of the old house, as the sand in the glass—the measure of her own life. Some kind woman—it is kind I have found all women towards the preacher—on a Monday morning before I return from an engagement, will boil me an egg for breakfast. Seeing her watch the sand in the glass always reminds me of mother. Even so did she watch the little money she possessed; and the consciousness gradually grew upon me that with the last penny from her purse she too would take her departure. In her latter days she suffered but little pain. She went to bed to die much as you may have noticed a woman leaving the cold wind upon the railway platform for the shelter of the waiting room, pending the arrival of the train, and showing her face in the doorway, as if tired of the delay. Still, like her former self, she remained calm and collected. Her old Bible, loose-leaved, was always open by her side on the bed, as if, to pursue the metaphor, she was constantly examining her ticket. She died with spectacles on face.

Old mother, mine! I grieve to the heart that I am not a poet. Did I possess the divine afflatus, I would sing thee sublimest elegy—one which, whatever might be its shortcomings, would bear proof in itself that it had been wrought by regret in the workshop of the heart. Yet, if I am not of the elect of the bardic order, I am unwilling to pass on without an effort to pay the tribute which is my due to thy memory; though I am compelled to do so in plain prose. Is it something womanish, and a sign of weakness that one is over-fond of his mother? Then am I womanish and weak. I know not when I began to think of thee that thou wert the fairest, dearest, best of womankind. Going back as far as I am able, I almost believe that this notion of thee was born into the world with me; it has no beginning, I imagine, in my mind. It was not the fruit of observation and reason; because, if so, it might have been different. I felt nearer related to thee than thou wast to thyself; and I am convinced that so did’st thou feel towards me. Did I not know thy face years before I knew my own? And were I, at this moment to look upon both our faces in a glass, it is thine I should first recognise. A child in thine arms upon the lake bank, it was thy face I knew and none other, when thou didst direct my eyes to the shadow in the water. What care, what trouble did’st thou take with me! Before I could talk thou understoodest my wants and desires. When I was ill there was no sleep or rest for thee; when well and active, thy soul was full of delight. Thou did’st teach me a language, thyself not knowing its grammar; and, for thy years of labour in doing so, receiving not a penny in payment. Our speech was the dear old Cymric; thou knewest none other, nor believest its like to be in existence. Thou imprintest its letters upon my memory while my heart was yet young and impressionable, so that I could not, even if I would, erase them in after time. Sweet is the recollection, even now, that one of the first lessons in syllabification thou gayest me was “I, and oe, and s, and u.”* Thyself uninstructed, thy prejudices were many and strong. Hardly would’st thou believe there was anything worth the mention outside the Welsh language, nor any religion worth the name but amongst the Calvinistic Methodists. Although one of the best read women I knew, thou could’st easily have counted all thy books upon thy fingers: The Bible, Charles’ Lexicon, The Instructor, Hymnbook, Gurnal’s Works, The Pilgrim’s Progress, and “The Welshman’s Candle;” yes, and I must add two others, namely, Roberts of Holyhead’s Almanack, and Tom of Nant’s Works. Those were the entire contents of thy library; but every book was black with thy thumb-marks, and hung down at the corners like the ears of Moll of Glasdwr’s old dog. The volumes were not left long enough on their shelves to gather cobwebs or dust; when the necessity arose thou would’st make the leisure required for their reading and study. So did’st thou furnish thy mind with their contents that thou could’st at all times quote from memory ample portions of them to suit the occasion. And thou wert as much acquainted with, and at home in, the exalted discourses of the books of Job, Isaiah and Revelations as thou wert in the fairs and fixed feasts of the Almanack, with its doggerel prophecies:—

Thinking of thy piety, I have wondered what pleasure thou could’st find in the Bard of Nant, who was not a man after the Methodist heart. It was one of the inconsistencies of human conduct, I imagine. I know thou would’st read with a relish those severe buffetings which the noted old satirist bestowed upon irreligious parsons and unjust stewards. Was it Tom who created in thee such a prejudice against the Church of England? I have room to think thou did’st believe that the bard was converted before death; certain it is I have heard thee, dozens of times, repeat the following lines of his composition:—

Of wondrous grace, before me laid the startling story:

That sojourns in Samaria. Come, I implore thee,

Give me of Jordan water—the Son of Man’s, ’tis seen.

Died, and was so sacrificed that, through his loss [side

We life might win, Lord, though we sin. Thy Son’s pierced

O precious blood! shed not for woful world in vain, &c.”

But the book thou wert most at home in, which thy mind revelled in, was the Bible. Never did’st thou tire of reading it, or of declaring its truths. Never did’st thou, for one single instant, doubt its inspiration, or that it was the real word of God. I remember, if Bob happened to drop the merest hint of a mistake in the translation of some verse, thy anger would be blown into a white heat. Partial though thou wert to the Rev. ——, wert thou not half offended with him when he said, in his sermon, that a few words in a certain place wanted altering a little? And did’st thou not tell Abel Hughes about him afterwards that thou feared’st much learning had made him mad? I know that one of thy chief reasons for not being over-fond of “the students” was that one of them, once upon a time, declared his text to read better in English than in Welsh; and I remember thee saying, hotly, thou had’st no patience listening to ’prentice preachers trying to improve upon the word of God. It was thy ignorance made thee speak thus, but mayhap thou hast got credit in Heaven even for that; it was thy zeal for the Bible, and thy love towards every verse and word in it, that made thee jealous of the least attempt to tamper with it. And what wonder? Was it not the Bible, as it is, that was the foundation of all thy consolations? Was it not its promises as they are, word and letter, that sustained thee in every trouble and affliction? -Had anyone succeeded in shaking a grain of thy faith in its divine inspiration, all would have been over with thee. Thou had’st placed thy trust so entirely in its truths, and loved it so absorbingly, that I can easily believe Thomas Bartley when he said that, at the moment before death, he found thee gazing through -thy spectacles at thy well-worn Bible, as if unwilling to leave it, as if anxious to take it with thee!

The circle of thy life was a contracted one; thou knewest nothing of the world, in the real sense of the term. Thou had’st no notion of its size, its bustle and its wickedness. Thy path was narrow, and its hedges were high; yet did’st thou succeed most remarkably in keeping the middle of it, without once, as far as I know, falling into the ditch. I am as certain that path led into life as that the little tributary, like the great broad river, leads into the sea. As thy way was, so was thy mind: narrow but just. Thou knewest, as well as any one, that the Saviour was a Jew according to the flesh, but thou believed’st, notwithstanding, that he was more of a Welshman than anything else. And in this thou wert right; for is not the faithful, of whatsoever nation, conscious that the man Christ Jesus is nearer related to his own race than to any other? And is not this clear proof of His fitness as a Saviour of man, wherever found?

Inasmuch as what I write about thee will not be read until I, like thyself, have gone over to the majority, I feel I can tell the truth about thee, without being hindered by diffidence or false- modesty. Thou wert endowed with strong instincts, above all with an excellent memory; and had’st thou received a good education in early life, I do not doubt but that thou would’st have been a woman of mark. Uninstructed though thou wert, it was seldom thou wert imposed upon. Yet wert thou deceived once, deceived grossly; a fact but for which this hand would not now be writing a summary of thy life’s history; for its owner would have had no existence. Thou wert deceived by one who ought to have been thy guide and protector; who won thy heart and affections when thou wert a young girl—fair, methinks, also. Thou wert deceived by him who should have been most faithful unto thee—thy husband, my father. And this is not to be wondered at. He was, I have heard, a sturdy, handsome man. He was irreligious. He wished to speak with thee; but thou would’st have nothing to say to one who had no religion. He attended the means of grace; but to what end? At last he became a member of the same church with thee. He could now hold converse with thee, tenderly and religiously. Detestable hypocrite! He was ready of speech like thyself, and in this respect you were both well matched. O, how he envied the preacher; and what pleasure he found in chapel! He was a new man from thenceforth; but there was a legion of devils in his heart. Thou gavest ear to him, yes! And ninety nine out of every hundred girls would have done the same. Ye were married, one lovely morning in May, amidst a shower of presents and good wishes from thy friends. And after that— ah, after that! God and thyself alone knew what thou suffered’st, what trials thou did’st undergo! But of whom am I speaking? Of my father—my own father. Wretch! When thou died’st I rejoice that I had neither seen his face nor heard his voice. One notable night in my history I caught one faint glimpse of his form—only his form—in the darkness, in company of another whom I hated with all my heart.

Dear old mother! What a mercy thou should’st have found, while yet a lass, a religion of the best stamp. Thy husband’s vile ways and devilish disposition left thy faith in God untarnished! Under bruises from his cruelty—and the thought that thou ever wert so makes my heart bleed—thou yet could’st pray for him! Many a time wert thou unable to attend chapel because of a “pair of black eyes.” Inhuman scoundrel! My flesh creeps, and my sinews tighten, when I think of all thou suffered’st. How fortunate for thee, Mary Lewis, that his wickedness developed to such a degree that he was obliged to flee the country! He nearly made an end of thy life, many times, without thought of escape, and without giving the authorities any idea of his apprehension. But having once come near taking the life of another, infinitely less worthy than thee, all the country demanded his arrest, and every officer of police burned with a desire to curb him. Thank Heaven! thou heard’st of him no more; neither loved’st thou to hear mention of his name. Already have I referred to thy poverty and want, and all thou did’st go through consequent upon the imprisonment and death of Bob; but there was not, as far as I can tell, either shame, or guilt, or dishonour connected with these. What vexation, what sorrow and what hardship thou suffered’st before I came into the world, when thy house was the den of hard-hearted, reckless poachers, who neither feared God nor respected man, no living creature ever knew, nor thou did’st ever mention but sparingly. For all thou said’st to me, I should not have known the hundredth part of thy trouble. I had grown a biggish boy before becoming acquainted with anything definite about thy history, save what I had gathered from the hints and taunts of my enemies. The only thing I knew for certain was that in thy cupboard was a skeleton of some kind; and Bob was the first to enlighten me —in bed, on the night of Seth’s death—after I had told him about the man who had stopped me near the Hall Park, and what he had said to me. I have many times asked myself the question was it possible thou could’st have had a spark of affection left for him who brought upon thee so much misery and shame? O love of women! Was it not about the last thing thou said’st to me before dying, “If ever you and your father meet, face to face, try and forget his wickedness and, if you have any good to do him, do it. He has a soul to be saved like you and me; and it does not much matter, now, how he behaved towards me; but it matters everything that he should be saved. If you should ever see him—and who knows but that you will?—try and remember he is your father. I, myself, forgive him all, and endeavour to pray that He whose forgiveness is life everlasting do the same.”

Well did Will Bryan, in his own way, speak of thee that, like Job, thou did’st “stick to thy colours, first class.” Not soon would I come to an end did I relate every counsel and advice thou gavest me in thy last days. I do not forget there may be some one who will fancy that I have over-coloured thy virtues. The fact that thou wert my mother may make this possible. In this place I will chronicle only thy last words to me—those which were so helpful to me in after life:—

“If you are called upon to suffer in this world, do not complain, for it will make you think of a world in which there is no suffering. Do not make your home in the world, or dying will turn out to be a bigger job than you think it is. Prove all things by the word of God, yourself especially, Take the Bible as a weather-glass for your soul; if you lose relish for reading it, you may be sure there is no fair weather waiting you. Pray for a godly life, but do not expect to live old, for fear you may die young. Try and find a religion of which no one can have any doubt, and which you yourself will not doubt. One of the poorest things on earth is a sickly religion; it stops you from enjoying the things of this world, and does not help you to enjoy the things of the other. Get hold of a religion whose sheets will overlap someone else besides yourself. If you can be the means of saving but one soul, you will force your way farther into heaven after death than if you were worth a hundred thousand pounds and had done nothing of the kind. You have no room to expect a penny piece from any of your relations; but you can become the richest in the country in grace, if you try. Abraham would never have been heard of had he had no better property than camels. You will have three enemies to fight: the world, the devil and yourself, and you’ll find yourself the hardest to conquer. In the battle, remember you have the whole armour about you—prayer, watchfulness and the Word of God. You’re sure to lose the day if you do not take unto yourself all three. If you get strength to vanquish your enemies during life, you will see only their backs when you come to die. I am going to leave you, and I trust in the Lord that I am a vessel of mercy. You will find in the purse in the pocket of my black gown just enough money to pay for burying me. If it should ever rest with you to do a good turn for Thomas and Barbara, don’t forget their kindness towards your mother. I would rather than anything that you had a talent for preaching, and were inclined that way. But it can’t be helped. ‘Try and be religiously useful in whatsoever circle you may move—you’ll never repent it. If I am able to see you from the other world, I should like to find you a deacon.”

At the time I never imagined these directions would be thy last. When next I saw thee, Barbara Bartley had done all that death had left undone for thy face—closed thine eyes. Thy departure, according to Barbara, was as the “d’outing of a candle Clearly Death was not unkind to thee. He left a cheerful smile upon thy face, a smile as of a child in it’s cradle dreaming. The more I looked at thee, the more did’st thou seem to smile, as if trying to tell me thou wert happy. Thy unwrinkled cheeks were white as snow, but across thy nose ran a streak of blue—the trail of thy spectacles as thy blood grew cold. By thy bedside three hearts beat rapidly and regretfully at the thought that never more would they hear thy voice; three consciences testified that thou had’st done all that in thee lay to purify them and place them upon the path of life. And though thy lips moved not, I fancied hearing thee saying:—

“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith; henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.”

Troublous was thy life; at many junctures wert thou really poor, but the great crowd that came to pay a last tribute of respect to thy memory showed that others besides myself saw something in thy character worth the emulation. Never was Will Bryan so often and so severely reproved as by thee. And vet his testimony concerning thee on the day of thy funeral was, that thou wert “a stunner of a woman.” ‘Thomas and Barbara Bartley have, by this time, grown old, but they have not yet ceased to speak of thee; and though Barbara still has but “a grip of tao letters, same as Thomas,” she has not, of Sunday afternoons, given up the habit of putting on thy spectacles and turning over the leaves of thy old Bible, as if she sought to imitate thee.