Days of Darkness

Should some friend, more painstaking than the rest, have followed me to the end of the preceding chapter, he will, doubtless, laugh at me for a superstitious fellow. I cannot help that. I have touched but lightly upon the period when I left the straight path, when I lost those religious impressions and became careless about the knowledge and instruction I had received from one of the most pious of women. Was it because the remembrance of my conduct at the time was not so lively that I did so? No, but because my thoughts and actions were too vile and hideous for recital. Forget them, indeed! That is as difficult as to forgive them. God alone can do both the one and the other; but even He, I imagine, would find it infinitely more difficult to forget than to forgive, and had He not himself said He would forget, I might have thought the task impossible. Humbly and thankfully I endeavour to believe the word of the God of Truth; but the wrench it must give His omniscience to extend me His pardon is beyond my comprehension. If this be madness—Great Forgetter, forget Thou this also!

Was I a church member during the period referred to? I was, sure enough; and went up to the Lord’s table regularly once a month. And, as far as I knew, none of the pious old brethren had any fear on my account; none of them spoke to me with especial reference to the state either of my soul or of my religious belief. The memory of my own case makes me shudder at the thought of the spiritual condition of hundreds of the young in our towns, religiously brought up, like myself, from childhood. In order to please the good old mother at home, or escape the reproof of a strict employer, they attend service pretty regularly; they partake of the sacrament, having reached the necessary age; but how much more do we know about them? They may go for weeks at a stretch without looking at the Bible; they may lead an utterly prayerless life; they may frequent forbidden places, filled with wantonness; they may feast on vicious and rotten thoughts; they may read books which, were they printed in hell, by the light of the never-dying flame, could not be more damning to their souls; and what would we be the wiser? Do they not attend chapel? They do, and we are thankful for that. They come within sound of the eternal tidings of salvation to satisfy the mother, and who knows but that God will be merciful unto them? Are we sure, though, that the means of grace are not a burden to them? What interest do they take in subjects Biblical? Do they not consider them ‘dry?’ O, that we could be certain they have lost one hour’s sleep—only one—thinking of those things which are to determine their everlasting welfare! Thou shapely, handsome, tender girl—best of all workers for a bazaar—O, that we might be certain thy heart doth flutter and palpitate as fast over thy great matter as it did over the trash in that penny dreadful we saw thee buy the other day! Is there not some coldness, some distance that ought not to be kept, between officers of the church and the young men and maidens at least nominally under their charge, but of whom, in very many cases, the only thing we know is that they come to chapel? I am aware the difficulty lies in bridging that distance without scaring their souls and driving them farther away, without appearing meddlesome and without setting up a kind of confessional. I know also, well enough, that the fact that I myself have been guilty of the things referred to, all the while that I kept my church membership, is no reason for thinking others guilty in the same fashion. But who were my companions in depravity, pray? I am bound to tell the truth: church members, like myself. I am pleased to think their numbers were small. Were I to print this history, I would address a few simple questions to the consciences of our church youths; as for example the following:—“John Jones —or whatever your name is—leaving God out of the question, would you wish your mother to know how many chapters of the Bible you read from one Sunday to another? How often do you pray, and what sort of prayer do you use? Have you any objection to her knowing the places you frequent after shutting shop or leaving the office? When with your companions, which do you think she would know you by—your voice or your words? From what she heard you say, would she take you to be her son? Would you care to tell your father on what you spend your money, and where every penny comes from? What would you take to let him see the book you locked up in your box the other night? If he knew as much of your goings-on as you yourself do, what name would he give you? Hypocrite? Does the opinion you have of yourself tally with the opinion entertained by the “old people,’ your parents? After committing acts of which you knew neither your parents nor the church would have approved, have you not said to yourself, several times, ‘It will be all right when I go home, for I shall get a deacon’s ticket with the inscription:—

Dear Brethren,—This is to inform you that the bearer, John Jones, is a member of our church of Take-everything-for-Granted. Grace be with you. Amen.’”

To the pure all things are pure; and it may be that he who has been guilty of much impurity is prone to believe that impurity is more common than it really is. Anyhow, I knew one who regularly attended service because he dared not do otherwise, for fear of offending his employer. He did not absent himself as much as once from the Lord’s Table, but had his master, the deacon, known his real character, he would have had him expelled the church sans ceremony. That one was myself. My mind was depraved, my heart had become hardened and cold, and my conversation—when the “brethren” were not by to hear—unbecoming, to say the least. I was not unfamiliar with the words of the Bible, but I used them lightly and in jest, to create laughter and appear witty. I believe this was the prime cause of my hardening of heart. I remember, at this minute, a saying of my mother that a light use of Bible words blunted the edge of their proper purpose. “Same as that hatchet there, look you,” she said; “we have taken to use it for breaking coal, hammering, and everything else, almost, so that when we want to chop a bit of a stick there’s no getting it to catch.” The saying proved true in my case. Without boasting, I think I was, at that time, tolerably quick of apprehension and not without the ability to put my thoughts, decently and forcibly, into words. I do not know whether it was this which created in me a liking for controversy; but I do know I was always ready for the work, on which account Will Bryan dubbed me, “Stir-the-Fire-Poker.” I was invariably disposed to take the doubtful side of a question; my object being not to get at the truth but to beat my opponent, and to do so under disadvantages. As the habit grew upon me I got to think the fundamental difference between the true and the false, the evil and the good as of no consequence. With companions of no great ability or shrewdness I could give the false a more favourable colour than they could the true; and, like the fool I was, I began to admire myself and consider myself somebody. I went regularly to chapel, as I have said; but it was seldom I found a preacher to please me, because there were but few, so I fancied, who could say anything that was “new” to me and I thought I could see holes in their reasoning and slips in their speech. By this time I had thrown up the practice of writing out the sermons, as one which was not worth the trouble. I liked Sunday School because it gave me an opportunity of showing off my talents. Heart alive! I have been thinking many times what a kindness it would have been had Evan the butcher, whom, on account of his size, Will Bryan used to call Daniel Lambert, taken me to the back of the chapel, given me a good thrashing with the stout ash stick he carried, and afterwards ducked me, head over ears, in the rain-tub. It would have done me, and many more like me, all the good in the world. I am describing my period of: folly thus sparingly because I I should be ashamed for anyone to know what a lunatic I was. Although, from my up-bringing, fairly conversant with the truths, or rather with the facts of the Gospel, I was almost as ignorant of its spiritual blessings as a pagan.

Such was my condition when, as I have narrated in the previous chapter, I came near sending poor Jones to his account, and when I saw the apparition, if apparition it were. It is not of much importance what name I give the thing, whether dream or apparition; sure am I the occasion was a turning point of my life, and a blessed one, for which I have been a hundred times thankful. As I have already said, a swarm of thoughts crossed my mind that night. The words “My son, I fear you have no religion, and that you know nothing of the great things,” pierced my heart like a red hot iron. I felt them to be true to the letter, and became frightfully wretched in consequence. Having accustomed myself to appear what I was not, I tried to do so once more, by looking cheerful and happy; but I clean failed. I lost my appetite, and Miss Hughes begged me to see a doctor. Many times did she say to me: “Rhys, I don’t know what to think of you. You don’t eat more than a bird, but I suppose I may just as well not ask you to take a little of that wormwood tea. What’s the matter with you, say?” She did not understand my malady. I made a desperate effort to shake off the feeling by mixing with my old companions and entering into their amusements. But that was only adding fuel to the fire of my conscience; and so, on the excuse that I did not feel well, I left them, and thenceforth made it a practice of remaining within doors after shutting shop,

To escape Miss Hughes’s chatter I pretended to be absorbed in reading; but it was little I knew what I read, for my mind wandered aimlessly about, returning ever to pore over my unhappiness. Everything presented itself to me in a new phase. Hitherto God, sin, and the other world had been mere names; but now they were living realities, of which the terror touched and penetrated every nerve of my soul, if I may be permitted to say so. Previously Society was but a kind of club, of which I was a member; but now I began to regard the church as a spiritual congregation, a species of the elect, of whose nature and constitution, sustenance and support I knew practically nothing. Although my name was on her books, I felt there was a great, wide gulf between the church’s life and character and mine. I meditated my condition for hours together. I tried deliberately to dissect it, and to put myself through a course of cross-examination: What is the matter with you? Are your wits getting into bad repair? What harm have you done that has not been done by others, and much worse? I would then remember, directly, that my mother had said these were the Devil’s questions; and I derived no comfort from them in consequence. Looking back, I tried to coax my memory to dwell upon something favourable in my past; but conscience travelled ahead, and raised an army for my overthrow, so that memory lost heart and let conscience have it all her own way. I thought every instinct of my soul had conspired against me. In secret I read a great deal of the Bible; but I felt it was of others that the good book spoke; it was to others its promises were. For me there was no light, although the quest was my great aim in the reading. At all hoars of the day and night, especially when I was alone, came the unpleasant consciousness of God’s presence closing around me; only, when I tried to pray to it, that Presence seemed to leave me and take to flight. Never shall I forget one night in my bedroom, when a Catholic sentiment seemed to take possession of me. I had lain, musing sadly, until the candle had nearly burnt out, when a dreary, oppressive feeling of loneliness stole over me. God, I thought, had no compassion for me; He was angry with me. My companions did not understand my disposition; or, understanding, could not assist me. Angels, good or bad, took no interest in me. I was alone, so I thought, in the great, wide world; my soul had grown cold within me, and there was not a single ray of warmth to cheer it. Suddenly I bethought me of mother. She, who had loved me so well, could not have forgotten me; and, O, madness! I fell upon my knees and prayed to her. This was the straw I clutched at to save myself from drowning. Needless to say it brought no blessing. I speedily saw my folly. I was not ignorant of the way of salvation, because that had been made plain to me from my youth; but I felt it was intended for others, and that I was outside its scope. I considered my close familiarity with the Gospel prevented me from seeing its inner spiritual meaning, and that I was fated to remain in the outer court, a martyr betwixt the world and the church. I endeavoured to form an exalted notion of Christ, for his sympathy with fallen humanity, for his love and pity towards the sinner; but at the same moment my heart would grow cold and my affection frozen, while my mind placed an emphasis upon such sayings as “My sheep hear my voice,” &c.; and all my effort proved vain.

I remained in this state for weeks, during which, I recollect, it was not the particular sins I had committed which troubled me most, but a feeling of general, unmitigated depravity, combined with a painful isolation from things spiritual and supernatural. I did not give up the effort to pray, but my petitions were brief and pointless. I had played the hypocrite so often, and dissembled for so long in prayer that I dreaded being communicative. At one time, I remember, my supplications were somewhat as follow:—“Great Jesus, Son of God, I have dissembled much in Thy sight for many years, and I do not wonder Thou hest deserted me. Thou knowest, for Thou knowest all things, how bad I have been. Save Thou and I, none knows all my doings. If Thou wilt not forgive me, do not, I beg Thee, tell my history to mother or Bob, or anybody. Although I want to, Thou art aware I do not know Thee, and I fear Thou art offended with me for ever. Let me live a little while yet. Amen.” On other occasions they ran thus: “Jesus Christ, lest thou be worse offended with me, I go upon my knees again to-night; but I have nothing more to say to Thee than I have said hundreds of times already, except that I have lost my health. But thou knowest all, so I need not tell Thee. Amen.” Although I dared not go to bed without first falling upon my knees, it is within my recollection that I was sometimes possessed by a haughty, defiant spirit, similar, I should imagine, to that which characterised the fallen angels, when my prayers—if I may call them such—would partake of the character of the following:—“O, Saviour of sinners! what more can I do? I have called upon Thee hundreds of times, but Thou dost not hear. I have read, to-night, Ihy Sermon on the Mount, and I find it condemns me utterly. But why did’st Thou say, ‘Ask and it shall be given unto you; seek and ye shall find?’ Have I not asked and sought? Were it not for fear of sinning further against Thee, I might almost think Thou wert not as good as Thy word. Thou knowest I am a bad boy. Who called Thee a friend of publicans and sinners? Were they not the same who called Thee ‘a gluttonous man, and a wine-bibber?’ I, too, am a great sinner; still Thou art no friend of mine. Dost Thou make any difference between sinners? Has Thou Thy favourites? What use is it my reading the Bible? It has nothing in it for me; and I find no pleasure in sinning. If Thou art resolved not to hearken unto me, let me alone to sin. Thou permittest that much even unto the devil. If I err, why dost Thou not open my understanding? If Thou puttest me in hell, I will eternally proclaim it to all that Thou did’st reject me, a youth of seventeen, notwithstanding Thy saying that ‘Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ If I have sinned the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost, Thou knowest I did so in ignorance. My heart is like a stone, and I cannot change it. Much as I might like to love Thee, yet I cannot. But Thou knowest I hate the Devil and his angels with a perfect hatred; and though Thou placest me in their midst, I will never speak a word with one of them, never, never, even were he to put a red hot iron to my lips. O! have my wits gone astray? I hope so, because Thou pitiest the insane. Do with me as Thou seest best. Amen!”

Not a ray of light coming, from either reading or prayer, I, to some extent, gave over the work. I no longer read the Bible or prayed of mornings. I could not, though I tried, abstain from something which approached to prayer before going to bed. That, I felt, was too difficult. And unto this day I have a somewhat similar feeling. I find it easier to forget God in the morning than at night. I believe I am not alone in this, because I remember being, more than once, in irreligious company, not one of whom went to bed without first going upon his knees, although he never thought of doing so when he got out in the morning. The sense of dependence and responsibility is stronger in the night than in the morning. How foolish! We feel better able to take care of ourselves in the morning than we do just before going to sleep. Discontinuing the Bible I turned to works of humour. I failed, however, to get any fun out of them. To me the jokes were those of a clown made to a man who was on his death- bed. I fancy it must have been then I became convinced that it is only the true-hearted man, possessed of a considerable degree of piety, who can enjoy real humour, and that it is he alone who can fill his mouth with laughter without pouching his cheek with poison. Foolishly enough, I kept all my trouble to myself, and continued to look into myself instead of looking out. With one single exception I do not think that anybody had the slightest idea I was in such distress; and I should not have suspected him either, especially since I held but little communication with him, had I not, one day, received from him the English note following:—

Dear Rhys,—I rather think you are in want of a sachlian.* I can lend you one. The lludw,† of course, you can have anywhere you like. Glad to tell you that this chap is up to the knocker.—Yours truly, Will Bryan.

I knew at once he had discovered the reason of my staying in at night and avoiding his company. I dreaded meeting him, for fear of his flouts. I envied him, because his parents, in the matter of religion, were lukewarm and unconcerned, while the pains taken with me and the thorough religious instruction I had received, made me think my responsibility infinitely greater than his. Will’s note increased my unhappiness. Every day, almost, my master, Abel Hughes, took me to task for not being more attentive to the customers. He said I was getting worse, instead of better. That made me hate the shop. I despised Jones no longer; rather did I envy him, as having next to no soul. Little by little I sank into a state of indolence, dulness and melancholy. The Devil whispered me that religion was folly, the Bible a string of old wives’ fables, and all my wretchedness but the result of indigestion. There immediately arose, however, the recollection of my mother’s life, her probity, faith, rejoicing in the Holy Spirit, her resignation and fortitude under severest suffering, her boundless confidence and glorious triumph in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, from which the devil and all the infidels in the world could not move me. A great qualm of regret for her came over me. I knew I must be trying my master’s patience greatly, and that the only good thing he could see about me was my staying in of nights. Sent on an errand, I would forget my business and be obliged to return to ask what it was. Behind the counter, I was confused and awkward, and often made mistakes in the price of things. My conduct made Abel tired and testy, but I knew Miss Hughes used her best influence in my behalf. One day Abel called me aside and said he had been greatly disappointed in me. He at one time thought, he continued, I would turn out a good, active and capable lad; but he was sorry to find me getting worse and worse every day. “As a matter of fact,” he added, “you’re not worth your salt.”

I felt he was speaking the truth, and so never opened my lips in contradiction. But his words had such an effect upon me that I determined to eat no more of the bread I did not deserve. What of self-respect there was left in me had been roused. My intention was to leave and trust to luck. At the moment, I did not care what became of me. Supper time arrived, but I would not sit at table. Abel had too much steel in his constitution to ask me twice; and Miss Hughes, having got to understand her brother and I had had words, enjoyed the meal but little, for she loved me greatly. I thought there was something dry and hard about Abel that night at the family devotions, and I could see that his sister paid no attention to them. For me it was a night to be remembered. I felt Abel Hughes’s saying to be true that I was not worth my salt, and determined to clear my character before leaving, or else to reveal my condition. After prayers Abel, as usual, sat down in his arm chair and began to smoke. For a while he kept silent. Obstinate, firm and resolved, I eagerly watched my chance for a talk. After long waiting—all three, I fancy, feeling anything but nice in the interval—Abel in harsh, crabbed tones asked me whether I meant to go to bed that night. I replied I didn’t until I had told him the reason of my awkwardness in the shop, and my bitterness and unhappiness of spirit. I told him, then, my trouble; but no sooner had I begun than I fell to weeping copiously. In all my difficulties, fears and despair, never a tear had coursed my cheeks since the day my mother was buried; but I had hardly opened my lips to tell my master my story before the dam broke down, and all words were drowned in a deluge of the heart.

The comfort there is in telling one’s trouble! Seldom have I met with a kind-hearted woman who, seeing a strong youth in tears, did not chime in with him. Miss Hughes was kind-hearted. Those tears were a great blessing to me; not only as indications that my heart was not so hard as I had imagined, but also as a means of enabling me to gain sufficient self-composure to tell the whole story. I concealed nothing from Abel; no, not even the one thing I conceal here—something which had to do with him personally. I conceal it here in obedience to his express command. “Do not mention it to anybody else,” he said; “because, if it gets to men’s ears, although God forgave you, it might be brought up against you as long as you live.” This he said to me on the morrow; but it is of the previous night I was speaking. I knew I had to deal with one who was every inch a man; a fact which enabled me the more confidently to relate all my feelings without reserve. I believed he would, after hearing my story, compassionate me, condone my failings, and direct me into the right path. I fully understood there were thick walls around his heart, but once I gained an entrance, I thought, I should not be easily cast out. He listened to me attentively; but I failed to see he sympathised with me. Indeed he looked on cheerfully, as if taking a delight in my misery. When I had finished, all he said was:

“Oh, very good! If that is the case, go on. You’ll get better directly.”

“Abel,” said Miss Hughes; “is that all you have to say to him? You’re hard-hearted.”

“I don’t want you, Marg’ret, to tell me anything about my heart. I know more about it than you are ever likely to find out, name of goodness,” returned the blunt old Calvinist.

“But I’ll tell you this much, at any rate,” Miss Hughes retorted; “you ought to help the boy a little, and give him a word of advice.”

“Do you know, Marg’ret, that He who began in us the good work will also finish it? It isn’t well, look you, to raise one too speedily from the pit. And, another thing, if it is He who has opened the wound, He himself will find a salve for it, in His own good time.”

“You should show the lad where the salve is to be got, or you may just as well not be deacon—that is my opinion,” observed Miss Hughes.

“I warrant you he knows. He is not some half heathen come to the Society for the first time, like Thomas Bartley and others. You can’t tell him anything he doesn’t know already. When his complaint comes to a head he’ll find the Doctor’s address easy enough. The best thing for him to-night is to sup and go to bed,” saying which the old man coolly refilled his pipe. Although it was but cold comfort I got from Abel, I felt he had come to regard me in a different light. What with Miss Hughes’s promptings and those of my own stomach, I was absolutely compelled to take a little supper, after which I went to bed. But not to sleep; only to reflect upon my situation. By this time the desire to leave had vanished; all my thoughts ending in a sigh for light upon my present condition and my future. How and whence the light came I mean to tell you in the next chapter.