David Davis

Happy is that man who can look back upon life and, with conscience testifying to his truthfulness, say that under every circumstance he has behaved exactly as he ought to have done, according to the light which was in him. Where does such a man exist, now-a-days? If we gave conscience fair play I am certain the greater number of us would say our conduct did not always come up to our standards of moral obligation. I fancy a few, even of those philosophers who have searched deeply into the subject and written copiously thereon, will be found to admit that they have not invariably acted in accordance with the clear and exalted notions they have formed of the fundamental canons of duty. One sometimes plumes himself on his own particular view of the right, and stiffens at the thought of his orthodoxy. But worldly circumstances are awkward old things, and what wonder is it if man does happen, now and then, to depart a little from his creed, or that he finds another system called opportunity—if that be the best word for expediency—more connatural to his desires when dealing with the affairs of life. It is one thing to possess orthodox views; another to comport ourselves at all times in accordance therewith. But, thank Heaven! there are yet in the world men who, every day, endeavour to act up to their conviction, let the consequences be what they may.

Inasmuch as I have vowed to tell the truth about myself in the present history, I must admit, against myself, that I have not, under every circumstance, acted in conformity with my own idea of what was right. After that sudden and unexpected encounter with my uncle, the first question which occurred to my mind was—What ought I to do? Conscience straightway answered: “The path of duty is clear. Go to the police at once and tell them what you have seen.” But something whispered me he was no fool who put the words together, “Circumstances alter cases.” There could be no harm, I thought, in taking time, and considering the business thoroughly, before finally determinining what to do. Again, something hinted, would it not be just as well to take counsel of a wiser man than myself; would it not be better to to tell Abel Hughes the whole, and act upon his advice? I did not like the hint; and so resolved to take at least a few hours to turn the matter over in my own mind before deciding upon a course of action. I went home and retired early to rest, so as to have leisure to reflect upon my discovery. The more I thought of the occurrence, the more surely did the consideration of expediency gain a footing. Personal advantages, one by one, insisted upon stating their claims, while duty—pure, clear, unselfish duty—was steadily pushed into the background. Who was he whom, when first I saw him, I called “the Irishman?” My uncle—full red-blooded brother to my own father. What sort of a man was he? One of the most cunning, lazy, degraded scamps that ever trod the earth of Cambria. So despicable did he appear to mother and Bob that both tried to keep me completely ignorant of his existence. On the night Seth died—when I met the depraved wretch near the Hall park, and learnt from him our relationship—Bob, finding he could no longer keep it from me, told me his history. From early youth, Bob said, work had been distasteful to the man. While honest people were about their duties he was in bed; and when they were at rest he would be prying up and down the country. He never worked; and yet he managed to live, eat and drink—the latter especially. Where did he get the money from? It was he knew that; although his neighbours were not without a guess. They believed the game on the Hall estate was made to pay tithe towards uncle James’s maintenance. Though he knew what it was to lodge at the county expense, more than once, his power of deceiving the police and gamekeepers and escaping their clutches for so many years was a marvel to all who knew him. My father was a competent workman; but he, too, was given to tipple, and to sit for hours in the public house. Tippling begat idleness, and idleness begat poverty, and poverty begat sons and daughters—harshness, bitterness, bad temper, cruelty. With such a family, who can tell the life my poor mother led before I saw the light of day? The trying task it must have been to live religiously with the nefarious scoundrel, my father! I have already noted, briefly, some of the cruelties practised on my beloved mother; and although I cannot help thinking of them in this place, their further description is altogether too painful a business to undertake.

My uncle James, so Bob told me, had not much trouble in enmeshing father in his evil habits. Before long the pair came to be looked upon as professional poachers who succeeded surprisingly in escaping the clutches of the law. This was attributed to my father’s Herculean strength, which was said to be the terror of the police. Uncle James, as I have often intimated, was but a weakling; but he possessed a cunning, craft, and daring beyond my father. The havoc wrought by both on his property made the Hall owner dance with fury and frequently change his keepers. At last he found a couple of men who were not quite afraid of their own shadows. Both were Scotch. But they had not been on the estate a whole month before they were both wounded and laid up. For some days one of them was not expected to recover. From that time forth two old inhabitants—uncle James and my father— were lost sight of, and, although much sought after, never found. All this happened before I was born. Mother was “worse than widow” now, to use her own words; but Bob was wont to say that this was the luckiest thing that ever happened to her. I have already described, at length, the hardship she underwent before Bob became able to support the family; but that hardship was nothing in comparison to the grief of mind which my father’s irreligion caused her, and the constant fear she was in lest he should come to visit us, or be caught. Her sorrow was renewed and deepened by the surreptitious visits of my uncle, which mother always took as a reminder that her husband could not be far off. These visits occurred, regularly and without exception, at awkward moments, and on dark nights, up to the time when Bob got big enough to put a stop to them—their object being always the appropriation of the whole of mother’s money. After every visit mother would for days remain sad and silent. I rather think she never breathed a word about my uncle’s visits to anyone save Thomas and Barbara Bartley; and I make no doubt but it was to protect her from all such undesirable occurrences that the two kind-hearted old neighbours persuaded her to end her days with them at the Tump, for nothing else would ever have induced her to break up her home. I had, for some years past, been flattering myself that the neighbours had about forgotten father and uncle, for none of them as much as mentioned their names to me. I, however, had sense enough to discern that it was their delicacy and a feeling of respect for the memory of my religious mother which made them behave towards me as if nothing of dishonour had happened in my family history. Not a day passed over my head that I did not think how possible it was for the whole of such history to be revived, and for me, in consequence, to be obliged to hide my head in shame. As often as the desire to become a preacher possessed me, the thought that my father and uncle might, at any moment, be dragged forth from their hiding places into the light of day, would choke it back at once. But quite unexpectedly, as narrated, here the news came of my father’s death, occurring, if true, far from home. Think how pitiful must be the family connections of one who is made glad when he hears of the death of his father! It is useless my attempting to conceal the fact: I rejoiced greatly. I felt like one let out from some dark, dank dungeon into liberty and fresh air. And yet my head was in a muddle, and my conscience kept telling me that I was not acting straight. On the one hand, I had discovered Nic’las to be deceiving his neighbours and leading a life which was not so retired as he pretended. To say the best of it, he gave shelter to at least one character who was a fugitive from his country’s laws. It was now in my power to strip Garth Ddu of its false seclusion. Ought I to do so I asked myself, and conscience answered, “You ought, without delay.” Besides, there was my uncle. I knew him to be one who did not deserve to be at liberty. His crime—the crime—was by this time an old one; but that did not lessen its enormity a bit. He was wanted of the law that day as much as on the day he did the deed. There would be no difficulty in convicting him, for the two half-murdered gamekeepers were still alive and in the service of the owner of the Hall. They would be able to identify him at once. Although the act of which they had been guilty was eighteen years old, I had only to whisper some half a dozen words in the Hall owner’s ear to fan his vengeance into a flame on the instant, and neither trouble nor expense would have been spared to secure my uncle’s arrest. The culprit was my father’s brother, no doubt, but he did not, on that account, deserve any mercy at my hands; it being to him that I had to attribute the greater part of my early troubles. He had ruined my father’s character and shortened my mother’s life. My sense of justice distinctly told me it was my duty to disclose his whereabouts to the police; and something within me—probably revenge—kept saying, “What a splendid opportunity of repaying the old fox for all the worry he has been to me and my family!”

That was one side of the question; but it had another. The man best pleased by my turning informer would be the owner of the Hall; and I did not care to add one jot or tittle to his happiness. It was he who had sentenced my brother Bob to two months’ imprisonment without even the semblance of evidence of wrong doing; he who taunted him with my father in public court. I had not then, if I have now, forgiven his meanness and injustice. Since the day Bob was wrongfully taken to prison, I had cherished a deep hatred of the police, however foolish it might have been; my sympathies, spite myself, always resting with the prisoner. Will Bryan, too, had, years previously, created a prejudice in my mind against them by his nickname of “the pettifogging Bobbies,” and I, therefore, did not care to furnish forth a sweet morsel for the officers. Besides, I reflected that in my native place— as in almost every other—there existed a good deal of fellow-feeling with the poacher who was not regarded in the same light as other law-breakers; and if some few would be found to admire my unselfishness in giving up my uncle to the authorities, the greater number would be sure to look upon me as a traitor, and one who, as my uncle said, had “beslavered his own clothing.” Moreover, were I to make public my discovery, that which I had always feared would descend upon me in one downpour. Although father had died—supposing uncle spoke truly—the memory of his crimes would be brought up afresh to form a topic of conversation in the smithy, the Cross Foxes, the Crows. and on every hearth. Old neighbours, in answer to the questions of those who did not know the circumstances, would be compelled to say it was of that youth’s father, who was with Abel Hughes, the people talked. The chapel children, with whom I had lately laboured pretty assiduously, would wonder that the man upon his trial was my uncle, and that the dead man, as bad as he, was my father. A thing of that kind would not be pleasant to contemplate. I reflected, further, that if I were to notify the police of my uncle’s retreat, it was ten to one they would not be able to catch him, the probability being that by this time James Lewis was far enough away, and that old Nic’las would say my story was a lie from beginning to end. In that case I would only be reviving unpleasant tales to no particular purpose, save that of making many people believe I was poking fun at the police. But what most affected my determination were my mother’s words: “If ever you meet with your father, try and forget his sins; and, if you can do any good to him, do it.” I believe the spirit of that injunction applied equally to my uncle; and furthermore, that had mother been similarly circumstanced, she would not have delivered her brother-in-law into the hands of the authorities. She was a good woman, and why could I not be good, also, while keeping this secret to myself? I resolved to remain silent, feeling pretty sure, at the time, there was no danger of my uncle’s showing his face to me again. Whether the resolution was wise or unwise will hereafter appear, if I succeed in completing this autobiography.

It is no difficult matter to keep a secret when the keeper happens to be the man whom its divulgence would most injure, Keeping it for another’s sake—there’s the rub. Even the Devil does not tempt us to disclose a thing to our own shame, or that of our family. That is his reserve fund for drawing upon in the future. The man who refuses to lend his tongue to the relation of his neighbour’s faults and scandals when the relation would do no good, apprises the world that he will, some day, be a citizen of that country wherein there is no “fault-upbraiding,” and where angels will not object to consider him one of themselves. A few days after the occurrence noted, I began to compliment myself upon my prudence; only, I must admit, I did not possess that feeling of unalloyed happiness which a man enjoys after he has done the right, although the doing was against his own interest. It was akin to the feeling which the worldling enjoys after he has driven a good bargain. God, however, knows that I had in me the desire to do what was just, although I had not the moral courage to do it at the expense of bringing myself into misery and disgrace, and the undoing of the programme I had drawn up in my own mind. Well would it have been were this the only time I gave in to expediency. I have heard, and I am not sure I myself have not more than once remarked, that the performance of a single act to which conscience does not; say Amen, prepares man for the commission of other acts of the like nature. Is this true under every circumstance? Not so was it with me on this occasion. My work of taking self-interest and self-happiness into consideration to the neglect of clear duty, roused the whole of my moral nature to greater activity and a determination to fulfil that which I considered myself bound to do. But this possibly was, after all, merely an effort to atone for my sin. I was strongly inclined to believe my uncle’s story concering my father’s death, and felt lighter-spirited, and freer to do what I could in the cause of religion. I had an excellent master, and was at liberty to attend every service held in the chapel—a liberty I was not backward in using. Poor old Jones was never over-desirous of going to chapel; being nowhere so happy as in the shop. Like a well-trained sheep dog, he knew one thing, and one only. He knew how to measure cloths, fold them and put them in their places. Had Abel Hughes said to him, pointing to the pile, “Jones, lie down there!” he would have obeyed and looked happy without, I quite believe, ever moving from the spot again, until ordered or whistled to by Abel. This made it easier for me to attend services and meetings. I fancy Abel thought it no use sending Jones to chapel; it was just like trying to make the negro white with soap and water.

What changes had taken place in chapel since last it came under notice in the present history! Noting changes always makes me mournful, and compels me to think how short the life of man is and how speedily we shall all have given up our posts to other people. To the reflective, I think there is no place like the chapel for bringing home this lesson. When one has been away for a few years only, how he is struck with the change that has taken place in the congregation! How many strange faces he sees in looking about him, and how many of the old ones does he fail to come across! He wonders how some of his old acquaintances’ heads have whitened, and others have become bald, so quickly; forgetting, possibly, that his own head has been following the fashion. It was in the period, if I remember rightly, when I was between nine years of age and twelve, that I last mentioned the chapel and its affairs in the present history. Comparing the two periods, how different seems the look upon it when I was eighteen years old Every face was new in the Children’s Meeting. John Joseph, our old leader, was in Australia; Abel Hughes, from old age, and because he could not put up with all the bother of the Sol-fa, had given over attending. Who were the leaders now? Will Bryan called me “boss of the kids.” Alexander Phillips (Eos Prydain), looked after the singing. The literary society, christened by my old companion, “the Society of the Flat Hairs,” which had done great good to many in its time, had long been dead. Sol-fa killed it—unintentionally, of course. It had become almost impossible to get the boys to learn grammar, write essays, or take part in doctrinal controversy; such things were too dry for them. They found the Sol-fa Society more diverting. This one had several advantages over the old Literary Society. It was so much nicer to sound “Doh” all together than to conjugate a verb, each by himself; and then sight-singing was of greater advantage in this world, if not actually also in the world to come, than a proper understanding of the subject of justification by faith. Besides, the Sol-fa Society had been established on wider, sounder and more liberal principles than the Society of the Flat Hairs. It embraced the young folk, the middle aged, and the old, male and female. As the Society generally had its unquestionable advantages, so had the particular phase of it last named; because, under certain circumstances, by the change of a single letter, a singing meeting could be converted into another one of an entirely different kind, and yet such an one as would give satisfaction to both sexes. Thus, if a meeting had been spent in the mode “lah,” it was the easiest thing in the world to terminate it in some other mode. The blessings attending the Society were very many and obvious. Under the old Literary and Theological Society’s dispensation, the young men grew shy, timorous, and as bashful as if they knew nothing at all. But once brought under the influence of the Sol-fa Society, they were taught to hold their heads up like men, and show the world they knew “what’s what.” It was only then they really found they were men, and must act as such, and let the vulgar rich know that they were not to have all the gloves and the rings to themselves. The formation of this Society marked an important epoch in the history of the neighbourhood. Speedily the habit which the young people had of carrying their Bible to chapel began to disappear, the Tune Book taking its place. True, here and there an old woman, who knew no better, would grow wild from seeing this book usurping the post of its predecessor, but it was useless kicking against the progress of the age. Like every other reform, this one met with great opposition from old fashioned folk. My master, Abel Hughes, though ordinarily a sensible man enough, was always a bit Toryish when new things were introduced. I have, sometimes, seen him refuse to convert Sunday night Society into a Singing Meeting, and also making a determined stand against rehearsing choral pieces on the Sabbath in view of a forthcoming National Eisteddfod. I heard him, with my own ears, declare that singing was of no more importance than preaching, and that the Tune Book did not deserve greater attention than the Bible. He positively refused to ask the preacher to “cut it short,” so that more time might be allowed the singing. For all “Eos Prydain’s” wild glare at him, Abel would not give over slurring and singing with might and main such words as—

Had Abel lived a little longer he would, doubtless, have learned better things. Seeing the marvellous effects wrought by the Sol-fa Society, I threw in my lot with it very heartily. I remained a member for quite a month; during which period I learned not only that I had a most unpromising voice, but that I had neither the patience nor the brains to become proficient in the mysteries of the science. To tell the honest truth, I was rather taken a-back at the outset to find that a little boy of eight, whom I had great difficulty in learning to spell in Sunday School, was, of all the Society’s members, the best sight-singer. I saw there was a danger of my losing influence over him in class on the Sabbath, and so “made myself scarce,” as Will Bryan phrased it. I am sorry to this day that I did not apply myself to master the Sol-fa; for it is evident to one who pays the slighest attention to the signs of the times that a knowledge of this must become indispensable very shortly. The rising generation will, doubtless, find at a Sessional Ordination Meeting the catechism of the Confession of Faith giving way to the black board and an examination in Sol-fa; while to obtain the “voice” of our churches, the preacher will never think of passing as fit and proper according to New Testament standards unless he is also able to explain minutely the difference between the major key and the minor. Sorry am I that I neglected the opportunities which were once within my reach; and by this time I am too old to learn.

But, there, I see I am too much given to passing remarks, and that there is a danger, should these lines be read, of my being thought sarcastic. The chapel had witnessed many other changes, not the least of which was the absence of divers old brethren, for whom I had entertained a great respect when a boy. Edward Peters, whom I have already mentioned, the crabbed old man, careful keeper of the books, had been for some time confined to the house. Never did he go to bed of Sabbath nights, however, without first ascertaining the amount of the collections. Lest I should forget it, let me here say that one of his last words before dying was, “Remember, the quarter’s pew rents are due next Monday night.” He was a cocoa nut: hard in the shell, but with the milk of true religion at heart. Hugh Bellis, lachrymose under sermon—Will Bryan’s “Old Waterworks”—had left “the children of weeping and groans,” and entered, with sails full set, into that joy of which he could not speak while on earth save with sweetest tears. Of the old deacons none remained but Abel Hughes, and of him my whole heart said, “O king, live for ever!” David Davis, who came to us from another church a deacon already, was acknowledged as such on joining us. I must refer to him again. Thomas Bowen, the preacher, the children’s great friend, of whom, did time permit, I should like to say a good deal, he too had gone, so everybody who knew him believed, to that same country to which Hugh Bellis had voyaged previously. John Lloyd, perpetual fault-finder, named the “Old Scraper” by Will Bryan, was still in our midst. Will had, for some time, changed the name into “Chapel nuisance inspector.” Thomas and Barbara Bartley remained faithful, their religion ever brightening. They had come to be considered the two originals in the Society. To them Abel Hughes, when he found the conversation flagging, would turn round suddenly and say, “Thomas Bartley, what is your opinion upon the point? And it was rarely indeed that we did not get something to liven us up. Thomas did not make, but relate an experience, always; oftenest diverting, and all the more so that, as Will Bryan said, it was “true to nature.” I must give a few examples of this before finishing my history. I have alluded several times to William the Coal, given to drink and lay the blame on Satan. William was now too old to “ollow the harvest,” and so was tolerably religious. I remember Abel Hughes, speaking of William, saying that poverty was indispensable to the godliness of some people. Although an ardent Calvinist, Abel held most liberal views in some matters. I heard him say that he hoped when death came to William the Coal, it would find him poor; “because,” said he, “William always keeps very pious on an empty pocket.” I mention these characters, and these alone, because I have had occasion to refer to them previously.

Our deacons at the time were three—Abel Hughes, Alexander Phillips (Eos Prydain), and David Davis. Never were three more unlike. Abel, as I have described, was a studious old man, of deep convictions, who had read much both of Welsh and English; one, to whose opinion at the Monthly Meeting, our preachers paid a deal of deference—a man of undoubted piety. He was slow, but sure, like fate. “Eos Prydain” was young and unmarried, expert and assiduous with the singing, gay-spirited, and a favourite with the younger folk. He gave his best years to the exclusive study of music, and succeeded in making himself a master of the art. Seldom hare I seen his equal for arranging and carrying out a concert. His fidelity to the musical portion of the service was, so the old people said, “a pattern.” His life was almost flawless; his only fault, if fault it were, being a tendency now and then to turn the leaves of the tune book during the sermon, and to warp his mouth into a circle as if he were whistling from the chest. David Davis was a middle aged man, a monoglot, brought up in the country, religious, sensible, earnest, a man of one book, of whom the proverb rightly told you to beware. His main objects in life were his religion and his farm, He knew no more about politics than Abel (not Hughes, but son of Adam). He had two masters—God and his landlord. To the latter he paid a deserving respect; to the former he gave his whole heart. Both found in him a faithful servant, honest and upright. He would have had more money in the bank if he had not given so much time and thought to making himself a purse which neither moth nor rust could corrupt. He grieved more over a backsliding member of the church than for the sheep which had strayed from his farm. On the loss of three of his bullocks by the plague, he thanked God he had others left alive as good as they; but on the death of a pious church sister, David Davis stayed in mourning for weeks. The potato disease was not a pleasant matter for him, but the depressed state of religion pained him much more. He was heartily thankful for an abundant harvest, but a hundred times more so for a revival of religion. Occasionally, and only when he thought of it, he consulted the weather-glass; but not a day passed that he did not consult the Bible to ascertain the state of the weather awaiting his soul, whether storm or fair were in store. The world and its hurry-scurry affected him almost as little as they do the man on board ship in mid-ocean. Like that man, too, David Davis had a compass, and knew tolerably well the port for which he was steering. He was a man of serious feeling. I never heard him laugh, but his face wore an unconscious smile which showed the quiet mind—a smile which is the Devil’s particular dislike. You sometimes meet a man about whose religion there is a fluffy effeminacy, which makes you think he would be less religious were he more enlightened, David Davis was not one of that sort. He made the Bible the chief study of his life, and the Bible itself was his chief exposition of the Bible. In reading a portion of the life of Christ by one evangelist, it appeared to me that every word the other had written thereon was present to David’s mind, and could be quoted from memory. I admired him greatly, and wondered that a man who did not understand English had mastered his Bible so thoroughly. It may be, after all, that I formed so high an opinion of David Davis because he made so much of me, whom he took with him to hold prayer meetings in private houses, and because it was he who first induced me to “say a word.” I was eighteen years old, the secretary of the Sunday School, which I had begun with prayer many times; although I had never “said” anything in public, With David Davis, I had often held prayer meetings about the houses, but had never “said” anything. In coming away from one such meeting, David Davis caught hold of my arm, and said, “Rhys, the next prayer meeting will be held at Thomas Bartley’s house, and I would like you to say something on a chapter. You will, will you not? The friends will be glad to hear you. ‘Let us not be weary in well doing, for in due season we shall reap if we faint not.’ You have a week to prepare, and you will do so, will you not?” His words gave me a kind of electric shock. I fancy I said something about my diffidence, but I did not say “I will not.” Perhaps it would have been better had I said “I won’t,” or “I had rather not,” as I shall show in the succeeding chapter.