The Multitude of Counsellors

In the earlier recollections of most of us some old house or the other is sure of being bosomed. In my case the memory hovers lovingly about the Tump—Thomas Bartley’s old house —with its cosy kitchen, its ancient black furniture, its great settle, pewter plates and wide hobs, on which I have hundreds of times sat. Everything connected with that kitchen is present to my mind at this moment, even to the flitches of bacon, the ropes of onions, and the wormwood, lapped in an old newspaper, dependent from the ceiling. Hanging by a leather lace upon the wall was an old parish constable’s staff, painted blue and red probably before the modern “Bobby” was born. I remember Will Bryan, while looking at it, say, as if to himself, “I wonder how many a poor fellow was knocked over by that very weapon.” From the time I used to walk in mother’s hand to the Tump—when my chief delight was to hold the light to Thomas Bartley’s pipe—down to the time her spirit winged its way thence to another world, my reminiscences crowd in upon me. It can be said with certainty that the humblest cot which has been a nursery for heaven is surrounded by a sanctity wholly absent from the palace whose rich apartments have known nothing but pomp and revelry. Seth’s simple soul —as far as my knowledge goes—was the first to pass to glory from the Tump; but I am certain it was not the last. When a member of the family leaves home, a knowledge of the kind of country he is going to becomes precious. If the new sphere is found to be an eminently good one, the chances are that the fact will create a desire for emigration in the whole family. It would have been difficult to persuade Jacob to go to Egypt had not his son Joseph been there to receive him. Thomas and Barbara Bartley, as mother used to say, were readier to listen to the talk about another world after Seth had gone thither to live. They looked upon the prayer meeting held in their house as one for a discussion of the affairs of that far-off colony. As I have intimated, I had, for some time, been accustomed to take part in such gatherings, to the great satisfaction of Thomas Bartley, who declared that I could read “like a parson.” It was, no doubt, a matter of surprise to Thomas, who had only “a grip of the letters,” that any young man should be able to read at all.

The reflection was by no means unpleasant, that it was in Thomas Bartley’s house the prayer meeting was to be held at which I was expected to expound a chapter, on the invitation of David Davis, All the week long hardly anything else found a place in my thoughts. I was in a bit of a fix as to which portion of the Scriptures I should take as a text. At one time I fancied one of the parables would be very suitable; but after thinking a little over the one selected, I saw I could say hardly anything in respect thereof; so I concluded it would be more proper to attempt an exposition of one of the miracles, and deduce some lessons therefrom. No sooner had I settled down to work in this direction than some difficulty arose, which made me think I had made another mistake. It would be easier, I then reflected, to deal with a single verse than with a whole chapter; only that would make me look as if I wanted to become a preacher all at once, and it was not meet I should think of anything of the kind. Had David Davis picked out a particular portion of the Bible, so that I might prepare myself a little, I believed I could have done something with it. It was then I first felt that which I have often felt since, namely, how easy, how smooth and effortless it seems to talk sense upon a verse or chapter, when we listen to another doing it, and how difficult it becomes when we set to work to prepare something similar ourselves. After a discourse with nothing particular about it, you may hear one here and there, among the untalented, say “Why, I could have preached a better sermon than that myself.” Try it, my good man, and you will very soon see you can’t, nor as good; otherwise, why should you find yourself in such a sweat over a scrap of a letter to your aunt, and why are you ashamed of it all when done? Do you know, also, good man, that that which reads the most simply and naturally, or which descends the preacher’s lips the easiest, is that which has oftenest cost the most trouble? But this is what I was saying: I spent some days changing my texts, and failing to fix upon any portion of the Bible I felt I could say something about, however simple I had considered the task before I began. Pressed by time to make a choice, I at last settled down seriously, read all the commentaries within reach, wrote out every word I meant to “say,” committed the whole to memory, and on going over it, made particular note of the time it took to deliver, lest I should be too long or too short, so that by the night of meeting 1 felt myself pretty well prepared for the work, and pretty confident of making a good impression upon those friends who happened to be present. I considered the occasion a most important one for me as affording an opening for my ministerial career. I pictured in my mind a great many things as the result of “saying a little on a chapter” in the house of Thomas Bartley. I may just as well tell tie honest truth—I thought that inasmuch as no one but David Davis and myself knew of what was going to take place, I should take several people by surprise. I fancied them talking together on the way home from the meeting, one saying, “Didn’t the boy discourse well •upon the chapter to-night? He’s got the making of a preacher in him, sure to you. I was quite astonished.” To which the other would reply: “I didn’t much wonder; there was always something serious about him.” These and many other vain things did I imagine. Excepting David Davis, I thought I need be afraid of none who frequented prayer meetings in private houses; and David was always so kind to me that I need not fear him. I therefore did not feel at all nervous. It was but rarely Will Bryan came to prayer meetings, if he happened, to use his own expression, to be “better employed” elsewhere, and I did not, consequently, expect to see him there. And even if he should be there, what difference would that make to me?

Wednesday night came, and I went to the meeting full— well, full of something. I was a little late, so as to be more like a preacher, perhaps. One of the brethren was busy reading, and the room was rather full. I sat down near the doorway. When I raised my head, Thomas Bartley motioned me to come nearer. I signalled back that I did very well where I was. My gesture made ne out to be nobody, though I thought myself somebody that night. I felt a kind of pleasure in this mock humility. Thomas continuing to beckon, I, in order not to attract notice, obeyed. When I got into a position which gave me the benefit of the candle-light, whom should I see in a corner but Will Bryan! When my gaze met his, he gave me a wink, as only he could—from about a tenth of the width of his eye, but full of meaning. A great lump got into my breast on the instant. I believed it was the Evil One who had sent Will to that meeting, for he had not been to one, before, for many months. For the first time, I felt timid. The brother prayed, but I did not listen. I tried to compose myself as best I could, and to collect my scattered thoughts; but spite of everything the lump in my breast increased and came nearer and nearer to my throat. I wasn’t the least bit afraid of Will, so I fancied, and yet I would rather than anything if he had not been there. David Davis called another of the brethren on to continue the service. We were singing a stanza when my legs began to tremble at a terrible rate, and it was not of the slightest use my trying to reason with them, or asking them to stop. To my comfort, I suddenly remembered I had not prearranged with David Davis that he should, on calling me forward, ask me to “say a word,” lest I should appear to do so on my own initiative. I imagined David would not think of the thing now; in which case I resolved to do nothing beyond pray. ‘The reflection steadied my legs, and lessened the lump in my breast a little. The second brother finished praying; upon which David Davis said: “Rhys Lewis, come forward, my boy, to continue the service and discourse a little upon a chapter.” My hopes were instantly scattered. I went up, bent on doing the best I could. In singing the next verse I was compelled either to look at Will Bryan or close my eyes. I understood his glance as well as if it spoke to me, and what it said was: “Didn’t I tell you that you were bound to be a preacher?” I read the chapter I meant to expound; and hardly did I know my own voice, for its hoarseness. When I began to “discourse a little,” every thought and every word I had prepared took flight, and I never saw them afterwards, from that day to this. I found the room beginning to darken, and the people growing bodily less a ad getting farther away than they were when I “went up,” while the candle, like my breath, seemed on the point of going out. The next thing I remember was hearing David Davis praying loudly and rousingly. I felt eaten up by shame. The castle I had built had gone to smash, my poor heart lying buried beneath the ruins. I knew myself to be an object of pity throughout the house—a situation galling to the ambitious spirit. One thought alone remained to comfort me; except David Davis, nobody knew but that my discourse was wholly unpremeditated, and even he did not know I had taken the trouble I did in the preparation. As soon as the meeting was over I slunk away, silently and hurriedly, without looking at a soul. It was impossible, however, I could escape my old companion. Will had cornered me before I could get through the court-yard gate.

“I think I can translate your feelings fairly well to-night, old fellow,” was his greeting. “I’m sorry from the heart for you, I’ll take my oath. You weren’t quite equal to the occasion and, we may as well say fair, you had a break down. But don’t break your heart—never say die. It was all your own fault. You shouldn’t have attempted an impromptu exposition; it isn’t many of the dons who can do that, on the spur of the moment. If David Davis had any sense he would have given you a day or two to prepare. It’s enough to daunt the best man breathing to call upon him there and then to expound a chapter. If you’d only had a couple of hours’ notice you’d have managed to say something decent, I’ll swear. As it was, there was nothing else to expect but that you should make a fool of yourself. When I heard David Davis call you forward I took it for granted there was some understanding between you; but I saw directly there was none, and I rather wondered at your tackling the business, you knowing nothing about it till that very minute. It was an awful pity. I wish I knew all the Scripture you do. I think you are not short of common sense; but you’re deficient in one thing—and that is cheek. What’s the Welsh word for cheek, do you know? Cheek, mind you, is not the same thing as brazen-facedness, although they’re very nearly related. Cheek, in my opnion, is one of the fine arts, and is a thing that every man ought to cultivate, to a certain extent. I don’t know whether I can make my meaning clear to you. How shall I say? Let’s see now; cheek is not so vulgar as impudence; it is of a higher order of things. The mule is impudent; that is, he isn’t shy; but then you can’t say the mule is cheeky. The bantam cock is cheeky, but nobody thinks him impudent. Cheek means self-confidence, even when there is nothing to be confident about. I should like to make this matter quite plain for you, but I’m just the same now as you were at the meeting —labouring under great disadvantages through non-preparation. I don’t say cheek is good in itself, but it’s a means to an end. It isn’t so bad as humbug, and not so girlish as affectation. Many a good man has lived and died without the world’s knowing anything about him, all because he wanted cheek; while many an one has got to the top of the tree with nothing but cheek to be thankful for. Cheek takes it for granted that you don’t know anybody better than yourself, until you get sufficient evidence. If you see a man of a retiring disposition, you may take your oath he won’t get on in this world. He’ll do very well in the next, I’ve no doubt, because the Almighty, doesn’t He, puts some value on humility, knowing it to be a very rare article. But, this being the world we are in, and not the other, I hold cheek to be a thing to be cultivated—to a certain extent. You must remember that ninety-nine out of every hundred men are duffers; and that in the majority of cases cheek’ll stand instead of talent and knowledge. I don’t mean to say, mind, that you have no talent—honour bright. Take a man with talent but no cheek, and a man with cheek but no talent, and I’d give three to one on the latter. Look at those two travellers who call yonder. There’s Mr. Davies, long-headed, quiet, dresses the same, always, and understands the grocery trade to a T. He never tells lies, and will take a straight answer from father that he has no order to give. There’s Mr. Hardcastle, again, with no more in his head than in a mouse’s, but who has a new suit of clothes every three months, all pockets, cuffs, collars and rings, every bit of him, who won’t take ‘No’ for an answer, and whom it is impossible to insult, He has learned some score or so of set phrases, half of them lies, before leaving home, all of which he reels off each time in exactly the same way. He is sure to get an order, simply because ho is cheeky and father’s a duffer. D’ye know what? When the gaffer’s away from home I give Mr. Davies a thundering good order, out of pity for him and because he’s true to nature. As to Mr. Hardcastle, I could spit on that white waistcoat of his. After all, however, Mr. Hardcastle is the man for this world, the majority of shopkeepers being duffers. But that’s the point: if you want to get on, you must cultivate cheek. Your talent and your knowledge will be worth nothing without. The Bible gives examples of this, if I remember rightly. I don’t mind telling you I’m not much of an authority on the Bible, and so, if I am wrong, you’ll correct me. Now isn’t it admitted by the learned that John was a cleverer man than Peter? But who was master? Who was to the front in all things? Just fancy Peter’s cheek in stepping forward to preach at the very next Monthly Meeting, after that dirty trick of his, everybody knowing what he had done! I That’s the coolest bit of impudence I ever heard of, I’ll take my oath. If John had done anything half so shabby, he’d have been too much ashamed to open his mouth again; and think of the loss that would have been! There’s the woman of Samaria again, who came and asked Christ to cure her son, [I knew it was the woman of Canaan and her daughter Will had in view], she wouldn’t be put off, and, having plenty of cheek, she got what she wanted. D’ye know what? I’ve thought that woman would have made a first rate commercial—she would never have left a shop without an order. Speaking in this impromptu fashion, I fear I can’t make it clear enough what I mean by cheek. You must know you won’t get along at all if you’re nervous; and for nervousness cheek is a perfect cure. To cultivate cheek observe the following rules:—Never blush. I have noticed when you happen to say something silly, or make a mistake, you redden up to the ears, like a girl, Never blush it isn’t manly. If ever you blunder, look as if you had just said or done the best thing in the world, and nine out of every ten people will not know you have blundered at all. Cheek means keeping cool. At public meetings never sit by the door; take care to be always in front; and when you stand up do go on tip toe, because you’re none too tall, more than myself. Make it a point to let everybody know you’re present. Speak as often as you get the chance— oftener if you can; and, so as to be prepared, take care to have some twenty or so of set phrases in stock which, with variations, will do for any subject; for fear you should have nothing new to say. Anyhow, be sure you speak. D’ye know what? I’ve seen, before to-day, a dull man get upon his legs, say a good thing by sheer accident, and be set down by the duffers as a man of genius, on the spot. Before and after every public meeting, don’t forget to shake hands warmly with the reporters, keeping up your dignity at the same time. You’ll never lose by it. I’ve heard of some who report themselves; but don’t you do that—it isn’t true to nature. I know very well what you’re thinking of. This is merely the way of the world you’ll say; but you’ll see by and bye there’s more of this sort of thing about religion than you’ve dreamt of. You’re bound to find two things tell against you: in the first place your voice is not strong, and in the next, to my way of thinking, you’re never likely to grow stout; it isn’t in your family to fatten. You’re sure to find leanness a disadvantage. Fancy a thin man saying something in a squeaky voice—a sort of falsetto as these musicians call it—and another great stout man, a reg’lar thorough bass, saying exactly the same thing in double F-, which has the most effect on the duffers? I tell you that double F chap ’ll be written down a great man, and the falsetto chap a snob. By the duffers mind; not by the wide-awakes. But I see I’m not sticking to my text, which is cheek. You know as well as I do, it is here the English beat us Welsh people hollow. You’ll never hear an Englishman say he can’t do this, that, and the other thing. To hear him talk, there’s nothing on earth he can’t do, and the duffers believe him. You’ll now and then find a John Jones, who’s a real good sort, if he only knew it, touching his hat, and appearing to take pleasure in looking on at a John Bull eating his bread and cheese. What’s the grand secret? Cheek. Do you catch the point? The man who’s without cheek looks worse, while the cheeky man looks better than he really is. Don’t think me inconsistent. I repeat it, I hate a humbug, and like a man who’s true to nature. But there’s a danger of the man who has no cheek looking less than he is, Nota bene: mind you have cheek, but mind also you have something else besides. Cheek comes in wonderful handy, and passes current with a great many people. But if you’ve nothing better, you’re bound to be found out by the wide-awakes. At least, that’s the opinion of yours truly. Remember Lord Brougham’s saying—‘What is the first secret of eloquence? Preparation. What is the second? Preparation. What is the third? Preparation.’ Never attempt to speak in public without preparation, until you’ve acquired cheek and learned a lot of set phrases which will do for any occasion—with a slight variation, as I’ve said. I’m not quite square with the guv’nor or I’d ask you over to supper to-night. Under the circumstances, therefore, I know I can’t rise to the demands of ordinary etiquette. Cheer up, old boy, and don’t look down in the mouth. So long!”

Little did Will know, as was best for me, I had had a week’s notice to prepare, and that his words, instead of comforting, drove me further into the furnace. I was glad to get away from him and go home, little thinking that another furnace awaited me. My supper was on the table, and Abel sat smoking in his arm-chair—both as if expecting me. Miss Hughes had retired to rest, not being, as Will Bryan would say, up to the mark. I felt thankful, while eating, that Abel knew nothing of my break-down, and uncomfortable, also, at the thought that he would be sure to get to know; and that before long, too. Presently he began questioning me about the prayer meeting—who was at it, what sort of meeting we had, who had taken part in it, and so on. I answered sparingly. From the half sarcastic smile upon his face, I guessed that some one had gone before me, and given him the ill news.

“How did you get along with your discourse upon the chapter?” he at length said.

“Some one has told you,” I replied, and, before I could say another word my feelings utterly overcame me and I burst into a good cry.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Abel, when I had come a little to myself. “All I know is that David Davis invited you last week to prepare something for to-night’s meeting. What has happened? Why’re you so distressed?”

I gave him the particulars of my disastrous failure. “Never mind,” he said, when he had heard me out. “It may be a blessing to you as long as you live. I remember two lines of a doggerel English song:

Tell me, do you think of preaching?”

“I have thought of it,” I mournfully replied; ‘but I’ll never think of it again.”

“Don’t be absurd,” returned Abel. “You never saw a good carter who had not at some time or other upset his trolly, perhaps hurt himself and the horse into the bargain. You and I got an occasional tumble before we learned to walk. You would never have know how to swim had you lost heart when your head first went under water. The first step in a useful life is often a false step, and the greatest success has often begun in failure. I had guessed for some time that you had set your mind on being a preacher; which was the reason I gave you liberty to attend every service and meeting. And if I had not believed you, to some extent, adapted to the work, I would have spoken to you long before now. If you have set your mind on the ministry, let nothing hinder or dishearten you. It is not possible you could have thought on a better or more honourable calling. Were I permitted to begin life afresh, I think I should pray, night and day, that I might be inclined and made fit to become a preacher. To my mind, there is no circle of life like the preacher’s, in which a man may be of so much real use. The very name has had a great charm for me ever since I can remember. It may be my weakness—but I prefer the name preacher to that of ‘parson,’ or ‘minister,’ or ‘pastor.’ To me the name preacher conveys the idea of a pulpit, of association meetings—powerful influences which subdued Wales; and there is a sacredness about it of which the other names give no notion. Don’t misunderstand me as to this. ‘Minister’ and ‘Pastor’ have their attractions; while the name ‘Parson’ has a meaning into which a good deal of prejudice enters. It is of the association of ideas attached to the word preacher I’m talking. When Wales loses the meaning of the name ‘preacher’ in that of ‘clergyman,’ woe unto her! I I am not without fear that there is a move in such a direction in these days, and that it is traceable in small things, as for instance in our chapel announcements. When I was young, the deacon used to proclaim, ‘We expect Mr. ’Lias to preach here next Sabbath;’ but now you’ll oftenest hear: ‘The Reverend Peter Smart will minister here next Sunday.’ Don’t misunderstand me, I say again. What I fear is that the reverence will be for the Reverend and not for Peter Smart. Thank God! there is no earthly title that can express the love and veneration of the Welshman’s heart towards the true preacher. It borders almost on worship, and long may it continue so, as long as it is not sinful, say I. But the tribute is one which should be earned in the pulpit. You know there is no more ardent an advocate than myself for giving a preacher the very best education. If all were of my way of thinking, nobody should be admitted to preach, in these enlightened days, who had not first undergone a course of college training, unless there was something marked, indeed, about his natural talent and disposition. But, spite all education, if the man is not a preacher, his M.A. is of no more use than that girl’s education was who had been to a boarding school and came home having learned to say ‘Ma’ instead of Mother. The respect, the love, the half-worship which, as I have said, the Cymro has at heart for the preacher have been won naturally and deservedly. The other day I saw, in the newspaper, some self-opinionated creature reproaching Wales with her respect for preachers, ignorant, poor man, that he could pay the old country no higher compliment. I often fear lest our churches should permit anyone to preach who may offer himself, and that the respect paid the preacher should thereby become unsettled and ultimately lost. As I just now said, it would not be possible for you to think of a higher and more honourable calling than a preacher’s. The mere name is a sufficient introduction for its owner to the best people in the world, and a guarantee of pure and spotless character, or at any rate ought to be. I have oftened puzzled myself to think what sort of consciousness may be the preacher’s. It must be a glorified one. His duties are such as should accustom him to the highest form of happiness attainable here on earth, and they afford, also, the best preparation against the terrors of death and the spiritualization of the world to come. In this world he gets of the best that man has, and a great deal more; and, upon his entrance to the world eternal, he will be welcomed by the King Himself as a good and faithful servant. To my mind, the most successful merchant is but a beggar in rags beside the true preacher, who is at once man’s chiefest friend and God’s next door neighbour, if I do not blaspheme by saying so. Where are the names of our rich carousers in castles, sixty years since Rotting, like their own bones and their dogs’. But the names of their contemporaries, who proclaimed the glad tidings, live on in the hearts even of those who never heard them!

“That is one way of looking at the preacher. But there is another. I do not want to frighten or discourage, only to sober you. Man’s character is determined by his motives; and possibly there is nothing man—thoughtful man more especially— feels so deficient in as the power of understanding his real motives. Every young man who thinks of preaching should fear and tremble. If not actuated by the purest motives, it were better he went and hung himself. I have had the deepest sympathy with some men I have known who purposed, prepared for, and began preaching, but who were frightened into silence by the awful responsibility of the work. The man who has an eye to the pulpit, as a means of feeding his ambition, of helping him to a post of honour, or of satisfying some craving of the heart to which he cannot give a name—that man shall have nought but God’s frown. He will one day find himself lower than the devils and a subject of mockery for thieves and murderers. One of the English poets gives a dreadful description of that man’s condition. It begins thus:

‘Among the accursed who sought a hiding place

I have thought Paul must have experienced a sort of electric shock when he said, ‘Lest that by any means when I have preached to others I myself should be a castaway.’ But, as I have said, I’ve no wish to frighten you into putting your intention to preach on one side; rather would I be of help to you to proceed, if your motives are just. Perhaps it will be of advantage to you to inquire a little further into the history of the first preachers—the apostles. They were not perfect in their views and intentions any more than ourselves. But one thing characterised them which ought to characterise every preacher; their love for, and fidelity to their Master was genuine—there was to be no doubt on that point. ‘To whom shall we go?’ said Peter; not to whom shall I go? He spoke for them all, on that head—‘Thou hast the words of eternal life;’ without Thee we shall be without words, we shall have nothing to say.’ I don’t know whether Peter was conscious at the time that their business would be all ‘say’ directly; only I shall continue to believe he felt at the time that there was nobody worth saying anything about but Christ. You take care you are right on that head. If it be some itch of selfishness which impels you to preach, the interest of that will soon burn itself out, and you’ll find yourself left a cold lump living under the Churches’ act of toleration, a burden to yourself and everybody else, fulfilling engagements in places where they would rather have you than no preacher, or put up with a prayer meeting, and where they must pass the Sabbath somehow. But if you are moved by fire from Heaven, that fire will never go out; and you will find sinners huddling about you for warmth for their shivering souls, and basking in the heat on your hearthstone. I Know of no more pitiful being than the preacher who lives on the sufferance of his fellow men, scorned of God for his worldliness and earthliness. Talking of worldliness: make up your mind at the outset, if you wish to become a preacher, to give yourself wholly up to the work. Never think of keeping shop at the same time. As preacher, the stock you must look after is too large to give you time to look after another stock of an entirely different kind. All I can do for you, I will. Although I am not poor, you know I am not rich; but perhaps I may be able to do something for you in the way of money; for money you must have. I am astonished, very often, at the little our rich folk do towards the support of our young preachers, who, as a rule, are badly off, I have often thought how difficult it must be for a student, although he may have a large and a warm heart—how difficult it must be for him to get along with an empty pocket, and how useful he would frequently find a ten pound note from one of the wealthy. When the poor student is given a trifle, the fact must needs be proclaimed throughout the length and breadth of the country by the Monthly Meeting, and he is branded as a beggar by his friends forthwith. Anything of that kind is simply scandalous. No wonder that here and there a really deserving youth—and it is the most deserving who always do so—should bear his hardship in silence rather than see his name blazoned abroad by the papers as the recipient of five pounds. I hope and believe that you do not expect to find preaching a paying business, in a worldly sense. If you do, you’ll be disappointed. There are a thousand better ways of making money. You often hear that preachers are avaricious. The charge is a shameful libel, to my mind; and is made, almost without exception, by those who are money-grubbers themselves. Most of the preachers I have known, who depend on preaching for their livelihood, lead a hand to mouth existence. True, there is a special Providence watching over the most deserving amongst them, who are permitted, by God, to find favour in the hearts of rich young women. Watch and pray against idleness and self. You know—I don’t—whether self had anything to do with your failure at to-night’s meeting; and whether it was winning or proclaiming praise that found first place in your heart.”

Strange! I Abel understood me internally almost as well as I did myself.