More of Will Bryan

Will Bryan’s worldly-wise observations and Abel Hughes’s serious and encouraging counsels drove me, I shall believe, to the place I ought to have oftener been in daily. My resolution, at the time, was to relinquish, for ever, the idea of preaching; and I prayed much to be rid of the desire; although I feared in my heart I should be heard. I felt as if I were two different personages—one anxious to preach, and the other doing his best to prevent and dishearten him. I believed that the latter was right; and yet my sympathy lay with the former, who I constantly hoped would win the day. In course of time, I might possibly have overcome the one inclination, had David Davis given me rest; but rest I should not have. I was pretty certain that I had not the slightest hankering after my old habits of evil. I felt that my chief enemy was self. Abel Hughes having first cautioned me against it, I found this enemy with a finger in everything I did. I was on the point of determining never to do anything publicly in the cause of religion until I had, by concentrating all my attention upon myself, introspectively, destroyed self, and then——. When I announced my intention to David Davis, he came near laughing; but, as if suddenly remembering he was a stranger to the habit, he substituted a broad grin, and said:—

“Excellent intention; but the most selfish one you could have devised. You won’t be a bit the better, twenty years to come, from that plan. How are you to get at self by doing nothing? It is by the performance of your duties alone that you can lay hold of self, and bring his neck to the block. If you go wasting precious time in the search for him, he is sure to slink into hiding somewhere. It is not by retreating within yourself you can kill self—he must be crucified without the camp. And do not wonder if you find self alive even when you get to be my age. I have heard of people, down in England, who deal in what they call legerdemain. With their left hand they can lay hold of themselves by the hair, while with the right they will take up a sword and cut their own head off—that is to say, to all appearance—and next minute another head comes in its place. When the story was first told me I reflected that that was just what I had been doing with self. Some days I fancied I had his head fairly on the block, and had cut it ‘snug off,’ as Evan Harries of Merthyr used to say. But on the morrow, self would be as much alive as ever. Talk of doing nothing until you have killed self! Why, you’ll never work a stroke if you wait till then. Self won’t take to be killed by any child’s play. I have, however, thought it possible to scotch him, and the best way to do that is to forget him, neglect him, and devote yourself, body and soul, to God’s service, by doing good. And one must learn to do good, as Isaiah says. That is not a thing you can do in a day, to your own Satisfaction, to say nothing of God’s. The first thing the Gospel does is to apprentice a man to well-doing. And I’ll tell you what—it is ’prentices we always shall remain in this old world; we shall never be masters of the business, nor freed from our apprenticeship till we cross over to the next. Besides, life is so short, look you, that we must apply ourselves at once to learn, lest we appear awkward, and as those who are not out of their time, when we get amongst the tradesmen. I, too, often doubt my motives—who does not?—but, when I can’t rise to higher ground, what I do is to try my hand at a little good, just to spite the devil, and show him that, who and whatever I may be, I want none of his acquaintance.”

With much other discourse did he counsel me; and I think I was benefitted thereby. Whilst taking part in a public meeting the reflection that I did not do so on my own initiative, nor without inducement from brethren of proved judgment and piety allayed my fears not a little it seemed to place a share of the responsibility upon their shoulders. To my no small consolation I had no further “breakdown,” to quote Will Bryan, like the one in Thomas Bartley’s house, although it went hard enough upon me many times. The little facility of speech I acquired at prayer meeting became a source of great comfort to me, and I would often catch myself humming a tune on coming away. There was nothing sinful, I thought, in a silent rejoicing of spirit when David Davis or someone else gave me a word of encouragement or of praise. I remembered noticing, repeatedly, those preachers in Abel Hughes’s house, who, if they had had a brilliant meeting, almost invariably enjoyed their supper, and vice versâ; the reason possibly being a consciousness that they had earned the meal, and again vice versâ. By degrees I came to understand that I was pretty generally regarded as a “candidate;” a fact which, when I realised it, had at first the effect upon my mind of a bridle which everybody was entitled to seize. If I happened to stay out late, I felt that the first man I met had a right to say ‘What do you want out, this time of night? When laughing, I asked myself, on the instant, did I think I had laughed too loudly? If I chanced to speak to a young woman—which I must plead guilty to having done, occasionally—I felt as if some one was always watching me, and measuring with a two-foot rule my face and smile. In short, I thought I had lost all personal liberty. I had no longer the right enjoyed by others of shaking my head and refusing to step up, when called upon, to officiate at a prayer meeting. I dared not say “I would rather not,” whatsoever duty the Sunday School superintendent ordered me to do. In a word, I lost the sense of self-ownership, and felt transformed into a piece of public property. Small and great, dwarf and giant, considered it their bounden duty to ply me with advice, which they varied endlessly, and which they, doubtless, gave with the very best intentions. Such was the interest, apparently, taken in me, and such the multitude of counsellors, that I at last expected everybody I met to be ready with a piece of his mind. And it was not often the expectation was disappointed. Some said that if I meant to begin preaching, I should take it easy, and go slowly; others that I should hurry and lose no time about it. Some advised me to set to work reading, late and early, and not waste my time going about; others thought I should read less and go more out into the open air, if I wished to live long and become of use. Here and there an one would exhort me to get myself well posted in literature, politics, general knowledge, and every new book I could lay hold of, all this being indispensable to the present-day preacher; while others advised me to let all such things alone, and to give my whole time to a study of the Scriptures, adding that the young preachers’ great fault was a want of acquaintance with the Bible, and the giving of too much time to other books. “Whatever you do,” said one to me, “don’t go to college to be spoiled, like the rest of them.” “Of course,’ said another, ‘you’ll be bound to go to college, or you’ll never be worth anything. Even if you learnt nothing there, people would think more of you for having been.” “Be sure you’re free and easy with everybody,” said one of the brethren; “I hate a stuck-up preacher.” “I hope, if they permit you to preach, you will remember to keep a watch upon yourself; be reserved and don’t give people room to talk,” said an ancient sister to me.,

One night, after mentioning to W. B. the different kinds of good advice I had received, that personage said: “Use your common sense, man, if you have any common sense about you; and if you havn’t, why, give up the idea of preaching at once. I don’t mind telling you, you’ll be obliged, directly, to mind your p’s and q’s, and look after your centre of gravity. But then, you needn’t behave as if you were shut up in a clock-case. There’s no use your showing like a rooster stepping through the snow. A thing of that sort isn’t true to nature; and I’ll never believe grace goes against nature—that is, sinless nature. I should think there must be a verse on the subject somewhere, only I can’t remember it just now. ‘Trust in God and keep your powder dry,’ old Cromwell used to say, and he was no duffer. If you try to act upon everybody’s advice you’ll have to work overtime every day, and it’ll be Hic jacet, and ‘Alas poor Yorick’ with you directly. I always tell the duffers to go to Jericho; only it won’t pay you to do that. You must be civil to all, try and spot the wide-awakes, and take their tips.”

I thought there was a good deal of sense in Will’s opinion, delivered though it was in a style peculiarly his own. I remained a long while a “candidate” before my case was formally laid before the church; chiefly because that was my desire. I was but young, and I was anxious for a fair proof of myself and to furnish proof to others, so that there should be no mistake on either side for which we should afterwards be sorry. I had another object in view, to wit, the escape from the necessity of preaching a trial sermon in the Society. I knew it to be the general rule with candidates for the ministry to give a sermon in the Society, to show what they were able to do. I considered this method of testing a young man’s capacity and fitness the most unnatural and unfair that could be devised, and was certain in my own mind I could not undergo it. 1 often pictured myself in the condition of one who attempts to preach to a congregation composed exclusively of critics; preaching not to edification, but to show how much ability I possessed. I knew I could not act; and I would rather remain another year in my present condition than be put to such a proof. There were plenty of opportunities—there are plenty of opportunities still—for a young man to show the church and neighbourhood whether he is adapted for the ministry without placing him in any such unfair and disadvantageous a position as this one. Another reason for my delay was a real desire to ascertain, with certainty, the purity of my motives, and my consecration to the work. I remembered hearing Abel Hughes speak of some, who having been plagued with the “preaching fit,” were subsequently completely cured of their complaint. I feared lest it was a “fit” I had on, and argued with myself, that if this were so, it would soon pass over. I had, also, a not very easily definable feeling, from which I am not even yet wholly free, namely, a deep desire for a visible and decisive proof of the particular truths which perplexed me—a proof, likely enough, it was impossible I could get, or, possible, would have made vain my faith. How to account for it I do not know, but I often find in myself a yearning after the impossible. Months passed by, but the “fit” did not. Every opportunity I found of speaking to preachers whom I could make free with I availed myself of, in order to draw from them all the knowledge obtainable of their experience and state of feeling when in my situation. It was but very little, however, they were able to tell me of the ordeal their minds had gone through that I myself had not experienced already. And yet, I persistently believed they had met with something I had not, if they could only describe it. I whetted my imagination in the conjuring up of terrors probably, in store for me were I self-deceived. In fancy I put myself in such a fiery situation, that not even hell, I think, would have been ashamed of it as its own creation. The utmost I could say— and I could say that—was that as far as I knew, I was moved by no false intentions. I thought it quite possible I might be making a mistake and be displaying a want of judgment in thinking of the ministry; but I was certain I had no unworthy object that I was aware of. I will not attempt to deny that I was constantly conjecturing what would people think of me; and I often asked myself the question which the Greatest asked of others—‘Whom do men say that I am?’ As one who had set his mind on preaching, and who did a little in that way without a license, I was conscious of not appearing to many in as favourable a light as I could. I knew several who held that he who revealed a desire to preach should have a soul of fire, a large experience, and an ardour which gave an air of attraction to everything he said. It was useless to expect this of me. The recollection of my youth disqualified me from giving advice. I also called to mind a remark of Abel Hughes’: “I never like to hear a young man over much at counselling and talking to a mixed congregation, as if he were an experienced elder. It is wholly unnatural, in my opinion; and I question whether any good is done by it. I prefer seeing a young man preacher half drowning to seeing him paddling by the bank. To hear a youth of twenty imitating an old man grates as harshly on me as if I were to hear an old man of eighty squabbling over a game of marbles, And yet you’ll see things quite as incongruous as that sometimes; it is a sign of weakness in either case.”

I knew very well my addresses at meetings in the houses and small chapels of the neighbourhood were dry and didactic— more so than they should have been, owing to the fetters I had forged for myself. On occasions when I was fairly filled with zeal, I made every effort to cool down, lest I should appear self-assertive, and that which I was not. A deep impression was made upon my mind once by seeing a young preacher go about confabulating with the friends. Coming to old Betty Kenrick, he said: “Well, old sister, do you think you know Jesus Christ by this time?’ To which Betty answered: “I hope I do, and have done, long before your father was born, young sprig.” I do not commend Betty for answering, in that way, a young man who was a stranger to her; but the incident was, for all that, not without its moral. I rather fancy that particular young man’s clothes did not fit him quite so tightly at the end of the Society as at the beginning. I felt some degree of pleasure in assisting the friends in small country chapels when they were without a preacher; but when David Davis told me, one day, he wished to bring my case formally before the church as a candidate for the ministry, I was filled with despondency and dismay. In one sense I would have preferred backing out; only, at the same time, I could not bear the notion. It was evident I could not always continue in my present condition. If I permitted my cause to be brought forward, I felt I should be aiming high, placing myself in a different position to the rest of the church, and taking upon me a responsibility which I dreaded. Frequently I fancied a voice saying: ‘What hast thou to do to declare my statutes?’ I sighed for clear vision, but it would not come; and I asked myself what reason had I to give for seeking to preach when I could not definitely prove my calling?

On the other hand, as I have said, I could not bear the notion of relinquishing my incentives to the work and suppressing my most pleasing sensations. I did not understand myself—a fact which I thought strange. How did others understand me? Was it possible that other people could form a clearer estimate of me than I could of myself? I resolved that events should take their course. In a few days my cause was brought before the church. I do not purpose giving a minute description of the occurrence. A great many questions were asked me which I replied to just as I thought and felt, without attempting to place myself in a different light from the real one, or to affect more than I could in truth perform. I was told to withdraw while the brethren were canvassing my merits. Whilst waiting for the verdict I feared my answers must have made some people think I was not over clear in the head. I hardly expected my application would be favourably entertained; and I almost wished it would not be. Presently I was called in, and notified that it had been agreed to refer my case to the Monthly Meeting with a request that some of the brethren be deputed to inquire into the matter and take the voice of the church thereon. Well was it for me that there wag no need of a word in reply; for, had there been, I could not have spoken it. I found myself in a turmoil of thought, some part of which I would try to reproduce had not something happened which remains livelier in the memory—something I can never forget—and which is all the easier to relate because it has reference to another.

It is possible I may have spoken too much of Will Bryan. I shall not make much further mention of him. As I have said, more than once, the acquaintance between us deeply influenced my life. His personality had impressed me greatly, from childhood up. Although some sort of a church member, I knew and others knew as well, that he was not by condition of mint, and natural inclination what he ought to be. I feared his heart was sadly indifferent to religion, and at one time determined to sever my connection with him, for good; only I found that to be a more difficult task than I had imagined. His magnanimous spirit, his open heart, his shrewdness, and especially his sharp, ready tongue, renewed my admiration for him every time we spoke, and made me forget, for the moment, his failings, numerous though they were. Although he made no profession of the fact, I could not help perceiving his fondness for me; and I was certain no one living felt a greater interest in my welfare than he. I had noticed of late, with grief, that Will halted more than ever in his attendance at chapel; what was true of him being true also of his parents. But this, notwithstanding, my old companion was at the Society when my case was brought on; and glad was I to see him there, chiefly, I will admit, because I knew I should get from him a detailed account of every word that transpired after I was sent out. Naturally enough, I had a curiosity to learn what was said of me in my absence, and I knew Will could supply me with the whole. I have endeavoured to transmit to paper all I have considered worth recording of Will’s utterances, as nearly as I could, both in form and substance, to the way in which they left his lips. That I shall try to do once more. When we left the Society I think it was I who, for once, was waiting for Will, and not Will for me.

“Just the thing,” said he. “I wanted a chat with you.”

“I knew, Will, you would tell me all that took place,” I returned. “How did things come off after I was turned out?”

“A verbatim et literatim report would do you no good in the world,” he observed. “The only thing that tickled my fancy a bit was Old Scraper insisting that you should be asked to preach before the Society, so that they might see the sort of stuff there was in you, and Abel answering him that the plan would work admirably had you happened to be newly come from America, and no one knew anything about you. I can think of nothing else worth the mention, except that that old thorough bred, Thomas Bartley, when the hands went up on your side, raised both his own—just like Whitefield in the picture—as an apology, I thought, for the unavoidable absence of Barbara Bartley, owing to a severe attack of rheumatism. But let that be. You have to-night reached a point I have a long while looked forward to. All you now want is to go on. My conscience to-night is a little easier than it has been for some time. I know very well it was I who threw you off the metals. I dreamt the night we came near hanging Jones that your mother had come from the next world to rebuke me. She frowned upon me, and I shall never forget that look of her’s. I was never happy afterwards, although I tried to appear differently, until I had found you on the rails once more. You and I to-night are at a junction I had all along known we’d be safe to come to. We have travelled a good way together, but I have known from the first we were not bound for the same destination; and here’s the junction, you see. I speak a trifle figuratively, but you know very well what I mean, I dare say. The fact of the matter is, we must now bid good-bye, as the song says, to those

I am for making myself scarce, and you may never see me again—a thought which brings a lump to my throat, I’ll take oath Have you heard anything about us over yonder?”

“Heard what, Will? I don’t understand you,” I replied.

“It is all U P over there,” rejoined Will. “Everybody’ll know it before the week is out, and I can’t stand that. Didn’t I tell you futher was a duffer? I remember the time I used to think he was coining money, and was a clever man at a bargain. But when I got to know what was what, and how things stood, my verdict was—duffer. I’ve seen this, for some time; but there was no use talking of a change of policy—it was in the old rut father would walk. Like a certain other creature we wot of—more noted for the length of his ears than for the sweetness of his voice—he’d insist on crossing a clover field and make straight for the hedge to browse on thistles, dock-leaves, coltsfoot, and rubbish like that. What is the consequence? Why others have gobbled up the clover, and there’s nothing left, even on the hedge—not as much as a Robin Redbreast’s cast off nest, or a finch’s. And what’s the outlook? Liquidation by arrangement and starvation! And I am going to take my hook, in consequence. Where to? I don’t know. What am I going to do? There’s the rub! I shall come of age next week (D.V.), and I shall be just as well off then as I was twenty-one years back to date. You know I’ve not had much more schooling than you have had, and yet I sometimes fancy I’m not a perfect greenhorn, When I got to be wise enough to see my loss, I made it a point of keeping a close watch of human nature, or as the Wesleys say, the nature human. It’s about the best thing one who has not had much schooling can do. But I made one great mistake—I didn’t study my bread and cheese. What can I say I am? I’m neither gentleman nor tailor. I have not been enough behind the counter to learn to serve—I was never much inclined that way, my delight, as you know, being to drive a horse. I did not care whether it was a load of bread or a load of young girls, as long as I had a horse to drive; and I can handle the ribbons with any man, whoever he may be. But next week, Hugh Bryan, provision dealer, won’t have a horse to drive. And there’s such a difference between driving your own horse and driving somebody else’s! Do you imagine I’d ever become a gentleman’s servant? Never; if I had to break stones first. That’s the meanest job I know of. My stomach would never stand taking pay for keeping hand to hat everlastingly, and for lending my legs to show off my master’s cashmere. Well, what am I to do How am I to earn my bread and cheese The question is span new to me, and I don’t know how to answer it. I needn’t tell you how I was brought up—in want of nothing save grace and good advice. I never remember the day I didn’t have a jolly dinner. But how’ll it be next week? D’ye know—I was never really down in the mouth before.

“Will,” said I; “you’ve nearly taken my breath away. How have things got to this?”

“It’s too long a story,” he replied. I don’t want to be hard on the gaffer—I’m sorry from my heart for him, I swear. But it was all his own fault. If he had only stuck to his own business, things would have been all right. You know the old man was always grasping. Well, after he had made a bit of money, some one persuaded him to speculate. I begged him, a year ago, to drop it; but no good. Fifty pounds a month, my little man! I How was it possible he could stand it? Had he taught me how to get a living I should not have minded so much. It’s a queer idea, but I’ve often thought, of late that if I had happened to be my own father I’d have brought myself up much better. People may possibly think me selfish for skedaddling, but I can’t stand the disgrace. And there is Suze, poor girl! I couldn’t look her in the face. It’s lucky there’s been nothing definite between us. I must be going. Something urges me.”

“You’ve given me a shock, Will;” said I. Many a time have your help and sympathy been very precious to me. But I never remember the occasion, before to-night, when you wanted sympathy yourself. Will you take one piece of advice from me?”

“What is that, old fellow?”

“Whenever you go, and wherever you go to, will you take care to get a ticket of membership? And, after you are settled in your new home, will you enquire for the chapel and send on your ticket to the deacons? I may as well tell you the honest truth, Will, I have a fear you’ll go wrong.”

“I had hoped,” he replied, ‘that you wouldn’t have mentioned this; but since you’ve done so, I, too, must say something which has been on my mind this long time. It would take me a day to tell you all. For me to ask for a ticket would be only humbug. I have dissembled a great deal too much already. You fancy, I dare say, you know my history pretty well; but you know nothing. I can’t conceal the fact from myself that there isn’t the least spark of religion about me. Do you remember your mother saying there was an “old man” in my heart, and I making fun of her? The old woman was perfectly right. What she meant, as you know, was depravity; only she had a rather odd name for it. I don’t know how to tell you the story of my mind, and I would much rather not try. I feel, somehow, as if I were gospel-proof; and I’ve not been able now, for some time, to remember a single verse that doesn’t tell against me. Lots of them come to mind, now and then. To tell you the truth, I have not read the Bible since I don’t know when—because, as often as I did so, those verses which were against me were the ones I always spotted. I’m but young, and yet I feel as if I’d stolen a march on the Gospel; or I ought perhaps to say, as if I had been left behind. Have I killed anybody? No danger. Have I wronged anybody? I don’t know that I have. Have I got drunk? Never. But a chap needn’t do any of those things to be left behind. What have I done? Lots of little things: learned comic songs instead of learning the Bible and the “Instructor;” gone to the billiard table oftener than to the Lord’s; poked fun at everybody and everything, and parodied the hymns of Williams of Pantycelyn. In the chapel, when a preacher came near bowling me out, I would stick to my bat; and by this time all the sermons are ‘wides.’ I feared anybody should see a tear in my eye; and, when one would be just on the point of coming, I would call myself to account and order it back. Not a tear has wanted to come now for some time. The fault, perhaps, may not be all mine. I was’nt brought up as you were. Father would make me go to chapel on the Sunday; but there would be no more talk of chapel, or of religion either, afterwards; only hemming and hawing and rowing, every day. Father did with me as you’ve seen Ned the blacksmith do with the iron. On the Sunday, in driving me to chapel, he’d put my conscience in the fire, and on the Monday he’d dip it into the water-trough; with the result that it has become as hard as a horse-shoe.”

“Will,” I began.

“Don’t interrupt,” he commanded. “I know what you’re going to say—repentance, a fresh start, and so forth. I know all those things. I do not want to know now, but to feel. A man can’t repent in the same way that he signs the pledge. There must be a change of heart, as “The Mother’s Gift” says. The Bible speaks of someone who hadn’t the chance of repenting—that is one of the verses against me, and there are lots of them. The worst of it is, I do not, somehow, feel as if I wanted to repent. I feel a sort of weight beneath me urging me along, as if I was being carried by a crowd of people, and couldn’t help myself, although I knew all the time I was going to the wrong place. Your mother, fair play for her, gave me many a piece of advice; and I remember once you were almost offended with me for calling her ‘Old Ten Commandments.’ But what I meant by that was that she was always telling me what I ought to do. And so she was. Don’t do this thing, do that, was what she always had for me. I knew at the time the old woman was quite right and resolved to do as she told me, after I had had my fling. But I took too much fling, and I can’t return. I’m past feeling, I fear—nothing in the world affects me. I am only a youngster, but I feel old in audacity and obduracy. Only fancy! So young! I feel almost as Wolsey did—‘Had I served my God,’ &c.—you know the words. I’m out of heart and tired of myself; but yet I’m not repentant. I feel remorse, but no repentance—if I understand what repentance is.”

“Will bach,” I remonstrated; “you forget that God is——”

“O, don’t talk!” he broke in. “You can’t tell me anything new. I know what you’re about to say—that God is merciful; that I should pray to Him, and so on. But I have tried to do it, on the sly, and felt every time I was only sponging. Do you know what my belief is? That I have offended God for ever by those parodies of old Pantycelyn’s hymns, for I’ll take my oath the Almighty and old Pant are great chums, and He’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done. But let’s drop it. Good night.”

He pressed my hand and hurried off before I could say a word. I determined, nevertheless, to see him on the morrow, with a view of giving another direction to his mind. Early next morning, however, a lad in Hugh Bryan’s service brought me a note, addressed “Rev. Rhys Lewis,” which, on opening, I found to read:

“Dear old fellow,—

Keep along the path on which you have started, and profit by the example of Yours truly.

P.S.—I have snatched the honour of first addressing you as Revd., trusting that you will always well sustain the title.—