Thomas Bartley Visits Bala

Before starting from home I had, foolishly enough, I am aware, formed a most extraordinary notion of college life, and one which I hardly know how to describe. Cognisant of the fact that the students were almost without exception preachers, I pictured them in my mind as a set of staid, serious and melancholy young men, gathered together from different parts of Wales, whose aggregation weighted and deepened each other’s individual gloom. I fancied what was called the term to be a four months’ funeral, at which forty youthful invitees, more or less, all in mourning, were engaged listening to the Principal, or one of his assistants, reading the Burial Service above the dead languages, the resultant blessing being derivable I knew not whence or how. So ran my notion; and not so either, it was much more vague. But O, how disappointed I was! I speedily found that the students could laugh and make merry like other lads; that they could enjoy a bit of harmless fun and unbend themselves without bruising their conscience, Indeed, I have thought, many times, that had Will Bryan been present, he would have said there was no “humbug” about them, and that they were “true to nature.” I quickly learned that melancholy and piety were not the same thing, that there was a vast difference between sanctimony and sincerity, and that the most natural, free and careless youths— in the best; sense of those words—were the most guileless and true. I know two birds who wear coats of the same colour as the preacher’s—the crow and the blackbird. One croaks and the other sings, but I am not, even yet, convinced that it is the crow which gives the Creator the greater glory, its more numerous, more commonly occurring progeny notwithstanding. But I often could not help asking myself, what if David Davis were to hear and see us, students? Would he not say we were much too blithe-spirited, and that he had a doubt whether we had been called to preach the gospel? Had he been present, however, he would not have been allowed to see anything which did not come up to his ideal of the sedate. But would he have seen the boys? No; only the special aspect they, chose, for the time being, to wear. What was the inference I; drew? This: that never was student seen save by student. Is, it not a general fact that to be able to feel free, natural and: unstrained, you must be conscious that the company is all of the same class and temperament. The presence of a David. Davis causes man to draw the veil over a portion of himself, if not to do something worse, namely attempt to show that which he does not possess. Metaphorically speaking, has not every man, and every section of society, a David Davis, who compels the assumption of a special aspect? And have not the lower animals their David Davis? I find the sheep and the lambs frisking on the slope of the hill and revelling in enjoyment, after their manner and kind; but behold a David Davis, in the shape of a harmless little dog, approaching, and the play is instantly at an end. On a lovely morn in spring, the birds in the bush by the wayside warble sweetly, and the passing traveller pauses to drink in their melody; but the warblers have seen him, and their song has ceased. Ever David Davis. In the month of June the attendants at the great smoky town’s Sunday School get a trip into the country. There are old and young in their midst. After consuming their delicacies upon the grass, twenty or more of the young people will be seen silently stealing away to a spot apart to amuse themselves. Presently, in the course of a stroll, some pious and revered old man comes in their way. They know him well, think highly of him, and hope, some day, to be as he is now; but his appearance spoils their sport. David Davis! Is there not some freemasonry, or whatever it may be called, running through all circles of society down to the individual himself? Man is not wholly like himself except when by himself. Under every other circumstance he simply lays himself out to meet the eye and the notions of some David Davis. Does it follow, therefore, that man never saw other man than himself, and that he himself never saw himself save when by himself? And does it follow that the oftener he is by himself the better? Not the last, at any rate, I trust.

How different soever Bala and the students were from what I had imagined before seeing them, I am confident they were still more so to my old friend Thomas Bartley when he paid me a visit, which he did, if I remember rightly, after I had been about two months at college. As a sort of fillip to my spirits, and lest I should forget it, perhaps this is the place where I can best give a brief account of that visit.

It was a Monday morning. I was returning from Trawsfynydd, where I had been to preach on the Sabbath. I had stayed rather long at Rhyd-y-Fen drinking tea and eating oaten bread, expecting a couple of friends by car who had been preaching, one at Llan, Festiniog, and the other at Llanbedr and Gwynfryn. It was between one and two o’clock in the afternoon when I reached Bala. On entering my lodgings, I could hardly believe my own eyes! There sat Thomas Bartley in my chair, the room filled with tobacco smoke, and Williams sitting opposite him, his face all smiles, from ear to ear. Thomas presented a comical appearance even to me, his old acquaintance; and the more so because I had not seen him for some time turning out in a blue dress coat. But I knew that what most tickled Williams’s fancy was my friend of the Tump’s shirt collar, which was simply prodigious. Had Thomas blackened his face with burnt cork he would have made a perfect Christy Minstrel. It was only on special occasions that he wore these great collars, when, I remember, my brother Bob used to say that “Thomas Bartley had gone for coke again,” the reference being to the habit the carters had of putting crates to their trollies when hauling that particular material. I feel convinced that this collar had its history, if I could only get at it. It was famous! When Thomas wore it, as on the day of his “club feast,” one felt, somehow, it was the collar that went to dinner, and that Thomas merely went to keep it company. But though the collar was the chief thing, and its owner only secondary, in comparison, still, the former served: as a sort of forerunner, for the collar would be seen for some time before Thomas. I think I have already stated that Thomas was high in the crown, and that his nose was long and sharp, his chin receding deep into the neck, the configuration of head and face reminding a student of a problem in Euclid. But, as I have observed, I am almost certain that to Williams the most striking feature about that get-up was the outrageous collar which I noticed he was examining keenly. Indeed, even I, who had seen it many times previously, could not help admiring it, and admiring Thomas also, as I saw him nestling within those ramparts as a man of easy circumstances may be seen sunk within an easy arm chair. But I am digressing. I marvelled, I say, to find Thomas Bartley in my room.

“Well, boy,” he exclaimed, as if he had not seen me for ever so long; “how be, these hundreds and thousands of years?”

“Eight well, Thomas,” I replied. “Who in the world would have thought of seeing you in Bala?”

“To be shŵar. Six o’clock this morning, look you, as I was in the middle of feedin’ the pig, the fit took me in the head to come and see you. But I never thought Bala was so far. D’ye know what? it’s a goodish step from there here. Id always thought there was a train the whole way; but, when I got to inquire, Corwen was the last station. Howsumever, you never saw how lucky I was. At Corwen Mr. Williams here knew me. I never thought he’d sin me before; but it sims he had, in the station yonder, when you were goin’ away. I got a lift from a lot of students, and we had a real pleasant chat, didn’t we Mr. Williams? ‘Wonderful tidy boys they were too; but you are like each other, ’markable so. Where’ve you bin so long, say? Mr. Williams told me you’d be here some time since. Where were you at it yesterday?”

“Trawsfynydd, Thomas,” said I.

“Trawsfynydd? Well, wait you, now; isn’t it one from there M——Ll——is? I thought so, too. He’s a rare un, M——LI—is. I always said, if I happened to get into trouble, it’s M———LI——I’d have for couns’ller. Did ye hear of that time he was at Ruthin, Mr. Williams, a long while ago, now? No? I’ll tell you, then. It’s as true as the Paternoster. Well, to you, there was a man there—’twas the time of the ’Sizes—who was tried for stealin’ bacon—bacon, mind. They’d ’ployed Macintyre to prosecute, and the poor chap had ’ployed M——Ll——to defend him. Well, to you, Macintyre was layin’ and pitchin it on wonderful, and the man’s case got to look shockin’ black. But, by’m bye, here comes M- ’s turn; and he goes at it! He called a butcher forward, and asked him what he meant by bacon? ‘A pig’s sides, salted and dried,’ says he. ‘To be shŵar,’ says M——. Then he calls the shopkeeper on and, says he, ‘was the meat as you say this man stole, was it dried and salted?’ ‘It wasn’t,’ says the shopkeeper. False ditemant,’ says M——; and he won the case, straight off. He’s a rare un, is M———. Tell me, is there any of his fam’ly livin’ at Trawsfynydd now? There is? Ti I had time I’d go and see I’m, if I’s never to move. D’ye know what, boys? It’s awful close here; open a bit of that window, Rhys. It’s no wonder in the world you both look so pale; there isn’t a breath of air here. You might’s well live in a bambox as in a snip of a room like this, with the door shut and nothing in the blessed world in it but a table, chairs and books. You’re bound to lose health. If I was put in a place like this for two days together I’d die, on the spot. There! That’s somethin’ like; we’ll have a puff of wind in a minute. And how does it get on, Rhys? D’ye like your place? Is there plenty of provijuns here?”

“It’s got on very well up to now, Thomas,” I returned. ‘How are they all with you? How is Barbara, and why didn’t she come along?”

“Well, Barbara’s only so, so sure to you. She’s troubled shockin’ with the rheumatis and pains in the legs, I’d a hard scuffle to come here to-day, and she’ll be very glad to see me back agen, I can tell you. She wished to be remembered to you, kindly. D’ye know what? I haven’t bin from home, before, for five and twenty years.”

“What do you think of Bala, Thomas?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen much of it yet,” replied Thomas. ‘But, from what I’ve seen, it looks, to my mind, very much like a town built in the middle of a field. Why on the blessed earth don’t they cut those trees, there? Ain’t the crows troublesome, sometimes? Never saw a row of big trees, like the Hall’s, in the middle of the street before. I should fancy you’ve no Local Board here.”

“Bala people think very much of their trees, Thomas Bartley, and place a very high value on them,” observed Williams.

“Now I think of it, ’deed, Mr. Williams, I shouldn’t wonder but what they’re handy enough on fair days for tyin’ cattle to. But they struck me as odd when I first saw ’em. Here you, Rhys, are you goin’ to take me a bit about to see the town, say? I haven’t much time, you know, and the house’ll be on wires till I come back. Have you got time?”

“I think I have,” I answered. ‘I’ll show you as much as I can. I take it for granted, Thomas, you’ve had something to eat.”

“Yes, name of goodness. I had dinner with Mr. Williams here, suffishant for any man; and I did oncommon hearty, I can tell you.”

“Good,” observed I. “After I’ve had a wash I’ll show you around.”

“A wash! What d’ye want to wash for? You’re like a pin in paper; there isn’t a speck on you. Are you gettin’ a bit stuck up here, say?”

Williams laughed, and I ran away to perform my ablutions. In a minute Williams followed me to my room, threw himself on the bed, and rolled about, laughing until his sides were sore.

“Rhys,” said he, “this is about the most original character I’ve ever met with. The boys had a sovereign’s worth of fun out of him between Corwen and Bala, and they charged me to be sure to tell you to keep him here as long as you can. Couldn’t we smuggle him into the class, eh? It would be a perfect treat.”

“That would not be quite the thing,” I returned. ‘It is a bit of a nuisance to have to show him around. If the creature had left that collar of his at home, I wouldn’t have minded so much. All the town will be staring at us.”

“Rubbish!” rejoined Williams. “He’d be nothing at all without the collar. That collar is worth a hundred pounds. Shall I come with you? If you say yes, mathematics may go to Jericho for the afternoon.”

“Shall you, indeed!’ I exclaimed. “I was on the point of offering you five shillings to come and share the shame with me.”

Descending to the parlour, we found Thomas on his feet, reloading his pipe. Seeing us ready to start, he said, “Is Mr. Williams coming along? Well, that’s fine! Wait a bit, Rhys; I haven’t seen you take anythin’ to your mouth since I’m here. Have you had nothing to eat?”

“Yes, Thomas. I had a feed at Rhyd-y-Fen.”

“Rhyd-y-Fen—where’s that? Is it far?”

“Rhyd-y-Fen is a public house half way between Bala and Festiniog,” I replied.

“What! What!” I cried Thomas. “Do they, in the north country, “low you preachers to go to pubs? There’s no harm in the thing, in my opinion, and I always used to say Abel Hughes was too strict in such matters. But let’s be off, boys;” and Thomas lit his pipe.

“Perhaps it would be as well for you not to smoke going through the town,” I remarked.

“Where’s the harm?” asked mine ancient. “Are you so stuck up as all that in Bala?”

“There’s no harm in the thing, that I know of, Thomas,” I replied; “only respectable people don’t do it here.”

“Deed! And I had heard you were awful smokers here! But, whatever, as that man from the South said, let’s go and look what we can see. I want you to show me three things— Bala Green, that your mother ever and always used to talk about; the lake and the bell. I heard my father, hundreds of times, say of a safe thing that it was as sound as Bala bell.”

“We’ll go and see the lake first, Thomas,” said I, for I was anxious to pass quickly through the town in the direction of Llanycil, so as to escape notice. But that was a bigger job than I had thought. Thomas insisted on stopping to look at everything. Standing in the middle of the road, his hands under his coat-tails and his hat tilted back upon his nape, he shouted, “Rhys, wait a bit! Let’s take breath, boy! Well, these trees do look funny, stuck in the street, if I was never to move! Here’s a slap-up pub; what’s it’s name, Rhys?”

“The White Lion,” I said softly, and as a hint to Thomas to pitch his remarks in the same key.

“Oh, White Lion,” he rejoined at the top of his voice.

People stopped to stare at us. Shopkeepers came to their doors, children crowded round us, and I felt certain, in my own mind, that from Thomas’s great collar and strange appearance, they all expected to see him form a ring and turning somersaults in front of the hotel. I did not know what to de, for shame. I felt angry with Williams who enjoyed as much the fix I was in as he did the doings of Thomas Bartley, to whose side he stuck close. Moving on, I heard Thomas cry out “What’s the matter with you, children? What are you gapin’ at? Did you never see a man before? These are the strangest lot I ever set eyes on. I hard a deal of talk about ‘little Bala children.’ D’ye know what? If you don’t get away, I’ll put my stick across your backs; that I will! Rhys, what’s your hurry? Is it all one street this town is, Mr. Williams? I don’t see anythin’ particular about it. The shops are nothin’ to speak of, and the whole place looks quiet enough. I’d always thought Bala was a town full of chapels, churches, bells and schools. D’ye know what, Mr. Williams, here’s another awful nice public. What’s the name of this?”

“The Big Bull,” responded Williams.

“Rather a queer name, isn’t it, Mr. Williams? Do you at Bala talk like they do at Bulkeley, tell us? Little bit of Welsh and a little bit of English, mixed. Holloa, Squire! Got him at last, you see. Can you give me a light?”

This “Squire’” was Mr. Rice Edwards, who stood on the pavement in front of his house smoking. Thomas Bartley crossed over to him, Williams followed, and I went slowly on. After going a few steps I looked back and saw a strange sight. Mr. Edwards and Mr. Bartley looked like a couple of pigeons pairing. The peaks of the great collar and Mr. Edwards’s eyes were in dangerous proximity, while the bowl of Thomas’s pipe was held on that of Edwards’s. The latter was blowing, his cheeks puffed out as if he were playing a bugle, whilst the former was drawing, his cheeks panting in a way which clearly showed he had lost his jaw teeth. I perceived that the great object in view was to light Thomas Bartley’s pipe, and I perceived also that Williams was holding his sides in enjoyment of the spectacle. My advice to Thomas not to smoke in the streets had been given in vain. I heard him first whistle and then shout to me: “Take time, man; the end of the world hasn’t come yet.” I was in a hurry to get out of the town, where everybody was leering at us, and grew terribly savage with Williams for wilfully prolonging the hob-nobbing between Mr. Edwards and Thomas Bartley, which latter, after he had lit his pipe, seemed perfectly at ease. I walked rapidly ahead, like one distracted. Presently, I heard Thomas, at some distance behind, talking away in the old loud tone.

“Baptist chapel, did you say, Mr. Williams? Ho! Not much of a place, is it? Don’t suppose they thrive very well, here? To be shŵar. I don’t, myself, like their way of doin’ things, at all. Only think, now, of dippin’ some one like my Barbara yonder, troubled with rheumatis and pain in the legs; wouldn’t it be enough for her life? Yes, name of goodness. I’ve hard— I don’t know if it’s true—but I hard that in a case of that sort they warms the water; only that, to my mind, looks too much like killin’ a pig. I much rather the Methodis’ way; though ’twas in Church I was christened, in the year—let me see, now—I forget, but it’s down in father’s Bible—all our names is. Rhys, do you want to cut us, say?”

For all my old friend’s extraordinary appearance and the notice it attracted, I would not have cared so much if he had not continued to talk in a shout. I was heartily glad when, at length, we got clear of the town. No sooner, however, was I rid of one trouble than I found myself in another. When we were some hundred yards or so outside the town Williams gave me a dig in the ribs with his elbow, and motioned me to look ahead. I saw, coming to meet us, one of our teachers, who had been taking his customary stroll. ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire,” I muttered, after which I began thinking how we could pass without more than a lift of the hat, when Thomas said:—

“Here, you boys; who’s this man comin’ to meet us? Isn’t he the master?”

“Yes sure,” replied Williams readily enough.

“I thought so, too,” rejoined Thomas. ‘And a proper man he is, sure enough. They tell me he’s very clever, and knows a heap of languages. I should think he does—a man can tell that by his looks. I’ve heard he’s the best man of the lot when it comes to a push. I never heard him preach but twice, and I liked him oncommon. I understood every word of his sermon, ’cause he gave a man time to consider—not like John Hughes, Llangollen, poundin’ away without hop or stop, and leavin’ you behind, you didn’t know where. I never saw anythin’ so lucky! I must have a talk with him, so that I might have somethin’ to tell Barbara when I get home.”

“His time is short, Thomas,” I observed, “so perhaps we had better pass him with only a ‘good afternoon.’”

“No danger,” said Williams. “You may be sure, Thomas Bartley, he’ll be glad to speak to you, since you’re a stranger to Bala. And if you were to ask to be allowed to visit the college, I’m certain he’d give you permission, in which case you’d have much more to relate after going home.”

“To be shŵar,” cried Thomas.

I felt mad enough to choke Williams, which he perfectly well knew. I saw it was no use trying to persuade Thomas to forego his intention, since Williams was determined to egg him on. I fairly dripped with sweat, Williams with amusement. Even had Thomas Bartley not been in the company of a couple of students, I knew his appearance would attract the attention of our respected teacher, whose face, long before we came up to him, gave indications of that sense of humour which the truly great-minded almost invariably possess. Without giving me a chance to introduce him, my old friend strode forward, hat in hand, and said:—

“How’re you this long time, sir? I havent seen you since the Secession over yonder; and that’s years ago now; though you look just the same as ever, sir.”

“Mr, Thomas Bartley, sir; one of our members who has come to see Bala,’ said I.

“Very good,” returned our Teacher. “I am pleased to see you, Mr. Bartley. I hope you’re pleased with Bala.”

“You can’t think how little I’ve seen of it yet, sir; only one street. But I should fancy, from what I’ve come across, it is a fairish place.”

“How is the cause getting on with you, these days, Mr. Bartley? You had a great loss in the death of Mr. Abel Hughes.”

“Capital, sir, capital! For some time after Abel died it was all higgledypiggledy with us, but by now it’s come purty straight, everythin’ considered. When’re you comin’ over our way to preach agen, sir? I’d like, awful, to hear you, ’cause I understand every word you say. And I wish very much you’d teach these young people to preach a little more plain—they’re too deep for me and my sort. D’ye know what, sir? There was one of ’em there lately and I couldn’t make sward or thatch of him. He spoke of ‘mechanism’ or ‘unity,’ or somethin’—I don’t remember the word, for certain—and Barbara’n I could make neither horse-hair nor hobgoblin of what he said. I protested before David Davis I’d tell you sir, the very first time I saw you.”

“Well, indeed, Mr. Bartley, I have talked a deal to them on the subject. What we want is for some one, like yourself and others, with influence, to give them a word of advice, and give it often. It would do them a lot of good.”

“To be shŵar, sir,” observed Thomas. ‘I thought of askin’ you, sir, would it be anythin’ out of your way to let me see the college when you are all at it?”

“Well, perhaps Mr. Lewis will bring you to class at five o’clock, Mr. Bartley.”

“Thank you very much, sir; and good afternoon now, whatever,” said Thomas.

Hardly had we separated before Thomas turned upon his heel and shouted:

“Mr.——; beg your pardon, sir; but have you such a thing as a match about you? To be shŵar. I don’t know how in the world I came to leave home without one.

I heard no more, and was afraid to turn my head. I was fairly boiling over with vexation, and ready to sink into the earth, Williams being equally ready to split his sides when Thomas, on rejoining him, said: “No, he hadn’t one. He doesn’t carry any, or I should have one and welcome, he said. But I’m bound to get a light somewhere, before long. Is there a house handy? D’ye know what? He’s a very decent man, is that master of yours. I rather’n a crown he gived me leave to come to college to see you at it. I shall have so much more to tell Barbara when I go home.”

My debt to Thomas Bartley was a heavy one, but I would have been quite willing to give every farthing I possessed to see him turning homewards at that moment. After that permission to visit class, I did not know what humiliation was in store for me. It would have appeared inhospitable had I told him that if he came to the college he would not get home that night. In my native place I could have enjoyed the fun very well; but in Bala it made me wretched, for I felt as if he were my father. Although I strove to look cheerful, Thomas declared I was very much down in the mouth, and was sure I felt annoyed about something. Williams, on the other hand, was at the zenith of bliss, Thomas and he being whip and top together, the whole time. He undertook with alacrity the duty of showing Thomas “the lions,” and I knew he was delighted with the matter of fact way Thomas regarded them all. When we got into a good position for a full view of the lovely sheet of water for which Bala is famous, the most poetic sentiments which fell from Thomas were: “D’ye know what, Mr. Williams? This here lake wouldn’t make a bad sea, at a pinch. I should think there must be a deal of fish in it. What fly do you use? Cock-a-bundy? I never in my life saw a finer place for rarin’ ducks.”

He refused to visit Llanycil churchyard because, said he, all churchyards were alike. They only made him think of Seth; and besides, he wanted to return to Bala to see the bell. Williams went to the trouble of explaining to him that it was in the imagination alone the famous bell had its existence; at any rate, he and I had failed to find it.

“Ho!” remarked Thomas. ‘A bit of a skit, p’r’aps; same as people say that the best thing for mendin’ bruises is snails’ feet oil.”

I strove hard to delay our return, with a view to prevent my old neighbour and protector from visiting the class; but Williams was one too many for me. He took care to land us back at our lodgings by half past four, when, so I afterwards understood, he had ordered tea to be ready. Viewing the preparations which Williams had bespoken, I saw that he had only done what I ought to have done, namely, given Thomas Bartley a welcome. I felt ashamed at my remissness, of which I was glad Thomas was not aware. I saw there was a danger of his thinking our “provijuns,’ as he called them, better than they really were, and that he would bruit the fact abroad, for there was really no stop to his tongue. Hardly had the thought crossed my mind before Thomas said: “D’ye know what, boys? You live like fightin’ cocks. But there, you’ll never do anythin’ better, for unless a man gets purty good feedin’ he may as well shove his cards into the thatch.” Thomas little suspected it was a “club feast’ we were having that day.

The meal was over in a few minutes, and Williams insisted upon going to class at once, his object, I knew, being to give the boys an inkling of Thomas Bartley’s personality before the Teacher came. But I beat him this time.

“Thomas wants a smoke, first,” I observed.

“To be shŵar,” said Thomas, “if there’s time.”

Williams, however, saw that we were in class at five o’clock to the minute. It was the class for Greek Testament study. Although we freshmen understood no Greek, we got, nevertheless, all the advantages of exposition in a language we did understand. Nearly the whole body of students, therefore, attended. The gathering that evening was a fairly numerous one. We were greeted on our entrance with deafening cheers, and I saw at once that Thomas Bartley’s fellow-travellers, between Corwen and Bala, had been “up to their games again,” as Williams would say. I had an unpleasant consciousness that it was not for Thomas personally the cheers were intended, but for his mighty collar.

Thomas gracefully bowed his acknowledgments, thereby eliciting another cheer, and then sat down, between Williams and myself. Williams almost immediately got to his feet, and said, “Mr. Thomas Hartley, gentlemen, a friend of Mr. Rhys Lewis’s——,” but before he could say another word, the Teacher came in; and lo, a great silence fell over all.

“D’ye know?” murmured Thomas in my ear. “There’s a wonderful lot of you, and you are so much alike; all ’cept that man with the crooked nose. What is he A pupil teacher?”

Thomas nodded to the Teacher as if he were an old chum. The nod was courteously responded to, and the Teacher turned his face away. I noticed the back of his neck flushed crimson, as if suddenly sunburnt. The work of the class was proceeded with for about twenty minutes. For the first five, Thomas looked on curiously and critically, like a man who adjudicates in a musical competition; for the next five, he seemed a bit patronising; during the third, he gave signs of considerable uneasiness, and said to me, softly: “Will you be much longer?” After that he subsided into his great collar, whence I feared every moment he would snore. The boys all the time kept throwing furtive glances at Thomas, Williams and myself, and making faces which spoke volumes. I much feared, I repeat, that Thomas would begin to snore, and possibly it was the like fear that made the Teacher, at the expiration of twenty minutes, address us in English to the effect following:—

“Perhaps we had better leave off there. You see that Mr. Lewis, with my permission, has brought a friend with him to the class this evening. This is an unusual thing, and must not be looked upon as establishing a precedent. But I thought that Mr. Lewis’s friend might give you, as preachers, a word of advice. Words of wisdom are not to be despised, from whatever quarter they come. I was observing, Mr. Bartley,” he went on, in Welsh—Thomas awaking and getting up from his collar, as who should say, “yes, that’s my name’”—‘‘I was telling these young men that you might have a word of advice for them. Will you say something, Mr. Bartley? The young men of to-day need a great deal of talking to.”

“You never saw a poorer hand at sayin’ a thing,” responded Thomas. “But I don’t care to be odd and disobedient. I’ve hard much talk about Bala, sir; and when Rhys, here, came to you—his mother and I were great friends; it was she brought me to religion, and I knew nothin’ till she began expoundin’ to me, and she was a wonderful ooman. I told her, many times, if she’d happened to belong to the Ranters, she’d make a champion preacher (cheers). Wait a bit now; what was I goin’ to say 0, yes! When Rhyscame to you, I determined I’d run up and see Bala, some day; so this mornin’, as I was givin’ the pig his food (cheers), says I to myself, now for it. From Corwen to Bala I had a ride with some of the young preachers here, and I was surprised, sir. I always used to think the students was poor things, with their heads in their feathers, half broken hearted and half starvin’ theirselves. But I never saw decenter boys. They weren’t a bit like preachers, they were so powerful funny. D’ye Know, sir, Mr. Williams here (placing his hand on that personage’s shoulder) can act you to the life. If I’d only shut my eyes I wouldn’t have known but ’twas your very own self.”

At this point there were thunders of applause, participated in by all save Williams, who reddend to the roots of his hair. I was not sorry to see him thus put into the pot, for, in the course of that afternoon, he had enjoyed himself more than once at my expense. For a second or two Thomas looked as it he could not make out the meaning of the plaudits; as if he did not know whether it was a good hit or a big mistake he had made. After slightly hesitating, he added—“It’s as true as the Paternoster, sir.” This brought on another burst of applause which confirmed Thomas in the notion that he had said something transcendently fine; so, he went on:

“But I must tell them to their faces, sir: I don’t see they are so clever as all that at preachin’. I confess I’m a bit dull —I was old comin’ to religion—and I’ll ’low it’s but few of ’em I’ve heard preach, and p’r’aps those weren’t the best. When you preach, sir, I understands you, champion; but to tell the truth, honest, I couldn’t make horse-hair nor hobgoblin of the students yonder; and Barbara couldn’t do anythin’ in the blessed earth with ’em. They don’t talk enough about Jesus Christ, sir, and heaven. A man like myself has a purty fair grip of that. There was one of ’em over there who spoke more’n enough of ‘mechanism,’ or some’at like that, but I knew no more than a mountain hurdle what he meant. Rhys told me you didn’t teach ’em to preach, sir; which is an awful pity. I know you’re wiser nor me, but if I was you, sir, I’d make ’em preach before you—one every week—and when he had done, I’d show him where he had failed, and if he didn’t do as you told him, I’d give him the sack. It’s by preachin’ Welsh the boys expect to get their livin’, and it’s no good larnin’ the languages of people who’ve been dead hundreds of years if they can’t preach in a language which everybody as is now alive understands. That’s my opinion, sir, but p’r’aps I’m wrong; ‘cause all I have is a grip of the letters. I’m surprised it’s in an empty house you keep school, and I’m glad, now I’ve seen you, that I gave half a sovrin to the sickly little man who came about collectin’ for a new school. That was one of the noblest men I ever saw with my eyes, sir. He told me it was from Bala we got all our crowin’ cocks, and I never hear the young ones in our court-yard without thinkin’ of his words. If you’ve noticed, sir, it’s a queer enough clamour young cocks make, for four months or so, if there isn’t an old un there to set ’em a pattern. But, whether or no, they come little by little to tune it lovely. I takes a bit of interest in fowls, sir—as Rhys knows—and, to me, the most disagreeable thing on earth is those chicks which you can’t tell whether they’re cocks or hens. If they don’t show purty quick what they are, I chop their heads off. Well, I’m glad from my heart to see you all so comfortable, and I hope you’ll forgive me for takin’ up so much of your time.”

Thomas resumed his seat amidst loud and long-continued applause.

“What’s the meanin’ of these cheers, Mr. Williams?” I heard him ask. “Did I speak middlin’ tidy?”

“Capital!” replied Williams.

“Well, Mr. Bartley,” observed the Teacher, “I much hope the young men will attend to the pointed observations, and act upon the valuable advice you have given them. When next the students preach with you, take careful note whether any improvement has taken place. If they do not show clearly whether they are hens or cocks, let us know, Mr. Bartley, so that we may cut their heads off.”

Amidst tumultuous applause the Teacher shook hands with Thomas Bartley and went away. Directly he had left the room one of the students got up and locked the door.

“What’s goin’ to happen, now?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. Neither did I, but I could see there was something up.

“Friends,” promptly said D. H., of Aberdaron—the same of whom Thomas had asked whether he was a pupil teacher—‘it appears that the talk of ‘mechanism,’ referred to by Mr. Bartley, is not the only fault of which we, as students, have been guilty; although there is a close connection between ‘mechanism’ and that which I wish to bring before you. It would seem that our brother————of Flintshire, in returning from an appointment this morning, by unpardonable negligence and want of skill has occasioned and caused a valuable horse of Mr. Rice Edwards’ to have a fall, which broke its knees, whereby great loss has been entailed upon the said Mr. Rice Edwards, and dreadful pain upon the said horse. It is not meet we should look lightly upon an act of this kind. Let us enquire into the case. According to the rules now in force with us, we must place our brother upon his trial. I will act as judge; Mr. V.P. will be prosecutor, and, so that the accused may have every fair play, Mr. Rhys Lewis, who comes from the same county, shall defend him. I nominate and appoint Mr. Thomas Bartley as foreman of the jury, and Mr. John Jones as interpreter.”

“Tell us, is it in earnest or in jest he is speakin’?” Thomas inquired.

“In jest,” replied I.

“Ho! a bit of a skit, eh?” he rejoined cheerfully.

In much less time than it takes me to write, the trial was in full swing. I do not wish to attempt a particular description, although I could furnish one. The accused looked like an accused—dejected. D. H., the judge, sat in the teacher’s chair on top of the table, with a white handkerchief bound about his head for a wig. To all appearance Thomas Bartley fully realised the dignity of his office of foreman, and lost never a word of the pleadings. V. P., gifted and eloquent, made an incomparable prosecutor. He called several witnesses to character, on the horse’s behalf, who testified to its being a trustworthy animal, altogether unlikely to go upon its knees, except from the inexcusable negligence of the rider. I failed completely to shake their evidence with regard to the animal’s general health and soundness of limb. With the students, and them alone, I shook off the restraint I had been in during the afternoon, and threw myself heart and soul into the defence of my co-countyman. But all to no purpose; it was a bad case, and every witness was in favour of the horse. The trial lasted an hour and a half, much amusement being derived from the witnesses’ refusal to speak English, and so compelling Mr. John Jones, whose command of Saxon was the poorest of the lot, to interpret. I made the best speech I could in my client’s behalf, conscious all the time that I hadn’t a leg to stand on, and that my only hope lay in the sympathies of Thomas Bartley as foreman of the jury. My arguments were pulverised by the judge when he came to sum up. I fancy it must have been the weakness of my defence which caused his lordship to go out of his way to give the accused a chance of adding something on his own account to that which I had already urged, before the jury retired to consider their verdict.

In a silence like the grave’s, the defendant was heard saying: “A bad indictment, my lord. It was a mare I had, not a horse.”

The scene which ensued is still vividly present to my mind. Completely overcome with laughter, some of the boys lay stretched on the benches, while others rolled about the floor. Thomas Bartley stood on one of the forms waving his hat and shouting with all his might as if he were at an election. The meeting broke up in convulsions. On the way to our lodgings, I had the greatest difficulty in preventing Thomas from crying out and attracting the notice of the inhabitants. Every now and then he would pause and remark, “As good as M——LI——of Ruthin, spite of chin and teeth; of chin and teeth, if I was never to move. D’ye know what? That’s the jolliest gatherin’ I ever was at; but as for the first part of it, it was the flattest affair I ever saw with my eyes. I couldn’t make out what in the blessed earth was going on. Where’s Mr. Williams sneaked off to, eh? Don’t you see him awful like your brother Bob? What have you on foot for to-morrow night? I’d like wonderful well to be with you a week, only I must sail home, or Barbara ’ll be in a fit.”

When I explained to Thomas it was impossible he could return till next day, he trembled to think of Barbara spending a whole night by herself. But he had to submit to the inevitable; which he did with the repeated observation that he was sorry he had not brought Barbara along “just as she was.” When Williams made his appearance, with three of the other students, he was consoled not a little. I saw that my fellow lodger was determined to make the most of Thomas Bartley. There were six of us packed into a small room at supper that night. The meal was the great thing with Thomas Bartley; Thomas Bartley the great thing with the guests. If I had not gone to too great lengths already, 1 would give a summary of the conversation. The boys enjoyed themselves hugely; but the sigh he every now and then gave vent to, clearly showed Thomas’s thoughts to be with Barbara at the Tump. His stay with us over night caused a considerable change in the sleeping arrangements. At cock-crow next morning, I heard Thomas walking to and fro and shouting “Get up, you folk. It’s quite middle day.” And we got never a minute’s peace till we had obeyed. Thomas had to meet the first train at Corwen; so, when the clock struck six, he, Williams and myself, were crossing Tryweryn bridge in Mr. Rice Edwards’s carriage. Before bidding each other farewell, Thomas took me aside and said, “how’s the pocket stand, my son?”

“I’ve not been hard up, as yet, Thomas,” I replied.

“Here you are,” said he; “take the loan of this for ever;” and he forced a sovereign into my hand. Blessings on him! It was not the only sovereign I had from him whilst at Bala. After a pressing invitation to Williams to come and spend a week at the Tump, Thomas went home to relate the history of Bala and the college. And such a history! After that visit, Thomas, of course, knew all about the students. I could tell from his question, “What have you on foot to-morrow night?” that he thought the scene he “saw with his own eyes” on that Monday evening in college, was a specimen of what took place there daily. Little did he know that a “trial” of the kind I have described, happened only once in two or three years, and that what he had termed “the most miserable thing on the face of the earth” was our regular employment. The long hours and hard labour, the fear and vexation of spirit, of which every student knows something, never crossed his innocent soul.

Thomas Bartley, more the pity, is not the only one who entertains an erroneous impression of a collegiate life. I have gathered, from observations heard in divers parts of the country, that some people who should know better, cherish opinions quite as foolish in kind, if not in degree.