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HEN our steamer, the “Tunisian,” docked at Liverpool after a quick
and pleasant voyage, the two brothers of my good friend and travelling
companion, Dr. W., were waiting to greet him. It was something like half
a century since my friend had left his home among the Welsh hills to
devote his fine mind and loving heart to the ministry of Jesus Christ in
America. Were this the place, one might write many a chapter concerning
the faithfulness and fruitfulness of that ministry which has brought
such priceless blessings to so many lives and helped so largely in
building the Kingdom of God in the new world. However, it is of his
early home rather than of the man, that we are to write just now.
It was because the writer was his brother’s friend that one of these
strong-faced Welshmen extended a cordial invitation to be his guest
when, later on, Dr. W. should visit his native town. So it came to pass
that after the great meetings in London were over, we started for the
little village of Garndolbenmaen where Dr. W. was born and had spent his
earlier years.
We had counted not a little on making the ascent of Snowdon, and in
spite of the cloudy, threatening weather, ascend it we did. Boarding the
toylike car on the little narrow-gauge road, we were slowly hauled up
the mountain side. We had hardly begun the ascent when the country
about began to unroll like a panorama below us. Yonder is a thread-like
stream, and beyond it the mines with their piles of slack marking
each opening. Higher up, the clouds were all about us, shutting out
everything but the immediate vicinity, and before we reached the summit,
rain had begun to fall. The only relief to our disappointment was when,
for a moment, the clouds broke and we looked far over mountains and
valleys. Down at our feet and leading away towards the east was a white
road on either side of which were little squares of cultivated fields.
Towards the south loomed the tops of high hills, the sides of which were
hidden by the clouds, while towards the west we caught just a glimpse of
the Straits of Menna.
A little later we were riding along the shores of the Straits and
looking across to Anglesea. To those familiar with religious work in
Great Britain, one figure stands out, giant-like, whenever the name of
that island is heard. Here Christmas Evans prayed and preached, turning
many hundreds from sin to righteousness under the sway of his matchless
eloquence. Farther on we passed Carnarvon Castle where, according to a
tradition now generally discredited, Edward II, first Prince of Wales,
was born.
Night had fallen when we reached the Garn station, a mile or more from
the village which straggles up the side of one of the foot-hills of the
Snowdon range. A cheerful fire was blazing in the open fire-place when
we entered the house, and it seemed a symbol of the warm and generous
hospitality extended to the American stranger. There is something
indescribably attractive about one of these Welsh homes. Perhaps
“hominess” describes it best. The absence of ceremony and the presence
of a spirit of kindliness and cordiality put the stranger at his ease
from the first. The days spent under that roof passed all too swiftly,
and, as we look back upon them, they set the heart to glowing. Since
then the master of the house has passed into the great silence, but
no change that time works can efface the memory of his gracious and
considerate hospitality.
Sunday in North Wales is a day for rest and worship, not for golf and
picnics. It was on a Saturday evening that we reached Garn, and it
seemed like a “deserted village” when we looked up and down the street
the next morning. Any such assumption was thoroughly dissipated later on
when the hour for morning service came. Then people gathered from
every direction for miles around, and when we entered the plain,
Non-Conformist Church-house it was filled to the doors, galleries and
all. The visitor could not understand songs or prayers or sermon,
for all were in the Welsh tongue. When the sermon began my thoughtful
friend, who sat beside me, jotted down the salient points of the
discourse as the preacher proceeded, so that the handicapped American
gained a very fair idea of the outline. It was not the sermon, however,
but the singing that made the strongest impression. Needless to say,
not a word could be understood, but somehow it reached the heart. The
dominance of the minor would have been somewhat depressing had it not
been for the occasional evident exultation and rejoicing which swept
forth to fill the church.
It was at the evening service that the most profound impression was made
upon the writer. The second service of the day closes before it becomes
necessary to light the lamps. The sun was low in the west, when, after
the sermon, a man came down from the gallery and stood up before the
pulpit to sing. That song, in an unfamiliar tongue, melted the heart and
filled the eyes with tears. The rays of the setting sun fell through the
western windows upon the singer, and we thought of one in a far-off
land and time whose face did shine when he returned to his people from
talking with God. Later on our host told us that this man had been a
popular concert singer whose heart God had touched during the great
revival which had then just swept over Wales. The song to which we had
listened told of the joy of the wanderer when he had come back from the
“far country” to his Father’s house.
English is rarely heard on the streets of Garn, and not a few of the
people of this section are unable to speak anything but the Welsh. On
one of our days of wandering about the country we met a woman in the
highway with whom Dr. W. talked in her native tongue. He then told his
friend that we would stop at the home of this woman a little farther
on, and excused himself for a moment while he visited a neighbouring
farmhouse. Left together, the Welsh woman and the American were somewhat
at a loss as to how conversation might be carried on. It was the woman,
of course, who solved the difficulty. She knew one English word, and
looking the visitor in the eye, she smiled and said, “America! America!”
The stranger could not even say “Yes,” in Welsh, but he said it in his
best Yankee and his answering smile was in the universal language. Dr.
W. said afterwards that this woman’s sons were in the United States, and
we found few homes from which at least one had not gone forth to the
new world. It was for the sake of her boys, in part, at least, that this
woman overwhelmed us with attentions when we sat in her home a little
later on. Such milk we never expect to taste again. When Dr. W. said
that she had served us with the “strippings,” he was compelled to
explain that the Welsh dairymen keep separate the last of the milk taken
from the cow--the “strippings”--as this is much richer than that given
earlier in the milking. Henceforth, give us “strippings.”
As one comes to know something of the conditions obtaining in Wales,
the only wonder is that they do not all emigrate. The land is generally
owned by non-residents, and the rentals are high. If the tenant rescues
a field from the rocks and brush, thereby increasing productivity, the
rental is at once increased. Every one must pay towards the support of
the Established Church. On the Sunday which we spent in Garn, the two
Non-Conformist churches of the village were crowded, while only fifteen
people were present at the services held by the Church of England; yet
every man of these Calvinistic Methodists and Baptists was taxed for
the support of the establishment. No more gross injustice in the name of
religion was ever perpetrated than that from which the Non-Conformists
of Wales suffer.
The valley of the Dwyfor is an idyll of peaceful beauty. One afternoon
we climbed the steep hillside back of the village, and stood upon a
giant rock jutting out from among its lesser fellows, where, when a
mere lad, Dr. W. practised preaching to an audience made up of rocks and
stones and grazing sheep. The spot was of interest not only because of
the associations but for the extended view that it afforded. We faced
the village and the valley, and saw the glistening waters of the sea in
the distance. Here and there a patch of woods could be seen, but for the
most part one beheld only carefully cultivated and fruitful fields. The
Dwyfor is not a great river save in its quiet beauty.
Are you built so that every stream of water, even the output of
the melting snow in the springtime, seems to say “Fish!”? Whether
fortunately or unfortunately, the writer has never been able to keep his
imagination from capering about when in the presence of lake or
river. The shining Dwyfor had an irresistible appeal, and our host was
subjected to cross-examination.
“Are there any fish in the Dwyfor?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Trout.”
“Would I be permitted to fish it?”
“Yes, by taking out a license.”
“Have you any tackle?”
“Certainly, and you are more than welcome to use it.”
The rod was heavier and stiffer than the American was accustomed to
use, and the flies were absolute strangers; but, nothing daunted, the
fisherman paid for his license and betook himself to the river. It is
probable that Dr. W. would have little choice between going fishing and
serving a term in jail; but the unselfish man trudged patiently
along with his friend. If ever a stream was clearer or its banks more
absolutely lacking in everything that would screen the fisherman, it is
unknown to the writer. The sky was almost cloudless, no wind rippled the
surface of the water, and we have a suspicion that every trout in the
Dwyfor saw us when we started from Garn. At all events, they had hied
them to safe retreats from which they looked contemptuously upon the
fisherman and his futile efforts to fool them. One deluded fish, nearly
as long as one’s finger, did lose his mental poise for a moment,
just long enough to grab the fly. The verdict of temporary lunacy was
promptly rendered by both Dr. W. and the fisherman, and the trout was
returned to the water. Fishing in the Dwyfor was a flat failure, so far
as returns in fish go.
But the fish were not the only returns of the day. When it was evident
even to the most optimistic that fishing was wasted effort, Dr. W.
suggested that we were not far from a “cromlech,” and off we started.
A mile or so along the road, and then across the fields, and we came
to one of the many Druidical remains to be found in Great Britain. The
circle was small, not more than ten feet in diameter, all the stones
standing and having a large, flat stone covering the top. Who were
the builders? Why was it built? No voice comes from the weather-beaten
stones, and wise men give differing answers.
The sun is almost touching the summit of the western hills when we reach
Garn. We have tramped many miles, made a colossal failure of fishing,
but there has been delightful comradeship, the blue sky, fair fields,
hours in God’s open, and we are happy.
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```_When all the world is young, lad,
````And all the trees are green;
```And every goose a swan, lad,
````And every lass a queen;
```Then, hey, for boot and horse, lad,
````And round the world away;
```Young blood must have its course,
`````lad,
````And every dog his day._
````--Charles Kingsley,
`````_When All the World Is Young_.
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