_CONTEMPORARIES—DAVIES OF SWANSEA_.
Traditions of his Extraordinary Eloquence—Childhood—Unites in Church
Fellowship with Christmas Evans, and with him preaches his First
Sermon—The Church of Castell Hywel—Settles in the Ministry at Frefach—The
Anonymous Preacher—Settles in Swansea—Swansea a Hundred Years Since—Mr.
Davies reforms the Neighbourhood—Anecdotes of the Power of his Personal
Character—How he Dealt with some Young Offenders—Anecdote of a
Captain—The Gentle Character of his Eloquence—The Human Voice a Great
Organ—The Power of the “Vox Humana” Stop—A Great Hymn Writer—His Last
Sermon.
WE shall, in the next chapter, mention several names of men, mightily
influential as Welsh preachers in their own country, and to most English
readers utterly unknown. Perhaps the most conspicuous of these lesser
known men is, however, David Davies, of Swansea. Dr. Thomas Rees, in
every sense a thoroughly competent authority, speaks of him as one of the
most powerful pulpit orators in his own, or any other, age; and he quotes
the words of a well-known Welsh writer, a minister, who says of David
Davies: “In his best days, he was one of the chief of the great Welsh
preachers.” This writer continues: “I may be deemed too partial to my
own denomination in making such an observation. What, it may be asked,
shall be thought of John Elias, Christmas Evans, and others? In point of
flowing eloquence, Davies was superior to every one of them, although,
with regard to his matter, and the energy, and deep feeling with which he
treated his subjects, Elias, in his best days, excelled him.” As to this
question of feeling, however, the writer of these pages was talking, some
time since, with Dr. Rees himself, about this same David Davies, when the
Doctor said: “What the old people tell you about him is wonderful. It
was in his voice—he could not help himself; without any effort, five
minutes after he began to speak, the whole congregation would be bathed
in tears.”
This great, and admirable man was born in the obscure little village of
Llangeler, in Carmarthenshire, in June, 1763. His parents, although
respectable, not being in affluent circumstances, could give him very few
advantages of education. Thus it happened that, eminent as he became as
a preacher, as one of the most effective hymn-writers in his language,
and as a Biblical commentator, he was entirely a self-made man. However,
as is so often the case in such instances, his earnest eagerness in the
acquisition of knowledge was manifest when he was yet very young; and he
was under the influence of very strong religious impressions at a very
early age.
Even when he was quite a child, he would always stand up, and gravely ask
a blessing on his meals; and it is said that there was something so
impressive, and grave, in the manner of the child, that some careless
frequenters of the house always took off their hats, and behaved with
grave decorum until the short prayer was ended. His parents were not
religious persons, and, therefore, it is yet more remarkable that one
day, while he was still in his earliest years, his father heard him
fervently in prayer for them behind a hedge. It is not wonderful to
learn that he was greatly affected by it. It does not seem that this
depth of religious life accompanied him all the way through his boyhood,
and his youth; but a very early marriage—in most instances, so grave, and
fatal a mistake—would appear to have been the occasion of the restoration
of his religious convictions. He was but twenty when he married Jane
Evans, a respectable, and lovely young woman of his own neighbourhood;
and now his religious life began in real earnest.
It is surely very remarkable, as we have already seen, that he, and
Christmas Evans were admitted into Church fellowship on the same
evening,—the Church to which we have already referred,—beneath the
pastorate of the eminent scholar, and bard, David Davies, of Castell
Hywel. The singularity did not stop here. Christmas Evans, and the
young Davies, preached their first sermon in the same little cottage, in
the parish of Llangeler, within a week of each other. The two youths
were destined to be the most eminent lights of their different
denominations, in their own country, in that age; but neither of them
continued long in connection with the Church at Castell Hywel; and as
they joined at the same time, so about the same time they left.
David Davies, their pastor, was a great man, and an eminent preacher, but
he was an Arian, and the Church members were chiefly of the same school
of thought; and the convictions of both youths were altogether of too
deep, and matured an order, to be satisfied by the Arian view of the
person, and work of Christ. Moreover, they both, by the advice of
friends, were looking to the work of the Ministry, for which they must
have early shown their fitness; and, as we have noticed in the case of
Christmas Evans, there was a rule in the Church at Castell Hywel, that no
one should be permitted to preach who had not received an academical
training.
This, in addition to their dissatisfaction with services devoted chiefly
to the frigid statements of speculative points of doctrine, or the
illustration of worldly politics, soon operated to move the young men
into other fields. Evans, as we know, united himself with the Baptists;
Davies found a congenial ministration at Pencadair, under the direction
of a noted evangelical teacher of those parts, the Rev. William Perkins.
There his deepest religious convictions became informed, and
strengthened. Davies was always a man of emotion; it was his great
strength when he became a preacher; and his biographer very pleasingly
states the relation of his after-work to this moment of his life, when he
says that, “Beneath the teaching of Mr. Perkins, a delightful change came
over his feelings; he could now see, in the revealed testimony concerning
the work finished by our Divine Surety, and Redeemer, enough to give
confidence of approach ‘into the holiest,’ to every one who believes the
report of it, as made known to all alike in the Scriptures. We may
justly say, ‘Blessed are their eyes who see’ this; who see that God is
now ‘reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing unto men their
trespasses.’ They, indeed, see the heavens opened, and the angels of God
ascending, and descending upon the Son of Man. They see that fulfilled
which was set forth of old in vision to Jacob, the restoration of
intercourse between earth and heaven through a mediator; and, in the
discovery of it, they walk joyfully in the way of peace, and in the
gracious presence of their reconciled Father.”
It was after this period that the first sermon was preached, in the
cottage to which we have alluded. “The humble beginning of both Davies,
and Evans, naturally reminds us,” says Davies’ biographer, “of the
progress of an oak from the acorn to the full-grown tree, or that of a
streamlet issuing from an obscure valley among the mountains, and
swelling, by degrees, into a broad, and majestic river.” David Davies
soon became well known in his neighbourhood as a mighty evangelist.
Having grounded his own convictions, and even then possessed of a copious
eloquence, it is not wonderful to read that dead Churches rose into
newness of life, and became, in the course of time, flourishing
societies. He was ordained as a co-pastor with the Rev. John Lewis, at
Trefach. The chapel became too small, and a new one was built, which
received the name of Saron. He became a blessing to Neuaddlwyd, and
Gwernogle; his words ran, like flames of fire, through the whole
district. It is said that his active spirit, and fervent style of
preaching, gave a new tone to the ministry of the Independents throughout
the whole Principality. Hearers, who have been unaccustomed to the
penetrating, the quietly passionate emotionalness of the great Welsh
preachers, can scarcely form an idea of the way in which their at once
happy, and invincible words would set a congregation on fire.
The beloved, and revered William Rees, of Liverpool, in his memoir of his
father, gives an illustration of this, in connection with a sermon
preached by Mr. Davies; and it furnishes a striking proof of the force of
his eloquence. The elder Rees speaks of one meeting in particular, which
he attended at Denbigh, at the annual gathering of the Independents. A
minister from South Wales preached at the service with unusual power, and
eloquence. Among the auditors, there was a venerable man, named William
Lewis, who possessed a voice loud, and clear as a trumpet, and who was,
at that time, a celebrated preacher among the Calvinistic Methodists.
The southern minister, in full sail, with the power of the “_hwyl_”
strong upon him, and the whole congregation, of course, in full sympathy,
all breathless, and waiting for the next word, came to a point in his
sermon where he repeated, says Mr. Rees, in his most pathetic tones, the
verse of a hymn, which can only be very poorly conveyed in translation:—
“Streams from the rock, and bread from heaven,
Were, by their God, to Israel given;
While Sinai’s terrors blazed around,
And thunders shook the solid ground,
No harm befell His people there,
Sustained with all a Father’s care,
Perversely sinful though they were.”
The drift of the passage was to show that the believer in Christ is just
as safe amidst terrors from within, and without. The sentiment touched
the electric chord in the hearts of the multitude. Old William Lewis
could bear it no longer. Up he started, unable to conceal his feelings.
“Oh, yes! oh, yes!” he exclaimed; “blessed be His name! God supported
His people amidst all the terrors of Sinai, sinful, and rebellious though
they were. That was the most dreadful spot in which men could ever be
placed; yet, even there, God preserved His people unharmed. Oh, yes! and
there He sustained me, too, a poor, helpless sinner, once exposed to the
doom of His law, and trembling before Him!” No sooner had the old man
uttered these words, than a flame seemed instantaneously to spread
through the whole congregation, which broke forth into exclamations of
joy, and praise. But the preacher, who had kindled this wonderful fire,
and who could do such things! For some time, Mr. Rees was unable to find
out who it was; and it was the younger Rees, long the venerable minister
in Liverpool, who discovered afterwards, from one of his father’s old
companions, that it was David Davies, from the south,—he who came to be
called, in his more mature years, “The great Revivalist of Swansea.”
For, after labouring until the year 1802 in the more obscure regions we
have mentioned, where, however, his congregations were immense, and his
influence great over the whole Principality, he was invited by the
Churches of Mynyddbach, and Sketty—in fact, parts of Swansea—to become
their pastor; and on this spot his life received its consummation, and
crown.
When Mr. Davies entered the town, it was a remarkably wicked spot; the
colliers were more like barbarians than the inhabitants of a civilized
country. Gangs of drunken ruffians prowled through its streets, and the
suburbs in different directions, ready to assault, and ill-treat any
persons who ventured near them. They were accustomed to attack the
houses as they passed, throwing stones at the doors, and windows, and
could scarcely open their mouths without uttering the most horrid oaths,
and blasphemies. It seems almost strange, to our apprehensions now, that
the presence of a preacher should effect a change in a neighbourhood; yet
nothing is more certain, than the fact that immense social reformations
were effected by ministers of the Gospel, both in England, and in Wales.
Mr. Davies had not long entered Swansea before the whole neighbourhood
underwent a speedy, and remarkable change. He had a very full, and
magnificent voice; a voice of amazing compass, flexibility, and
tenderness; a voice with which, according to all accounts, he could do
anything—which could roll out a kind of musical thunder in the open air,
over great multitudes, or sink to the softest intonations, and whispers,
for small cottage congregations. It was well calculated to arrest a rude
multitude. And so it came about that Mynyddbach became as celebrated for
the work of David Davies, as the far-famed Llangeitho for the great work,
and reformation of David Rowlands. The people poured in from the country
round to hear him. Then, although very tender, and genial, his manner
was so solemn, and he had so intense a power of realizing, to others, the
deep, and weighty truths he taught, that he became a terror to
evil-doers.
It is mentioned that numbers of butchers from the neighbourhood of
Cwmamman, and Llangenie, were in the habit of attending Swansea market on
Saturdays. Some of them, after selling the meat which they had brought,
were accustomed to frequent the public-houses, and to remain there
drinking, and carousing until the Sunday morning. It is a well-known,
and amusing circumstance, that, in the course of a little time, when
proceeding homewards on their ponies, if they caught a glimpse of Mr.
Davies coming in an opposite direction, they hastily turned round, and
trotted off, until they could find a bystreet, or lane, to avoid his
reproving glances, or warnings, which had the twofold advantage of
pertinency and serious wit, conveyed in tones sufficiently stentorian to
reach their ears. And there was a man, proverbially notorious for his
profane swearing, who plied a ferry-boat between Swansea, and Foxhole;
whenever he perceived Mr. Davies approaching, he took care to give a
caution to any who might be using improper expressions: “Don’t swear, Mr.
Davies is coming!”
And there is another story, which shows what manner of man this Davies
was. One Saturday night, a band of drunken young men, and boys, threw a
quantity of stones against his door, according to their usual mode of
dealing with other houses. While they were busy at their work of
mischief, he suddenly opened the door, rushed out, and secured two or
three of the culprits, who were compelled to give him the names of all
their companions. He then told them that he should expect every one of
them to be at his house on a day which he mentioned. Accordingly, the
whole party came at the appointed hour, but attended by their mothers,
who were exceedingly afraid lest the offending lads should be sent to
prison in a body. Instead of threatening to take them before the
magistrates, Mr. Davies told them to kneel down with him; and having
offered up an earnest prayer, and affectionately warned them of the
consequences of their evil ways, he dismissed them, requesting, however,
that they would all attend at Ebenezer Chapel on the following Sunday.
They were, of course, glad to comply with his terms, and to be let off so
easily. In after years, several of them became members of his Church,
and maintained through life a consistent Christian profession. “And one
of them,” said Dr. Rees, when writing the story of his great predecessor,
“is an old grey-headed disciple, still living.”
Such anecdotes as these show how far the character of the man aided, and
sustained the mighty power of the minister. Our old friend, the
venerable William Davies, of Fishguard, says: “I well remember Mr. Davies
of Swansea’s repeated preaching tours through Pembrokeshire, and can
never forget the emotions, and deep feelings which his matchless
eloquence produced on his crowded congregations everywhere; he had a
penetrating mind, a lively imagination, and a clear, distinctive
utterance; he had a remarkable command of his voice, with such a flow of
eloquence, and in the most melodious intonations, that his enraptured
audience would almost leap for joy.”
Instances are not wanting, either in the ancient, or modern history of
the pulpit, of large audiences rising from their seats, and standing as
if all spellbound, while the preacher was pursuing his theme, and, to the
close of his discourse, subdued beneath the deepening impression, and
rolling flow of words. Perhaps the reader, also, will remember, if he
have ever been aware of such scenes, that it is not so much glowing
splendour of expression, or the weight of original ideas, still less
vehement action, which achieves these results, as a certain marvellous,
and melodious fitness of words, even in the representation of common
things.
But to return to Mr. Davies. Davies of Fishguard, aforementioned, gives
an illustration of his preaching: “The captain of a vessel was a member
of my Church at Fishguard, but he always attended Ebenezer, when his
vessel was lying at Swansea. One day, he asked another captain, ‘Will
you go with me next Sunday, to hear Mr. Davies? I am sure he will make
you weep.’ ‘Make _me_ weep?’ said the other, with a loud oath. ‘Ah!
there’s not a preacher in this world can make _me_ weep.’ However, he
promised to go. They took their seats in the front of the gallery. The
irreligious captain, for awhile, stared in the preacher’s face, with a
defiant air, as if determined to disregard what he might say; but when
the master of the assembly began to grow warm, the rough sailor hung down
his head, and before long, he was weeping like a child.” Here was an
illustration of the great power of this man to move, and influence the
affections.
As compared with other great Welsh preachers, Davies must be spoken of
as, in an eminent manner, a singer, a prophet of song, and the swell, and
cadences of his voice were like the many voices, which blend to make up
one complete concert. He was not only a master of the deep bass notes,
but he had a rich soprano kind of power, too; for we read that “when he
raised his voice to a higher pitch than ordinary, it increased in melody,
and power, and its effects were thrilling in the extreme; there were no
jarring notes—all was the music of eloquence throughout.” This must not
be thought wonderful—it is natural; all men cannot be thus, nor all
preachers, however good, and great. There are a few noble organs in the
world. The organ itself, however considered, is a wonderful instrument,
but there are some built with such extraordinary art that they are
capable of producing transcendent effects beyond most other instruments.
Davies, the preacher, was one of these amazing organs, in a human frame;
but the power of melody was still within his own soul, and it was the
wonderful score which he was able to read, and which he compelled his
voice to follow, which yet produced these amazing effects.
Surely, it is not more wonderful, that the human voice should have its
great, and extraordinary exceptions, than that most wonderful piece of
mechanism and art, an organ. We have the organs of Berne, Haarlem, and
the Sistine Chapel—such are great exceptions in those powers which art
exercises over the kingdom of sound; their building, their architecture,
has made them singular, and set them apart as great instruments. But
even in these, who does not remember the power of the _vox humana_ stop?
We apprehend that few who have heard it in the organs of Berne, or
Fribourg, will sympathise with Dr. Burney’s irreverent, and ridiculous
condemnation of it, in his “History of Music,” as the “cracked voice of
an old woman of ninety, or Punch singing through a comb.” Far from this,
the hearer waits with intense anxiety, almost goes to hear this note, and
realizes in it, what has been said so truly, that music, as it murmurs
through the ear, is the nurse of the soul. But all organs have not the
_vox humana_ stop, nor all preachers either. The human voice, like the
organ, is a mighty instrument, but it is the soul which informs the
instrument with this singular power, so that within its breast all the
passions seem to reign in turn. Singular, that we have thought so much
of the great organs of the Continent, and have listened with such
intensity to the great singers, and have failed to apply the reflection
that the greatest preachers must be, in some measure, a combination of
both.
Davies was one of those preachers, without whose presence the annual
gatherings, in which the Welsh especially delighted, would have been
incomplete. On such occasions, he was usually the last of the
preachers—the one waited for. As the service proceeded, it naturally
happened that some weariness fell over the assembly; numbers of people
might be seen in different parts, sitting, or reclining, on the grass;
but as soon as David Davies appeared on the platform, there was a
gathering in of all the people, pressing forward from all parts of the
field, eager to catch every word which fell from the lips of the speaker.
When a great singer appears at a concert, who of all the audience would
lose a single bar of the melody? He gave out his own hymn in a voice
that reached, without effort, to the utmost limits of the assembled
multitude, though he spoke in a quiet, natural tone, without any
exertion. He read his text deliberately, but in accents sufficiently
loud to be heard with ease by ten thousand people. What is any great
singer, without distinctness of enunciation? And distinct enunciation
has always been one of the strong points of the great Welsh preachers.
Hence, from this reason, he was always impressive, and he seldom preached
without using some Scriptural story, which he made to live, through his
accent, in the hearts of the people; illustrative similes, and not too
many of them; striking thoughts, beneath the pressure of which his manner
became more and more impressive, until, at each period, his hearers were
overpoweringly affected. Every account of him speaks of his wonderfully
impressive voice; and all this gained additional force from his dignified
bearing, and appearance, which took captive, and carried away, not only
more refined intelligences, but even coarsest natures, while the preacher
never approached, for a moment, the verge of vulgarity. Contemporary
preachers bore testimony that when the skilful singer had closed his
strain, the people could not leave the spot, but remained for a long time
after, weeping, and praising.
We have said, already, that Mr. Davies was one of the Welsh hymn-writers;
eighty of his hymns are said to be among the best in the Welsh language.
He was a strong man, of robust constitution, but, it may be said, he died
young; before he had reached his fiftieth year, his excessive labours had
told visibly on his health, and for many months before his death, he was
strongly impressed with the idea that the time of his departure was at
hand. He died in the year 1816. The first Sabbath of that year, he
preached a very impressive sermon, from the text, “Thus saith the Lord,
This year thou shalt die.”
His last sermon was preached about three weeks before he died, when he
also administered the ordinance of the Lord’s Supper, and gave the right
hand of fellowship to thirteen persons, on their admission into the
Church. He spoke only a few words during the service, and in those, in
faltering accents, told his people he did not expect to be seen amongst
them any more. And, indeed, there was every indication, by his weakness,
that his words would be fulfilled. Every cheek was bedewed with tears.
The hearts of many were ready to burst with grief; for this man’s
affections were so great, that he produced, naturally, that grief which
we feel when the holders of our great affections seem to be parted from
us.
He went home from this meeting to die. The struggle was not long
protracted. On the morning of December 26th, 1816, he breathed his last.
On the day of the funeral, a large concourse, from the town, and
neighbourhood, followed his remains to the grave. These lie in a vault,
which now occupies a space in the centre of the new chapel, reared on the
site of that in which he ministered so affectionately; and over the
pulpit, a chaste, and beautiful mural marble tablet memorialises, and
very conspicuously bears the name of David Davies. Of him, also, it
might be said: “_The Lord God hath given me the tongue of the learned_,
_that I should know how to speak a word in season to him that is weary_.”