LLANGASTANAU
“O good old man; how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world.”
_As You Like It._
On a dreary day in October I had to visit one of the remote villages
high up in the moorland district. The wind howled, and the rain
beat down pitilessly, as my Welsh-car jolted me, and swayed me to
Llangastanau[6] Rectory, where I had been invited to spend the night. I
was by no means sure of comfortable quarters, for I had never seen my
host: his invitation came through my chief. But the alternative course,
a long drive in the early morning to the parish school, was still less
attractive, and I made up my mind to take college port, or butter-milk,
as the case might be.
When the car turned off the bleak road into a sheltered drive leading
up to a solid-looking house, with gleams of light in the windows, and
smoke issuing from several chimneys, my spirits rose: and when I saw
the neat-handed Phyllis at the door, and behind her a scholarly, yet
sociable face beaming over a well-lined waistcoat, I felt that I was
in for a good thing: the lot had fallen unto me in a fair ground.
There was no Mrs. Rector--there is much to be said for celibacy of the
clergy--and we made our way to a library with a bright leaping fire of
logs, and the most admirable furniture that a library can have, two arm
chairs, a long table, and three walls lined with books. As for seats
other than the arm chairs, one remembers the remark of--was it not the
visitor to Charles Lamb?--“all the seats were booked.” On each chair
was a pile of volumes taken down from the shelves, and not replaced:
so free and careless is the celibate life. But Phyllis Jones eyed them
scornfully as she passed, and during dinner they were all “put back”
where Phyllis thought they would fit in. Even the celibate life is not
all free.
My bedroom was equally enticing. Is it wicked to enjoy hearing the
wind moan, and the rain beat against the windows, when you have a good
fire burning in the grate, and there are Red Curtains to the
windows, reflecting the glow? I never see red curtains without thinking
of that wild night.
Before leaving me to dress, my host informed me of Rule 1 of the
house: “Smoking is allowed in every room in the house, except the
drawing-room;” and I had a delicious pipe and a snooze before dinner.
On reaching the drawing-room aforesaid I was told whom I should meet.
First, there was the Squire--who, by-the-bye, had wanted to have me at
the Hall, but the Rector would not hear of it, “though he was painfully
well aware that I should be far more comfortable there.” (Laughter
and dissent.) The Squire, John Trevor, had been the Rector’s pupil at
Oxford; they had kept up their friendship, and the Squire had given him
the living; one of the best fellows in the world. With the Squire would
come David Williams, Vicar of Llanbedr, formerly at a public-school
with the Squire. At Oxford they had parted; David had been tempted by a
Welsh scholarship to Jesus College; the Squire and my host were at St.
Peter’s. David was another of the best fellows in the world, and also
one of the most humorous.
Thirdly, Mr. Morgan, the Rector of Llanfair-castanwydd-uwch-y-mynydd,
which I might call Llanfair for short, was coming, because he really
wanted to see me about his School Board; a most worthy man, and an
eminent bard and philologian. Men called him The Druid. And lastly,
might he introduce his nephew, Harry, formerly a scholar of St.
Peter’s, and now, after taking a degree that satisfied even the
President, much engaged in developing the Squire’s slate-quarries.
The Rector added no praises of Harry, but it was sufficiently plain
that the nephew was the apple of the uncle’s eye. And a more charming
“rosy-cheeked apple” I never saw.
Had Harry got up the wine as directed? Yes, he had; and in a low voice
he recounted his auxiliary forces. There were, he said doubtfully,
_two_ of No. 6. Who was coming with the Squire? What, Dafydd Nantgwyn?
Ah-h. And he turned to me. Did I know Mr. Williams, Vicar of Llanbedr?
I replied that I had met him officially. Why did he call him by some
other name?
“What, David Nantgwyn? Don’t you know the story? Do you know Nantgwyn
Junction, where you change trains, if you want to go to Llanfihangel,
you know?”
I admitted so much.
“Well, you remember, the train waits there for six minutes, while the
engine runs on to Llanfihangel with one carriage to pick up passengers,
and brings them back to hook on to the train at Nant. There is no
refreshment room at Nant Station, but the wary traveller with a thirst
knows that there is just time to run 250 yards to the ‘Black Lion,’ to
get a glass of beer, to drink it, and to run back to catch the train.
David was there last month. He was wary, and thirsty; and he ran to the
‘Lion,’ and shouted ‘Glass of beer, please, Mary _bach_’; but a bagman
had outstripped him, and had already ordered his beer. So just as David
spoke, the bagman’s beer was served. David banged down his twopence and
drank the bagman’s beer joyfully. ‘Sir,’ said the bagman, ‘that was
_my_ beer.’ By that time Mary had drawn David’s beer and had put it in
front of him.
“‘Was it?’ said David; ‘then this is mine.’ And he drank that too. The
engine whistle was heard in the distance, and they both had to nip back
to the station. David was triumphant, and now they call him Dafydd
Nantgwyn. Here he comes.”
The Squire arrived with his guest. I was introduced. The Squire looked
doubtfully at me, and formally regretted that he had been unable to
have the honour of entertaining me. Warming a little, he added that he
had heard dreadful things of me. Was I not engaged in forming School
Boards everywhere? What was to become of the farmers when the rates
went up again?
I laughed, and threw the responsibility on the Education Department. I
was only a servant.
But he had also heard that I had said at dinner in Carnarvonshire that
if a man had more than a certain income, the balance should be given
to the Exchequer. He was glad to find that I had named £50,000 a year,
which left him untouched; but it was a dangerous doctrine.
I dimly remembered some such _obiter dictum_ at some one’s house, but
this was, I think, the first time in my life that I had heard of any
importance being attached to a remark of mine. In the smoking-room at
the Club, in chambers at the Temple, or at Bar Mess, one might propose
the confiscation of Grosvenor Square for the benefit of briefless
barristers, and no one would object; nay, much advice as to details
would be offered. It seemed that an Inspector of Returns must weigh his
words. Official life has its drawbacks.
While I was thus musing the Rector of Llanfair was announced, and our
party was complete. A little man, round, quick in eye and movement, and
with that “tip-tilted” nose which is sure evidence of enjoyment of a
joke. Friar Tuck with the accent of Sir Hugh Evans of Windsor.
I forgot to say that “David Nantgwyn” had greeted me as an old friend.
I had lunched with him at Llanbedr, when I visited his parish; and had
laughed at his Welsh stories till I could laugh no more. A fellow of
infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. Alas, poor Yorick! What was he
doing in that galley?
We went in to dinner, and as I passed by I heard Harry mutter to David,
“Sut yma Dafydd Nantgwyn?” (How is David of Nantgwyn?) and there was a
scuffle.
It is good to dine at Llangastanau. The trout came out of the burn; the
Welsh mutton was a native growth; the game, if I may judge from a smile
passing from host to squire, came from the Hall. The port was from the
college cellars, and St. Peter’s has a reputation. These delicacies, or
the like, might be got in London; but David and the Druid were local
and priceless: it did one good to look at the Squire and Harry; and
the Rector would have adorned--not Lambeth, but a choicest Deanery.
“If there was many like him,” said Mrs. Gamp, “we shouldn’t want no
churches.”
We talked of many things, wheeling round, and lighting here and there;
for I was a stranger, and all that they knew of me was that I was a
Socialist, and probably a Turk, Infidel, or Heretic; otherwise I should
not have been sent down there by THAT Government. But by some
chance remark it was found that we had Oxford as a common nursing
mother, and we did better. The Rector was thirty years my senior.
He was of Mr. Gladstone’s standing, and had been one of his ardent
supporters: now mourned his decadence. The Squire preceded me by ten
years; David was very slightly his junior; Harry was five years my
junior; thus we covered thirty-nine years. Still the Squire was rather
distant, till in the course of our memories I let fall something which
inclined him to believe that our views of the Prime Minister’s policy
coincided. After that he became most friendly. It is better, as Mrs.
Malaprop remarked, to begin with a little aversion.
He “took a glass of wine with me” in the old Oxford fashion, and we got
on capitally. Where had I been last week? I told him. Had I seen old
Micaiah Roberts there? I thought I had, but there were two or three
Robertses.
“Did you see Mrs. Micaiah?” said David; “they say that she lost her
wedding-ring last year, and went to her husband to get a new one:
“‘Micaiah, I’ve lost my wedding-ring.’
“‘Well, Mrs. Roberts, what of that?’
“‘Won’t you get me another, Micaiah?’
“‘No-a, Mrs. Roberts, I will not; your a-age and your personal
appearance will preserve you from insult.’”
The Druid was hot on the scent. Had I heard about Micaiah’s son?
“Some one asked Micaiah what he was going to do with his two sons. He
said, ‘The eldest will be a solicitor, if he can get his articles. The
other will go into the Church, like his father.’
“‘But that will be costly, my dear sir. Shall you send him to Oxford?’
“‘No-a, sir,’ replied Micaiah, ‘he will become a Nonconformist
preacher; then after a year or two he will go to the Bishop and say,
“My Lord, I haf seen reason to change my opeenionss, and I wish to
be ordained,” and the Bishop will ordain him, and gif him a living
moreofer.’”
David turned to me. “The Druid doesn’t love the Bishop; says he is a
(Welsh expression--I think ‘Hwntw drwg’ or ‘bad man from yonder’); that
is what we call the South Walians; and he says the Bishop’s accent is
lamentable.”
The Druid admitted his dislike. “The Bishop couldn’t say ‘Hollalluog’
(Almighty) to save his mitre; and he is worse than Jeroboam; he makes
priests of the lowest of the people. Five Calvinist preachers has
he ordained in two years; the last couldn’t speak decent English;
he was reading the Second Lesson in church the other day, and he
came to the chapter in St. Luke, you know, where it says ‘there came
down a storm, and they were filled with wãt-ter; and were in’--(he
was following the words, you know, with his fat, greasy forefinger,
and he stopped suddenly, and went on slowly, as if the ice were
thin)--‘_gee-o-par-dy_.’ English or Welsh, the Bishop is no good.”
“Druid, Druid,” said the good Rector gently. I saw he did not like
to hear the Chief Ruler thus spoken of, or his dissenting brethren
scornfully entreated. “You must remember that we don’t get the pick of
the chapel for our converts.”
“No, indeed,” said the other, quite unabashed, “nor of the
schoolmasters either. Have you met William Williams, Rhos, yet, Mr.
Inspector? He went to preach a Harvest Festival sermon for old Howell
the other day. Mr. Howell, you know, Rector of Llanfochyn, is rather an
old swell,” he added, for my information, “and Williams was a British
schoolmaster....”
“And an excellent young man,” interposed our host.
“Oh yes, indeed, I was not saying anything against him; I would not
do it whatever; but he is not quite of the same ways of acting as
old Howell,” said the narrator, pleading for his story. “Well, he
came, and he preached a very excellent sermon, I am sure; and whilst
they were in the church a storm came on, and when service was over it
was still raining very hard, and Howell said, ‘Look here, Williams,
you can’t go home in this weather, let me put you up at the Rectory
to-night.’ Of course he was much obliged, and they had supper, and
so on, and then Howell showed Williams his bedroom, and there was a
nightshirt, you know, and everything, they thought; and Williams, when
he was asked whether he had got all he wanted, says, ‘inteet it iss
fery kind of you, Mr. Howell; eferything, thank you,’ and they said
‘good-night.’ But in about five minutes Howell comes back, and knocks
at the door; ‘Sorry to disturb you, Williams, but it occurs to me that
you would not have a tooth-brush, and I have brought you one.’
“Williams took it, and looked at it, and he says, ‘Well, indeed, Mr.
Howell, it is very kind of you, and I am much obliged; yes sure; but I
do feel that I am depriving you and Mrs. Howell of it.’”
The Druid could hardly have found a more appreciative audience. Notably
the Rector gasped for breath, and wiped away many tears of pure
delight. Harry and David Nantgwyn (I have already got into the habit of
speaking thus of him) shouted for joy, like the morning stars; and the
Squire chortled in his glee.
“Llanfochyn is becoming famous,” said the Squire; “it was in that
parish that a very remarkable sermon was preached one week-night
in July. The orator was a local preacher in Zion Chapel, and the
congregation were farm labourers, male and female. After some short
preliminary exercises, he began:
“‘Well, my friends, you have all been busy in the hay to-day, and
instead of a sermon let us take some of the principal Bible characters,
and see what we know of them. There was Moses: what shall we say of
Moses? He was man for meekness. And then there was h’m, h’m, Samson:
Samson slew a thousand men with the jawbone of a lion: was it lion?
Yes, I think: well, he was man for strength. Then there was Samuel ...
and David ... and Solomon: Solomon had 300 wives, and h’m, h’m: he was
man for marriage. And there was Jonah: was three days and three nights
in the belly of a whale: what shall we say of Jonah? _He was man for
fish._ And now, &c., &c.’”
I thanked the Squire warmly, for he had told the story well. But, as he
truly remarked, the song wants singing; write it down on paper and it
is nought. There was a short lull in the conversation while we ate, and
chewed the cud of the Llanfochyn sermon. I turned to my neighbour, the
Druid: “Have you been long at Llanfair, Mr. Morgan?” I asked, hoping to
draw him out.
“Thirty years: ever since I was ordained. I went there as curate at
first, and my rector never came near the place. I was only a deacon,
of course, and the first Sunday in every month I would go down to
Rhosfawr, and John Evans, Rhosfawr, would take my service, while I took
his. And the first Sunday I was there, we began, as usual in those
days, with the Morning Hymn, and the choir in the chancel sang it, and
then we went on reading; but I was quicker than John Evans, being a
young man, and when we got to _Te Deum_ there was no singing. I looked
about, and there was no choir, and I heard the clerk say (in Welsh,
you know) to a lad, ‘Go down to the ‘Red Lion,’ and tell them that the
little chap they have got from Llanfair has read so quick that they
must come back and sing _Te Deum_.’ And it seemed that there was a door
at the back of the chancel, and every Sunday the men would go out after
the hymn, and stop at the ‘Red Lion’ till it was time to sing again.
But I was too quick for them whatever. I could give John Evans (he
added modestly) down to ‘Pontius Pilate,’ and beat him.”
This anecdote was evidently an old favourite with the party, and it was
duly honoured.
“Had any trouble with Richard Jones, Ty’n-y-felin, lately, Druid?”
asked Harry, I think, to draw him out once more.
Mr. Morgan chuckled. “He won’t have anything to say to me for a month
or two, now. Last week after the equinoctial gale--you remember?--the
roof of my church had suffered a little, and I was going down to the
builder to see about it, when I met Richard Ty’n-y-felin. ‘Good
morning, Mr. Morgan,’ he said, ‘wass blow fery hard last night: got
slates off your church roof, they tell me?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m on my way to Moses Jenkins to get it mended.’
“He leered at me with horrible malice and cunning: ‘Wass no-a sle-ates
off our chapel roof, Mr. Morgan.’
“I leered back at him: ‘D’ye think, Risiard, the Prince of the power of
the air would unroof his own chapel?’ And he fled.”
“Too bad, too bad,” protested the Rector feebly; for he had laughed
with the rest, though all unwillingly.
“Too bad for Richard Jones,” murmured David to me.
“Well, I am not so bad as Dr. Johnson, whatever,” retorted the Druid.
“I was reading last week how Boswell found him throwing snails over his
garden wall.”
“‘Sir,’ remonstrated Bozzy, ‘that is rather hard on your neighbour.’
“‘Sir,’ replied the Doctor, ‘I believe the dog is a Dissenter.’”
The Rector rose from his chair with marked disapproval. “Shall we go
into the study?” he said. And we adjourned.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Llangastanau: Castanau is the Welsh for chestnuts: I cannot imagine
how the parish got its name. I saw no chestnuts, and I ought to know
one.