LLANGASTANAU: THE LIBRARY
Dissolve frigus ligna super foco
Large reponens, atque benignius
Deprome quadrimum Sabina,
O Thaliarche, merum diota.
Horace, _Od._ I. 9.
Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,
Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,
That mellower vintage, four-year old,
From out the cellar’d Sabine cask.
Conington.
I found that the Rector had a quaint custom, a survival of his
Common-room days at St. Peter’s. Dinner was in the dining-room; Wine
with the eponymous chestnuts was served in the library, and it was an
older bin than Horace offered to his guests. We sat in a half-circle
before the fire, and each man had a small table in front of him. There
was even a mimic railway, copied from the St. Peter’s Common-room, to
carry the decanters across the fireplace, under the mantel-shelf.
But at the dining-room door my host stopped me, and at the same time
signalled to the Druid to stop. With many apologies he explained that
the schoolmaster, Mr. Evans, whom I was to inspect next morning, was
very anxious to see me just for a moment, if I would oblige the worthy
man. Mr. Morgan, who was one of the managers, would accompany me.
Of course I consented, and we went into another room. As we passed
through the hall I noticed that the Rev. David gave the master a
kindly greeting, and that the latter returned it with a respectful but
reproachful smile. Our business was entirely uninteresting, and in
fact might have well been postponed to the morrow; but I had already
learned that in country schools the Annual Inspection was the event
of the year, and the filling up of Form IX. (the school statistics
supplied to the Department) was like the settling of a marriage
contract. Two minutes sufficed to pacify the master, and I bade him
good-night. As I was leaving the room, however, I heard him say to the
Druid:
“You have Mr. Williams, Llanbedr, here to-night, Mr. Morgan. Fery
pleasant chentleman: eferybotty likes Mr. Williams, indeed. Did you
hear about Capel Zion? Oh it wass too bahd.” And he stroked his beard
with intense enjoyment.
“Capel Zion? No, what was it?” asked the Druid eagerly. “Stop,
Inspector, this is good for the digestion.”
“Well indeed it wass too bahd,” repeated Evans. “You know Capel Zion,
Mr. Morgan, that they have built between Llanbedr and Llanfawr? and
just before it wass finished, Mr. Williams wass riding past the chapel
door, and saw that they were putting up a board with a text painted on
it, and it wass ‘Tʸ Gweddi y Gelwir Fy nhʸ i’; that is, sir
(he explained to me), ‘My house shall be called the House of Prayer.’
So Mr. Williams looks at it, and just then Meshach Morgan, the deacon,
you know, came out, and Mr. Williams says, ‘Morning, Meshach: pity to
haf it painted like thaht: it will want doing again efery two years
in this valley: why not have it carved on slate?’ ‘Too much money,
Mr. Williams,’ says the deacon. But Reverend Williams says, oh, he
should like to have the pri-vi-ledsh of presenting the new chapel with
a suitable text like thaht, out off the Book that they all valued
(thaht wass bahd for Meshach, because he would not haf it in the Board
School at the last meeting), just to show his friendship for his
Nonconformist brethren. And so it wass settled. Mr. Williams goes down
to Dolgellau and orders a slab of slate to be carved, and he gives the
man a copy of the text: and after a time it comes, and the Capel Zion
congregashun were very proud of it, and efery one praised the Vicar for
being so liberal to those from whom he differed, and the _Herald_ bach
(_Carnarvon Herald_) praised him too.
“But one day Elias Morgan, Felin-ddu, wass riding by the chapel after
dining with the Captain, and they say he had had a glass or two--well,
it is a peety--and he sees the deacon there, and calls out, ‘Hallo,
Meshach, Hen Ogof Lladron!’--that iss, sir, ‘old den of thieves’--and
he points to the slab. Well, Meshach Morgan looked up, and all in a
moment it came to him what it wass, when he saw the slab, and the text:
there it wass ofer the door:
‘Tʸ Gweddi y Gelwir Fy nhʸ i; eithr chwi a’i
gwnaethoch yn ogof Lladron.’
That iss, sir, ‘My House shall be called the House of Prayer, but ye
have made it a den of thieves.’ Oh, it wass too bahd; and now they
don’t know what to do with the slahb whatefer. Well, good-night now,
gentlemen,” and he went.
The Druid lay back in a low chair, and kicked his little fat legs in
the air, screaming with suppressed joy, but anxiously looking round to
see whether the Rector was within hearing. I think I enjoyed the story
no less. There are moments when life is worth living.
We made our way to the library, and found that our host was waxing
impatient. The chestnuts were getting cold. “Castan da iawn”
(first-rate chestnut) said the Druid with a reminiscent chuckle, and we
sat down to the College port.
“Old wine, old friends, old books,” murmured the Rector, and the squire
grasped his hand with a tear of affection in his eye.
“Old jokes too, eh? hen Castan,”[7] said David.
“Hen ogof lladron,”[8] replied the Druid in a low voice, and they both
looked nervously to see whether the Rector was listening. Happily he
was absorbed in meditation. I wondered at times whether there had been
some tragedy in his life, leaving him a lonely man. But it was not my
business.
“Good old chap, Evans,” said the Squire: “parish couldn’t get on
without him; but he gets bothered a bit when you fellows come round
every autumn. Runs the school from nine to four; keeps the accounts of
a small quarry, and of a Co-operative Store at night: measures land
for the farmers on Saturdays.”
“Helps me with my figures on Saturdays, too,” murmured Harry, whose
education had been severely classical.
“Runs Sunday School on Sundays, and plays the organ in Church,”
continued the Squire.
“With approximate accuracy,” added Harry in a carping spirit; “gets
a foot on the wrong pedal now and then.” It seemed that Harry was
choirmaster; and choirmaster and organist are like Bishop and Dean.
“Extraneous duties: hard work,” said I professionally.
“But good pay,” pleaded the Rector: “one way and another he gets not
less than £250, with house, garden and coal.”
I admitted that this was better than the Bar; but a man who could
measure an irregularly polygonous field with a semi-circular bulge in
it was worth all that.
David Nantgwyn sagely remarked that some of these men were better
than others. Harry interpolated the offensive comment that this
differentiation applied equally to Vicars. David waved him aside with
an “Avaunt, stripling,” and proceeded with a recent painful experience.
His school had been vacant, and a man had applied with a testimonial
from the Rural Dean, deposing that Mr. A. B. was equally admirable
whether you regarded him as a schoolmaster or as a Christian--“rather
implying, you know, that they are separate walks in life”--in the
former capacity he was most efficient; in the latter he was exemplary.
David went to see the Rural Dean, and asked his real opinion of A. B.
The reply was that A. B. was a reprobate person: he had been dismissed
for a series of offences, culminating in brawling in church with
suspicions of intemperance.
“But, Good Heavens,” David had objected, “you stated in black and white
that he was ‘equally efficient’ and all the rest of it.”
The Rural Dean was entirely unabashed: “that was only a
tes-ti-mo-ni-al.”
I remarked that this sin was not confined to the Principality. An
English Inspector had told me a story of a school manager who came to
him at the inspection about the middle of October with a lamentable
account of the schoolmistress. Visiting the school a few days back he
had found that the mistress was absent; and on calling at her house he
had found her dead drunk. She had been but recently appointed, chiefly
on the strength of an excellent character from a clerical neighbour.
He added that this giving of false testimonials was immoral and
unneighbourly.
(“Whether you regard him as a Christian or a neighbour,” suggested
David aside, and I accepted the amendment.)
The inspector agreed, and suggested that he should prosecute his friend
and get him six months. The manager said he should hardly like to do
that, but it was a scandal. Meanwhile the inspector had been glancing
at what we call Form IX., the paper that Evans brought just now, and on
page four he read:
“Qu. (4) Are the managers satisfied with the teacher’s character,
conduct, and attention to duty?”
The answer was “YES.”
“Quite so,” the official said, in continuation of the discussion, “but
I think if I were you I would modify the answer to _that_ question,”
and he laid an incisive finger on Qu. (4).
The manager was not at all abashed. “That refers,” he retorted, “to
her conduct up to the end of the school year, September 30. It was on
October 7 that I found her so drunk.”
My modest contribution to the gaiety of the evening was received with
the courtesy due to a stranger, and many similar stories followed. The
Squire, who in those dark days before the invention of county councils
had to give many votes in the appointment of officials, besides his
own considerable share as landlord, and quarry-lord, was strong on the
moral side. The Druid and David were lamentably lax. What were you to
do when a poor beggar, or (still worse) a half starved widow, demanded
a testimonial for himself, herself, or son?
“What I do,” said David, the Oxford casuist, “in such cases, is to
ignore the special exigencies of the post. A man comes to me for help
to get a place as organist. I know he can’t play any more than your
Evans; so I dilate on his moral character, his tenor voice, and his
excellent business capacity. The appointer looks at the signature, and
says ‘Excellent man, Mr. Williams, Vicar of Llanbedr; glad to find he
speaks so highly of you,’ and ten to one the man is appointed merely by
reason of my superabundant merits.”
Much plain speaking followed this audacious assertion, and all talked
at once for some minutes. The Squire effected a diversion by enquiring
about the expected visit of a common friend named Jenkins, a returned
missionary, who was to preach for his Society next Sunday. David also
knew him; had entertained him as a guest at Llanbedr a fortnight
before; and in turn had been entertained by him with anecdotes of
his deputation tour. “In August he was staying with Hugh Hughes,
Pen-y-garth, and Hugh had kept him there for three days, so cheery a
guest was he. On the Monday they had started over the pass to collect
some subscriptions from the farmers; it was very hot, and old Hugh is
a bad walker: when they had got about half-way, Hugh stopped him and
said with his delightful stammer, ‘I s-say, w-w-what do you think this
f-f-fellow will give?’
“‘Five shillings, I should say.’
“‘W-well, l-look here; here’s five shillings; l-let’s g-go home again.’
And they went home.
“Hugh admitted that he was not interested in missionary work. He added
that the only Society he subscribed to was the Patagonian Mission.
Jenkins naturally enquired why he selected that one.
“‘Because they tell me,’ said Hugh, ‘that the P-p-patagonians eat all
the m-missionaries.’ Jenkins declared that was worthy of Sydney Smith.”
The Druid lit a cigar with thoughtful care. “We want a missionary in my
parish,” said he deliberately; “some of my people are heathens. Last
week I met William Roberts, Tan-y-fron: you know him, Mr. Trevor? and
after a little talk--I wanted him to subscribe to the school--he says
to me: ‘Well, indeed, Mr. Morgan, I don’t believe there is a God at
all.’
“‘Singular thing, Roberts,’ I said, ‘but I have a cow in my field of
the same opeenion.’ Oh, he wass mahd.”
This led to an acrimonious discussion on “Christian Missions,” all
leaning forward in their chairs and filling and lighting their
pipes with feverish haste; the Druid and David pessimist, the
Rector optimist, the Squire benevolent, for, as he remarked, if the
missionaries don’t do much good, they don’t have much of a time out
there; and he waved a comprehensive hand over the earth beyond Wales.
Harry and I pulled out of the stream, and filled up a whisky and soda
to last till peace should be declared. And Harry told me of his strange
life up in the hill-country, where the joy of living atoned for the
loss of Oxford society. The Rector was the finest old chap in the
world; the Squire was a rattling good sort, and gave him a free hand;
some of the quarrymen were first-rate fellows; of course they wanted
a lot of looking after, and an Englishman would have a rough time of
it, but he himself was a Welshman, and he knew their little ways. Then
there was fishing, and there was shooting, and he was always fit.
And so on, till the war of words ended, and the Druid came for his
whisky, and sat down by my side.
“You seem to have some remarkable parishioners, Mr. Morgan,” I remarked
with deference; “but I gather that you get the better of them.”
He was much flattered. He admitted that he was too many for them.
When he first came there, he confessed it was uphill work, but he had
learned by ex-pee-ri-ence, and he prolonged the word to indicate the
time required for his complete education. It was in the autumn, after
he came to Llanfair, that a young man came to him one Saturday evening,
and asked him (in Welsh) “to cry the nuts in church next morning.”
“Well, of course, I did not like to let him know that I did not
understand, and I asked a few questions about it; in the end I found
that his mother had an orchard full of nut-trees, and the nuts were
ripe, and I was to give out after the Second Lesson that an-ny one that
took them, you know, would be prosecuted by law.”
“With the Banns of Marriage? And what did you do, Mr. Morgan?”
He smiled in a superior manner. “I told him it wass no use for me to
cry the nuts to the people that were in church; they would not touch
his nuts; it wass the people outside that wanted to be told.”
What an admirable doctrine! and what simplification of sermons it would
produce if generally promulgated. But most congregations prefer to
“Compound for sins they are inclined to”
in the manner indicated by Butler. “I suppose the population is
scattered in your parish?” I rashly remarked.
The Druid seized his opportunity, and drew up his chair nearer to me.
“Well, yes, my dear sir, that is what I wanted to speak to you
about. It is like this. Llanfair-castanwydd-uwch-y-mynydd--that
is the Church of St. Mary of the chestnut trees on the mountain,
and Harry there calls me ‘Old Chestnuts,’ and I tell him if there
were no chestnut trees there would be no chestnuts, that is
_castanau_, you know--well, the parish is divided in two: there is
Llanfair-castanwydd-uwch-y-mynydd-uchaf, that is the upper part, and
we call that Moriah, because of the big chapel up there; and there is
uwch-y-mynydd-isaf, that is the lower part at the foot of the mountain,
and they call it Llan; that is where the church is. Well, the chapel
folk in Moriah say----”
But at this moment--_sic me servavit Apollo_--Phyllis Jones,
parlourmaid, announced the Squire’s carriage, and the others, who
had been watching my bewilderment with much delight, rose from their
arm-chairs and came around us, laughing uproariously.
“Come with me, Mr. Morgan,” said the Squire; “I will put you down
outside your gate.”
“Don’t go, Druid,” protested Harry, “don’t be put down; the Rector will
put you up. The inspector doesn’t yet understand which is ‘uchaf,’ and
which is ‘isaf,’ and how can you expect him to make it clear to those
fellows in London? Stop, and I will lend you a tooth-brush.”
The Druid saw the lead and followed suit. “Thank you, Harry,” he said,
“but I will not deprive you and the Rector of it.”
And so they vanished into the night.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Old chestnut.
[8] Old den of thieves.