MORNING HYMN--MUCH ALONE--JOHN BUNYAN--BEHOLDEN TO
NOBODY--SIXTY-FIVE--SOBER GREETING--EARLY SABBATHS--FINNY BROOD--THE
PORCH--NO FORTUNE TELLING--THE MASTER'S NIECE--DOING GOOD--THE GROANS AND
VOICES--PECHOD YSPRYDD GLAN
I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the
opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and
his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both
subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions
were completed, and then left my tent. 'Good morning,' said Peter, 'how
dost thou feel?' 'Much better,' said I, 'than I could have expected.'
'I am glad of it,' said Peter. 'Art thou hungry? yonder comes our
breakfast,' pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding
night, who was again descending the hill bearing the tray upon her head.
'What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?' said Peter, when we
had about half finished breakfast. 'Do,' said I; 'as I do other days,
what I can.' 'And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?' said
Peter. 'Why not?' said I; 'what is there in this day different from the
rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday.' 'Art thou aware,'
said the wife, interposing, 'what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it
is Sunday?' 'No,' said I, 'I did not know that it was Sunday.' 'And how
did that happen?' said Winifred, with a sigh. 'To tell you the truth,'
said I, 'I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing
of time.' 'And yet of what infinite importance is time,' said Winifred.
'Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?' 'I
do not think,' said I, 'that I am so near my end as I was yesterday.'
'Yes, thou art,' said the woman; 'thou wast not doomed to die yesterday;
an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will
come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved
yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday,
where wouldst thou have been now?' 'Cast into the earth, perhaps,' said
I. 'I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is
the natural end of man.' 'Who is Mr. Petulengro?' said Peter,
interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. 'Master of the
horse-shoe,' said I; 'and, according to his own account, king of Egypt.'
'I understand,' said Peter, 'head of some family of wandering
Egyptians--they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?--but no,
thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest
to the family of wandering artisans called ---. I do not like you the
worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from
amidst that family.' 'Who was he?' said I. 'John Bunyan,' replied
Peter, reverently, 'and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to
preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only
half a mile.' 'No,' said I, 'I will not go and hear.' 'Wherefore?' said
Peter. 'I belong to the church,' said I, 'and not to the congregations.'
'Oh! the pride of that church,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their
own tongue, 'exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its
members. Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,' said Peter,
again addressing me; 'there is a church on the other side of that wooded
hill.' 'No,' said I, 'I do not mean to go to church.' 'May I ask thee
wherefore?' said Peter. 'Because,' said I, 'I prefer remaining beneath
the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves and the
tinkling of the waters.'
'Then thou intendest to remain here?' said Peter, looking fixedly at me.
'If I do not intrude,' said I; 'but if I do, I will wander away; I wish
to be beholden to nobody--perhaps you wish me to go?' 'On the contrary,'
said Peter, 'I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which
has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest
of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of
preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee
a question--Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou
wilfully take that poison?' 'No,' said I; 'had I known there had been
poison in the cake I certainly should not have taken it.' 'And who gave
it thee?' said Peter. 'An enemy of mine,' I replied. 'Who is thy
enemy?' 'An Egyptian sorceress and poison-monger.' 'Thy enemy is a
female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee--of what did she
complain?' 'That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.' 'I do not
understand thee--is she young?' 'About sixty-five.'
Here Winifred interposed. 'Thou didst call her just now by hard names,
young man,' said she; 'I trust thou dost bear no malice against her.'
'No,' said I, 'I bear no malice against her.' 'Thou art not wishing to
deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?' 'By no means,'
said I; 'I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the
constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an
accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are
occasionally subject.' 'In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?'
'Both now and for ever,' said I. 'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the spirit
which the young man displayeth pleases me much; I should be loth that he
left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a
little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he
leaveth us.' 'My exhortation!' said Peter, and a dark shade passed over
his countenance; 'thou forgettest what I am--I--I--but I am forgetting
myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I
perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of
meeting.'
Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill
from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The
master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet
sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me
by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same,
adding that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts.
The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the
preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by
Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing
forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship.
I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my
hands behind me.
And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned
towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I
thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was
wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the
Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes
in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old
church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified
clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's
sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was
in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening
walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my
mother and brother--a quiet sober walk, during which I would not break
into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being
fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had
hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without
having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the
Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.
And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to
myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And
then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not
wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.
For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I
lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious
summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the
sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting
themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on
such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst
the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over
the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I
saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.
Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and
cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs.
Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath
day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will
bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.
But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was
shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being
as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor
heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook,
I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a
place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I
bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.
Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle
beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I
strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a
large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of
some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench.
On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same
who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.
'Good-day,' said I, 'pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.'
'Good-day,' said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing
her eyes on her book.
'That's a nice book you are reading,' said I.
The girl looked at me with surprise. 'How do you know what book it is?'
said she.
'How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no
fortune-telling in it.'
The girl looked at me half offended. 'Fortune-telling!' said she, 'I
should think not. But you know nothing about it'; and she bent her head
once more over the book.
'I tell you what, young person,' said I, 'I know all about that book;
what will you wager that I do not?'
'I never wager,' said the girl.
'Shall I tell you the name of it,' said I, 'O daughter of the dairy?'
The girl half started. 'I should never have thought,' said she, half
timidly, 'that you could have guessed it.'
'I did not guess it,' said I, 'I knew it; and meet and proper it is that
you should read it.'
'Why so?' said the girl.
'Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the
_Dairyman's Daughter_?'
'Where do you come from?' said the girl.
'Out of the water,' said I. 'Don't start, I have been bathing; are you
fond of the water?'
'No,' said the girl, heaving a sigh; 'I am not fond of the water, that
is, of the sea'; and here she sighed again.
'The sea is a wide gulf,' said I, 'and frequently separates hearts.'
The girl sobbed.
'Why are you alone here?' said I.
'I take my turn with the rest,' said the girl, 'to keep at home on
Sunday.'
'And you are--,' said I.
'The master's niece!' said the girl. 'How came you to know it? But why
did you not go with the rest and with your friends?'
'Who are those you call my friends?' said I.
'Peter and his wife.'
'And who are they?' said I.
'Do you not know?' said the girl; 'you came with them.'
'They found me ill by the way,' said I; 'and they relieved me: I know
nothing about them.'
'I thought you knew everything,' said the girl.
'There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of
them. Who are they?'
'Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?'
'Never,' said I.
'Well,' said the girl, 'this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice
person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher
as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never
heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater
part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine,
and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the
mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take
up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the
stream.'
'And what is their reason for doing so?' said I; 'would it not be more
comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?'
'I know not their reasons,' said the girl, 'but so it is; they never
sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the
mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that
is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him
otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind--'
'Thank you,' said I, 'I will now depart.'
'Hem!' said the girl, 'I was wishing--'
'What? to ask me a question?'
'Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think,
fortune-telling.'
'Do you wish me to tell your fortune?'
'By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish
to know--'
'When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three
things which I do not know--this is another of them. However, I should
not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would if I
were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and
read the _Dairyman's Daughter_ when you have nothing better to do.'
It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The
farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends
joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and
said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the
porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything
else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him.
I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our
separate places of rest.
About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it
appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued
from my tent--all was silent--but the next moment I again heard groans
and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife
lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of
Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim, 'Pechod Ysprydd Glan--O
pechod Ysprydd Glan!' and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard
the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and
gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I
did not understand all she said--she spoke in her native language, and I
was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but
he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated--'Pechod
Ysprydd Glan--O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' I felt I had no right to pry into
their afflictions, and retired.
Now 'pechod Ysprydd Glan,' interpreted, is the sin against the Holy
Ghost.