"Have you ever heard," said I, "of a man of the name of Rees Pritchard, who preached within these walls some two hundred years ago?"

"Rees Pritchard, sir! Of course I have-who hasn't heard of the old vicar-the Welshman's candle? Ah, he was a man indeed! We have some good men in the Church, very good; but the old vicar-where shall we find his equal?"

"Is he buried in this church?" said I.

"No, sir, he was buried out abroad in the churchyard, near the wall by the Towey."

"Can you show me his tomb?" said I. "No, sir, nor can any one; his tomb was swept away more than a hundred years ago by a dreadful inundation of the river, which swept away not only tombs but dead bodies out of graves.

But there's his house in the market-place, the old vicarage, which you should go and see. I would go and show it you myself, but I have church matters just now to attend to-the place of church clerk at Llandovery, long a sinecure, is anything but that under the present clergyman, who though not a Rees Pritchard is a very zealous Christian, and not unworthy to preach in the pulpit of the old vicar."

Leaving the church I went to see the old vicarage, but, before saying anything respecting it, a few words about the old vicar.

Rees Pritchard was born at Llandovery, about the year 1575, of respectable parents. He received the rudiments of a cla.s.sical education at the school of the place, and at the age of eighteen was sent to Oxford, being intended for the clerical profession. At Oxford he did not distinguish himself in an advantageous manner, being more remarkable for dissipation and riot than application in the pursuit of learning.

Returning to Wales he was admitted into the ministry, and after the lapse of a few years was appointed vicar of Llandovery. His conduct for a considerable time was not only unbecoming a clergyman but a human being in any sphere. Drunkenness was very prevalent in the age in which he lived, but Rees Pritchard was so inordinately addicted to that vice that the very worst of his parishioners were scandalised and said: "Bad as we may be we are not half so bad as the parson."

He was in the habit of spending the greater part of his time in the public-house, from which he was generally trundled home in a wheelbarrow in a state of utter insensibility. G.o.d, however, who is aware of what every man is capable of, had reserved Rees Pritchard for great and n.o.ble things, and brought about his conversion in a very remarkable manner.

The people of the tavern which Rees Pritchard frequented had a large he-goat, which went in and out and mingled with the guests. One day Rees in the midst of his orgies called the goat to him and offered it some ale; the creature, far from refusing it, drank greedily, and soon becoming intoxicated fell down upon the floor, where it lay quivering, to the great delight of Rees Pritchard, who made its drunkenness a subject of jest to his boon companions, who, however, said nothing, being struck with horror at such conduct in a person who was placed among them to be a pattern and example. Before night, however, Pritchard became himself intoxicated, and was trundled to the vicarage in the usual manner.

During the whole of the next day he was ill and kept at home, but on the following one he again repaired to the public-house, sat down and called for his pipe and tankard. The goat was now perfectly recovered and was standing nigh. No sooner was the tankard brought than Rees, taking hold of it, held it to the goat's mouth. The creature, however, turned away its head in disgust and hurried out of the room. This circ.u.mstance produced an instantaneous effect upon Rees Pritchard. "My G.o.d!" said he to himself, "is this poor dumb creature wiser than I? Yes, surely; it has been drunk, but having once experienced the wretched consequences of drunkenness, it refuses to be drunk again. How different is its conduct to mine! I, after having experienced a hundred times the filthiness and misery of drunkenness, have still persisted in debasing myself below the condition of a beast. O, if I persist in this conduct what have I to expect but wretchedness and contempt in this world and eternal perdition in the next? But, thank G.o.d, it is not yet too late to amend; I am still alive-I will become a new man-the goat has taught me a lesson." Smashing his pipe, he left his tankard untasted on the table, went home, and became an altered man.

Different as an angel of light is from the fiend of the pit was Rees Pritchard from that moment from what he had been in former days. For upwards of thirty years he preached the Gospel as it had never been preached before in the Welsh tongue since the time of Saint Paul, supposing the beautiful legend to be true which tells us that Saint Paul in his wanderings found his way to Britain and preached to the inhabitants the inestimable efficacy of Christ's blood-shedding in the fairest Welsh, having like all the other apostles the miraculous gift of tongues. The good vicar did more. In the short intervals of relaxation which he allowed himself from the labour of the ministry during those years he composed a number of poetical pieces, which after his death were gathered together into a volume and published, under the t.i.tle of "Canwyll y Cymry; or, the Candle of the Welshman." This work, which has gone through almost countless editions, is written in two common easy measures, and the language is so plain and simple that it is intelligible to the homeliest hind who speaks the Welsh language. All of the pieces are of a strictly devotional character, with the exception of one, namely a welcome to Charles, Prince of Wales, on his return from Spain, to which country he had gone to see the Spanish ladye whom at one time he sought as bride. Some of the pieces are highly curious, as they bear upon events at present forgotten; for example, the song upon the year 1629, when the corn was blighted throughout the land, and "A Warning to the c.u.mry to repent when the Plague of Blotches and Boils was prevalent in London." Some of the pieces are written with astonishing vigour, for example, "The Song of the Husbandman," and "G.o.d's Better than All," of which last piece the following is a literal translation.

G.o.d'S BETTER THAN ALL.

G.o.d's better than heaven or aught therein, Than the earth or aught we there can win, Better than the world or its wealth to me- G.o.d's better than all that is or can be.

Better than father, than mother, than nurse, Better than riches, oft proving a curse, Better than Martha or Mary even- Better by far is the G.o.d of heaven.

If G.o.d for thy portion thou hast ta'en There's Christ to support thee in every pain, The world to respect thee thou wilt gain, To fear the fiend and all his train.

Of the best of portions thou choice didst make When thou the high G.o.d to thyself didst take, A portion which none from thy grasp can rend Whilst the sun and the moon on their course shall wend.

When the sun grows dark and the moon turns red, When the stars shall drop and millions dread, When the earth shall vanish with its pomps in fire, Thy portion still shall remain entire.

Then let not thy heart though distressed, complain!

A hold on thy portion firm maintain.

Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say- Resign it not till thy dying day.

The old vicarage of Llandovery is a very large-mansion of dark red brick, fronting the princ.i.p.al street or market-place, and with its back to a green meadow bounded by the river Bran. It is in a very dilapidated condition, and is inhabited at present by various poor families. The princ.i.p.al room, which is said to have been the old vicar's library, and the place where he composed his undying Candle, is in many respects a remarkable apartment. It is of large dimensions. The roof is curiously inlaid with stucco or mortar, and is traversed from east to west by an immense black beam. The fire-place, which is at the south, is very large and seemingly of high antiquity. The windows, which are two in number and look westward into the street, have a quaint and singular appearance.

Of all the houses in Llandovery the old vicarage is by far the most worthy of attention, irrespective of the wonderful monument of G.o.d's providence and grace who once inhabited it.

The reverence in which the memory of Rees Pritchard is still held in Llandovery the following anecdote will show. As I was standing in the princ.i.p.al street staring intently at the antique vicarage, a respectable-looking farmer came up and was about to pa.s.s, but observing how I was employed he stopped, and looked now at me and now at the antique house. Presently he said:

"A fine old place, is it not, sir? but do you know who lived there?"

Wishing to know what the man would say provided he thought I was ignorant as to the ancient inmate, I turned a face of inquiry upon him; whereupon he advanced towards me two or three steps, and placing his face so close to mine that his nose nearly touched my cheek, he said in a kind of piercing whisper:

"The Vicar."

Then drawing his face back he looked me full in the eyes as if to observe the effect of his intelligence, gave me two nods as if to say, "He did, indeed," and departed.

_The_ Vicar of Llandovery had then been dead nearly two hundred years.

Truly the man in whom piety and genius are blended is immortal upon earth.

CHAPTER XCVIII

Departure from Llandovery-A Bitter Methodist-North and South-The Caravan-Captain Bosvile-Deputy Ranger-A Scrimmage-The Heavenly Gwynfa-Dangerous Position.

On the tenth I departed from Llandovery, which I have no hesitation in saying is about the pleasantest little town in which I have halted in the course of my wanderings. I intended to sleep at Gutter Vawr, a place some twenty miles distant, just within Glamorganshire, to reach which it would be necessary to pa.s.s over part of a range of wild hills, generally called the Black Mountains. I started at about ten o'clock; the morning was lowering, and there were occasional showers of rain and hail. I pa.s.sed by Rees Pritchard's church, holding my hat in my hand as I did so, not out of respect for the building, but from reverence for the memory of the sainted man who of old from its pulpit called sinners to repentance, and whose remains slumber in the churchyard unless washed away by some frantic burst of the neighbouring Towey. Crossing a bridge over the Bran just before it enters the greater stream, I proceeded along a road running nearly south and having a range of fine hills on the east.

Presently violent gusts of wind came on, which tore the sear leaves by thousands from the trees of which there were plenty by the roadsides.

After a little time, however, this elemental hurly-burly pa.s.sed away, a rainbow made its appearance and the day became comparatively fine.

Turning to the south-east under a hill covered with oaks, I left the vale of the Towey behind me, and soon caught a glimpse of some very lofty hills which I supposed to be the Black Mountains. It was a mere glimpse, for scarcely had I descried them when mist settled down and totally obscured them from my view.

In about an hour I reached Llangadog, a large village. The name signifies the Church of Gadog. Gadog was a British saint of the fifth century, who after labouring amongst his own countrymen for their spiritual good for many years, crossed the sea to Brittany, where he died. Scarcely had I entered Llangadog when a great shower of rain came down. Seeing an ancient-looking hostelry I at once made for it. In a large and comfortable kitchen I found a middle-aged woman seated by a huge deal table near a blazing fire, with a couple of large books open before her. Sitting down on a chair I told her in English to bring me a pint of ale. She did so and again sat down to her books, which on inquiry I found to be a Welsh Bible and Concordance. We soon got into discourse about religion, but did not exactly agree, for she was a bitter Methodist, as bitter as her beer, only half of which I could get down.

Leaving Llangadog I pushed forward. The day was now tolerably fine. In two or three hours I came to a glen, the sides of which were beautifully wooded. On my left was a river, which came roaring down from a range of lofty mountains right before me to the southeast. The river, as I was told by a lad, was the Sawdde or Southey, the lofty range the Black Mountains. Pa.s.sed a pretty village on my right standing something in the shape of a semi-circle, and in about half-an-hour came to a bridge over a river which I supposed to be the Sawdde which I had already seen, but which I subsequently learned was an altogether different stream. It was running from the south, a wild fierce flood amidst rocks and stones, the waves all roaring and foaming.

After some time I reached another bridge near the foot of a very lofty ascent. On my left to the east upon a bank was a small house, on one side of which was a wheel turned round by a flush of water running in a little artificial ca.n.a.l; close by it were two small cascades, the waters of which and also those of the ca.n.a.l pa.s.sed under the bridge in the direction of the west. Seeing a decent-looking man engaged in sawing a piece of wood by the roadside, I asked him in Welsh whether the house with the wheel was a flour-mill.

"Nage," said he, "it is a pandy, fulling mill."

"Can you tell me the name of a river," said I, "which I have left about a mile behind me? Is it the Sawdde?"

"Nage," said he. "It is the Lleidach."

Then looking at me with great curiosity he asked me if I came from the north country.

"Yes," said I, "I certainly come from there."

"I am glad to hear it," said he, "for I have long wished to see a man from the north country."

"Did you never see one before?" said I.

"Never in my life," he replied: "men from the north country seldom show themselves in these parts."

"Well," said I; "I am not ashamed to say that I come from the north."

"Ain't you? Well, I don't know that you have any particular reason to be ashamed, for it is rather your misfortune than your fault; but the idea of any one coming from the north-ho, ho!"

"Perhaps in the north," said I, "they laugh at a man from the south."

"Laugh at a man from the south! No, no; they can't do that."

"Why not?" said I; "why shouldn't the north laugh at the south as well as the south at the north?"