“‘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.