“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?’