“I know you did, sir,” said the clerk bowing, “for I saw you at the service at Llanfair—his name is Hughes.”
“Any relation of the clergyman at Tregaron?” said I.
“Own brother, sir.”
“He at Tregaron bears a very high character,” said I.
“And very deservedly, sir,” said the clerk, “for he is an excellent man; he is, however, not more worthy of his high character than his brother here is of the one which he bears, which is equally high, and which the very dissenters have nothing to say against.”
“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.”