account, and yet I knew not the name of any of them! At the same time I had come into contact with some Welshmen who had made their mark in London. First on my list is that of Caleb Morris, who preached in Fetter Lane Chapel, now in a declining state, but at times filled with a large and very respectable congregation. He was much given to discuss the objective and subjective, a novelty to me at that time in pulpit discourse. The state of his health latterly interfered with his pulpit success; and before he died he had taken to preaching in a room in Mecklenburg Square, where a large number of his admirers flocked to hear him. He was an amiable and thoughtful man, universally esteemed. Another Welshman of whom I used to know more was the Rev. Henry Richard, who was then a young man, preaching with a great deal of fire, in the Congregational Chapel in the Marlborough Road, on the other side of the water. He lived to become the popular M.P. for Merthyr, and to be known all the world over as the advocate of Peace. He was the secretary for many years of the Peace Society. He became a successful platform speaker, and his speeches were full of a humour which always told at public meetings. Short and sturdy in build, he was always fit for work, and had a long and laborious public life. He was a Welshman to the core—always ready with his pen or tongue to do battle for his
native land when aspersed by ignorant or partisan writers, and he did much to help on the Liberation Society, being after all a much more popular speaker—especially in the House of Commons—than his fellow-worker Edward Miall, and his loss to the Nonconformists all over the land was very great.
But, after all, the Welshman with whom I was most intimate, and whom I most admired, was Joseph Edwards, the sculptor. He came from the neighbourhood of Merthyr, where he had many relatives, whom he never forgot, and whose poverty he was always ready to relieve. He had a studio in Robert Street, Hampstead Road, and lived in the house close by. He had an uphill work to fight, and to lead a life of labour and self-denial, relieved by a few intervals of sunshine, as when at a dinner party he had the privilege of meeting Mr. Gladstone—or as when staying at the Duke of Beaufort’s, from whom he had a commission, he had the honour of escorting the Duchess into the drawing-room—an honour on which I never forgot to chaff him as I used to sit in his studio watching him at work. He must have had to work hard to make both ends meet; and when I went to see him on his death-bed, as it proved to be, I was shocked with grief to see a man of such rare and lofty genius have to sleep in a little room at the very top of the house. But commissions were rare, and the material on
which he had to work (marble) was very costly, and the sculptor works at a great disadvantage compared with the popular portrait painter. I believe he derived a great part of his income by going to the studio of a more successful artist, and giving finishing touches to what work might be on hand, much to the astonishment of the assistants, who, when they returned in the morning, were astonished to find what progress had been made in the night, which they attributed to the visitation of a ghost. Edwards was an enthusiastic poet, and many of his works in plaster—waiting, alas! for the commission to transfer to the marble which never came—were exquisitely beautiful, and were often engraved in The Art Journal. Both Mr. Hall, the editor, and his wife, the clever authoress, were great admirers of Mr. Edwards’ lofty and poetical idealisms, which sometimes soared a little above my poor prosaic qualities. As I listened to his rapt and ardent speech, I felt impelled somewhat to make a few remarks to bring him down from his starry heights, and the result ended in a hearty peal of laughter, for no man better loved a joke. I have a medallion of myself which he gave me after it had been exhibited at the Royal Academy, which I cherish as the most beautiful work of art in my possession; but he was too modest and retiring, and never gained the public esteem to which he had an undoubted claim. I
was present at the unveiling of his fine marble bust of Edith Wynne, then radiant in her glory as the Welsh Nightingale, of whom I saw enough to learn that she was as charming in private as in public life. The place was Hanover Square Rooms. My friend Edwards received quite an ovation, the Sir Watkin Wynne of that day presiding; but on the whole I fear that Edwards by his genius did more for Wales than ever Wales did for him. His life ought to have been written. Young men, I am sure, would have learned many a useful lesson. He was a true genius, with, as far as I could see, none of the failings which by some are supposed to be associated with genius. It was my painful privilege to be one of the mourners at his funeral in Highgate Cemetery. His works he left to the Cymmrodorion Society, where I hope that they are guarded with tender care. South Wales has reason to rejoice in having had born to her such a son. Let me mention another Merthyr man whom I knew, who, if not such a genius as Joseph Edwards, had at any rate as great an enthusiasm for the literature and language of Wales. He was a chemist and druggist, named Stephens, and found time to write a work on Wales, which was deemed worthy of the prize offered on the subject by some Welshman of wealth and position, whose name has, alas, escaped my treacherous
memory. At that time Wales had failed to attract much attention on the part of England. It was far away and difficult to get at. Now and then an adventurous Englishman made his way thither, and wrote a book to show how grand was the scenery and hospitable the people, and how cheap it was as a place of residence. But as a rule the average Englishman knew as little of it as he did of Timbuctoo. Since then Wales has learnt the art of advertising and is better known, and that is an advantage not to be overlooked, for it is now all the richer. Then few English resided there, and those chiefly from motives of economy.
Another Welshman whom I had the honour to reckon as a friend was Sir Hugh Owen, an earnest worker in the Temperance cause, and for the social elevation of the people and righteousness. In his case his high position on the Poor-Law Board was won by merit, and by merit alone, as he entered the Department in a subordinate capacity, and gradually worked his way up to the top of the tree, not having the advantage of aristocratic birth and breeding. I first met him in Claremont Chapel—a Congregational place of worship in Pentonville—at one time one of the most flourishing churches of that body, though I fear it has somewhat declined of late. He was a man of kindly speech and presence, always ready to help whatever
was worthy of help, and lived in the Holloway Road, where I once spent with him a pleasant Sunday, and was much charmed with one of his married daughters, who happened to be there at the time. No Temperance gathering in general, and no Welsh gathering in particular, was complete without Mr. Hugh Owen, as he then was called. In all London there was no more genial representative of gallant little Wales. He lived to a good old age, beloved and respected. The last time I met him was in the Farringdon Road, when he complained that he felt a little queer in his head. My reply was that he had no need to trouble himself on that account, as I knew many people who were in the same condition who seemed to get on very well nevertheless.
Another Welshman who yet lives—in a far-off land—was Dr. Llewellen Bevan, the popular Congregational minister in the beautiful city of Melbourne, where he is, as he justly deserves to be, a great power. He commenced his labours in London as co-pastor with Mr. Thomas Binney. Thence he moved to Tottenham Court Chapel, which became very prosperous under his popular ministry. From there he went to America, where he did not remain long. He now lives in a beautiful bungalow a few miles out of Melbourne, where I once spent with him a very pleasant night, chatting of England and old times. A curious memory occurs to me
in connection with my visit to the reverend and popular divine at Melbourne. On one occasion I heard him at a public meeting in Tottenham Court Road Chapel declare, amidst the cheers of the great audience, that he had given up smoking because one of his people complained to him that her son had come home the worse for liquor, which he had taken while smoking, and he thought there could be no harm in smoking, because he had seen Mr. Bevan smoking. “From that hour,” said Mr. Bevan, amidst prolonged applause, “I resolved to give up smoking,” and the deacons looked at me to see if I was not ashamed of my indulgence in a habit which in the case alluded to had produced such disastrous results. I must own that the reason adduced by the reverend gentleman was not to me convincing, for as far as my experience goes the smoker infinitely prefers a cup of coffee with his cigar or pipe to any amount of alcoholic liquor. Judge, then, of my surprise when at Melbourne, after our evening meal, Mr. Bevan proposed to me that we should adjourn to his study and have a smoke—an invitation with which I gladly complied. After my recollection of the scene in the London chapel I was glad to find the Doctor, as regards tobacco, sober and in his right mind. Long may he be spared after the labours of his busy life to soothe his wearied mind with the solace of the weed! The Doctor has a noble