“The fellow laughed a bit, and said: ‘Don’t you know me, Mr. Hopkins?’
“‘Not a bit of it,’ I said.
“‘I have often knocked at this door before,’ he said.
“‘I don’t believe you, indeed,’ I replied.
“‘Well, it is true,’ he said. And he looked straight at me, and I looked at him, and then I began to see him again just a little ragged, yellow-haired boy, and I cried out: ‘It is Schoni-bach! Little Schoni come back!’ And I must tell you this, that I was so full of joy to see him again, I could have fallen on his neck and wept. Dear me, but I was glad to see him yet alive!”
The rector sighed to think of the old days, and then went on; “Yes, that was little Schoni outside the church this morning. He was a great fellow among all the young men there, indeed. ‘What do you think of Canada, Schoni?’ they kept asking him. And all he did was to keep his hands in his pockets and rattle his money. That made them stare, I can tell you. Schoni-bach, with a black coat and a top-hat, and a gold watch-chain, and his hands in his pockets rattling his money. That was something for these fellows who have stayed at home to see, wasn’t it? Schoni-bach rattling his money—or, perhaps, it was only a bunch of keys. He was always a smart lad, was Schoni-bach.”
These stories of the old rector’s seem very colourless without the music of his accent, the constant pauses for the whiff of the tobacco, and the kindly smile that accompanied them. To those who never knew him, any written portrait of the man must give but a faint echo of his personality; but to the many English visitors, artists, sportsmen, and others, who have found their way beyond the Four Mile Bridge to the ultimate corner of Anglesey, and there been made welcome by the rector, these recollections will, I doubt not, call to mind the memory of a kind friend, and a holiday made the brighter by his cheerful hospitality. Characters such as his seem to grow rarer day by day. Few men of his energy and enthusiasm would remain nowadays for a quarter of a century in so narrow a sphere, content with such a simple life. But the Reverend John Hopkins was more than content—he was happy. He had sprung from the people, and was by nature a farmer, and to live upon the land was to him to be at home. But, above all things, he was enthusiastic in his ministry. His qualities are set out without flattery on a bronze tablet that his friends erected in the church he loved so well:
“A servant of God, in true simplicity of soul, he loved books, music, and happy human faces, but his chief delight was in the services of the Church.”
I have written what I remember of the man, and not of the priest, and though I should have no right to chronicle or criticise his ministerial career, I saw enough of him to understand that the keynote to the cheerfulness and simplicity of his character is sounded in the text that the friends amongst his congregation have chosen for his memorial:
“Llawenychais pan ddywedent wrthyf: Awn i dy’r Arglwydd.”