Lavengro

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"Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?" said a masculine voice.

"Yn wirionedd--I do not know what it can be," said the female voice, in
the same tongue.

"Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?"

"Something moves beneath it; and what was that--a groan?"

"Shall I get down?"

"Of course, Peter, some one may want your help."

"Then I will get down, though I do not like this place, it is frequented
by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces nor their clibberty
clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now I am down. It is a tent,
Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a
face!"

A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance,
dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds
of the tent and was bending over me. "Can you speak, my lad?" said he in
English, "what is the matter with you? if you could but tell me, I could
perhaps help you--" "What is it that you say? I can't hear you. I will
kneel down;" and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear close
to my mouth. "Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!"
then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously
looking on--"Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw. The oil!
Winifred, the oil!"

CHAPTER LXXII.

Desired Effect--The Three Oaks--Winifred--Things of Time--With God's
Will--The Preacher--Creature Comforts--Croesaw--Welsh and English--Mayor
of Chester.

The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired
effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether
or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said,
that with the blessing of God, he would answer for my life. He then
demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in
which we were? "for I like it not," he continued, "as something within me
tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here." I told him, as
well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place;
whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with
the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he
then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow
pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is
probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after
swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the
shadows of night had enveloped the earth--we were still moving on.
Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at
the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow,
through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two
rising grounds, that on the left, which was on the farther side of the
water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not
so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farm-
house.

Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three
immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung
their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was
bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn.
Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on
the other, the stranger said to me, "This is the spot where my wife and
myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these
parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no
objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do
under present circumstances." After receiving my answer, in which I, of
course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to
unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and
began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath
the oak.

Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking
round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing
close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that
she was very good-looking, with a composed, yet cheerful expression of
countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that
of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. "I am glad to see
thee moving about, young man," said she, in a soft, placid tone; "I could
scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after
what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks or
months. What do I say?--Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine,
just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what
thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast
thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?" I made no answer, and
the woman, after a pause, said, "Excuse me, young man, but do you know
anything of God?" "Very little," I replied, "but I should say he must be
a wondrous strong person, if he made all those big bright things up above
there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings
like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and
will live twenty times as long." The woman was silent for some moments,
and then said, "I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If
thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that
the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those
bright stars above us, than in thyself--they are things of time, but thou
art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy
eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow."

Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of
the tree, "Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the
house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have
retired for the night." "True," said Winifred, and forthwith wended her
way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom
the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use,
greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but
almost immediately said in English, "We hoped to have heard you speak to-
night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late,
owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me;
nothing remains for you to do now but to sup--to-morrow, with God's will,
we shall hear you." "And to-night, also, with God's will, providing you
be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither." "They will be
hither presently," said Mary, "for knowing that thou art arrived, they
will, of course, come and bid thee welcome." And scarcely had she spoke,
when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill.
They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to
twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of
about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found,
the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of
these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook
Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy
at seeing him. After which, he said, "Now, friends, if you please, I
will speak a few words to you." A stool was then brought him from the
cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him,
some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address
them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the
necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart.

The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few
words, he preached for at least three quarters of an hour; none of the
audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the
contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words
which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or
discourse, the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned
to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed, "I
shall soon be back, Peter, I go but to make arrangements for the supper
of thyself and company;" and, in effect, she presently returned, attended
by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. "Set it down, Jessy,"
said the mistress to the girl, "and then betake thyself to thy rest, I
shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends." The girl
departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the
ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife
appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand
upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he
exclaimed, "Ay, truly, we were both forgetful;" and then getting up, he
came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of
my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said, "Pardon us, young man, we
were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts, that we forgot thee,
but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and
taste our bread and milk?" "I cannot eat," I replied, "but I think I
could drink a little milk;" whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating
me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying, "'Croesaw.'
That," added he, with a smile, "is Welsh for welcome."

The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of
bread, cheese, milk, and curds. My two friends partook with a good
appetite. "Mary," said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of
the house, "every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to
speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have
forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?" "The two
eldest understand a few words," said the woman, "but my husband does not
wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it
pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh
children. 'Who,' I have heard him say, 'would be a Welshman, if he could
be an Englishman?'" "I for one," said the preacher, somewhat hastily;
"not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a
Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he
is somewhat prejudiced." "You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he
is an excellent person," said the woman; "as to being prejudiced, I
scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same
kingdom are almost as bad as two kings." "That's no bad observation,"
said the preacher, "and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the
Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so
till the Almighty calls all men to their long account." "They jog on
very well now," said the woman; "but I have heard my husband say that it
was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and
ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester." "Ha,
ha!" said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; "he told
you that, did he?" "Yes," said Mary; "once, when the mayor of Chester,
with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border,
a quarrel arose between the Welsh and English, and the Welsh beat the
English, and hanged the mayor." "Your husband is a clever man," said
Peter, "and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of
the Welsh? No! then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was
---. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him
and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of
Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed
them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That --- was a
very fine, noble--God for give me, what was I about to say!--a very bad,
violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable
conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young
man here--let us change the subject."

They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to
her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart.

"Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant," said Peter,
addressing his wife in their own native language, after they had bidden
me farewell for the night.

"I am afraid he is," said Winifred, "yet my heart warms to the poor lad,
he seems so forlorn."

CHAPTER LXXIII.

Morning Hymn--Much Alone--John Bunyan--Beholden to
Nobody--Sixty-five--Sober Greeting--Early Sabbaths--Finny Brood--The
Porch--No Fortune-telling--The Master's Niece--Doing Good--Two or Three
Things--Groans and Voices--Pechod Ysprydd Glan.

I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the
opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and
his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both
subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions
were completed, and then left my tent. "Good morning," said Peter, "how
dost thou feel?" "Much better," said I, "than I could have expected." "I
am glad of it," said Peter. "Art thou hungry? yonder comes our
breakfast," pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding
night, who was again descending the hill, bearing the tray upon her head.

"What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?" said Peter, when we
had about half finished breakfast. "Do," said I; "as I do other days,
what I can." "And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?" said
Peter. "Why not?" said I; "what is there in this day different from the
rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday." "Art thou aware,"
said the wife, interposing, "what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it
is Sunday?" "No," said I, "I did not know that it was Sunday." "And how
did that happen?" said Winifred, with a sigh. "To tell you the truth,"
said I, "I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing
of time." "And yet of what infinite importance is time," said Winifred.
"Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?" "I
do not think," said I, "that I am so near my end as I was yesterday."
"Yes thou art," said the woman; "thou wast not doomed to die yesterday;
an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will
come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved
yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday,
where wouldst thou have been now?" "Cast into the earth, perhaps," said
I. "I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is
the natural end of man." "Who is Mr. Petulengro?" said Peter,
interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. "Master of the
horseshoe," said I, "and, according to his own account, king of Egypt."
"I understand," said Peter, "head of some family of wandering
Egyptians--they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?--but no,
thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest
to the family of wandering artizans called ---. I do not like you the
worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from
amidst that family." "Who was he?" said I. "John Bunyan," replied
Peter, reverently, "and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to
preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only
half a mile." "No," said I, "I will not go and hear." "Wherefore?" said
Peter. "I belong to the church," said I, "and not to the congregations."
"Oh! the pride of that church," said Peter, addressing his wife in their
own tongue, "exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its
members." "Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church," said Peter,
again addressing me; "there is a church on the other side of that wooded
hill." "No," said I, "I do not mean to go to church." "May I ask thee
wherefore?" said Peter. "Because," said I, "I prefer remaining beneath
the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and
tinkling of the waters."

"Then thou intendest to remain here?" said Peter, looking fixedly at me.
"If I do not intrude," said I; "but if I do, I will wander away; I wish
to be beholden to nobody--perhaps you wish me to go?" "On the contrary,"
said Peter, "I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which
has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest
of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of
preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee
a question--Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou
wilfully take that poison?" "No," said I; "had I known there had been
poison in the cake, I certainly should not have taken it." "And who gave
it thee?" said Peter. "An enemy of mine," I replied. "Who is thy
enemy?" "An Egyptian sorceress and poisonmonger." "Thy enemy is a
female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee--of what did she
complain?" "That I had stolen the tongue out of her head." "I do not
understand thee--is she young?" "About sixty-five."

Here Winifred interposed. "Thou didst call her just now by hard names,
young man," said she; "I trust thou dost bear no malice against her."
"No," said I, "I bear no malice against her." "Thou art not wishing to
deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?" "By no means,"
said I; "I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the
constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an
accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are
occasionally subject." "In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?" "Both
now and for ever," said I. "Truly," said Winifred, "the spirit which the
young man displayeth pleases me much: I should be loth that he left us
yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy
exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us." "My
exhortation!" said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance;
"thou forgettest what I am--I--I--but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's
will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our
friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting."

Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill
from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The
master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet
sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me
by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same,
adding, that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts.
The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the
preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by
Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing
forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I
did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands
behind me.

And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned
towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I
thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was
wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the
Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes
in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old
church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified
clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's
sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was
in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening
walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my
mother and brother--a quiet sober walk, during which I would not break
into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being
fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had
hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without
having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the
Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.

And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to
myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And
then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not
wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.

For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I
lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious
summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the
sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting
themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on
such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst
the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over
the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I
saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.

Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and
cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs.
Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath
day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the mean time I will
bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.

But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was
shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being
as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor
heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook
I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a
place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I
bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.

Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle
beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I
strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a
large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of
some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench.
On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same
who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.

"Good day," said I, "pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch."

"Good day," said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing
her eyes on her book.

"That's a nice book you are reading," said I.

The girl looked at me with surprise. "How do you know what book it is?"
said she.

"How do I know--never mind; but a nice book it is--no love, no fortune-
telling in it."

The girl looked at me half offended. "Fortune-telling!" said she, "I
should think not. But you know nothing about it;" and she bent her head
once more over the book.

"I tell you what, young person," said I, "I know all about that book;
what will you wager that I do not?"

"I never wager," said the girl.

"Shall I tell you the name of it," said I, "O daughter of the dairy?"

The girl half started. "I should never have thought," said she, half
timidly, "that you could have guessed it."

"I did not guess it," said I, "I knew it; and meet and proper it is that
you should read it."

"Why so?" said the girl.

"Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the
'Dairyman's Daughter'?"

"Where do you come from?" said the girl.

"Out of the water," said I. "Don't start, I have been bathing; are you
fond of the water?"

"No," said the girl, heaving a sigh; "I am not fond of the water, that
is, of the sea;" and here she sighed again.

"The sea is a wide gulf," said I, "and frequently separates hearts."

The girl sobbed.

"Why are you alone here?" said I.

"I take my turn with the rest," said the girl, "to keep at home on
Sunday."

"And you are--" said I.

"The master's niece!" said the girl. "How came you to know it? But why
did you not go with the rest and with your friends?"

"Who are those you call my friends?" said I.

"Peter and his wife."

"And who are they?" said I.

"Do you not know?" said the girl; "you came with them."

"They found me ill by the way," said I; "and they relieved me: I know
nothing about them."

"I thought you knew everything," said the girl.

"There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of
them. Who are they?"

"Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?"

"Never," said I.

"Well," said the girl, "this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice
person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher
as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never
heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater
part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine,
and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the
mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take
up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the
stream."