Taking a Cup—Getting to Heaven—After Breakfast—Wooden Gallery—Mechanical Habit—Reserved and Gloomy—Last Words—A Long Time—From the Clouds—Ray of Hope—Momentary Chill—Pleasing Anticipation.
“I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respectable farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers.
“My father was a member of the Church of England, and was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening; in his moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse both with his family and his neighbours.
“One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of religious matters. ‘It is a hard matter to get to heaven,’ said my father. ‘Exceedingly so,’ said the other. ‘However, I don’t despond, none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.’
“‘Ah!’ said my father, ‘thank God I never committed that—how awful must be the state of a person who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost! I can scarcely think of it without my hair standing on end;’ and then my father and his friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy ears listening to their discourse.
“I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination to commit it, a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me; at last I determined not to commit it, and having said my prayers, I fell asleep.
“When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, ‘Commit it;’ and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good thing for children to sleep alone.
“After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to employ myself upon my tasks, but all in vain; I could think of nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost; my eyes, instead of being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for saying my task, and I had not acquired it.My master reproached me, and, yet more, he beat me; I felt shame and anger, and I went home with a full determination to commit the sin against the Holy Ghost.
“But when I got home my father ordered me to do something connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert myself; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I took my supper, and went to my room; I began my prayers, and, when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation was slight, I felt very tired, and was presently asleep.
“Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is justified; he had no hand in my destruction, but, on the contrary, he did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I determined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery; and having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and supporting my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror—words not to be repeated, and in this manner I committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.
“When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost step of the gallery; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in falling asleep.
“I awoke several times during the night, each time with a dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, but I presently fell asleep again; in the morning I awoke with the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I felt rather stunned, as before; at last I arose and got out of bed, dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about to pray from the force of mechanical habit; before I said a word, however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the use of praying? I thought; I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.
“I went to school, but sat stupified. I was again chidden, again beaten by my master. I felt no anger this time, and scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master’s face, and thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, as you suppose; poor man, what would you do if you knew I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?
“Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and fond of the society of children of my own age; but I was now reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me from all my fellow-creatures.I used to look at my brothers and schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them; they had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, I have done what no one else would dare to do; there was something grand in the idea; I had yet to learn the horror of my condition.
“Time passed on, and I began to think less of what I had done; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports; I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to Wales.
“Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said, ‘God bless you, my children; I am going from you, but take comfort, I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven.’
“As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession of me. Meet my father in heaven,—how could I ever hope to meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my mother; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them! They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different were they from me, they had never committed the unpardonable sin.
“In a few days my father died; he left his family in comfortable circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in the business of the school.
“I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction of others; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast; I knew I was a lost being; that for me there was no hope; that, though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost: I had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over!—and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years; at the end of which I must go to my place; and then I would count the months and the days, nay, even the hours which yet intervened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my time would be out; but then again I thought that, however long the term might be, it must be out at last; and then I would fall into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured.
“There was one thought about this time which caused me unutterablegrief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place to hide myself,—to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape from the horror-struck glance of my father above in the clouds; and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some degree, passed away.
“The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence upon his scholars, he advised me to go home; which I was glad to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the duties of the office which I had undertaken.
“So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself on the soil, and kissed it; then, springing up with a sudden impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long time—prayed to God.
“A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My slumbers were light and easy; not disturbed, as before, by frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might cause His displeasure.
“At church I was constant, and when there listened with deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had become a good, very good young man. At times the recollection of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill; but the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure.
“One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life I was leading; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for a moment, I said, ‘I am sure God will never utterly cast away so good a creature as myself.’ I went to church, and was as usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of searching the Scriptures: all I knew of them wasfrom the Liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect the good work which I had begun. My father’s Bible was upon the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began to read; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the following:—
“‘He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven, either in this world or the next.’”
Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm; he motioned me to sit down; and, after a short pause, continued his narration.
Hasty Farewell—Lofty Rock—Wrestlings of Jacob—No Rest—Ways of Providence—Two Females—Foot of the Cross—Enemy of Souls—Perplexed—Lucky Hour—Valetudinarian—Methodists—Fervent in Prayer—You Saxons—Weak Creatures—Very Agreeable—Almost Happy—Kindness and Solicitude.
“Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming; but it was no dream, but a terrific reality: I will not dwell on that period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings; so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing mountains and wading streams.
“Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about, I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some cave; but nothing seemed to affect my constitution; probably the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew what befel me; my life was a dream—a wild, horrible dream; more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people least of all; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless clabber. Escaping from these beings, whose countenances and godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation; looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me seemed to tell me that I could do no better; the sea was near, and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the sea. As I was running along atgreat speed, in the direction of a lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain; looking round, I perceived a venerable hale old man, who had hold of me. ‘Let me go!’ said I, fiercely. ‘I will not let thee go,’ said the old man; and now, instead of with one, he grappled me with both hands. ‘In whose name dost thou detain me?’ said I, scarcely knowing what I said. ‘In the name of my Master, who made thee and yonder sea; and has said to the sea, so far shalt thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.’ ‘Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own?’ said I. ‘He has,’ said the old man, ‘but thy life is not thy own; thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee go,’ he continued, as I again struggled; ‘if thou struggle with me the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says, in his ‘Wrestlings of Jacob;’ and see, it is of no use struggling, for I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou;’ and, indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted; whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood behind a hill, and which I had not before observed; presently he opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and forlorn. ‘Who art thou?’ he said at last. ‘A miserable man,’ I replied. ‘What makes thee miserable?’ said the old man. ‘A hideous crime,’ I replied. ‘I can find no rest; like Cain, I wander here and there.’ The old man turned pale. ‘Hast thou taken another’s life?’ said he; ‘if so, I advise thee to surrender thyself to the magistrate; thou canst do no better; thy doing so will be the best proof of thy repentance; and though there be no hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I have never taken another’s life.’ ‘What then, another’s goods? If so, restore them seven-fold, if possible: or, if it be not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able.’ ‘I have taken no one’s goods,’ said I. ‘Of what art thou guilty, then?’ said he. ‘Art thou a drunkard? a profligate?’ ‘Alas, no,’ said I; ‘I am neither of these; would that I were no worse!’
“Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some time; then, after appearing to reflect, he said, ‘Young man, I have a great desire to know your name.’ ‘What matters it to you what is my name?’ said I; ‘you know nothing of me.’ ‘Perhaps you are mistaken,’ said the old man, looking kindly at me; ‘but at all events tell me your name.’ I hesitated a moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed with much emotion, ‘I thought so; how wonderful are the ways of Providence! I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experienced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her lost child, with tears; she told me that you were one of the best of sons, but thatsome strange idea appeared to have occupied your mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit; I doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, my son.’
“He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said ‘Amen.’
“And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, where were two females; one was an elderly person, the wife of the old man,—the other was a young woman of very prepossessing appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon found was a distant relation of the old man,—both received me with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told them who I was.
“I staid several days in the good man’s house. I had still the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. On the evening of the second day, my friend said, ‘I am going to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me.’ I consented, and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next the house; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, and began to preach. ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,’ etc., etc., was his text. His sermon was long, but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind.
“The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to take upon himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged his help. This doctrine was new to me; I had often been at church, but had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious sin; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot of his cross, and accept pardon through the merits of his blood-shedding alone. ‘Therefore, my friends,’ said he, in conclusion, ‘despair not—however guilty you may be, despair not—however desperate your condition may seem,’ said he, fixing his eyes upon me, ‘despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more wicked than despair; overweening confidence is not more foolish than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of souls.’
“This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits of his blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ? Ay, truly. Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay,truly. Did I trust in Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost,—perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures told me plainly that all would be useless? I was perplexed, and yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of consulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, ‘O, yes, every one is to be saved, except a wretch like you; I was not aware before that there was anything so horrible,—begone!’ Once or twice the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I evaded him; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevolent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we were interrupted. He never pressed me much; perhaps he was delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some powerful minister in my own church; there were many such in it, he said.
“I staid several days in the family, during which time I more than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he preached, he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole family were kind to me; his wife frequently discoursed with me, and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my fate.
“At last my friend said to me, ‘It is now time thou shouldst return to thy mother and thy brother.’ So I arose, and departed to my mother and my brother; and at my departure my old friend gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother took me by the hand and bade me welcome; and when our first emotions were subsided, my mother said, ‘I trust thou art come in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite thou always wast) died and left thee his heir—left thee the goodly farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, and be a comfort to me in my old days.’ And I answered, ‘I will, if so please the Lord;’ and I said to myself, ‘God grant that this bequest be a token of the Lord’s favour.’
“And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm; it was about twenty miles from my mother’s house, in a beautiful but rather wild district; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind employed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fervently unto the Lord; for His hand had been very heavy upon me, and I feared Him.
“There was one thing connected with my new abode, which gave me considerable uneasiness—the want of spiritual instruction. There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in London, or at some watering place, entrusting the care of his flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very little trouble about the matter. Now I wanted every Sunday to hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay heavy upon my mind; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the face, he said, ‘Master, the want of religious instruction in my church was what drove me to the Methodists.’ ‘The Methodists,’ said I; ‘are there any in these parts?’ ‘There is a chapel,’ said he, ‘only half a mile distant, at which there are two services every Sunday, and other two during the week.’ Now it happened that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him, ‘May I go with you next Sunday?’ ‘Why not?’ said he; so I went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of the Methodists.
“I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, though I did not become a regular member of the body at that time.
“I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were honest plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them enquired whether I was fervent in prayer. ‘Very fervent,’ said I. ‘And do you read the Scriptures often?’ said he. ‘No,’ said I. ‘Why not?’ said he. ‘Because I am afraid to see there my own condemnation.’ They looked at each other, and said nothing at the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read the Scriptures with fervency and prayer.
“As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs prospered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasionally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welshman. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great AbGwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. I likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonderful delineations of the torments of the nether world.
“But man does not love to be alone; indeed, the Scripture says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind with the perusal of good and wise books; but, as I have already said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits; the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly before my mind’s eye, decked with quiet graces—hang not down your head, Winifred—and I thought that of all the women in the world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to acknowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to whether I should make the attempt or not—selfishness however prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that occurred at this period—suffice it to say that I made my suit and was successful; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he partly deceived himself; he was pleased that I had adopted his profession—we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young person, she did not ask many questions; and I soon found that I had won her heart. To be brief, I married her; and here she is, the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married her, friend; and brought her home to my little possession, where we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in the field; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend; I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, could you understand them; but I repeat, you Saxons are an ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer.
“One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of Ellis Wyn, my wife said, ‘This is a wonderful book, and containing much true and pleasant doctrine; but how is it that you, who are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read the Bible? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read me sweet songs ofyour own composition, you edify me with your gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.’ And when I heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. All went on smoothly for a long time; for months and months I did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was almost happy,—taking pleasure in everything around me,—in my wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a particular field of a neighbour—oh, God—God! I came to the fatal passage.
“Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife followed me, asking me what was the matter. I could only answer with groans—for three days and three nights I did little else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife! ‘What is the matter, husband, dear husband?’ she was continually saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my wife the tale, as we sat one night—it was a mid-winter night—over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family had retired to rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now.
“I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure; and, looking up in my face, she said—what do you think my wife said, young man?”
“It is impossible for me to guess,” said I.
“‘Let us go to rest, my love; your fears are all groundless.’”
Getting Late—Seven Years Old—Chastening—Go Forth—London Bridge—Same Eyes—Common Occurrence—Very Sleepy.
“And so I still say,” said Winifred, sobbing. “Let us retire to rest, dear husband; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope that it eventually will; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to rest, for it is getting late.”
“Rest!” said Peter; “there is no rest for the wicked!”
“We are all wicked,” said Winifred; “but you are afraid of a shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is not the sin against the Holy Ghost: the sin of your heart is its natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the idea of having committed a sin which you never committed.”
“Then you will still maintain,” said Peter, “that I never committed the sin against the Holy Spirit?”
“I will,” said Winifred; “you never committed it. How should a child seven years old commit a sin like that?”
“Have I not read my own condemnation?” said Peter. “Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture condemn me? ‘He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.’”
“You never committed it,” said Winifred.
“But the words! the words! the words!” said Peter.
“The words are true words,” said Winifred, sobbing; “but they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from their Master.”
“And what sayst thou to the effect which the words produced upon me?” said Peter. “Did they not cause me to run wild through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore? thinkest thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance?”
“No,” said Winifred, “not by chance; it was the hand of God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes to that fearful passage.”
“Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of guile?” said Peter, with a groan. “Is not the Lord true? Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred! hush! thou knowest that I have committed the sin.”
“Thou hast not committed it,” said Winifred, sobbing yet more violently. “Were they my last words, I would persist that thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but for this chastening; it was not to convince thee that thou hast committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom of His ways.”
“I see thou wouldst comfort me,” said Peter, “as thou hast often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man his opinion.”
“I have not yet heard the whole of your history,” said I.
“My story is nearly told,” said Peter; “a few words will complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I was rapidly falling into the depths of despair; when one day Winifred said to me, ‘I see thou wilt be lost if we remain here. One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.’ ‘And what can I do in the wide world?’ said I, despondingly. ‘Much,’ replied Winifred, ‘if you will but exert yourself; much good canst thou do with the blessing of God.’ Many things of the same kind she said to me; and at last I arose from the earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the goodwe were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. I—I—outcast Peter, became the preacher, Peter Williams. I, the lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way I have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side hearkening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of indescribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath; for I then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the word of God? Young man, my tale is told; you seem in thought!”
“I am thinking of London Bridge,” said I.
“Of London Bridge!” said Peter and his wife.
“Yes,” said I, “of London Bridge. I am indebted for much wisdom to London Bridge; it was there that I completed my studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found written, ‘Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some sin which presses heavy upon him. O! if men could but look into each other’s hearts, what blackness would they find there!’”
“That’s true,” said Peter. “What is the name of the book?”
“‘The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders.’”
“Some popish saint, I suppose,” said Peter.
“As much of a saint, I dare say,” said I, “as most popish ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your schoolfellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the same eyes with which you were looking upon them!”
“How!” said Peter, “dost thou think that they had divined my secret?”
“Not they,” said I; “they were, I dare say, thinking too much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery?”
“Dost thou then imagine,” said Peter, “the sin against the Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence?”
“As you have described it,” said I, “of very common occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the only beings likely to commit it.”
“Truly,” said Winifred, “the young man talks wisely.”
Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be reflecting; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in the face, and,grasping my hand with vehemence, he said, “Tell me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the sin against the Holy Ghost?”
“I am neither Papist nor Methodist,” said I, “but of the Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own counsel; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no uneasiness at these years—but I am sleepy, and must go to rest.”
“God bless thee, young man,” said Winifred.
Low and Calm—Much Better—Blessed Effect—No Answer—Such a Sermon.
Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband conversing in the place where I had left them; both their voices were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but they were now in their cart; still the voices of both were calm. I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the man. Methought I occasionally heard the word Pechod proceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts.
“I wish that man were happy,” said I to myself, “were it only for his wife’s sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own.”
The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared; perhaps it proceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes were soon fixed intently on the volume; now and then he would call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably.
“Your husband seems much better,” said I, at evening fall, to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone.
“He does,” said Winifred, “and that on the day of the week when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for to-morrow is the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change! and to think that this change should have been produced by a few words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful.”
“To whom do you allude,” said I; “and to what words?”
“To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips last night, after you had heard my poor husband’s history. Those strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, have produced in myhusband the blessed effect which you have observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to destruction,—the only being capable of committing the never-to-be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children, has tranquillized him; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone.”
Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends and myself breakfasted together—again the good family of the house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. “Wilt thou not come?” said Peter, looking towards me with a face in which there was much emotion. “Wilt thou not come?” said Winifred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which it had moved on the preceding sabbath, and I was again left alone.
The hours of the sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at the sky, the trees, and the water. At last I strolled up to the house and sat down in the porch. It was empty; there was no modest maiden there, as on the preceding sabbath. The damsel of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, quite alone. The hours of the sabbath passed heavily away.
At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning, I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups; the young girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking: “Such a sermon,” said she, “it has never been our lot to hear; Peter never before spoke as he has done this day—he was always a powerful preacher; but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it.” “What was the subject?” said I, interrupting her. “Ah! you should have been there, young man, to have heard it; it would have made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the time; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good Peter Williams on the Power, Providence, and Goodness of God.”
Deep Interest—Goodly Country—Two Mansions—Welshman’s Candle—Beautiful Universe—Godly Discourse—Fine Church—Points of Doctrine—Strange Adventures—Paltry Cause—Roman Pontiff—Evil Spirit.
On the morrow I said to my friends, “I am about to depart; farewell!” “Depart!” said Peter and his wife, simultaneously, “whither wouldst thou go?” “I can’t stay here all my days,” I replied. “Of course not,” said Peter; “but we had no idea of losing thee so soon: we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee.” “You mean I am under infinite obligations to you,” said I. “Did you not save my life?” “Perhaps so, under God,” said Peter; “and what hast thou not done for me? Art thou aware that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair? But, independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, to-morrow we go into Wales; go with us.” “I have no wish to go into Wales,” said I. “Why not?” said Peter, with animation, “Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says—a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig lead.”
“I dare say it is a very fine country,” said I, “but I have no wish to go there just now; my destiny seems to point in another direction, to say nothing of my trade.” “Thou dost right to say nothing of thy trade,” said Peter, smiling, “for thou seemest to care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest; but, setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go with us into Wales.” “I cannot promise to go with you into Wales,” said I; “but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the way.” “Do,” said Peter. “I have many people to see to-day, and so has Winifred; but we will both endeavour to have some serious discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end.”
In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced addressing me in the following manner:—
“I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to admit, that the most important thing which a human being possesses is his soul; it is of infinite more importance than the body, which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years; but not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation from the body, to heaven or hell: to the halls of eternal bliss, where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not tospeak of them, I wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell; indeed, I like not to think of them; but it is necessary to speak of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and learned men, are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by-the-bye was a churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only a churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two hundred years ago—I wish many like him flourished now—speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns, called the ‘Welshman’s Candle,’ observes,
“‘The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither hope nor possibility of escaping over them.’
“But, I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking of hell. No, friend, no; I would sooner talk of the other place, and of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above.”
And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions above; explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there.
And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began to address me. “I do not think,” said she, “from what I have observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and yet, is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom?—to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and healthy form; and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights of His beautiful universe—the work of His hands? Canst thou not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single word of praise or thanksgiving to—”
And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention; and when she had concluded I took her hand and said, “I thank you,” and that was all.
On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival.
And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have spoken so often, came up to me, and holding out her hand said, “Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest.” Then, after looking around her, she said, “It was all true you told me. Yesterday I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. God bless you, young man; who would have thought thou knewest so much!”
So after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very cheerful, andenlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual hymns, some of which were in the Welsh language. At length I said, “It is a pity that you did not continue in the church; you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man becoming a bishop, by means of a less qualification.”
“Very probably,” said Peter; “more the pity. But I have told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent; what was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious help and comfort; what could I do? as good Master Rees Pritchard observes in his ‘Candle for Welshmen.’
“‘It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the hot coals for want of help; but yet more doleful to see a flock of souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest.’”
“The Church of England is a fine church,” said I; “I would not advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me.”
“I have nothing to say against the church,” said Peter; “all I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its priests would a little more bestir themselves; in a word, that it would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church.”
“It is too proud for that,” said Winifred.
“You are much more of a Methodist,” said I, “than your husband. But tell me,” said I, addressing myself to Peter, “do you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine? I, of course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries!”
“Oh, the pride of that church!” said Winifred, half to herself; “wandering sectaries!”
“We differ in no points of doctrine,” said Peter: “we believe all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a sermon by the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar beneath a hedge, or a tinker,” he added, smiling; “it was those superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conversation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do.”
Nothing further passed for some time; we were now drawing near the hills: at last I said, “You must have met with a great many strange adventures since you took up this course of life?”
“Many,” said Peter, “it has been my lot to meet with; but none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I believed in devils? Ay, truly, young man; and I believe that the abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all; some walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks ago, that I was exercising my ministry, about forty miles from here. I was alone, Winifred being slightly indisposed, staying for a few days at the house of an acquaintance; I hadfinished afternoon’s worship—the people had dispersed, and I was sitting solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet retired place; suddenly a voice said to me, ‘Good evening, Pastor;’ I looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and asked him to sit down. We began to discourse; I at first supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering minister; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all kinds of matters with much fluency; till at last he mentioned my preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to his discourse. At last he said that ‘I was engaged in a paltry cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers.’ ‘How can that be,’ said I, ‘even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?’
“The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but he almost instantly observed that if I chose to forsake this same miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation were to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into my head, and I told him firmly, that if he wished me to forsake my present profession and become a member of the Church of England, I must absolutely decline; that I had no ill-will against that church, but I thought I could do most good in my present position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canterbury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went away, repeating to himself, ‘Church of England! Archbishop of Canterbury!’ A few days after, when I was once more in a solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing to enlist under the banners of his master, adding, that he was eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful to the cause. I then asked him who his master was; he hesitated for a moment, and then answered, ‘The Roman Pontiff.’ ‘If it be he,’ said I, ‘I can have nothing to do with him, I will serve no one who is an enemy of Christ.’ Thereupon he drew near to me and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton; that as for Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that if he ever did, he was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now considered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, shivering in every limb; when I recovered myself and looked about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his propositions, and speaking more horriblythan before. I made him no answer; whereupon he continued; but suddenly hearing a noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who had returned to me on the morning of that day. ‘Who are you?’ said he, fiercely. ‘This man’s wife,’ said she, calmly fixing her eyes upon him. ‘Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest him in vain.’ He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed: at length recovering himself, he departed, muttering ‘Wife! wife! If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.’”
The Border—Thank you Both—Pipe and Fiddle—Taliesin.
We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, “If you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are close upon the border.”
“Which is the border?” said I.
“Yon small brook,” said Peter, “into which the man on horseback who is coming towards us, is now entering.”
“I see it,” said I, “and the man; he stops in the middle of it, as if to water his steed.”
We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. “Well,” said Peter, “will you go into Wales?”
“What should I do in Wales?” I demanded.
“Do!” said Peter, smiling, “learn Welsh.”
I stopped my little pony. “Then I need not go into Wales; I already know Welsh.”
“Know Welsh!” said Peter, staring at me.
“Know Welsh!” said Winifred, stopping her cart.
“How and when did you learn it?” said Peter.
“From books, in my boyhood.”
“Read Welsh!” said Peter, “is it possible?”
“Read Welsh!” said Winifred, “is it possible?”
“Well, I hope you will come with us,” said Peter.
“Come with us, young man,” said Winifred; “let me, on the other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales.”
“Thank you both,” said I, “but I will not come.”
“Wherefore?” exclaimed both, simultaneously.
“Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be invited to adinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was removed, should arise, and, amidst cries of silence, exclaim—‘Brethren and Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of Wales.’”
“How!” said Peter, “hast thou translated the works of the mighty Dafydd?”
“With notes critical, historical, and explanatory.”
“Come with us, friend,” said Peter. “I cannot promise such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be wanting.”
“Come with us, young man,” said Winifred, “even as thou art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome.”
“I will not go with you,” said I. “Dost thou see that man in the ford?”
“Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done drinking? Of course I see him.”
“I shall turn back with him. God bless you!”
“Go back with him not,” said Peter, “he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes—turn not with that man.”
“Go not back with him,” said Winifred. “If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us.”
“I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divous, Mr. Petulengro.”
“Kosko Divous, Pal,” said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; “are you turning back?”
I turned back with Mr. Petulengro.
Peter came running after me: “One moment, young man, who and what are you?”
“I must answer in the words of Taliesin,” said I; “none can say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all myself. God bless you both!”
“Take this,” said Peter; and he thrust his Welsh Bible into my hand.