Vietnam War Booby Traps Gordon L Rottman

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Vietnam War
Booby Traps

GORDON L. ROTTMAN ILLUSTRATED BY ALAN GILLILAND

Elite • 236

Vietnam War
Booby Traps

GORDON L. ROTTMAN ILLUSTRATED BY ALAN GILLILAND

Series editors Martin Windrow & Nick Reynolds
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION 4

NON-MECHANICAL BOOBY TRAPS 7

MECHANICAL OR NON-EXPLOSIVE BOOBY TRAPS 10

HAND GRENADES AS BOOBY TRAPS 17

EXPLOSIVE BOOBY TRAPS AND MINES 22

THE MILITARY USE OF BOOBY TRAPS 36

Searching for booby traps

Detection techniques

Mine detectors

Road clearing

Manual disarming

Casualties

FREE WORLD FORCES’ MINES AND BOOBY TRAPS 55

Installation defense

Claymore mines

US antipersonnel mines

CONCLUSION 62

BIBLIOGRAPHY 63

INDEX 64
VIETNAM WAR BOOBY TRAPS
INTRODUCTION
The Vietnam War (November 1, 1955–April 30, 1975) was the first conflict
in which booby traps played a significant role causing noteworthy casualties.
While booby traps have been employed by all sides in most previous wars,
their use was rather limited, even in World War II. This was due to increased
espionage, sabotage, and guerrilla warfare, plus the availability of effective
multi-functional firing devices.
It was the nature of the war in Vietnam that brought booby traps into
prominence. The VC (Viet Cong) fought a shadowy guerrilla war against
a much stronger enemy, the Free World forces: US, ARVN, South Korean,
and Australian/New Zealand forces were superior in strength, firepower,
mobility, logistics, and command and control. The VC were unable in most
instances to hold their own in standup fights against such opponents. Instead
they relied on traditional guerrilla warfare tactics of small-scale hit-and-run
attacks, ambushes, terrorist actions, and precision attacks against bases
where they temporarily controlled the surrounding area. They chose when
and where to attack, and employed the means of attack that allowed them
to avoid direct contact with a superior enemy. These included long-range
stand-off attacks with rockets, mortars, and recoilless rifles, mining road
systems Free World forces relied on for supplies, attacking water traffic and
helicopters, and one of the oldest guerrilla weapons, booby traps. Contrary
to popular conception, the endless jungles, swamps, paddies, and mountains
of Vietnam were not liberally sown with booby traps. Their positioning was
typically precise and well thought out. There were no randomly scattered
booby traps without a purpose.
For the VC, booby traps were ideal weapons and the perfect means of
OPPOSITE
Members of an understrength conducting low-profile attacks. Large numbers could be made in village
squad of 2d Battalion, workshops and jungle factories using locally available materials as well
4th Marines pass through a as modern munitions. Munitions were obtained from Communist China
punji stake-studded drainage and the USSR sent down the Ho Chi Minh Trail as well as from within
canal. Their body armor
vests (“flak vests”) were more
South Vietnam. This latter source of material consisted mostly of American
effective against booby- munitions obtained through the black market, pilfered from arriving
trap detonations and other supplies, sold or contributed to the VC, and items captured or recovered
fragmentation than against on the battlefield. Despite frequent cautioning, this was one of the main
small-arms fire. (DEFENSE
DEPT PHOTO (MARINE CORPS)
sources of supplies. The VC detailed teams who trailed Free World units
A186718/Wikimedia/Public and recovered lost and discarded munitions and materials along their
Domain) route, and from overnight bivouacs. These materials included ammunition

4
5
 cans, boxes, and tubes; “pop-up” flare tubes, tank gun, and howitzer
cartridge cases, later made into pipe bombs; C-ration cans, used radio and
flashlight batteries (which retained sufficient charge to set off a blasting
cap), tripwire materials, Claymore mine accessories, etc. Even cartridge
cases and burned-out smoke-grenade canisters were reusable along with
their expended fuzes. Recovered dud munitions, including mortar shells,
artillery projectiles, aerial bombs, and small cluster bomblets, were adapted
as mines and booby traps, or their explosive fillers removed and used in
homemade munitions.
The Vietnamese are artistically creative and ingenious. Country peasants
were raised in the village tradition of relying on locally available materials
along with discarded modern implements that came their way. They were
well acquainted with working with wood, bamboo, vines, and other natural
materials. Bamboo especially was a key component of many booby traps,
especially the infamous punji stakes. Retail shops in cities and large towns
provided hardware, electrical materials, and tools.
Most booby traps and command-detonated mines were made and
emplaced by the VC. The more conventional PAVN made only limited use
of such means. They were used to protect PAVN camps and bases, but even
those were largely emplaced by local VC units hosting the transient PAVN.
Not only were they adept at building booby traps from any available
materials, they had an eye for their natural surroundings. They could make
booby traps “invisible” in the jungle, plains, mountains, swamps, villages,
and urban areas. They not only did a superior job of hiding booby traps and
their means of triggering, but also situating them in places and surroundings
often unexpected by Free World forces.
Essentially there were three broad types of booby traps: non-mechanical,
mechanical or non-explosive, and explosive. Explosives could be triggered
unintentionally or command-detonated causing damage with blast,
fragmentation, or incendiary action. Mechanical booby traps contain no
explosives or incendiary materials, relying instead on spikes, weighted
objects, falls, or other means causing impact and puncture wounds. Non-
mechanical booby traps, such as fixed spikes or the famous punji stake pit,
are fixed and have no moving components.
Booby traps could be crudely simple or startlingly complex and ingenious,
ranging from pointed sticks to electrically command-detonated mines.
Besides a wide variety of booby traps, the VC/PAVN also used land and
water mines, both contact/pressure-detonated and command-detonated. In
fact, they were using command-detonated mines along roads and waterways
long before the IED (Improvised Explosive Device) term came into use in
Iraq and Afghanistan in the 2000s.
The use, types, triggering means, camouflage, distribution, and other
factors involving booby traps were constantly changing and required Free
World forces to be persistently on guard and tensely alert. When a unit
deployed to a new operational area its members would encounter entirely
different booby traps than they had previously experienced. There was little
second-guessing the ingenious enemy. Free World forces published a great
many manuals, lessons-learned reports, and studies on VC/PAVN booby traps
and mines to keep pace with the continuous changes and new innovations.
Arriving troops undertook a two-week orientation and acclimatization
course before deploying to the field, which included booby-trap detection
and identification training, and how to respond to them.

6
NON-MECHANICAL BOOBY TRAPS
Essentially, non-mechanical booby traps have no moving parts, are simple to
construct and emplace, and are basically “hide and forget” devices. They will
of course eventually deteriorate. The most common incorporated punji stakes
emplaced in countless manners. Often, they were simply stuck in the ground
at slight angles to cover the front of berms, the inside of ditches and moats,
hidden among vegetation bordering ambush kill zones, and on LZs or inside
the tree line. An example of the latter in action involved a helicopter-inserted
rifle company running into such stakes on an LZ’s edge and two insertion
choppers having to return to extract six injured men – and not a shot was fired.
Bamboo (tre or cây tre) was a key material extensively used to construct
all manner of buildings, houses, footbridges, fences, scaffolding, and other
structures, as well as furniture, accessories, tools, utensils, and booby traps.
It was plentiful, growing in broad swaths of land throughout Vietnam,
and is easy to work with, including cutting, splitting, and sharpening using
machetes, hatchets, and carving knives. Stakes can be shaved to a needle-
sharp point, which is quite tough, and it is unnecessary to char-harden them.
Every few inches, bamboo stalks (culms) form a tissue joint – a node –
the rigid membrane between hollow segments of a culm. The nodes separate
the hollow compartmented segments. The joint ridges formed by the node
reinforce split bamboo. The tissue joints could be punched out with a
sharpened stick to create a “pipe.” Bamboo, a member of the grass family,
grows quickly and has a higher specific compressive strength than wood,
brick, or concrete, and its specific tensile strength rivals that of steel. Freshly
cut, it is green, but dries to a camouflaging tan or light brown in 6–12 weeks.
The well-known punji stake pit took many forms, but typically measured
12×12in (size varied) and were 12in or more deep. The basic pit simply Bamboo punji stakes. The larger
stake at left has had both ends
had a number of stakes driven into the bottom. Spikes and nails driven into
sharpened, the shorter end
boards were also set in pits – they could not be simply pulled out of the foot being driven into the ground.
like stakes in the ground, but had to be removed from the pit still impaled in The stepped notch was used
the victim’s foot. Another method was to drive additional stakes in the pit’s to hammer it into the ground.
sides. They could be angled either upward, to impale the calf and ankle as The two small ones show
opposite sides: in the center
is the convex (exterior) and at
right the concave (interior). This
Where did punji stakes originate? arched cross-section gave the
The term “punji stakes” originated in the Punjab region of northwest India, but bamboo stakes their strength..
It can be seen just how sharply
the concept is of even more ancient origin. The use of embedded sharpened pointed the stakes could
stakes occurred the world over during prehistory, though when and where be made by shaving them.
exactly is lost in antiquity. The British first encountered them in the 1870s (Author)
border conflicts with the Kachins during the various Anglo-Burmese wars. The
modern use of punji stakes appeared in a British intelligence report in 1944
suggesting they could be used for defenses, in conjunction with ambushes, and
as harassing measures in Burma. They had been used against Commonwealth
forces by the Japanese in Malaya and Burma, and the report was reprinted in a
US publication, Intelligence Bulletin, in the October 1944 issue (War Department
1944b). These traps eventually appeared in US Army Special Forces manuals in
the 1950s and many were subsequently used by the VC. The South Vietnamese
and French also used them early in the conflict to defend camps and villages as
a substitute for barbed wire, at that time in scarce supply.

7
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
prayed, and the heavens gave rain.” He went. He took his text, “Let
God arise, and let His enemies be scattered!” It was an astonishing
time. While the preacher drove along with his tremendous power,
multitudes of the people fell to the ground. Calm stood the man, his
words rushing from him like flames of fire. There were added to the
Churches of that immediate neighbourhood, Mr. Elias’s clerical
biographer tells us, in consequence of the powerful impetus of that
sermon, two thousand five hundred members.
The good man lived in an atmosphere of prayer. The stories which
gather about such men, sometimes seem to partake of the nature of
exaggerations; but, on the other hand, it ought to be recollected
that all anecdotes and popular impressions arise from some well-
known characteristic to which they are the correspondents. There
was a poor woman, a neighbour’s wife. She was very ill, and her
case pressed very much upon the mind of Elias in family prayer. But
one morning he said to his wife, “I have somehow missed Elizabeth
in my prayer this morning; I think she cannot be alive.” The words
had scarcely passed from his lips when the husband was at the door,
to tell him of his wife’s departure.
There is a singular circumstance mentioned of some horse-races, a
great disturbance to the best interests of the neighbourhood; on the
day of the great race, Elias’s spirit was very much moved, and he
prayed most passionately and earnestly that the Lord would do
something to put a stop to them. His prayer was so remarkable,
that someone said, “Ahab must prepare his chariot, and get away.”
The sky became so dark shortly after, that the gas was lighted in
some of the shops of the town. At eleven o’clock the rain began to
pour in torrents, and continued until five o’clock in the afternoon of
the next day. The multitudes on the race-ground dispersed in half-
an-hour, and did not reassemble that year; and what seemed more
remarkable was, that the rainfall was confined to that vicinity. It is
our duty to mention these things. An adequate impression could not
be conveyed of the place this man held in popular estimation
without them. And his eminence as a preacher was astonishing;
wherever he went, whatever day of the week, or whatever hour of
the day, no matter what the time or the season, business was laid
aside, shops were closed, and the crowds gathered to hear him.
Sometimes, when it was arranged for him to preach in a chapel, and
more convenient that he should do so, a window was taken out, and
there he stood, preaching to the crowded place within, and, at the
same time, to the multitudes gathered outside. Mr. Morgan, late
vicar of Christ Church, in Bradford, gives an account of one of these
sermons. There was a great panorama exhibiting at the same time.
Elias took the idea of moving succession—the panorama of all the
miracles wrought by Christ. It is easy to see how, from such lips, a
succession of wonderful pictures would pass before the eye, of living
miracles of Divine working,—a panorama of wonderful cures. Mr.
Morgan says, “I was very ill at the time, but that striking sermon
animated me, and I have often stirred the cold English with the
account of it.”
We have said that no sermons are preserved; Elias himself regretted,
in his advanced life, that some, which had been of a peculiar interest
to him, had gone from him. Fragments there are, but they are from
the lips of hearers. Many of these fragments still present, in a very
impressive manner, his rousing, and piercing, and singularly original
style; his peculiar mode of dealing at will, for his purposes of
illustration, with the things of earth, heaven, and hell.
Take one illustration, from the text, “Shall the prey be taken from
the mighty, or the lawful captive be delivered?” “Satan!” he
exclaimed, “what do you say? Shall the prey be taken from the
mighty? ‘No, never. I will increase the darkness of their minds; I
will harden more the hardness of their hearts; I will make more
powerful the lusts in their souls; I will increase the strength of their
chains; I will bind them hand and foot, and make my chains
stronger; the captives shall never be delivered. Ministers! I despise
ministers! Puny efforts theirs!’ ‘Gabriel!’ exclaimed the preacher,
‘messenger of the Most High God: shall the prey be taken from the
mighty?’ ‘Ah! I do not know. I have been hovering over this
assembly. They have been hearing the Word of God. I did expect to
see some chains broken, some prisoners set free; but the
opportunity is nearly over; the multitudes are just upon the point of
separating; there are no signs of any being converted. I go back
from this to the heavenly world, but I have no messages to carry to
make joy in the presence of the angels.’” There were crowds of
preachers present. Elias turned to them. “‘What think you? You are
ministers of the living God. Shall the prey be taken from the
mighty?’ ‘Ah! who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm
of the Lord revealed? We have laboured in vain, and spent our
strength for nought; and it seems the Lord’s arm is not stretched
out. Oh, there seems very little hope of the captives being
delivered!’ ‘Zion! Church of Christ! answer me, Shall the prey be
taken from the mighty? What do you say?’ And Zion said, ‘My God
hath forgotten me; I am left alone, and am childless. And my
enemies say, This is Zion, whom no man seeketh after.’ Oh, I am
afraid the prey will not be taken from the mighty—the captive will
not be delivered. Praying Christians, what do you think? ‘O Lord,
Thou knowest. High is Thy hand, and strong is Thy right hand. Oh
that Thou wouldst rend the heavens, and come down! Let the
sighing of the prisoner come before Thee. According to the
greatness of Thy power, preserve Thou them that are appointed to
die. I am nearly wearying in praying, and yet I have a hope that the
year of jubilee is at hand.’” Then, at this point, Elias assumed
another, higher, and his most serious manner, as if about to speak to
the Almighty; and, in quite another tone, he said, “What is the mind
of the Lord respecting these captives? Shall the prey be taken from
the mighty?” Then he exclaimed, “‘Thus saith the Lord, Even the
captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the
terrible shall be delivered.’ Ah!” he exclaimed, “there is no doubt
about the mind and will of the Lord—no room for doubt, and
hesitation. ‘The ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion
with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads.’”
This is the fragment of a sermon preached when Elias was about
thirty years of age. Of course it can give but a very slender idea,
but perhaps it shows something of the manner of the master. His
imagination was very brilliant, but more chastened, and subdued,
than that of many. His eloquence, like all of the highest order, was
simple, and he trusted rather to a fitting word, than to a large
furniture of speech. It is said that, to his friends, every sermon
appeared to be a complete masterpiece of elocution, a nicely-
compacted, and well-fitted oration.
Among the great Welsh preachers, David Davies, and Williams of
Wern were, like Rowlands of Llangeitho, comparatively fixtures. Of
course, they appeared on great Association occasions. But John
Elias, and Christmas Evans itinerated far, and wide. Unlike as they
were in the build of their minds, and the character of their
eloquence, they had a great, and mutual, regard, and affection for
each other; and it is told how, when either preached, the other was
seen with anxious interest drinking in, with the crowd, the words of
his famous brother. Theirs are, no doubt, the two darling names
most known to the religious national heart of Wales. To John Elias it
is impossible to render such a mede of justice, or to give of his
powers even so comprehensive a picture, as is attempted, even in
this volume, of Christmas Evans.
Something like an illustration of the man may be gathered from an
anecdote of the formation of one of the first Bible Societies in North
Wales. It was a very great occasion. A noble Earl, the Lord
Lieutenant of the county, was to take the chair; but when he heard
that John Elias was expected to be the principal speaker, he very
earnestly implored that he might be kept back, as “a ranter, a
Methodist, and a Dissenter, who could do no good to the meeting.”
The position of Elias was such that, upon such an occasion, no one
could have dared to do that; so the noble Lord introduced him, but
with certain hints that “brevity, and seriousness would be desirable.”
The idea of recommending seriousness to John Elias, certainly,
seems a very needless commendation; but when Elias spoke,—partly
in English, and partly in Welsh,—especially when, in stirring Welsh,
he referred to the constitution of England, and the repose of the
country, as illustrating the value of the Bible to society, and some
other such remarks,—of course with all the orator’s piercing
grandeur of expression,—the chairman, seeing the inflamed state of
the people, and himself not well knowing what was said, would have
the words translated to him. He was so carried away by the
dignified bearing of the great orator, that he would have a special
introduction to him at the close of the meeting. A day or two after, a
special messenger came to invite him to visit, and spend some time
at the house of the Earl. This, however, was respectfully declined,
for reasons, no doubt, satisfactory to Elias, and which would satisfy
the peer also, that the preacher had no desire to use his great
popularity for his own personal influence, and aggrandisement.
After a life of eminent usefulness, he died, in 1841, at the age of
sixty-eight. His funeral was a mighty procession, of about ten
thousand persons. They had to travel, a distance of some miles, to
the beautiful little churchyard of Llanfaes, a secluded, and peaceful
spot,—a scene of natural romance, and beauty, the site of an old
Franciscan monastery, about fourteen miles from Llangefni, the
village where Elias died. The day of the funeral was, throughout the
whole district, as still as a Sabbath. As it passed by Beaumaris, the
procession saw the flags of the vessels in the port lowered half-mast
high; and as they passed through Beaumaris town, and Bangor city,
all the shops were closed, and all the blinds drawn before the
windows. Every kind of denomination, including the Church of
England, joined in marks of respect, and justified, more distinctly
than could always be done, the propriety of the text of the funeral
oration: “Know ye not that a prince and a great man has fallen?” Of
him it might truly be said, “Behold I will make thee a new sharp
threshing instrument, having teeth: thou shalt thresh the mountains,
and beat them small, and shalt make the hills like chaff.”
 CHAPTER VII.
CONTEMPORARIES—DAVIES OF
SWANSEA.

Traditions of his Extraordinary Eloquence—Childhood—Unites in

Church Fellowship with Christmas Evans, and with him preaches
his First Sermon—The Church of Castell Hywel—Settles in the
Ministry at Frefach—The Anonymous Preacher—Settles in
Swansea—Swansea a Hundred Years Since—Mr. Davies reforms
the Neighbourhood—Anecdotes of the Power of his Personal
Character—How he Dealt with some Young Offenders—Anecdote
of a Captain—The Gentle Character of his Eloquence—The
Human Voice a Great Organ—The Power of the “Vox Humana”
Stop—A Great Hymn Writer—His Last Sermon.
We shall, in the next chapter, mention several names of men,
mightily influential as Welsh preachers in their own country, and to
most English readers utterly unknown. Perhaps the most
conspicuous of these lesser known men is, however, David Davies, of
Swansea. Dr. Thomas Rees, in every sense a thoroughly competent
authority, speaks of him as one of the most powerful pulpit orators
in his own, or any other, age; and he quotes the words of a well-
known Welsh writer, a minister, who says of David Davies: “In his
best days, he was one of the chief of the great Welsh preachers.”
This writer continues: “I may be deemed too partial to my own
denomination in making such an observation. What, it may be
asked, shall be thought of John Elias, Christmas Evans, and others?
In point of flowing eloquence, Davies was superior to every one of
them, although, with regard to his matter, and the energy, and deep
feeling with which he treated his subjects, Elias, in his best days,
excelled him.” As to this question of feeling, however, the writer of
these pages was talking, some time since, with Dr. Rees himself,
about this same David Davies, when the Doctor said: “What the old
people tell you about him is wonderful. It was in his voice—he could
not help himself; without any effort, five minutes after he began to
speak, the whole congregation would be bathed in tears.”
This great, and admirable man was born in the obscure little village
of Llangeler, in Carmarthenshire, in June, 1763. His parents,
although respectable, not being in affluent circumstances, could give
him very few advantages of education. Thus it happened that,
eminent as he became as a preacher, as one of the most effective
hymn-writers in his language, and as a Biblical commentator, he was
entirely a self-made man. However, as is so often the case in such
instances, his earnest eagerness in the acquisition of knowledge was
manifest when he was yet very young; and he was under the
influence of very strong religious impressions at a very early age.
Even when he was quite a child, he would always stand up, and
gravely ask a blessing on his meals; and it is said that there was
something so impressive, and grave, in the manner of the child, that
some careless frequenters of the house always took off their hats,
and behaved with grave decorum until the short prayer was ended.
His parents were not religious persons, and, therefore, it is yet more
remarkable that one day, while he was still in his earliest years, his
father heard him fervently in prayer for them behind a hedge. It is
not wonderful to learn that he was greatly affected by it. It does not
seem that this depth of religious life accompanied him all the way
through his boyhood, and his youth; but a very early marriage—in
most instances, so grave, and fatal a mistake—would appear to have
been the occasion of the restoration of his religious convictions. He
was but twenty when he married Jane Evans, a respectable, and
lovely young woman of his own neighbourhood; and now his
religious life began in real earnest.
It is surely very remarkable, as we have already seen, that he, and
Christmas Evans were admitted into Church fellowship on the same
evening,—the Church to which we have already referred,—beneath
the pastorate of the eminent scholar, and bard, David Davies, of
Castell Hywel. The singularity did not stop here. Christmas Evans,
and the young Davies, preached their first sermon in the same little
cottage, in the parish of Llangeler, within a week of each other. The
two youths were destined to be the most eminent lights of their
different denominations, in their own country, in that age; but
neither of them continued long in connection with the Church at
Castell Hywel; and as they joined at the same time, so about the
same time they left.
David Davies, their pastor, was a great man, and an eminent
preacher, but he was an Arian, and the Church members were
chiefly of the same school of thought; and the convictions of both
youths were altogether of too deep, and matured an order, to be
satisfied by the Arian view of the person, and work of Christ.
Moreover, they both, by the advice of friends, were looking to the
work of the Ministry, for which they must have early shown their
fitness; and, as we have noticed in the case of Christmas Evans,
there was a rule in the Church at Castell Hywel, that no one should
be permitted to preach who had not received an academical training.
This, in addition to their dissatisfaction with services devoted chiefly
to the frigid statements of speculative points of doctrine, or the
illustration of worldly politics, soon operated to move the young men
into other fields. Evans, as we know, united himself with the
Baptists; Davies found a congenial ministration at Pencadair, under
the direction of a noted evangelical teacher of those parts, the Rev.
William Perkins. There his deepest religious convictions became
informed, and strengthened. Davies was always a man of emotion;
it was his great strength when he became a preacher; and his
biographer very pleasingly states the relation of his after-work to this
moment of his life, when he says that, “Beneath the teaching of Mr.
Perkins, a delightful change came over his feelings; he could now
see, in the revealed testimony concerning the work finished by our
Divine Surety, and Redeemer, enough to give confidence of approach
‘into the holiest,’ to every one who believes the report of it, as made
known to all alike in the Scriptures. We may justly say, ‘Blessed are
their eyes who see’ this; who see that God is now ‘reconciling the
world unto Himself, not imputing unto men their trespasses.’ They,
indeed, see the heavens opened, and the angels of God ascending,
and descending upon the Son of Man. They see that fulfilled which
was set forth of old in vision to Jacob, the restoration of intercourse
between earth and heaven through a mediator; and, in the discovery
of it, they walk joyfully in the way of peace, and in the gracious
presence of their reconciled Father.”
It was after this period that the first sermon was preached, in the
cottage to which we have alluded. “The humble beginning of both
Davies, and Evans, naturally reminds us,” says Davies’ biographer,
“of the progress of an oak from the acorn to the full-grown tree, or
that of a streamlet issuing from an obscure valley among the
mountains, and swelling, by degrees, into a broad, and majestic
river.” David Davies soon became well known in his neighbourhood
as a mighty evangelist. Having grounded his own convictions, and
even then possessed of a copious eloquence, it is not wonderful to
read that dead Churches rose into newness of life, and became, in
the course of time, flourishing societies. He was ordained as a co-
pastor with the Rev. John Lewis, at Trefach. The chapel became too
small, and a new one was built, which received the name of Saron.
He became a blessing to Neuaddlwyd, and Gwernogle; his words
ran, like flames of fire, through the whole district. It is said that his
active spirit, and fervent style of preaching, gave a new tone to the
ministry of the Independents throughout the whole Principality.
Hearers, who have been unaccustomed to the penetrating, the
quietly passionate emotionalness of the great Welsh preachers, can
scarcely form an idea of the way in which their at once happy, and
invincible words would set a congregation on fire.
The beloved, and revered William Rees, of Liverpool, in his memoir
of his father, gives an illustration of this, in connection with a sermon
preached by Mr. Davies; and it furnishes a striking proof of the force
of his eloquence. The elder Rees speaks of one meeting in
particular, which he attended at Denbigh, at the annual gathering of
the Independents. A minister from South Wales preached at the
service with unusual power, and eloquence. Among the auditors,
there was a venerable man, named William Lewis, who possessed a
voice loud, and clear as a trumpet, and who was, at that time, a
celebrated preacher among the Calvinistic Methodists. The southern
minister, in full sail, with the power of the “hwyl” strong upon him,
and the whole congregation, of course, in full sympathy, all
breathless, and waiting for the next word, came to a point in his
sermon where he repeated, says Mr. Rees, in his most pathetic
tones, the verse of a hymn, which can only be very poorly conveyed
in translation:—

“Streams from the rock, and bread from heaven,

Were, by their God, to Israel given;
While Sinai’s terrors blazed around,
And thunders shook the solid ground,
No harm befell His people there,
Sustained with all a Father’s care,
Perversely sinful though they were.”

The drift of the passage was to show that the believer in Christ is
just as safe amidst terrors from within, and without. The sentiment
touched the electric chord in the hearts of the multitude. Old
William Lewis could bear it no longer. Up he started, unable to
conceal his feelings. “Oh, yes! oh, yes!” he exclaimed; “blessed be
His name! God supported His people amidst all the terrors of Sinai,
sinful, and rebellious though they were. That was the most dreadful
spot in which men could ever be placed; yet, even there, God
preserved His people unharmed. Oh, yes! and there He sustained
me, too, a poor, helpless sinner, once exposed to the doom of His
law, and trembling before Him!” No sooner had the old man uttered
these words, than a flame seemed instantaneously to spread
through the whole congregation, which broke forth into exclamations
of joy, and praise. But the preacher, who had kindled this wonderful
fire, and who could do such things! For some time, Mr. Rees was
unable to find out who it was; and it was the younger Rees, long the
venerable minister in Liverpool, who discovered afterwards, from
one of his father’s old companions, that it was David Davies, from
the south,—he who came to be called, in his more mature years,
“The great Revivalist of Swansea.”
For, after labouring until the year 1802 in the more obscure regions
we have mentioned, where, however, his congregations were
immense, and his influence great over the whole Principality, he was
invited by the Churches of Mynyddbach, and Sketty—in fact, parts of
Swansea—to become their pastor; and on this spot his life received
its consummation, and crown.
When Mr. Davies entered the town, it was a remarkably wicked spot;
the colliers were more like barbarians than the inhabitants of a
civilized country. Gangs of drunken ruffians prowled through its
streets, and the suburbs in different directions, ready to assault, and
ill-treat any persons who ventured near them. They were
accustomed to attack the houses as they passed, throwing stones at
the doors, and windows, and could scarcely open their mouths
without uttering the most horrid oaths, and blasphemies. It seems
almost strange, to our apprehensions now, that the presence of a
preacher should effect a change in a neighbourhood; yet nothing is
more certain, than the fact that immense social reformations were
effected by ministers of the Gospel, both in England, and in Wales.
Mr. Davies had not long entered Swansea before the whole
neighbourhood underwent a speedy, and remarkable change. He
had a very full, and magnificent voice; a voice of amazing compass,
flexibility, and tenderness; a voice with which, according to all
accounts, he could do anything—which could roll out a kind of
musical thunder in the open air, over great multitudes, or sink to the
softest intonations, and whispers, for small cottage congregations.
It was well calculated to arrest a rude multitude. And so it came
about that Mynyddbach became as celebrated for the work of David
Davies, as the far-famed Llangeitho for the great work, and
reformation of David Rowlands. The people poured in from the
country round to hear him. Then, although very tender, and genial,
his manner was so solemn, and he had so intense a power of
realizing, to others, the deep, and weighty truths he taught, that he
became a terror to evil-doers.
It is mentioned that numbers of butchers from the neighbourhood of
Cwmamman, and Llangenie, were in the habit of attending Swansea
market on Saturdays. Some of them, after selling the meat which
they had brought, were accustomed to frequent the public-houses,
and to remain there drinking, and carousing until the Sunday
morning. It is a well-known, and amusing circumstance, that, in the
course of a little time, when proceeding homewards on their ponies,
if they caught a glimpse of Mr. Davies coming in an opposite
direction, they hastily turned round, and trotted off, until they could
find a bystreet, or lane, to avoid his reproving glances, or warnings,
which had the twofold advantage of pertinency and serious wit,
conveyed in tones sufficiently stentorian to reach their ears. And
there was a man, proverbially notorious for his profane swearing,
who plied a ferry-boat between Swansea, and Foxhole; whenever he
perceived Mr. Davies approaching, he took care to give a caution to
any who might be using improper expressions: “Don’t swear, Mr.
Davies is coming!”
And there is another story, which shows what manner of man this
Davies was. One Saturday night, a band of drunken young men,
and boys, threw a quantity of stones against his door, according to
their usual mode of dealing with other houses. While they were
busy at their work of mischief, he suddenly opened the door, rushed
out, and secured two or three of the culprits, who were compelled to
give him the names of all their companions. He then told them that
he should expect every one of them to be at his house on a day
which he mentioned. Accordingly, the whole party came at the
appointed hour, but attended by their mothers, who were
exceedingly afraid lest the offending lads should be sent to prison in
a body. Instead of threatening to take them before the magistrates,
Mr. Davies told them to kneel down with him; and having offered up
an earnest prayer, and affectionately warned them of the
consequences of their evil ways, he dismissed them, requesting,
however, that they would all attend at Ebenezer Chapel on the
following Sunday. They were, of course, glad to comply with his
terms, and to be let off so easily. In after years, several of them
became members of his Church, and maintained through life a
consistent Christian profession. “And one of them,” said Dr. Rees,
when writing the story of his great predecessor, “is an old grey-
headed disciple, still living.”
Such anecdotes as these show how far the character of the man
aided, and sustained the mighty power of the minister. Our old
friend, the venerable William Davies, of Fishguard, says: “I well
remember Mr. Davies of Swansea’s repeated preaching tours through
Pembrokeshire, and can never forget the emotions, and deep
feelings which his matchless eloquence produced on his crowded
congregations everywhere; he had a penetrating mind, a lively
imagination, and a clear, distinctive utterance; he had a remarkable
command of his voice, with such a flow of eloquence, and in the
most melodious intonations, that his enraptured audience would
almost leap for joy.”
Instances are not wanting, either in the ancient, or modern history
of the pulpit, of large audiences rising from their seats, and standing
as if all spellbound, while the preacher was pursuing his theme, and,
to the close of his discourse, subdued beneath the deepening
impression, and rolling flow of words. Perhaps the reader, also, will
remember, if he have ever been aware of such scenes, that it is not
so much glowing splendour of expression, or the weight of original
ideas, still less vehement action, which achieves these results, as a
certain marvellous, and melodious fitness of words, even in the
representation of common things.
But to return to Mr. Davies. Davies of Fishguard, aforementioned,
gives an illustration of his preaching: “The captain of a vessel was a
member of my Church at Fishguard, but he always attended
Ebenezer, when his vessel was lying at Swansea. One day, he asked
another captain, ‘Will you go with me next Sunday, to hear Mr.
Davies? I am sure he will make you weep.’ ‘Make me weep?’ said
the other, with a loud oath. ‘Ah! there’s not a preacher in this world
can make me weep.’ However, he promised to go. They took their
seats in the front of the gallery. The irreligious captain, for awhile,
stared in the preacher’s face, with a defiant air, as if determined to
disregard what he might say; but when the master of the assembly
began to grow warm, the rough sailor hung down his head, and
before long, he was weeping like a child.” Here was an illustration of
the great power of this man to move, and influence the affections.
As compared with other great Welsh preachers, Davies must be
spoken of as, in an eminent manner, a singer, a prophet of song, and
the swell, and cadences of his voice were like the many voices,
which blend to make up one complete concert. He was not only a
master of the deep bass notes, but he had a rich soprano kind of
power, too; for we read that “when he raised his voice to a higher
pitch than ordinary, it increased in melody, and power, and its effects
were thrilling in the extreme; there were no jarring notes—all was
the music of eloquence throughout.” This must not be thought
wonderful—it is natural; all men cannot be thus, nor all preachers,
however good, and great. There are a few noble organs in the
world. The organ itself, however considered, is a wonderful
instrument, but there are some built with such extraordinary art that
they are capable of producing transcendent effects beyond most
other instruments. Davies, the preacher, was one of these amazing
organs, in a human frame; but the power of melody was still within
his own soul, and it was the wonderful score which he was able to
read, and which he compelled his voice to follow, which yet
produced these amazing effects.
Surely, it is not more wonderful, that the human voice should have
its great, and extraordinary exceptions, than that most wonderful
piece of mechanism and art, an organ. We have the organs of
Berne, Haarlem, and the Sistine Chapel—such are great exceptions
in those powers which art exercises over the kingdom of sound;
their building, their architecture, has made them singular, and set
them apart as great instruments. But even in these, who does not
remember the power of the vox humana stop? We apprehend that
few who have heard it in the organs of Berne, or Fribourg, will
sympathise with Dr. Burney’s irreverent, and ridiculous
condemnation of it, in his “History of Music,” as the “cracked voice of
an old woman of ninety, or Punch singing through a comb.” Far
from this, the hearer waits with intense anxiety, almost goes to hear
this note, and realizes in it, what has been said so truly, that music,
as it murmurs through the ear, is the nurse of the soul. But all
organs have not the vox humana stop, nor all preachers either. The
human voice, like the organ, is a mighty instrument, but it is the soul
which informs the instrument with this singular power, so that within
its breast all the passions seem to reign in turn. Singular, that we
have thought so much of the great organs of the Continent, and
have listened with such intensity to the great singers, and have
failed to apply the reflection that the greatest preachers must be, in
some measure, a combination of both.
Davies was one of those preachers, without whose presence the
annual gatherings, in which the Welsh especially delighted, would
have been incomplete. On such occasions, he was usually the last
of the preachers—the one waited for. As the service proceeded, it
naturally happened that some weariness fell over the assembly;
numbers of people might be seen in different parts, sitting, or
reclining, on the grass; but as soon as David Davies appeared on the
platform, there was a gathering in of all the people, pressing forward
from all parts of the field, eager to catch every word which fell from
the lips of the speaker. When a great singer appears at a concert,
who of all the audience would lose a single bar of the melody? He
gave out his own hymn in a voice that reached, without effort, to the
utmost limits of the assembled multitude, though he spoke in a
quiet, natural tone, without any exertion. He read his text
deliberately, but in accents sufficiently loud to be heard with ease by
ten thousand people. What is any great singer, without distinctness
of enunciation? And distinct enunciation has always been one of the
strong points of the great Welsh preachers. Hence, from this
reason, he was always impressive, and he seldom preached without
using some Scriptural story, which he made to live, through his
accent, in the hearts of the people; illustrative similes, and not too
many of them; striking thoughts, beneath the pressure of which his
manner became more and more impressive, until, at each period, his
hearers were overpoweringly affected. Every account of him speaks
of his wonderfully impressive voice; and all this gained additional
force from his dignified bearing, and appearance, which took
captive, and carried away, not only more refined intelligences, but
even coarsest natures, while the preacher never approached, for a
moment, the verge of vulgarity. Contemporary preachers bore
testimony that when the skilful singer had closed his strain, the
people could not leave the spot, but remained for a long time after,
weeping, and praising.
We have said, already, that Mr. Davies was one of the Welsh hymn-
writers; eighty of his hymns are said to be among the best in the
Welsh language. He was a strong man, of robust constitution, but,
it may be said, he died young; before he had reached his fiftieth
year, his excessive labours had told visibly on his health, and for
many months before his death, he was strongly impressed with the
idea that the time of his departure was at hand. He died in the year
1816. The first Sabbath of that year, he preached a very impressive
sermon, from the text, “Thus saith the Lord, This year thou shalt
die.”
His last sermon was preached about three weeks before he died,
when he also administered the ordinance of the Lord’s Supper, and
gave the right hand of fellowship to thirteen persons, on their
admission into the Church. He spoke only a few words during the
service, and in those, in faltering accents, told his people he did not
expect to be seen amongst them any more. And, indeed, there was
every indication, by his weakness, that his words would be fulfilled.
Every cheek was bedewed with tears. The hearts of many were
ready to burst with grief; for this man’s affections were so great,
that he produced, naturally, that grief which we feel when the
holders of our great affections seem to be parted from us.
He went home from this meeting to die. The struggle was not long
protracted. On the morning of December 26th, 1816, he breathed
his last. On the day of the funeral, a large concourse, from the
town, and neighbourhood, followed his remains to the grave. These
lie in a vault, which now occupies a space in the centre of the new
chapel, reared on the site of that in which he ministered so
affectionately; and over the pulpit, a chaste, and beautiful mural
marble tablet memorialises, and very conspicuously bears the name
of David Davies. Of him, also, it might be said: “The Lord God hath
given me the tongue of the learned, that I should know how to
speak a word in season to him that is weary.”
 CHAPTER VIII.
THE PREACHERS OF WILD WALES.

Rees Pritchard, and “The Welshman’s Candle”—A Singular

Conversion—The Intoxicated Goat—The Vicar’s Memory—“God’s
better than All”—Howell Harris—Daniel Rowlands at Llangeitho—
Philip Pugh—The Obscure Nonconformist—Llangeitho—Charles of
Bala—His Various Works of Christian Usefulness—The Ancient
Preachers of Wild Wales characterised—Thomas Rhys Davies—
Impressive Paragraphs from his Sermons—Evan Jones, an
Intimate Friend of Christmas Evans—Shenkin of Penhydd—A
Singular Mode of Illustrating a Subject—Is the Light in the Eye?—
Ebenezer Morris—High Integrity—Homage of Magistrates paid to
his Worth—“Beneath”—Ebenezer Morris at Wotton-under-Edge—
His Father, David Morris—Rough-and-ready Preachers—Thomas
Hughes—Catechised by a Vicar—Catching the Congregation by
Guile—Sammy Breeze—A Singular Sermon in Bristol in the Old
Time—A Cloud of Forgotten Worthies—Dr. William Richards—His
Definition of Doctrine—Davies of Castell Hywel, the Pastor of
Christmas Evans, and of Davies of Swansea—Some Account of
Welsh Preaching in Wild Wales, in Relation to the Welsh
Proverbs, Ancient Triads, Metaphysics, and Poetry—Remarks on
the Welsh Language and the Welsh Mind—Its Secluded and
Clannish Character.
Amongst the characteristic names of Wales, remarkable in that
department to which we shall devote this chapter, whoever may be
passed by, the name of Rees Pritchard, the ancient Vicar of
Llandovery, ought not to go unmentioned. We suppose no book,
ever published in Wales, has met the acceptance and circulation of
“Canwyll-y-Cymry,” or “The Welshman’s Candle.” Since the day of its
publication, it has gone through perfectly countless editions; and
there was a time, not long since, when there was scarcely a family in
Wales, of any intelligence, which did not possess a copy.
Its author was born in the parish of which he became the vicar, so
far back as 1575. He was educated at Oxford. His early life was
more remarkable for dissipation of every kind, than for any pursuits
compatible with his sacred profession. He was, especially, an
inveterate drunkard; the worst of his parishioners were scandalised
by his example, and said, “Bad as we may be, we are not half so
bad as the parson!” The story of his conversion is known to many,
who are not acquainted with his life, and work, and the eminence to
which he attained; and it certainly illustrates how very strange have
been some of the means of man’s salvation, and how foolish things
have confounded the wise. As George Borrow says in his “Wild
Wales,” in his account of Pritchard, “God, however, who is aware of
what every man is capable, had reserved Rees Pritchard for great,
and noble things, and brought about his conversion in a very
remarkable manner.”
He was in the habit of spending much of his time in the public-
house, from which he was, usually, trundled home in a wheelbarrow,
in a state of utter insensibility. The people of the house had a large
he-goat, which went in, and out, and mingled with the guests. One
day, Pritchard called the goat to him, and offered it some ale, and
the creature, so far from refusing it, drank it greedily, and soon after
fell down in a state of intoxication, and lay quivering, to the great
delight of Pritchard, and his companions, who, however, were
horrified at this conduct in one, who was appointed to be their
example, and teacher. Shortly after, as usual, Pritchard himself was
trundled home, utterly intoxicated. He was at home, and ill, the
whole of the next day; but on the day following, he went down to
the public-house, and called for his pipe, and tankard. The goat
came into the room, and again he held the tankard to the creature’s
mouth; but it turned away its head in disgust, hurried away, and
would come near him no more. This startled the man. “My God!”
he said, “is this poor dumb creature wiser than I?” He pursued, in
his mind, the train of feeling awakened by conscience; he shrank,
with disgust, from himself. “But, thank God!” he said, “I am yet
alive, and it is not too late to mend. The goat has taught me a
lesson; I will become a new man.” Smashing his pipe, he left his
tankard untasted, and hastened home. He, indeed, commenced a
new career. He became, and continued for thirty years, a great, and
effective preacher; “preaching,” says Mr. Borrow, “the inestimable
efficacy of Christ’s blood-shedding.”
Those poetical pieces which he wrote at intervals, and which are
called “The Welshman’s Candle,” appear only to have been gathered
into a volume, and published, after his death. The room in which he
lived, and wrote, appears to be still standing; and Mr. Borrow says:
“Of all the old houses in Llandovery, the old Vicarage is, by far, the
most worthy of attention, irrespective of the wonderful monument of
God’s providence, and grace, who once inhabited it;” and the old
vicar’s memory is as fresh in Llandovery, to-day, as ever it was.
While Mr. Borrow was looking at the house, a respectable-looking
farmer came up, and was about to pass; “but observing me,” he
says, “and how I was employed, he stopped, and looked now at me,
and now at the antique house. Presently he said, ‘A fine old place,
sir, is it not? But do you know who lived there?’ Wishing to know
what the man would say, provided he thought I was ignorant as to
the ancient inmate, I turned a face of inquiry upon him, whereupon
he advanced towards me, two or three steps, and placing his face so
close to mine, that his nose nearly touched my cheek, he said, in a
kind of piercing whisper, ‘The Vicar!’ then drawing his face back, he
looked me full in the eyes, as if to observe the effect of his
intelligence, gave me two or three nods, as if to say, ‘He did indeed,’
and departed. The Vicar of Llandovery had then been dead nearly
two hundred years. Truly the man in whom piety, and genius, are
blended, is immortal upon earth!” “The Welshman’s Candle” is a set
of homely, and very rememberable verses, putting us, as far as we
are able to judge, in mind of our Thomas Tusser.
Mr. Borrow gives us a very pleasant taste in the following literal,
vigorous translation, which we may presume to be his own:—

“GOD’S BETTER THAN ALL.”

“God’s better than heaven, or aught therein;
Than the earth, or aught we there can win;
Better than the world, or its wealth to me—
God’s better than all that is, or can be.
“Better than father, than mother, than nurse;
Better than riches, oft proving a curse;
Better than Martha, or Mary even—
Better, by far, is the God of heaven.
“If God for thy portion thou hast ta’en,
There’s Christ to support thee in every pain;
The world to respect thee thou wilt gain;
To fear thee, the fiend, and all his train.
“Of the best of portions, thou choice didst make,
When thou the high God to thyself didst take;
A portion, which none from thy grasp can rend,
Whilst the sun, and the moon on their course shall wend.
“When the sun grows dark, and the moon turns red;
When the stars shall drop, and millions dread;
When the earth shall vanish, with its pomp, in fire,
Thy portion shall still remain entire.
“Then let not thy heart, though distressed, complain;
A hold on thy portion firm maintain.
Thou didst choose the best portion, again I say;
Resign it not till thy dying day!”
But the age of preachers in Wales, to which the following pages will
more immediately refer, commences with those two great men, who
were indeed the Whitfield, and the Wesley of Wales—Howell Harris
of Trevecca, and Daniel Rowlands of Llangeitho. It is remarkable
that these two men, born to be such inestimable, and priceless
blessings to their country, were born within a year of each other—
Harris at Trevecca, in 1714, Rowlands at Pantybeidy, in
Cardiganshire, in 1713. As to Harris, he is spoken of as the most
successful preacher that ever ascended a pulpit, or platform in
Wales; and yet nothing is more certain, than that he neither aimed
to preach, nor will his sermons, so far as any knowledge can be
obtained of them, stand the test of any kind of criticism. This only is
certain, their unquestioned, and greatly pre-eminent usefulness.
He did not deliver composed sermons, but unpremeditated
addresses, on sin, and its tremendous consequences; on death, and
the judgment, and the world to come. It is said, “His words fell like
balls of fire, on the careless, and impenitent multitudes.” Himself
destined for a clergyman of the Church of England, an Oxford man,
and with a fair promise of success in the Church—since before he
left Oxford, he had a benefice offered him—he repeatedly applied, in
vain, for ordination. Throughout his life, he continued ardently
attached to the services of the Church of England.
It was, unhappily, from that Church, in Wales, he encountered his
most vehement opposition, and cruel persecution. He, however,
roused the whole country,—within the Church of England, and
without,—from its state of apathy, and impiety; while we quite agree
with his biographer, who says: “Any attempt to account
philosophically for the remarkable effects which everywhere
attended the preaching of Howell Harris, would be nothing better
than an irreverent trifling with a solemn subject. All that can be
said, with propriety, is, that he was an extraordinary instrument,
raised by Providence, at an extraordinary time, to accomplish an
extraordinary work.”
But Llangeitho, and its vicar, seem to demand a more lengthened
notice, as coming more distinctly within the region of the palpable,
and apprehensible. Daniel Rowlands was a clergyman, and the son
of a clergyman. At twenty-two years of age, he was appointed
perpetual curate, or incumbent, of the united parishes of Nantcwnlle
and Llangeitho, at a salary of ten pounds a year. He never received
any higher preferment in the Church on earth, although so eminent
a blessing to his country. He must have been some such man as our
William Grimshaw, of Haworth. When he entered upon his curacy,
he was quite an unconverted young man, given to occasional fits of
intoxication, and in the summer he left his pulpit, to take his part,
with his parishioners, in the sports, and games in the neighbouring
fields, or on the village green.
But, in the immediate neighbourhood of his own hamlet, ministered
a good and consistent Nonconformist, Philip Pugh, a learned,
lovable, and lowly man; and, in the smaller round of his sphere, a
successful preacher. Daniel Rowlands appears to have been
converted under a sermon of the eminent Rev. Griffith Jones of
Llanddouror, at Llanddewibrefi; but it was to Philip Pugh that he was
led for that instruction, and influence, which instrumentally helped to
develop his character. It would seem that Rowlands was a man
bound to be in earnest; but conversion set on fire a new genius in
the man. He developed, hitherto undiscovered, great preaching
power, and his church became crowded. Still, for the first five years
of his new course of life, he did not know that more glorious and
beautiful Gospel which he preached through all the years following.
He was a tremendous alarmist; the dangers of sin, and the terrors of
the eternal judgments, were his topics; and his hearers shrank, and
recoiled, while they were fascinated to listen. Again, the venerable
Nonconformist stepped in; Philip Pugh pointed out his defect. “My
dear sir,” said he, “preach the Gospel—preach the Gospel to the
people. Give them the balm of Gilead; show the blood of Christ;
apply it to their spiritual wounds; show the necessity of faith in a
crucified Redeemer.” “I am afraid,” said Rowlands, “that I have not
all that faith myself, in its full vigour, and exercise.” “Preach on it,”
said Mr. Pugh; “preach on it, until you feel it in that way,—it will
come. If you go on preaching in the way you have been doing, you
will kill half the people in the country. You thunder out the curses of
the law, and preach in such a terrific manner, that nobody can stand
before you. Preach the Gospel!” And again the young clergyman
followed the advice of his patriarchal friend, and unnumbered
thousands in Wales had occasion, through long following years, to
bless God for it.
Does not the reader call up a very beautiful picture of these two, in
that old and obscure Welsh hamlet, nearly a hundred and fifty years
since?—the conversation of such an one as Paul, the aged, with his
young son, Timothy; and if anything were needed to increase our
sense of admiration of the young clergyman, it would be that he did
not disdain to receive lessons from old age, and an old age covered
with the indignities attaching to an outlawed Nonconformist. In
Wales, there were very many men like Philip Pugh; we may
incidentally mention the names of several in the course of these
pages—names well worthy of the commendation in Johnson’s
perfect lines:

“Their virtues walked their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
Their single talent well employed.
“And still they fill affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
And let not arrogance deny
Its praise to merit unrefined.”

Then there opened a great career before Rowlands, and Llangeitho

became as a shrine in evangelical Wales. He received invitations to
preach in every neighbourhood of the Principality; many churches
were opened to him, and where they were not, he took freely, and
cheerfully, to the chapels, or the fields. His words, and accents were
of that marvellous kind we have identified with Welsh preaching.
Later on, and in other times, people said, he found his successor in
Davies of Swansea; and the highest honour they could give to
Swansea, in Davies’ day, was that “it was another Llangeitho.”
Rowlands had the power of the thunder, and the dew; he pressed an
extraordinary vitality into words, which had often been heard before,
so that once, while reading the Church Service, in his own church,
he gave such a dreadful tenderness to the words, “By thine agony,
and bloody sweat!” that the service was almost stopped, and the
people broke forth into a passion of feeling. Christmas Evans says:
“While Rowlands was preaching, the fashion of his countenance
became altered; his voice became as if inspired; the worldly, dead,
and careless spirit was cast out by his presence. The people, as it
were, drew near to the cloud, towards Christ, and Moses, and
Elijah. Eternity, with its realities, rushed upon their vision. These
mighty influences were felt, more or less, for fifty years. Thousands
gathered at Llangeitho for communion every month, and they came
there from every county in Wales.”
Such power there is in human words when divinely wielded; such
was the spiritual power of Daniel Rowlands. Well does one writer
say, the story of Llangeitho, well written, would read like a chapter in
religious romance. It is very doubtful whether we have the record of
any other man who drew such numbers to the immediate circle of
his ministry, as Rowlands. He did not itinerate so largely as most of
the great Welsh preachers. In an obscure spot in the interior of
Cardiganshire, in an age of bad roads, and in a neighbourhood
where the roads were especially bad, he addressed his immense
concourses of people. His monthly communion was sometimes
attended by as many as three thousand communicants, of whom,
often, many were clergymen. Upwards of a hundred ministers
ascribe to him the means of their conversion. Thus, in his day, it
was a place of pilgrimages; and even now, there are not a few who
turn aside, to stand, with wonder, upon the spot where Rowlands
exercised his marvellous ministry.
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