Wales is Heaven on earth, and every Welsh chapel is a little Heaven; and
God has favored us greatly by choosing to rule over us preachers who are
fashioned in his likeness and who are without spot or blemish.
Every Welsh child knows that the preacher is next to God; "I am the Big
Man's photograph," the preacher shouts; and the child is brought up in
the fear of the preacher.
Jealous of his trust, the preacher has made rules for the salvation of
our bodies and souls. Temptations such as art, drama, dancing, and the
study of folklore he has removed from our way. Those are vanities, which
make men puffed up and vainglorious; and they are unsavory in the
nostrils of the Big Man. And look you, the preacher asks, do they not
cost money? Are they not time wasters? The capel needs your money, boys
bach, that the light--the grand, religious light--shall shine in the
pulpit.
That is the lamp which burns throughout Wales. It keeps our feet from
Church door and public house, and it guides us to the polling booth
where we record our votes as the preacher has instructed us. Be the
season never so hard and be men and women never so hungry, its flame
does not wane and the oil in its vessel is not low.
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