saw “copy” in him, and—­to do him justice (for there I agreed with him)—­a chance to pierce the armour of the hand-in-glove-with-Government distillers, so went down to Wales to write him up.  For three weeks he became more interesting than a Cabinet Minister.  Indeed Cabinet Ministers or those who aspired to become such at the next turn of the wheel truckled to him.  Some were afraid he might become a small Messiah and lead Wales into open revolt; others that he might smash the whiskey trade and impair the revenue.  Mr. Lloyd George going to address a pro-Boer meeting at Aberystwith (was it?) encountered him at a railway junction, attended by a court of ex-footballers and reformed roysterers, and said in the hearing of a reporter “I must fight with the Sword of the Flesh; but you fight with the Sword of the Spirit”—­whatever that may have meant—­and I do not pretend to complete accuracy of remembrance—­I only know I felt very angry with the whole movement at the time, because it delayed indefinitely the Daily Chronicle’s review of my new book.  Well this Evan—­in all such movements an Evan is inevitable—­Evan Gwyllim Jones—­with the black eyes, abundant black hair, beautiful features (he was a handsome lad) and glorious voice, addressed meetings in the open air and in every available building of four walls.  Thousands withdrew their names from foot-ballery, nigh on Two Millions must have taken the pledge—­and not merely an anti-whiskey pledge but a fierce renunciation of the most diluted alcohol as well; and approximately two hundred and fifty thousand confessed their sins of unchastity and swore to be reborn Galahads for the rest of their lives.  It was a spiritual Spring-cleaning, as drastic and as overdone as are the domestic upheavals known by that name.  But it did a vast deal of good, all the same, to South Wales; and though it was a seventh wave, the tide of temperance, thrift, cleanliness, bodily and spiritual, has risen to a higher level of average in the beautiful romantic Principality ever since.  Evan Gwyllim Jones, however, overdid it.  He had to retire from the world to a Home—­some said even to a Mental Hospital.  Six months afterwards he emerged, cured of his “voices,” much plumper, and—­perhaps—­poor soul—­shorn of some of his illusions and ideals; but he married a grocer’s widow of Cardiff, and the Daily Chronicle mentioned him no more.

The infection of his meetings however penetrated to the agricultural district in which Pontystrad was situated.  Five villages went completely off their heads.  The blacksmith-pastor had to be put under temporary restraint.  Quite decent-looking, unsuspected folk confessed to far worse sins than they had ever committed.  There arose an aristocracy of outcasts.  Three inns where little worse than bad beer was sold were gutted, respectable farmers’ wives drank Eau-de-Cologne instead of spirits, several over-due marriages took place, there were a number of premature births, and the membership of the football clubs was disastrously reduced.  Such excitement was generated that little work was done, and the illegitimate birth rate of west Glamorganshire—­always high—­for the opening months of 1903 became even higher.