A Fortunate Encounter

As far as learning was concerned, I believe I was as “disinterested” as almost any one who ever attended college. During the four years I was at Bala, I allowed the other boys to take all the prizes. Not being particularly talented, and the ‘start’? I got in Soldier Robin’s school being none of the best, I speedily found it was no easy task to compete with young fellows who had been well educated previously. Besides, preaching was a necessity, for my stay at college depended upon it. If I ceased preaching, I must also cease eating; and, at the time, I could not see my way clear to do either the one thing or the other. The Sabbath journeys were oftenest long ones, as to Trawsfynydd, Festiniog, Tanygrisiau, Maentwrog, Rhydymain, Corris, Aberllyfni, Machynlleth, &c. It was only once I ever preached at Llanfor, for which Edward Rowland reproached me many times (peace to the memory of the good old Christian!) the chief reason being that I could not travel thither, and also because I did not like to see a dozen students coming to Llanfor to meeting instead of attending Sunday School at Bala. Each one of them had his own tape measure. The fun they got on one occasion when a friend of mine, preaching at Llanfor, spoke of Adam in his “uncircumcised condition!” He never heard the last of it, as long as he remained at Bala. What did I know but that I might make a similarly foolish slip, which next morning would be posted up on every partition of the college. But I must not speak of the old college’s partitions—Mirabile Visu! I said that the journeys were long. The distance took up the whole of Saturday morning to think about, and the journey itself the whole of the afternoon to accomplish; the return occupied the whole of Monday morning, and the pulling myself together after that shaking from a ride on one of Mr. R. E’s “old sixteens” the whole of Monday afternoon. That made two days of my week, without mentioning the Sabbath, on which the other boys who were not bound to preach were at work with their books. These things, combined with a lack of natural talent, prevented me from distinguishing myself in the examinations. On the other hand, the trouble my brother Bob took to instruct me, my own exertions and my resolve to attend the classes as regularly as possible, kept me from the bottom of the form. I had the consolation of not being an extreme man; at no time was I at either top or bottom, but somewhere about the centre. And I flatter myself that I continue so, and that I still endeavour to walk the middle path in judgment. But it is to this I have for some time been gravitating: although I did not make my “mark” in college, I am certain that a mark was made on me which can never be erased. I got the greatest good from my stay there, learned hundreds and thousands of things I did not know before, and of which I cannot now estimate the value. A new world was opened to my mind, and although I was not as others were. able to penetrate far into its mid-most regions, still, it was a discovery to know it existed. It was something to be able to see with my own eyes the leaf upon the water. It is worth a lad’s while to go to college, if it wore only to let him know how much there is to know, to rub the rust and shake the dust off which he had gathered at home. I am not saying much when I mention that there was not in the church I was brought up in one lad, Will Bryan excepted, who was stronger than myself in natural insight; and it would be sheer hypocrisy for me to say that the fact did not cause me to form a distinctive notion concerning myself. But after going to college I was not long in finding out that I was nothing and nobody, and that among my fellow students many a man might be found who could put me into his waistcoat pocket. My hide would have been as hard as the hippopotamus’s not to have received any benefit by rubbing against those who excelled me in every way. If a young man can spend three or four years in college and come home again, without great gain to himself, the fault is his own entirely, and he does not deserve to be fed. My experience of the period is that it was the most blessed and happy of my life; and I look back upon it with the sweetest regret. Many were the friendship’s knots I tied there which neither time nor distance can undo. With but little effort my memory can vividly recall before my mind’s eye, at the present moment, the faces of all my companions. Where are they now? One or two of them were taken home before the end of their college term; and one or two others followed without being permitted to “do” but little. The majority, however, remain scattered up and down the world. Several, appointed pastors of flocks, are already useful—famous, some of them—in the ministry, while others shift for themselves as best they can, preaching here and there on the Sabbath, and doing nothing in particular during the week. Speaking of this matter, I remember that, as the time drew near when we must leave college, the question most of us asked each other was: What are you going to do It was an important question, to some of us especially. We had given up our old occupations, which by now we were unfitted to resume. It was not all of us who had comfortable homes to return to, or wealthy relations on whom we could depend; and divers of us, as the time approached, found ourselves in a serious fix. Notably was this the case with me. During my four years of college life Miss Hughes was wondrous kind in asking me to spend vacation time at her house. But I foresaw that the circumstances would be different after I had finished my course, or rather after I had left college. Even if she were willing to receive me again into her home, I considered it would be shameless presumption to take advantage of the fact. I could not bear the notion of playing the part of gentleman-idler during the week, and going about to preach upon the Sunday. Williams, my fellow-lodger, was precisely in the same predicament, and many were the serious “confabs” between us as to what we were going to do. At times he would treat the question jocularly.

“What wonder is it, tell us,” he said to me one night, “that Methodist preachers should cast about them for some old gal with plenty of tin? Look at us two: we shall be leaving Bala within the month, and what are we to do for a livelihood? I swear no one shall say of me that I did nothing through the week besides wearing a frock coat. I see you have a much better chance than I.. Four years in college has so spoiled my hands that I needn’t think of re-commencing my old occupation, but as for you, you can put an advertisement in the Liverpool Mercury:—

Waited—By a young man who has spent four years at college, who knows a little Latin and Greek, and a lot of Divinity, a situation as draper’s assistant. Can preach well. Salary no object, provided he gets his Saturdays to go to, and his Mondays to return from his teithia,*

“As for me, I see nothing left me to do but to try for a situation on the railway as ticket collector, unless I ‘go out to the Blacks,’ as your old friend Thomas Bartley says. What if you were to try and creep up the sleeve of the Bishop of St. Asaph, and I were to do the same with the Bishop of Bangor, eh? It would be no great feat for a couple of laths like you and me to creep up a Bishop’s sleeve, for they tell me it’s dreadfully wide. If we succeeded, I wonder are we scholars enough, without having to begin this business all over again at Lampeter? Scholar or not, we’ll preach better than half of them. What do you say? Have you any other plan?”

Williams possessed a good deal of sly humour; and I could not help laughing at his picture of our future, despite the importance of the subject and my sadness of heart. As the time approached for us to leave college, the question came home to us both with greater seriousness daily—“If we are obliged to return to our old occupations, to what earthly purpose have we spent four years in this place?’ We were both anxious for a sphere of work where each would feel in his element, and to which we believed—whether rightly or wrongly—that we were, to some extent, adapted. But although, to tell the honest truth, we were both intently on the watch, there was neither sound nor sign, from any quarter, of a call to the care of a church. We had devoted ourselves to, and humbly thought ourselves set apart for, the work in which our hearts and souls were centred; and the thought of going back to our old occupations was depressing. But, as far as-I could see, nothing else awaited us; for we were resolved not to lounge about alter leaving college. Williams was more hopeful than I; as easily he could be, because I knew he was conscious of the fact that he was an excellent preacher; the best, indeed, the college at that time contained, to my mind. The “friends of the place” must have been of the same opinion, too; for Williams preached twice in Bala itself during his four years’ stay there —a sure sign for good and an unfailing promise of a bright future.

But, after all, the word is a true one that ‘the last shall be first.’ Some weeks before I left Bala I received two important letters—that is, important to me. Williams was an early riser, I a late sleeper. In passing, is not the ability to rise early a talent? I am certain it is. My brother Bob was bound to go early to work every day; but he never turned out of bed without being called a dozen times by mother. He could, however, stay up at night as long as you liked. I am just the same. But Williams had a talent for rising early. One morning, some weeks before leaving college, as I have said, I came downstairs about eight o’clock, to find that Williams had gone out for a stroll. On the table were two letters awaiting me. I recognised the writings on both—one as that of Miss Hughes, and the other as “Eos Prydain’s.” I gave precedence, always, to Miss Hughes’s letter. Opening this one, I found that it enclosed another in a hand wholly strange to me. It was in English, and as follows:—

May 1st, 18——.

Sir,—There died this morning in our gaol, a man named John Freeman. Six weeks ago, having been found guilty of poaching, he was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment, with hard labour. He was never strong from the outset, and shortly after coming here he took cold and rapidly became worse. A few days before his death, he expressed a desire to speak to me privately. I had fancied from the first that he was “an old bird;” and he at length admitted to me that his real name was James Lewis. He requested me—and I promised—to apprise you of his death, whenever that took place. What he specially wished me to make known to you was that everything he had told you was not true. He did not know your address, but he believed you would get the letter some time, directed as I have directed it. I have now fulfilled my promise to the deceased. He will be buried to-morrow. We should have buried him to-day, only we were short of coffins, and I did not think he was going to die so soon.

J. F. Breece, Governor.

Rhys Lewis, Esq.

I read and re-read the letter, in stupefaction. My uncle James, as I have many times said in the course of this history, had been the moving cause of the most of my troubles, and I detested him heartily. And yet, on reading of his disgraceful end, and of his words to the governor, a pang shot through me such as I will not attempt to describe. I held the letter in my hand, and looked, amazed, through the window into Tegid Street—for how long I do not exactly know—my mind reverting to my earliest impressions of my uncle, when I knew him as “the Irishman.” De Quincey somewhere speaks of a man who fell overboard into the sea. He remained under water only a very few seconds, but, when picked up and he became conscious, he averred that all the events and all the sins of his life came vividly to his mind during those few seconds. I, for my part, believe I was no more than half an hour staring out of window, but in that time there passed before my mind the chief events of my life in the order of their occurrence. I knew Mrs. had been in the room laying the breakfast, and had said something to me, but I could not tell what; and I remember it was Williams who broke my reverie by shouting from behind me: “Well, you Seventh Sleeper, have you got up at last? ‘What bad news to-day? You seem as miserable as if you were at the grave of your grandmother!” I tried to rouse myself and look cheerful. After beginning upon the breakfast I recollected Eos’s letter. It ran thus:— ——, May 1st, 18——

Dear Brother,—We understand your term at Bala is nearly at an end. It is needless for us to tell you, who know the history and the circumstances of Bethel Church as well as we do, that the cause suffers for want of some one to take care of it, especially since the death of your old master, Abel Hughes. We have long felt that our children and young people do not receive that care and attention which they ought to receive. We have for some time been talking of getting a pastor; and, last week, we two brought the question before the church and took the liberty of mentioning your name as of one whose college course was nearly at an end and who, having been bred in the church, knew us well. The hint received a very general approval. Of course, we did not take a vote, not having yet got permission from the Monthly Meeting; but we thought it wise to inform you that it is our intention to apply for the same—indeed you may look upon it as settled that we shall—lest you thoughtlessly promised to go elsewhere. We believe you need not fear that anyone here will think the less of you because of your youth. We expect to see you over in a few weeks, when we shall discuss the matter further. Until then, wishing you every success, and with kind regards,—Yours on behalf of the church,

I tossed the letter across the table to Williams, whose joy on reading it I shall never forget. I am certain he could not have manifested greater delight if some one had left him an estate. The call to the pastorate of the church I was brought up in was as unexpected an event as could have happened. I took it as a great compliment to myself, and, but for the other letter to which I have referred, would have regarded this one as a subject of rejoicing also. But, bracketed with that letter, it was very sad news for me, and brought on an attack of my old enemy—lowness of spirits. I sent word at once to my old friends, David Davis and “Eos Prydain,” thanking them for their kind letter and adding that I should be returning home in a few weeks’ time. After doing so, I said to my companion:

“Williams, don’t mention this to the boys or anybody else; because on no consideration can I accept the call.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he returned. “I’ll mention it to all I come across. What’s the matter with you? Are you off your head? Not accept what you were most wishing for! I used to think you couldn’t bounce.”

When he and I were playful, we “thee’d and “thou’d” each other; but always when we spoke seriously it was “you” and “yourself.” That morning Williams was joyous, I sad.

“You know the story of the skeleton in the cupboard,” I observed. “I, too, have a tale which I cannot unfold, even to you. Possibly I shall tell it some day, but not now. I am dispirited and sad; and I know you would like to share my burden with me, but it can’t be to-day. The fact is, I must go away for two or three days, and that without delay.”

“My dear fellow,” said Williams, feelingly, for he had a very tender heart; “you are telling me nothing new. I have known for some time there was a concealed bitterness about your life of which I had no right to seek the explanation. Can I be of any service to you?”

“You can—do not say a word about this call of mine, for I cannot accept it. Also, if you please, go to R. E. and ask him to send a conveyance after me, along the Corwen road. I am bound to leave at once. Perhaps I shall explain all this to you some day.”

Taking nothing with me but my top coat, and the little money I possessed, I left; Williams, without another word, going off to order the carriage. It was a long journey, which would occupy nearly the whole day; but I was determined to go, being tired of wearing a mask and living in fear. I was speedily caught up by R. E., who drove me to Corwen in good time to lose the train. After a long wait, I welcomed the loneliness of the railway carriage, wherein I could give the rein to my thoughts without being obliged to speak to anybody. Hundreds and thousands of things passed through my mind. I read Mr. Breece’s letter over and over. Sometimes I thought it a forgery; my uncle being villain enough for that. But what purpose such a forgery could answer I was not able to see.

If the letter stated a fact, I persuaded myself I understood the meaning of the sentence, “everything he had told you was not true.” The words opened up a possibility which turned my heart to ice, in view of which I saw that I could not accept the call to the pastorate of Bethel. To me it was surprising that a church, of which half the members were cognisant of the history of my family, should have given such a call. But, in the course of two and twenty years, people will forget a good deal. During that period many things were made known to me, to my sorrow, of which the chapel folk were utterly ignorant. I could not help my family connections; but were the sins of the fathers to be visited upon the children in my case? I feared they were. Was Providence leading me to settle down in my old home in order to set my teeth on edge for the sour fruit whereof my predecessors had eaten? How could I think of accepting the call? And yet, what reason could I give for refusing? I had no other place to go to, although I longed for an excuse to go far enough away—to Australia or somewhere. Again, I had neither part nor lot in the making of my unhappiness. I sometimes thought I was magnifying the terrors of the outlook and fearing that which would never come to pass. At any rate, I vowed that day to get whatever of light there was obtainable upon the thing which bestrode me like an ever-present nightmare; and this I hoped to accomplish before giving slumber to my eyelids. My intention was to pay a visit to Mr. J. F. Breece, be he whom he might. If the letter were not a decoy, it might turn out that my uncle had told the writer a great deal more than had been communicated to me. I saw that my journey would not be altogether in vain, whichever way it happened; and my anxiety had by now been worked up to such a pitch that I could not hold out much longer. If my fears were realised, then my future would be clouded over once more, and I could not accept the call to the pastorate of Bethel church. Not only so, but I dreaded that, before I could be happy, I must leave the land of my birth. But, I reflected again, why must I do this? I had endeavoured to keep a conscience for God, and, if the worst came to the worst, no reasonable man could blame me for it. But, said I, ‘everybody would be pitying me and sympathising with me, which would be every bit as bad. What! was it pride of heart that made me tremble at that which was possible and probable? Had I not enough religion and moral courage to bear any disgrace with which, as originator, I had personally nothing to do? And yet, something would persist in reminding me that blood was thicker than water.

I had never previously been to B, and knew nothing about the place save from hearsay, a fact which had no tendency to lighten my spirit. The day, also, was dull and heavy, and the rain descended in one continuous drizzle. Besides this, fate seemed to be against me, for I lost the train, a second time, at Chester where I had to wait two hours before I got another. I now saw it would be late when I reached B, and feared I would not be able to see Mr. Breece. Sick enough at heart, I arrived at the big, bustling town. It was nearly ten o’clock when I sprang upon the platform. I awoke from my dreams on seeing the multitude of lighted lamps and the crowd of passengers darting hither and thither through the station. Was it too late to wait on Mr. Breece? Well, I should be none the worse for trying. I rapidly made my way to the cab-stand, but before reaching it I was met by a sprightly young fellow who accosted me with the words, “Cab, sir?”

I nodded in the affirmative.

Old Bailey,” said I, taking my seat; to which he replied, “Old Bailey? Know it well, sir. Better be outside than inside that place, as the worm said to the blackbird when he was about to be swallowed,” saying which he banged the door and away we went.

The rattle of carriages along the streets was simply deafening to one who had newly left the quiet of Bala. Looking out, I was astonished at the interminable stream of humanity going and coming on either side of us. A glance at one side alone, for a few minutes, took in hundreds of faces which I saw for the first time and the last, every one of whom, methought, had his story and his trouble, as strange to me as mine were to him. Though the lamps and the other lights were numerous, they served but to show up the dirty fog which filled the streets. I fancied that what of smoke had ascended from the chimneys during the day had now come back to keep company with the drizzle, of which there was a ceaseless downpour. I perceived that the principal business establishments were shut, thus bringing into prominence the small tobacco-selling shops, the public houses, and the gin-shops, which seemed busier and livelier than they could have been at mid-day. I do not think I passed a single “vault” or gin-shop without seeing someone going in or coming out. Out of one reeled a soldier, in a red coat, and, close behind him a woman, bonnetless, but with a shawl about her head, pinned under the chin. Passing another place, I saw a man, of whom it was difficult to tell whether he were old or young; but he was lame, and so very ragged that I believed he had not a whole pocket about him, and that he had to keep his money in his fist until he had deposited it upon the counter. At one public house, a man leaned his back against the door-post, his chin resting on his waistcoat, and his eyes looking as if they were engaged counting the buttons of his breeches; and by another a fribble in a frock coat—buttoned up to the throat and hiding a multitude of sins—sniffing the perfume near the doorway, in default of any better enjoyment. The hideous faces I saw that night in the light of those taverns! Had their owners, fifty years back, been shut up to half starve in dark cells, from which they had only recently been able to escape, some through the chimney and others through the key hole? How proud I felt of the Welsh, red-cheeked, healthy, honest!

This was what was running through my mind when I noticed that the lights became fewer. I looked out, and there was nothing to be seen but great warehouses, silent and dark. Hardly a soul walked the streets now, and nothing was to be heard save the rumble of my conveyance and someone whistling. The whistler seemed to be following me. I put my head out to listen, and found it was my driver. I recognised the tune; it was our old “Caersalem,” which, until then, I did not know was in vogue with the English. I held my head out, feeling as if I were in a Welsh chapel and fancying that I heard the words: “Thanks be to Him, For rememb’ring the earth’s dust.”

I settled it in my own mind that cabby was in the habit of attending chapel. We soon got into a gloomy quarter of the town. I began to think it was very foolish of me to expect to see Mr. Breece at a time like that. Directly, I saw a great, high, thick wall which, by the light of our lamps, looked black with age. A minute after, my cab drew up before a wide gateway, of which the entire surface was almost covered with nailheads. Beside it hung an unusually large lamp, from a bracket fixed in the strong wall.

“Here we are, safe and sound,” said the driver, opening the door for me. He stood with his back to the light, which shone in my face, and was about to put out his hand for his fare when he started back and, with a surprised look at me, said,—

“Holloa, old hundredth! Are you yourself, say?”

My heart gave a jump, and I came near hugging the fellow, who was none other than the friend of my youth, Will Bryan! Before I could exchange a dozen words with him, however, a small door, set in the big one of the Old Bailey prison, opened, and out stepped a tall, round-shouldered man, behind whom the door was closed with a bang. He was bound to pass us, which he did without looking at us, and keeping his eyes upon the ground. He could not, however, escape the lamplight. When he was out of hearing Will Bryan said:—

“I’m blowed if that chap isn’t old Nic’las!”

“You are right, Will,” I returned. “Nic’las it is, sure enough. For my sake, follow him and find out where he goes to, even if it took you two hours, and come back here. You shall know the reason again. I, for my part, will try and discharge my errand, but whether I succeed or not I shall remain here until you return.”

“At your service as detective in chief,” cried Will, in his old form of speech, as, jumping upon his cab, he drove off.

I gazed after him for some seconds, but he was quickly out of sight. Turning upon my heel, I rang lustily at the bell of the gaol. But I see it will take another chapter to relate the adventures of that strange night of my history.