The Autobiography of Will Bryan

“You know,” Will began, “what made me leave home. I can tell you in two words—high stomach. I who had been in the habit of holding my head so proudly, who used to drive like fury through the streets, who had acted the gallant with the girls there! No, I couldn’t bear the disgrace of my father’s liquidation. I had a little money put by, but not enough to emigrate on; so I made for this big town, thinking I’d hit upon a job in three or four hours. But, after coming here and seeing all the people, I felt lonely and disheartened. I was afraid to ask for a job because I hadn’t learnt to do anything except drive. I knocked about until I had finished my money and then—you’d never believe the difference there is between a high stomach and an empty one. For some days before my money gave out, I had been mooning around the stables picking up stray bits of information, because I saw it was to that it must come. You know I wasn’t quite in rags, and perhaps there was a little too much swagger in me; so, at first, the cabbies used to touch their hats to me, as if I was somebody which, to tell the truth, I was sorry to see. It went to my heart to be obliged to sell the watch-guard mother gave me when I was eighteen. But what was I to do? I kept on going to the stables, and I fancy the cabbies must have thought me some gentleman’s son who had quarrelled with his father—they were so awfully respectful to me. They had spotted I was hard up, and they used to quarrel as to who should stand me a glass; thinking, I should imagine, it would be nothing to see me, some day, after I had squared it with my father, throwing them a five pound note. That was all right; for why should I tell them my history? I pawned my overcoat. By this time I had made chums with the owner of stables, horses and all. He would shake hands with me and, on the quiet, try to pump me as to my antecedents. But Will was too deep for him; and continued to be a great mystery. One day—I think it must have been the day I took my watch to my uncle’s—I asked the gaffer for a job as a cabby. He laughed until he nearly made himself ill, thinking it was only a hobby of mine. But I stuck to him. In a couple of days one of the men was laid up with inflammation of the lungs, after being out over night. I applied for his place until he got well and, in fun, was given it. As I was crossing the court-yard on the dickey there were roars of laughter, the master laughing loudest. But Will was also laughing—in his sleeve—and hoping, I fear, that the poor man would be long ill, because I was really hard up. They soon saw that the young swell, as they called me, could handle a horse with the best of them. I was wonderfully lucky that day, and the next, and during the week. So I settled for a wage, master laughing at the way in which he fed my hobby, he thought.

“Mixing with the cabbies, I am sorry to tell you, I got to live as they did, and to indulge in the ‘everlasting two penn’orth.’ I was not seasoned, as they were, you know; so, one day, having taken too much, I pitched on my head off the dickey. They carried me to bed here, and there I lay for four days, when the town missionary came to see me and give me a word of advice. He understood by my speech that I had not been brought up in China, and took a wonderful interest in me. He reasoned with me and reckoned on that slate how much a cabby paid every year for painting his nose red and blue, and damning his soul into the bargain. It was a goodish sum. I resolved, before getting out of bed, that no more two penn’orths should go down Will’s red lane again; and none ever went. When you remember the kind of fellow I once was you’ll wonder at what I am now going to say. After becoming ‘teetot,’ I got to be a regular miser. Once I began to save and acquired a liking for it, I was afraid to spend a penny. The last thing I used to do every night before going to bed was to reckon up my money. In a few weeks’ time I was the owner of some pounds, which I kept under my head at night and carried inside my vest by day, for fear they would be prigged. I wouldn’t put them in the bank for a reason you shall presently know. I lived on bread and butter and tea; and preferred putting sixpence in my purse to getting something appetising for supper. One morning in the stables I was a bit behind with the horse. Two other cabbies were standing over me, waiting me to finish. My vest being unbuttoned, out fell my purse, and some fifteen sovereigns or so rolled about the ground. Both men nearly fainted at the sight; both were there and then confirmed in the notion that I was a gentleman’s son who was worth his thousands; and both wondered at my strange hobby. They talked of nothing else to their chums that day; and the next, the gaffer challenged me as to my previous history. He knew I hadn’t robbed him, because I brought in more money than any man in his stables. I kept them all in the dark and bought a swell suit, all pockets; punishing myself a bit to make up the money I had paid for it, although I needn’t have done so, because customers picked me out, on account of my being respectably dressed, and gave me, occasionally, an extra fee. Having more money than I could safely carry about with me, I bought a lever lock for the box there, and fixed it on myself, lest anyone should spot me. It cost me four and six, and I gave eightpence for a gimlet, screws and a screw driver. After coming home at night, I would find enjoyment in counting my money over and over. And then I used to vex myself by calculating how much more I should be worth if I hadn’t bought so many two penn’orths. Sometimes I would be astonished and doubt whether I were myself; my conscience telling me I was a humbug, and that I wasn’t true to nature. The way I’d shut her up was to call to mind a lot of pious old Methodists who, I knew well, were not as I was; and I’d recollect how they used to groan at parting with a shilling. By this time I could sympathise with those I remembered coming to father’s shop to buy. How I used to notice the way their shoulders rose with every groan! And yet my conscience insisted upon saying I was no better now than in my drinking days. But I soon taught her to say other things. I had an idea, all the while, of going on my own hook; because I never liked the notion of being a servant. You know my delight was always a horse, and if I know anything at all, it is about a horse I do know it. That was the reason Mr. Edwards of Caerwys and I were always such chums. Very shortly—tell me if you are tired of the story— very shortly, I came to know every horse in the town, and their points, good and bad. One chap here had an animal which was a real good sort, one with bone in him, you know. But the fellow was starving him. He was always three sheets in the wind, and thinking he was buying feed for the animal, when he was calling for two penn’orth. D’ye know what? My heart used to bleed for that poor creature, and many times did I give him my own horse’s nose-bag out of pity. And Bob—the horse’s name was Bob, the same name as your brother —knew me as well as you do; and perhaps you won’t believe me, but I have seen him, when I would be driving to meet him, stand stock still on the street, out of respect for me, or as if he were expecting something, I don’t exactly know which. However, Bob got worse every day, until at last he could hardly come up to the scratch. He was quiet and spiritless that so, had someone fired a gun within an inch of his ear, he would never have winced. One day, in the cabstand, he took to shivering at a fearful rate. A lot of people got about him, all expecting, every minute, to see him drop. I pulled him out of the cab, but he wouldn’t move a peg. Everybody said ’twould be best to settle him. But before they did so I offered to buy him for a sovereign, as he was; and I got him. I remembered one of Mr. Edwards’s recipes, threw my rug over the horse, and ran into a chemist’s shop across the street, much fearing the poor thing would die before I came back. I knew it was starving the horse was, for he gaped just like a man who is hungry. By the time I returned, Bob had got past noticing anybody, and I thought it was all up with him. The chaps kept asking me what would I take for his skin. I said nothing; but as he was in the midst of a gape, I poured some of the physic down his throat. I then asked the chaps to help me to rub his legs. They took hold of him, one in each leg, to get up the circulation, just for fun, they thought. Well, I’ll take my oath that before ten minutes were over Bob began to revive, and look about to see what we were doing. There were hundreds of people gathered round and laughing. One of the fellows at his forelegs—an Irishman, and wonderfully witty—presently yelled out that he had been bitten, whereupon there were roars of laughter. You will hardly believe me, but in half an hour Bob was eating a nice warm mash, as well as ever I saw him in my life, and the crowd shouting ‘Hooray!’ The man who had sold him to me always looked like a calf, but he now looked black as my hat. He wanted to cry off the bargain, but the crowd protested. They called me a smart fellow; knowing nothing, of course, of Mr. Edwards of Caerwys. Well, I hired a stall and tended the horse. I fed him and slaved, and Bob got better every day— for he wasn’t old you know—until at last he got to kick and bite everybody about him, but me; with me he behaved like a Christian. Between everything I reckon he had cost me a matter of five pounds or so, when I gave my master a week’s notice. I bought a second-hand cab cheap, and, when I turned out on my own hook, Bob had filled up his coat, and was shining at such a rate that the chaps swore I had been using Day and Martin’s blacking on him. To a certain extent, I became famous, and got as much work as I liked. The man of whom I had bought Bob was for going on the spree every time he saw me; but I couldn’t help that. The more money I got, the more I wanted, and I thought of nothing else—I never looked at book or paper. I made a good deal by pretending to be a bit of a vet. Are you tired of my story?”

“Yes, and have been for some time, Will,” I replied. ‘If you’ve nothing better to say, give it up. You are not a bit like yourself.”

“Have patience a minute,” said Will. “Is it at the beginning or the end you put the best things into a sermon? If at the beginning you are not worthy of the craft. Well, to you, one night, after rather a good day’s work, and when I believe I ate a quarter of a pound of sausage for supper, I reckoned my money, and found myself worth forty-eight pounds, exclusive of the concern, which made me feel happy and independent, somehow. It was the sausage did the job, I believe. Unconsciously I began humming a tune. And what do you think it was? The old ‘Black Mark;’ and I do not much fancy anyone ever got a blessing from singing that particular ditty besides myself. Well, I began humming it over to see whether I remembered it, and when I came to the words,

I clean broke down, an awful longing came over me and I cried till I was tired. I fell to thinking of the old things, my mother especially, and what a selfish young devil I was to be scraping up money, I did not know what for; until I at last got to feel, I should imagine, something very much like religion. I had not written the old folk since I had left home, and I didn’t know whether they had anything to eat, or whether they were alive or dead. This is not true to nature said I, and I had another spell of crying. I at once set to, and wrote the gaffer, asking him if he was alive, how was he getting on, and what was the amount he had failed for? I put the letter into the post that night for fear I should change my mind before the morning. After dropping it in, I felt as if I were no longer cabby, but Will Bryan, and I can’t tell you the pleasure I got when I found my old self coming back. I had not changed by the morning, and was on fire for an answer to my letter, which I got by return, written by the old woman; my father, she said, being too cut up. But I knew that was only a dodge of hers, for fear my father would say something nasty which would drive me fifty miles further away. Old Hugh was not so tender hearted as all that. The mother craved like a cripple that I should return home, and said how glad she was to hear from her prodigal son. That was a mistake; for there’s no analogy between the prodigal son and myself. That chap’s father was a wealthy gentleman, who gave him half the estate. After spending thousands of pounds, he had to go feeding pigs, and come home again in rags. My father went to smash, and I never had the chance of spending five pounds of his. Neither did I lower myself by pig-feeding; and I’ll never go home in rags, I swear. There’s no analogy at all, I repeat. Four hundred pounds it was the old boy had failed for. The creditors accepted five shillings in the pound which he had paid. He was now getting along very well and had given over speculating, so mother said. But surely, you must know all this. And just fancy the old woman’s cuteness: ‘Suze, is still single’ she said. The gaffer would never have thought of such tactics. Though I knew it was my mother’s cunning which made her mention Suze, the arrow went home, and I’d have at that moment given all I was worth for a glimpse of the girl. But, for all my regret and the feeling of my old self’s return, I beat it down, and declared I would never go home until my father had paid every farthing of his debt; for I could never think of returning unless I were able to hold my head erect. I wrote back to say I was in a good place— they do not know yet I am a cabby, and don’t you split—and I made a bargain with them that I would come home after they had wiped off the whole debt, which I would help them to do. And that is what has been going on now for some time. Wo have cleared away about two hundred pounds, including the composition. Here’s a receipt for ten pounds I got from the gaffer this morning—read it.”

Will handed me the letter, on looking at which I observed, “Walter Bateson is the name I find here, Will.”

“Certainly,” said Will. “That’s why I fear to put my money in the bank. I did not like anyone in this place to know my name, lest they should think me an Irishman; and for other reasons besides.”

“This is not worthy of you, Will,” was my response.

“What harm is there in the thing?” asked Will. ‘Look at them in Wales. Nobody of note there goes by his own name. There is greater reason why I should call myself Walter Bateson than that some John Jones should call himself Llew Twllylwl! ‘What’s in a name? A rose’—you know the rest. And the initials, ‘yours truly, W. B.’, still stand good. But the old people don’t like it at all; and, to tell the truth, when I felt my former self return, I had a mind to throw my new name over, if I had only known how.”

“I heard, when I was at home,” said I, “that your father was paying his debts and speedily regaining his old position; but little did I know you were helping him. It is very creditable in you. You are doing well; but you would be doing better by going home to assist your parents in the business. I am very pleased to meet you, Will; but permit me to say, you have greatly changed. To hear you talk of money and——.”

“Hold on!” interrupted Will. “I know that myself. I know I have lost my talent, and that I can no longer say anything worth the hearing. But you must remember that I am coming back—I haven’t reached myself, as yet; but I’m coming. I don’t want to come too fast; but, when I reach the real W. B., I’ll go home and put the break on.”

“Will,” I remarked, “you say nothing about religion or chapel. Do you never go to chapel or church?”

“There’s no use telling lies—you’d never think how little 1 have done in that way. You know I don’t like the church. I went once to the Dissenters’ chapel here—Congregationalists they call themselves—and sat near the door. The minister is a Welshman, named Price, whom they are always advertising. Well, out of curiosity I went to hear him. And what do you think his text was? Morgan of Dyffryn’s old one—about the little foxes. I don’t remember the verse, but it’s somewhere in the Old Testament. I, however, remember a lot of the sermon because it had tickled me, above a bit. ‘Just let’s see,’ said I to myself; ‘can you, I wonder, discourse as well as old Morgan could on that particular verse?’ I sat me down to listen. In ten minutes I spotted it was translating Mr. Morgan’s sermon my nabs was, and so I bolted; for I consider the man who prigs a sermon is no better than he who prigs a sovereign, nor as good, because he gets paid for it, while the other fellow gets three months. I went to no place at all for a good long while after that. By accident, however, I turned one Sunday night into the Wesleyan chapel here. I liked the minister praying first class—if he had only got quiet. But, I never came across such a thing! A lot of the congregation got passing remarks so loudly upon his prayer that I couldn’t make out how he wasn’t bewildered. He preached about Peter, after that person had slipped and made a mess of it. I was rather well up in the history, and was getting interested. But if Peter only heard him, he wouldn’t have thanked him I’m sure, for he ran the saint down at a shocking rate. I didn’t like the man’s doctrine, either. He said it was possible for a man to get religion and lose it after, for every thing depended on the man himself. If such is the case, good bye to Will Bryan. I reasoned, then, that if the man bungled about a thing in which I was well up, how could I tell he was right in the thing which I knew nothing about? I never went there again. About a fortnight ago I found out that the old Corph had a Welsh chapel here, and I went to it. It is not like the chapel at home. It is a lot of swells is in the big seat. Looking around I saw an Abel Hughes here and there among the congregation; but ’twas all swells in the big seat. It was a young chap who preached, and by his cut I took him to be a Bala postage stamp—no offence mind. Have you never wondered that a new sect has not arisen to take up the good points of all the denominations? Something of this sort, now: let them adopt the style of the Church of England; the smartness of the Congregationalists, the go-aheadedness of the Wesleyans, and the doctrine of the old Corph. I don’t know much about the Dippers, but I should think they must have their good points. Each sect excels the other in something. I like the style of the English Church; they are more devotional, don’t look about them, or talk to each other during service; only I think they must be awfully ignorant. Well, there’s the Congregationalists; just see how smart and witty they are. They are extraordinarily clever, only there’s too much of the trail of politics and the eisteddfod over them all. Nearly every one of them makes an englyn,* and sports a nom de plume, only I should not be the one to say anything about that. There are the Wesleys again; see how ardent, how warm and how jolly they are. Only I think they must be fearfully clannish. They all pray in the same fashion, too; and are too forward at it— as if they were talking to the man next door. Well, there are we, the old Corph. I say ‘we’ because I consider myself a sort of honorary member still. I always think the old Corph is the John Bull of Wales. The Dissenters, you know, won’t admit this; but no matter. The old Corph reminds me of a stout, unwieldy chap, very difficult to move. There is no use trying to tickle him, he is too thick-skinned. He must have his own time; but, when he does move, he moves like an elephant, and no matter how much you hitch on to him he’ll pull it to anywhere and back again. Do you twig it is figuratively I’m speaking? You know Duke, William the Coal’s mule? I can’t tell how he is, now, but time was when there was no stronger mule in the country. He wouldn’t move a peg, however, unless he liked to himself, and nothing had any effect upon him except old William’s goad. In the summer other mules had a bunch of hazel stuck in their heads to keep the flies away. But what did Duke care about flies? Nothing affected him but the goad, and if ever they make a post mortem examination of him they’ll find his skin like a pepper box, I’ll take my oath. I have seen Duke, though, when he was in the humour, draw twelve hundred weight of coal to the top of the bank, like a shot. I look upon the old Corph as much the same. Perhaps you’ll tell me I’m showing a want of taste, and perpetrating an anticlimax; but you must remember I never was in college. What I mean is—the old Corph is too slow; it has enough power, but no go. It is too serious also; too much like a funeral. Now wouldn’t it be possible to start a fresh denomination which would take up the good points of all the rest? What do you think?”

“I think, Will that you are ‘coming back,’ and that you have not yet lost your old pertness. But with reference to starting a new sect, don’t you think it would be better if we tried, first of all, to combine the virtues you have been speaking of in our own persons? What would you say to beginning a new life? Do you never yearn for what you do not possess, or, possessing, do not wish to put it from you, like the ‘two penn’orths’ and the avarice. You do well by paying your father’s debt; but what about your own? That must be paid, some day, you know. In other words, what do you think of the dread future which is awaiting you and me? What, by this time, do you think of religion?”

“I expected you to talk of that sort of thing,” Will observed, sadly. “If you hadn’t done so, I should have thought you were not fit to be a preacher. I believe your words are not cant, and that it is my good you are seeking. I, however, do not know how to answer your question. I would tell a lie did I say religion is not on my programme; but, up to now, it is in the second part. I remember the time when it stood very low down in that part, next to ‘God Save the Queen.’ I made the very same remark to the town missionary, whose words I shall always remember, ‘How would it be,’ he asked, ‘if you had to leave in the interval? You came very near going before the end of the first part when you fell on your head off the dickey?’ Not so bad, was it Well, to you, I have thought, for some time, that religion has got higher up in the progamme since; and now and then I seem to long for her turn to come. Although still a young chap, I am just about tired of the comic songs of my life, if you understand me. I’m nearly always jolly, but I never was happy. No matter how jolly I am, I know, all the while, there is something which stinks in the corruption of my heart.”

“I am glad you find the odour annoying, and that your soul yearns after purification and true happiness. I must say——”

“Here,” he interrupted. ‘I don’t want a sermon. I have heard thousands of those things. What I want is sound, commonsense advice. Never going to chapel, I have no chum, and that is not true to nature. As to the chaps I mix with, every day, they have nothing in their heads, and they don’t think of anything besides beer. Though I never found real religion—because I do not think it possible a man can get the real thing and lose it afterwards—I sometimes think I got a sort of innoculation in the old chapel at home, such as has prevented me from having any very bad attack of small pox since. I had a slight touch when I came here first; but it did’nt mark me deeply—at least, I hope so. Do you make me out?”

“Of course,” replied I. “We both were brought up religiously from childhood; and, despite it all, we strayed from the right road and wandered long. But I always hoped, Will, you had not lost your good impressions—the ‘innoculation’ as you call it.”

“But your innoculation ‘took’ better than mine. I must have a fresh one before I shall be safe,” observed Will.

“Go to the Doctor, then,” said I. “Inquire for the surgery. By this time you have ‘spotted’ the Welsh chapel. I do not wish to imply that other denominations are not as good as ours; but our up-bringing, possibly our prejudices, prevent our receiving as much blessing from them as we may expect from the old Corph. What is there to prevent your going to chapel regularly? You’ll find friends there, very soon, for you have such a knack of introducing yourself. And who knows but that you will come across the Friend who will cling closely?’

“It is there I’d like to be, every Sunday,” returned Will. “But, if I went, the minister and the deacons would spot me, inquire my name, and where I live. I should be obliged to say William Bryan, and give the number of the house; or remain a humbug. Well, the minister would come here and ask, ‘Is Mr. William Bryan within?’ To which the landlady would answer, ‘There’s no one of the name living here.’ And how should I look? If I gave an alias in chapel, it would seem as if I was trying to cheat the Almighty; and that I will never do. I could get over the difficulty by changing my lodgings, if Walter Bateson had not been registered for the cab; and I do not know whether they permit initials. But I see every day I feel myself coming back that I shall have to drop the ‘alter’ and ‘ateson,’ and substitute ‘William’ and ‘ryan’ before reaching myself. If I do not find some decent way of getting out of it, I’ll throw off my Inverness, show a bold front, and take my seat in chapel; you mark my word. But here you are, if you wish to be in trim for visiting the sick to-morrow, you must go to your kennel; for it is now a quarter to three.”

There was but a step between us and the bed; and I was glad the journey was so short. I slept profoundly; and I remember, even now, that in the morning I was for some minutes, between sleeping and waking, that I could not make out whether I was handling bacon, or smelling someone shaking me. When I got fully awake, I found the facts were reversed. Will, who was at my head, had great trouble in rousing me; and a smell of bacon and coffee filled the room. Rubbing my eyes, I felt as if I had been in a dream, although the room and everything in it answered exactly to what I had seen, except that there were two cups and saucers on the table instead of one. Will and I spent some hours talking over what had occurred, before beginning the work of the day.