_THE WIDE WORLD_.
It was a beautiful summer morning when Cadwgan departed from the home of
his love, the place endeared to him by so many happy associations. The
parting scene between him and his sister was most painful. From
childhood they had not been separate from each other a single day.
Gwenfan’s love for her brother was deep, ardent, and tender. Every want
of his she anticipated, while she paid the minutest attention to his
feelings, even in small and trivial matters. To part with her only
brother was indeed a sore trial; but she now felt she could no longer
resist his wishes, though the thought almost broke her heart. Then
Cadwgan’s grief was equally intense. He however felt that duty called
him away; and somehow there came into his soul a conviction that a day
might come when fortune would smile upon him, and on that day his sister
would bless him for having forsaken the joys of home with its smiles and
sunshine, in obedience to what he regarded as a solemn duty. At last he
tore himself away from his sister’s and aunt’s tender and affectionate
caresses, leaving the home of his childhood; and before the sun was up,
grand old Snowdon, with its circumjacent hills and mountain-tops, had
disappeared from his view. However, he lingered not on his journey, but
when the last old friend of his youth had disappeared he put on new
speed, resolving to arrive at the metropolis of England and the world
before the end of the following week.
We shall not attempt to describe the journey and the incidents which
occurred by the way. Suffice it to say, that in due course he reached
the great city, and during the first few days after his arrival he
wandered from street to street, traversing its parks, alleys, and great
thoroughfares; and during those days’ wanderings he saw much of the busy
scenes of city life, especially those places where merchant princes most
do congregate.
After being in London about a week, faint, weary and worn, hungry and
footsore, he sat down one evening in one of the recesses of London
Bridge, and wept. Though thousands passed by not a soul took any notice
of the sorrowing and weeping boy. As the shades of night began to fall
faster and faster on the scene, the bridge became less crowded, and as
the evening advanced, became almost deserted. The poor youth now thought
seriously on his lonely and forlorn condition. To procure a bed was
almost impossible, as he knew not where to go; and even if he did know,
he could ill afford to spare two shillings—the sum his landlord had
charged him the previous evening—because his little purse was nearly
empty. When the few shillings which remained were gone, he saw no
prospect before him but hunger and starvation, which he now considered
would be his inevitable fate. He now repented of his somewhat rash act
of leaving home before consulting with some one as to the best course he
should pursue. But his repentance was too late. He placed himself in
the hand of his heavenly Father, and prayed to Him for help and guidance.
That prayer brought peace to his troubled spirit.
It was a beautiful and balmy summer night, and he asked himself the
question, why could he not make himself quite comfortable there for a
single night? Having resolved to sleep there for one night at least, he
at once commenced to arrange his pillow, which consisted of his carpet
bag. Having placed the bag on the ledge between the parapet and the
footpath, he lay down to sleep. Just as he was about to close his eyes a
gentleman came up, and stepping on the ledge close to the youth’s bag,
looked over the parapet on the ebbing tide below. Having remained in
that position a few minutes, he turned round for the purpose of
descending to the regular path in order to continue his journey, but in
his descent he saw the youth apparently asleep. He gazed on his
countenance for a few moments, and said,—
“What are you doing there, my child, this time of night?”
“I hope, sir,” replied Cadwgan, “that my sleeping here for a night will
not be wrong. I’m not in the way of any one, sir, and I won’t do any
mischief.”
“But have you no other place to go to, my child? You can procure a bed
somewhere, can’t you?”
“I might possibly do so, sir, but I can’t well spare the money to pay for
a night’s lodgings.”
“But have you no friends or relations in town, my boy, to whom you could
apply for assistance?”
“I’ve no friends in London, sir.”
“I presume you have relations in the country who are in a position to aid
you.”
“I’ve a sister, sir, but she is nearly three hundred miles from here.”
“Where did you come from, my child?”
“From Wales, sir.”
“Is Wales your home—I mean your native country?”
“Yes, sir.”
“North or South Wales?”
“The North, sir.”
“Where in North Wales does your sister live?”
“She lives at Bryn Villa, near Pont Aberglaslyn.”
“Surely, your name, my child, is not Wynn, is it?”
“That is my name, sir.”
“Then you are the son of Squire Wynn, of Wynn Castle?”
“Mr. Wynn was my father.”
“And how is that dear good man?”
“My father and mother, sir, are both dead. I have no one left to care
for me but my sister, except my aunt.”
“I am truly sorry to hear tidings so sad. What is your aunt’s name?”
“Her name is Gwenfan Wynn, which is the name of my sister.”
“But are you not in error in calling her Wynn? I heard she got married
some years ago.”
“My aunt was never married.”
“Are you sure of that, my child?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“You greatly surprise me. I was given to understand she married a Scotch
gentleman, many, many years ago.”
“She did leave home with the intention of being married to a Mr. McDonel,
but finding, fortunately before it was too late, that the representations
he made of himself about his property, estate, and high connections, were
all false, she broke off the match, and not wishing to return home then,
when she would probably be subjected to perhaps unkind observations, took
a situation in a nobleman’s family then about to visit Italy, with whom
she has lived until within the last few weeks. The family only recently
returned to England, and on the evening after their arrival, my aunt saw
in the _Times_ the announcement of my parents’ death. She immediately
left London, and came to us in Wales. She is now with my dear sister
acting as her guardian and friend.”
“I thank you, my child, for your information. You must now accompany me
to my residence. You shall not want for a home and a friend as long as
Owen Jones lives.”
“But, sir, I do not wish, nor can I consent, to live on charity. I’ve
come up to London to work for my bread, and if Heaven smiles on my
efforts I shall attain an honourable independency.”
“As to your future plans, my child, more anon. For the present my home
must and shall be yours. When you have recovered from the fatigue of
your journey, I will endeavour to obtain for you a situation in some
respectable mercantile house. You must in the meantime be my guest. I
hope happy days are in store for you.”
The youth then rose from his couch (Mr. Jones had, during the above
conversation, been sitting on the ledge of the parapet by his side), but
when he attempted to move he almost fell down from exhaustion. His newly
found friend, who had intended to have walked home, hailed a coach, which
soon arrived at his house, which was a semi-detached villa, in Brixton.
On their arrival, Mr. Jones introduced the youth to his wife and only
daughter. The former on being informed who he was, welcomed him with
affectionate cordiality. Mrs. Jones had known his father and mother
years ago, she being a native of a village but a few miles from Wynn
Castle.
In his new home Cadwgan spent an exceedingly pleasant evening. He had to
answer a thousand questions about people and families who resided in the
vicinity of his far distant home among the mountains. At last he was
permitted to retire to his room, and having had no sound sleep for
several nights, and being weary and tired, was soon asleep. He awoke in
the morning feeling he was almost a new man.
At breakfast, Mr. Jones asked the youth what kind of employment would
best meet his wishes.
“I am indifferent, sir, as to the kind of situation; my object and most
anxious desire is to earn my living by hard work.”
“I am extremely sorry, my young friend, that I have no vacancy for a
young gentleman of your talents and education in my establishment.
However, in the course of a few days I hope to succeed in procuring you a
situation in one of the great city houses. In the meantime you are my
guest. My wife and daughter shall take you out during the day, in order
to show you the lions of this great city; but in the evenings they must
not monopolize your whole attention, as I have much to say to you and
many inquiries to make about dear old friends in old Cambria, which has
been to us a good and kind mother.” Then turning to his wife he
said,—“Be sure to take particular care of our young visitor, and don’t
fail to bring him back without injury to health or limb.”
“You need be under no apprehension on that point, Owen,” answered Mrs.
Jones. “No harm shall befall him when under my charge. I shall guard
him from harm as if he were one of my own children.”
“I have no doubt you will, wife. I must now leave you. I hope you will
spend a very pleasant day.”
Mr. Jones then left, and proceeded to his house of business; but during
his walk he thought, not of mercantile transaction or of his dear old
native land, oh, no: his thoughts were wholly occupied with the adventure
of the previous evening.
Soon after the departure of Mr. Jones, his wife and daughter and young
Wynn started off for the purpose of seeing some of the wonders of London,
but the day closed before they saw one hundredth part of its glories.
Day after day they continued to drive about from one part of the
metropolis to another, and during these excursions Cadwgan had acquired a
pretty accurate knowledge of the geography of London.
When at dinner on the following Sunday, Mr. Jones informed his young
visitor of his having at last succeeded in procuring for him a situation
as clerk in the old established house of Messrs. Davies, Roberts &
Company, the celebrated tea merchants, and that he was to commence his
duties on the following Monday. This information was exceedingly
cheering to the youth, as the certainty of employment was now assured.
Not wishing to be under obligation to his friends longer than he could
possibly help, he expressed a wish to procure lodgings in some
respectable family at once, and asked Mr. Jones if he knew of any place
in the neighbourhood likely to suit him.
“We’ll talk on that matter, my boy, another time,” replied Mr. Jones.
“For the present, at least, you must remain with us. If you do leave us
in the way you propose, remember, be your stay in London long or short,
you must consider our house your home. Before you can possibly make any
arrangements you must first see if the situation will suit you; whether
your employers like you, and you like them. If you give them
satisfaction, and your position is likely to be permanent, why then we
will, if you wish, permit you to leave us; and I’ve no doubt but that
Mrs. Jones and my daughter will find you comfortable apartments.”
“Well, sir, I’m in your hands. You have overpowered me with kindness
which I shall never be able to repay. When hungry, weary, and helpless,
when friendless and without a ray of hope, you came to me as an angel of
mercy, you took me into your house, and during my residence under your
hospitable roof, Mrs. Jones and you have treated me as if I were your
child. To you I shall always feel grateful; and come what may, your
image will ever repose in my heart of hearts.”
“Tut, tut! my boy, our kindness is nothing. If we have succeeded in
making you happy, and in giving you a start in life, is not that a
sufficient reward? But our little attention requites in a very small
degree the obligations which I am under to your noble father’s family. I
am still their debtor to an amount I shall never be able to repay.”