CHAPTER LXII
Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good Wife.
I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in. I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom, from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh issued from it.
“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a bloody nose, go in there.”
Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty, and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in. A thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a woman.
“Where is the landlord?” said I.
“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily. “What do you want?”
“A pint of ale,” said I.
The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of the room. In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand, which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the table. He took the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven pieces against the table, then staggered out of the room into the passage, and from thence apparently out of the house. I tasted the ale, which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.
“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she.
“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.”
“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.”
“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I.
“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said, “I must go and see after my husband.”
“Won’t you take a glass of ale first?” said I, offering to fill a glass which stood on the table.
“No,” said she; “I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;” and without saying anything more she departed.
“I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to a glass of ale?” said I to myself; then finishing my ale, I got up and left the house, which, when I departed, appeared to be entirely deserted.
It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for the glare of the forges. There was an immense glare to the south-west, which I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr. It lighted up the south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to me, seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of trees.
Walking very fast, I soon overtook a man. I knew him at once by his staggering gait.
“Ah, landlord!” said I; “whither bound?”
“To Rhiwabon,” said he, huskily, “for a pint.”
“Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon,” said I, “that you leave home for it?”
“No,” said he, rather shortly, “there’s not a glass of good ale in Rhiwabon.”
“Then why do you go thither?” said I.
“Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good at home,” said the landlord, reeling against the hedge.
“There are many in a higher station than you who act upon that principle,” thought I to myself as I passed on.
I soon reached Rhiwabon. There was a prodigious noise in the public-houses as I passed through it. “Colliers carousing,” said I. “Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though perhaps in strict duty I ought.” At the end of the town, instead of taking the road on the left side of the church, I took that on the right. It was not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I began to be apprehensive that I had mistaken the way. Hearing some people coming towards me on the road, I waited till they came up; they proved to be a man and a woman. On my inquiring whether I was right for Llangollen, the former told me that I was not, and in order to get there it was necessary that I should return to Rhiwabon. I instantly turned round. About half-way back I met a man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to. I said to Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen. “Well, then,” said he, “you need not return to Rhiwabon—yonder is a short cut across the fields,” and he pointed to a gate. I thanked him, and said I would go by it; before leaving him, I asked to what place the road led which I had been following.
“To Pentre Castren,” he replied. I struck across the fields, and should probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the like, but for the light of the Cefn furnaces before me, which cast their red glow upon my path. I debouched upon the Llangollen road near to the tramway leading to the collieries. Two enormous sheets of flame shot up high into the air from ovens, illumining two spectral chimneys as high as steeples, also smoky buildings, and grimy figures moving about. There was a clanging of engines, a noise of shovels and a falling of coals truly horrible. The glare was so great that I could distinctly see the minutest lines upon my hand. Advancing along the tramway, I obtained a nearer view of the hellish buildings, the chimneys and the demoniac figures. It was just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis Wynn in his Vision of Hell. Feeling my eyes scorching, I turned away, and proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road, sometimes on the dangerous causeway. For three miles at least I met nobody. Near Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway, three men came swiftly towards me. I kept the hedge, which was my right; the two first brushed roughly past me, the third came full upon me, and was tumbled into the road. There was a laugh from the two first, and a loud curse from the last as he sprawled in the mire. I merely said “Nos Da’ki,” and passed on, and in about a quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife awaiting me alone, Henrietta having gone to bed, being slightly indisposed. My wife received me with a cheerful smile. I looked at her, and the good wife of the Triad came to my mind.
“She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient.
“Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband.
“Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of compassion for the poor.
“Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God.
“Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly.
“Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding.
“Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent.
“Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident.
“Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking.
“Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to her children.
“Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God.
“Happy the man,” adds the Triad, “who possesses such a wife.” Very true, O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her; but many a man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure Jezebel abroad, even as many a one prefers a pint of hog’s wash abroad to a tankard of generous liquor at home.
CHAPTER LXIII
Preparations for Departure—Cat provided for—A Pleasant Party—Last Night at Llangollen.
I was awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind. There was a considerable storm throughout the day, but unaccompanied by rain. I went to church both in the morning and the evening. The next day there was a great deal of rain. It was now the latter end of October; winter was coming on, and my wife and daughter were anxious to return home. After some consultation, it was agreed that they should depart for London, and that I should join them there after making a pedestrian tour in South Wales.
I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the Deheubarth, or Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had heard, both in language and customs from Gwynedd, or the Northern—a land which had given birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where the great Ryce family had flourished, which very much distinguished itself in the Wars of the Roses—a member of which, Ryce ap Thomas, placed Henry the Seventh on the throne of Britain—a family of royal extraction, and which, after the death of Roderic the Great, for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of the south.
We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective journeys. Those for mine were soon made. I bought a small leather satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt, a pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Along with it I bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my shoulder; I got my boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather dilapidated, mended; put twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then said I am all right for the Deheubarth.
As my wife and daughter required much more time in making preparations for their journey than I for mine, and as I should only be in their way whilst they were employed, it was determined that I should depart on my expedition on Thursday, and that they should remain at Llangollen till the Saturday.
We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of the ecclesiastical cat; it would, of course, not do to leave it in the garden, to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of the neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel manufactory, and my wife and daughter could hardly carry it with them. At length we thought of applying to a young woman of sound Church principles, who was lately married, and lived over the water on the way to the railroad station, with whom we were slightly acquainted, to take charge of the animal; and she, on the first intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it. So with her poor puss was left, along with a trifle for its milk-money, and with her, as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort, till one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a mew and died. So much for the ecclesiastical cat!
The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr. Ebenezer E—, who had heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the evening at the vicarage. His father had left Llangollen the day before for Chester, where he expected to be detained some days. I told him we should be most happy to come. He then asked me to take a walk. I agreed with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to Llansilio, at the western end of the valley, and look at the church. The church was an ancient building. It had no spire, but had the little erection on its roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for holding a bell.
In the churchyard is a tomb, in which an old squire of the name of Jones was buried about the middle of the last century. There is a tradition about this squire and tomb, to the following effect. After the squire’s death there was a lawsuit about his property, in consequence of no will having been found. It was said that his will had been buried with him in the tomb, which after some time was opened, but with what success the tradition sayeth not.
In the evening we went to the vicarage. Besides the family and ourselves, there was Mr. R—, and one or two more. We had a very pleasant party; and as most of those present wished to hear something connected with Spain, I talked much about that country, sang songs of Germania, and related in an abridged form Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is decidedly the best ghost story in the world.
In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones. On my telling him that I was about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country. I told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian tour in South Wales. He said that he should die without seeing the south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far from home. He then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south. I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more than once. He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. “A traveller once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling down the cataract. ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away, reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to see no calf come tumbling down.” I took leave of the kind old gentleman with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place.
About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him with. Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy at the thought that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return. To enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which made him smile more than once. When I had concluded, he asked me whether I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of this work. He told me that with all due submission he thought he could give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road. In the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ wraig Sam, the house of Sam’s wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a town arising about it by degrees, the town, too, was called Wraig Sam, which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham.
I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further discourse, John Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a “taith hyfryd,” and departed. Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen.