Chester—The Rows—Lewis Glyn Cothi—Tragedy of Mold—Native of
Antigua—Slavery and the Americans—The Tents—Saturday Night.
On the morning after our arrival we went out together, and walked up and
down several streets; my wife and daughter, however, soon leaving me to
go into a shop, I strolled about by myself. Chester is an ancient town
with walls and gates, a prison called a castle, built on the site of an
ancient keep, an unpretending-looking red sandstone cathedral, two or
three handsome churches, several good streets, and certain curious places
called rows. The Chester row is a broad arched stone gallery running
parallel with the street within the façades of the houses; it is partly
open on the side of the street, and just one story above it. Within the
rows, of which there are three or four, are shops, every shop being on
that side which is farthest from the street. All the best shops in
Chester are to be found in the rows. These rows, to which you ascend by
stairs up narrow passages, were originally built for the security of the
wares of the principal merchants against the Welsh. Should the
mountaineers break into the town, as they frequently did, they might
rifle some of the common shops, where their booty would be slight, but
those which contained the more costly articles would be beyond their
reach; for at the first alarm the doors of the passages, up which the
stairs led, would be closed, and all access to the upper streets cut off,
from the open arches of which missiles of all kinds, kept ready for such
occasions, could be discharged upon the intruders, who would be soon glad
to beat a retreat. These rows and the walls are certainly the most
remarkable memorials of old times which Chester has to boast of.
Upon the walls it is possible to make the whole compass of the city,
there being a good but narrow walk upon them. The northern wall abuts
upon a frightful ravine, at the bottom of which is a canal. From the
western one there is a noble view of the Welsh hills.
As I stood gazing upon the hills from the wall, a ragged man came up and
asked for charity.
“Can you tell me the name of that tall hill?” said I, pointing in the
direction of the south-west. “That hill, sir,” said the beggar, “is
called Moel Vamagh; I ought to know something about it as I was born at
its foot.” “Moel,” said I, “a bald hill; Vamagh; maternal or motherly.
Moel Vamagh, the mother Moel.” “Just so, sir,” said the beggar; “I see
you are a Welshman, like myself, though I suppose you come from the
South—Moel Vamagh is the Mother Moel, and is called so because it is the
highest of all the Moels.” “Did you ever hear of a place called Mold?”
said I. “Oh, yes, your honour,” said the beggar; “many a time; and
many’s the time I have been there.” “In which direction does it lie?”
said I. “Towards Moel Vamagh, your honour,” said the beggar, “which is a
few miles beyond it; you can’t see it from here, but look towards Moel
Vamagh and you will see over it.” “Thank you,” said I, and gave
something to the beggar, who departed, after first taking off his hat.
Long and fixedly did I gaze in the direction of Mold. The reason which
induced me to do so was the knowledge of an appalling tragedy transacted
there in the old time, in which there is every reason to suppose a
certain Welsh bard, called Lewis Glyn Cothi, had a share.
This man, who was a native of South Wales, flourished during the wars of
the Roses. Besides being a poetical he was something of a military
genius, and had a command of foot in the army of the Lancastrian Jasper
Earl of Pembroke, the son of Owen Tudor, and half-brother of Henry the
Sixth. After the battle of Mortimer’s Cross, in which the Earl’s forces
were defeated, the warrior bard found his way to Chester, where he
married the widow of a citizen and opened a shop, without asking the
permission of the mayor, who with the officers of justice came and seized
all his goods, which, according to his own account, filled nine sacks,
and then drove him out of the town. The bard in a great fury indited an
awdl, in which he invites Reinallt ap Grufydd ap Bleddyn, a kind of
predatory chieftain, who resided a little way off in Flintshire, to come
and set the town on fire, and slaughter the inhabitants, in revenge for
the wrongs he had suffered, and then proceeds to vent all kinds of
imprecations against the mayor and people of Chester, wishing, amongst
other things, that they might soon hear that the Dee had become too
shallow to bear their ships—that a certain cutaneous disorder might
attack the wrists of great and small, old and young, laity and
clergy—that grass might grow in their streets—that Ilar and Cyveilach,
Welsh saints, might slay them—that dogs might snarl at them—and that the
king of heaven, with the saints Brynach and Non, might afflict them with
blindness—which piece, however ineffectual in inducing God and the saints
to visit the Chester people with the curses with which the furious bard
wished them to be afflicted, seems to have produced somewhat of its
intended effect on the chieftain, who shortly afterwards, on learning
that the mayor and many of the Chester people were present at the fair of
Mold, near which place he resided, set upon them at the head of his
forces, and after a desperate combat, in which many lives were lost, took
the mayor prisoner, and drove those of his people who survived into a
tower, which he set on fire and burnt, with all the unhappy wretches
which it contained, completing the horrors of the day by hanging the
unfortunate mayor.
Conversant as I was with all this strange history, is it wonderful that I
looked with great interest from the wall of Chester in the direction of
Mold?
Once did I make the compass of the city upon the walls, and was beginning
to do the same a second time, when I stumbled against a black, who, with
his arms leaning upon the wall, was spitting over it, in the direction of
the river. I apologized, and contrived to enter into conversation with
him. He was tolerably well dressed, had a hairy cap on his head, was
about forty years of age, and brutishly ugly, his features scarcely
resembling those of a human being. He told me he was a native of
Antigua, a blacksmith by trade, and had been a slave. I asked him if he
could speak any language besides English, and received for answer that
besides English, he could speak Spanish and French. Forthwith I spoke to
him in Spanish, but he did not understand me. I then asked him to speak
to me in Spanish, but he could not. “Surely you can tell me the word for
water in Spanish,” said I; he, however, was not able. “How is it,” said
I, “that, pretending to be acquainted with Spanish, you do not even know
the word for water?” He said he could not tell, but supposed that he had
forgotten the Spanish language, adding, however, that he could speak
French perfectly. I spoke to him in French—he did not understand me: I
told him to speak to me in French, but he did not. I then asked him the
word for bread in French, but he could not tell me. I made no
observations on his ignorance, but inquired how he liked being a slave?
He said not at all; that it was very bad to be a slave, as a slave was
forced to work. I asked him if he did not work now that he was free? He
said very seldom; that he did not like work, and that it did not agree
with him. I asked how he came into England, and he said that wishing to
see England, he had come over with a gentleman as his servant, but that
as soon as he got there, he had left his master, as he did not like work.
I asked him how he contrived to live in England without working? He said
that any black might live in England without working; that all he had to
do was to attend religious meetings, and speak against slavery and the
Americans. I asked him if he had done so. He said he had, and that the
religious people were very kind to him, and gave him money, and that a
religious lady was going to marry him. I asked him if he knew anything
about the Americans? He said he did, and that they were very bad people,
who kept slaves and flogged them. “And quite right too,” said I, “if
they are lazy rascals like yourself, who want to eat without working.
What a pretty set of knaves or fools must they be, who encourage a fellow
like you to speak against negro slavery, of the necessity for which you
yourself are a living instance, and against a people of whom you know as
much as of French or Spanish.” Then leaving the black, who made no other
answer to what I said, than by spitting with considerable force in the
direction of the river, I continued making my second compass of the city
upon the wall.
Having walked round the city for the second time, I returned to the inn.
In the evening I went out again, passed over the bridge, and then turned
to the right in the direction of the hills. Near the river, on my right,
on a kind of green, I observed two or three tents resembling those of
gypsies. Some ragged children were playing near them, who, however, had
nothing of the appearance of the children of the Egyptian race, their
locks being not dark, but either of a flaxen or red hue, and their
features not delicate and regular, but coarse and uncouth, and their
complexions not olive, but rather inclining to be fair. I did not go up
to them, but continued my course till I arrived near a large factory. I
then turned and retraced my steps into the town. It was Saturday night
and the streets were crowded with people, many of whom must have been
Welsh, as I heard the Cambrian language spoken on every side.