Welsh Book-Stall—Wit and Poetry—Welsh of Chester—Beautiful Morning—Noble
Fellow—The Coiling Serpent—Wrexham Church—Welsh or English?—Codiad yr
Ehedydd.
On the afternoon of Monday I sent my family off by the train to
Llangollen, which place we had determined to make our headquarters during
our stay in Wales. I intended to follow them next day, not in train, but
on foot, as by walking I should be better able to see the country,
between Chester and Llangollen, than by making the journey by the flying
vehicle. As I returned to the inn from the train I took refuge from a
shower in one of the rows or covered streets, to which, as I have already
said, one ascends by flights of steps; stopping at a book-stall I took up
a book which chanced to be a Welsh one—the proprietor, a short red-faced
man, observing me reading the book, asked me if I could understand it. I
told him that I could.
“If so,” said he, “let me hear you translate the two lines on the
title-page.”
“Are you a Welshman?” said I.
“I am!” he replied.
“Good!” said I, and I translated into English the two lines which were a
couplet by Edmund Price, an old archdeacon of Merion, celebrated in his
day for wit and poetry.
The man then asked me from what part of Wales I came, and when I told him
that I was an Englishman was evidently offended, either because he did
not believe me, or, as I more incline to think, did not approve of an
Englishman’s understanding Welsh.
The book was the life of the Rev. Richards, and was published at
Caerlleon, or the city of the legion, the appropriate ancient British
name for the place now called Chester, a legion having been kept
stationed there during the occupation of Britain by the Romans.
I returned to the inn and dined, and then yearning for society, descended
into the kitchen and had some conversation with the Welsh maid. She told
me that there were a great many Welsh in Chester from all parts of Wales,
but chiefly from Denbighshire and Flintshire, which latter was her own
county. That a great many children were born in Chester of Welsh
parents, and brought up in the fear of God and love of the Welsh tongue.
That there were some who had never been in Wales, who spoke as good Welsh
as herself, or better. That the Welsh of Chester were of various
religious persuasions; that some were Baptists, some Independents, but
that the greater parts were Calvinistic-Methodists; that she herself was
a Calvinistic-Methodist; that the different persuasions had their
different chapels, in which God was prayed to in Welsh; that there were
very few Welsh in Chester who belonged to the Church of England, and that
the Welsh in general do not like Church of England worship, as I should
soon find if I went into Wales.
Late in the evening I directed my steps across the bridge to the green,
where I had discoursed with the Irish itinerants. I wished to have some
more conversation with them respecting their way of life, and, likewise,
as they had so strongly desired it, to give them a little Christian
comfort, for my conscience reproached me for my abrupt departure on the
preceding evening. On arriving at the green, however, I found them gone,
and no traces of them but the mark of their fire and a little dirty
straw. I returned, disappointed and vexed, to my inn.
Early the next morning I departed from Chester for Llangollen, distant
about twenty miles; I passed over the noble bridge and proceeded along a
broad and excellent road, leading in a direction almost due south through
pleasant meadows. I felt very happy—and no wonder; the morning was
beautiful, the birds sang merrily, and a sweet smell proceeded from the
new-cut hay in the fields, and I was bound for Wales. I passed over the
river Allan and through two villages called, as I was told, Pulford and
Marford, and ascended a hill; from the top of this hill the view is very
fine. To the east are the high lands of Cheshire, to the west the bold
hills of Wales, and below, on all sides a fair variety of wood and water,
green meads and arable fields.
“You may well look around, Measter,” said a waggoner, who, coming from
the direction in which I was bound, stopped to breathe his team on the
top of the hill; “you may well look around—there isn’t such a place to
see the country from, far and near, as where we stand. Many come to this
place to look about them.”
I looked at the man, and thought I had never seen a more powerful-looking
fellow; he was about six feet two inches high, immensely broad in the
shoulders, and could hardly have weighed less than sixteen stone. I gave
him the seal of the morning, and asked whether he was Welsh or English.
“English, Measter, English; born t’other side of Beeston, pure Cheshire,
Measter.”
“I suppose,” said I, “there are few Welshmen such big fellows as
yourself.”
“No, Measter,” said the fellow, with a grin, “there are few Welshmen so
big as I, or yourself either, they are small men mostly, Measter, them
Welshers, very small men—and yet the fellows can use their hands. I am a
bit of a fighter, Measter, at least I was before my wife made me join the
Methodist connexion, and I once fit with a Welshman at Wrexham, he came
from the hills, and was a real Welshman, and shorter than myself by a
whole head and shoulder, but he stood up against me, and gave me more
than play for my money, till I gripped him, flung him down and myself
upon him, and then of course ’twas all over with him.”
“You are a noble fellow,” said I, “and a credit to Cheshire. Will you
have sixpence to drink?”
“Thank you, Measter, I shall stop at Pulford, and shall be glad to drink
your health in a jug of ale.”
I gave him sixpence, and descended the hill on one side, while he, with
his team, descended it on the other.
“A genuine Saxon,” said I; “I dare say just like many of those who, under
Hengist, subdued the plains of Lloegr and Britain. Taliesin called the
Saxon race the Coiling Serpent. He had better have called it the Big
Bull. He was a noble poet, however: what wonderful lines, upon the
whole, are those in his prophecy, in which he speaks of the Saxons and
Britons, and of the result of their struggle—
“A serpent which coils,
And with fury boils,
From Germany coming with arm’d wings spread,
Shall subdue and shall enthrall
The broad Britain all,
From the Lochlin ocean to Severn’s bed.
“And British men
Shall be captives then
To strangers from Saxonia’s strand;
They shall praise their God, and hold
Their language as of old,
But except wild Wales they shall lose their land.”
I arrived at Wrexham, and having taken a very hearty breakfast at the
principal inn, for I felt rather hungry after a morning’s walk of ten
miles, I walked about the town. The town is reckoned a Welsh town, but
its appearance is not Welsh—its inhabitants have neither the look nor
language of Welshmen, and its name shows that it was founded by some
Saxon adventurer, Wrexham being a Saxon compound, signifying the home or
habitation of Rex or Rag, and identical, or nearly so, with the Wroxham
of East Anglia. It is a stirring bustling place, of much traffic, and of
several thousand inhabitants. Its most remarkable object is its church,
which stands at the south-western side. To this church, after wandering
for some time about the streets, I repaired. The tower is quadrangular,
and is at least one hundred feet high; it has on its summit four little
turrets, one at each corner, between each of which are three spirelets,
the middlemost of the three the highest. The nave of the church is to
the east; it is of two stories, both crenelated at the top. I wished to
see the interior of the church, but found the gate locked. Observing a
group of idlers close at hand with their backs against a wall, I went up
to them and addressing myself to one, inquired whether I could see the
church. “O yes, sir,” said the man; “the clerk who has the key lives
close at hand; one of us shall go and fetch him; by the bye, I may as
well go myself.” He moved slowly away. He was a large bulky man of
about the middle age, and his companions were about the same age and size
as himself. I asked them if they were Welsh. “Yes, sir,” said one, “I
suppose we are, for they call us Welsh.” I asked if any of them could
speak Welsh. “No, sir,” said the man, “all the Welsh that any of us
know, or indeed wish to know, is Cwrw da.” Here there was a general
laugh. Cwrw da signifies good ale. I at first thought that the words
might be intended as a hint for a treat, but was soon convinced of the
contrary. There was no greedy expectation in his eyes, nor, indeed, in
those of his companions, though they all looked as if they were fond of
good ale. I inquired whether much Welsh was spoken in the town, and was
told very little. When the man returned with the clerk I thanked him.
He told me I was welcome, and then went and leaned with his back against
the wall. He and his mates were probably a set of boon companions
enjoying the air after a night’s bout at drinking. I was subsequently
told that all the people of Wrexham are fond of good ale. The clerk
unlocked the church door, and conducted me in. The interior was modern,
but in no respects remarkable. The clerk informed me that there was a
Welsh service every Sunday afternoon in the church, but that few people
attended, and those few were almost entirely from the country. He said
that neither he nor the clergyman were natives of Wrexham. He showed me
the Welsh Church Bible, and at my request read a few verses from the
sacred volume. He seemed a highly intelligent man. I gave him
something, which appeared to be more than he expected, and departed,
after inquiring of him the road to Llangollen.
I crossed a bridge, for there is a bridge and a stream too at Wrexham.
The road at first bore due west, but speedily took a southerly direction.
I moved rapidly over an undulating country; a region of hills or rather
of mountains lay on my right hand. At the entrance of a small village a
poor sickly-looking woman asked me for charity.
“Are you Welsh or English?” said I.
“Welsh,” she replied; “but I speak both languages, as do all the people
here.”
I gave her a halfpenny; she wished me luck, and I proceeded. I passed
some huge black buildings which a man told me were collieries, and
several carts laden with coal, and soon came to Rhiwabon, a large village
about half way between Wrexham and Llangollen. I observed in this place
nothing remarkable, but an ancient church. My way from hence lay nearly
west. I ascended a hill, from the top of which I looked down into a
smoky valley. I descended, passing by a great many collieries, in which
I observed grimy men working amidst smoke and flame. At the bottom of
the hill near a bridge I turned round. A ridge to the east particularly
struck my attention; it was covered with dusky edifices, from which
proceeded thundering sounds, and puffs of smoke. A woman passed me going
towards Rhiwabon; I pointed to the ridge and asked its name; I spoke
English. The woman shook her head and replied, “Dim Saesneg.”
“This is as it should be,” said I to myself; “I now feel I am in Wales.”
I repeated the question in Welsh.
“Cefn Bach,” she replied—which signifies the little ridge.
“Diolch iti,” I replied, and proceeded on my way.
I was now in a wide valley—enormous hills were on my right. The road was
good; and above it, in the side of a steep bank, was a causeway intended
for foot passengers. It was overhung with hazel bushes. I walked along
it to its termination, which was at Llangollen. I found my wife and
daughter at the principal inn. They had already taken a house. We dined
together at the inn; during the dinner we had music, for a Welsh harper
stationed in the passage played upon his instrument “Codiad yr ehedydd.”
“Of a surety,” said I, “I am in Wales!”