A Calvinistic Methodist—Turn for Saxon—Our Congregation—Pont y
Cyssylltau—Catherine Lingo.
I had inquired of the good woman of the house in which we lived whether
she could not procure a person to accompany me occasionally in my walks,
who was well acquainted with the strange nooks and corners of the
country, and who could speak no language but Welsh; as I wished to
increase my knowledge of colloquial Welsh by having a companion, who
would be obliged, in all he had to say to me, to address me in Welsh, and
to whom I should perforce have to reply in that tongue. The good lady
had told me that there was a tenant of hers who lived in one of the
cottages, which looked into the perllan, who, she believed, would be glad
to go with me, and was just the kind of man I was in quest of. The day
after I had met with the adventures which I have related in the preceding
chapter, she informed me that the person in question was awaiting my
orders in the kitchen. I told her to let me see him. He presently made
his appearance. He was about forty-five years of age, of middle stature,
and had a good-natured open countenance. His dress was poor, but clean.
“Well,” said I to him in Welsh, “are you the Cumro who can speak no
Saxon?”
“In truth, sir, I am.”
“Are you sure that you know no Saxon?”
“Sir! I may know a few words, but I cannot converse in Saxon, nor
understand a conversation in that tongue.”
“Can you read Cumraeg?”
“In truth, sir, I can.”
“What have you read in it?”
“I have read, sir, the Ysgrythyr-lan, till I have it nearly at the ends
of my fingers.”
“Have you read anything else besides the Holy Scripture?”
“I read the newspaper, sir, when kind friends lend it to me.”
“In Cumraeg?”
“Yes, sir, in Cumraeg. I can read Saxon a little, but not sufficient to
understand a Saxon newspaper.”
“What newspaper do you read?”
“I read, sir, _Yr Amserau_.”
“Is that a good newspaper?”
“Very good, sir; it is written by good men.”
“Who are they?”
“They are our ministers, sir.”
“Of what religion are you?”
“A Calvinistic Methodist, sir.”
“Why are you of the Methodist religion?”
“Because it is the true religion, sir.”
“You should not be bigoted. If I had more Cumraeg than I have, I would
prove to you that the only true religion is that of the Lloegrian
Church.”
“In truth, sir, you could not do that; had you all the Cumraeg in Cumru
you could not do that.”
“What are you by trade?”
“I am a gwehydd, sir.”
“What do you earn by weaving?”
“About five shillings a week, sir.”
“Have you a wife?”
“I have, sir.”
“Does she earn anything?”
“Very seldom, sir; she is a good wife, but is generally sick.”
“Have you children?”
“I have three, sir.”
“Do they earn anything?”
“My eldest son, sir, sometimes earns a few pence, the others are very
small.”
“Will you sometimes walk with me, if I pay you?”
“I shall be always glad to walk with you, sir, whether you pay me or
not.”
“Do you think it lawful to walk with one of the Lloegrian Church?”
“Perhaps, sir, I ought to ask the gentleman of the Lloegrian Church
whether he thinks it lawful to walk with the poor Methodist weaver.”
“Well, I think we may venture to walk with one another. What is your
name?”
“John Jones, sir.”
“Jones! Jones! I was walking with a man of that name the other night.”
“The man with whom you walked the other night is my brother, sir, and
what he said to me about you made me wish to walk with you also.”
“But he spoke very good English.”
“My brother had a turn for Saxon, sir; I had not. Some people have a
turn for the Saxon, others have not. I have no Saxon, sir, my wife has
digon iawn—my two youngest children speak good Saxon, sir, my eldest son
not a word.”
“Well, shall we set out?”
“If you please, sir.”
“To what place shall we go?”
“Shall we go to the Pont y Cyssylltau, sir?”
“What is that?”
“A mighty bridge, sir, which carries the Camlas over a valley on its
back.”
“Good! let us go and see the bridge of the junction, for that I think is
the meaning in Saxon of Pont y Cyssylltau.”
We set out; my guide conducted me along the bank of the Camlas in the
direction of Rhiwabon, that is towards the east. On the way we
discoursed on various subjects, and understood each other tolerably well.
I asked if he had ever been anything besides a weaver. He told me that
when a boy he kept sheep on the mountain. “Why did you not go on keeping
sheep?” said I; “I would rather keep sheep than weave.”
“My parents wanted me at home, sir,” said he; “and I was not sorry to go
home; I earned little, and lived badly.”
“A shepherd,” said I, “can earn more than five shillings a week.”
“I was never a regular shepherd, sir,” said he. “But, sir, I would
rather be a weaver with five shillings a week in Llangollen, than a
shepherd with fifteen on the mountain. The life of a shepherd, sir, is
perhaps not exactly what you and some other gentlefolks think. The
shepherd bears much cold and wet, sir, and he is very lonely; no society
save his sheep and dog. Then, sir, he has no privileges. I mean gospel
privileges. He does not look forward to Dydd Sul, as a day of llawenydd,
of joy and triumph, as the weaver does; that is if he is religiously
disposed. The shepherd has no chapel, sir, like the weaver. Oh, sir, I
say again that I would rather be a weaver in Llangollen with five
shillings a week, than a shepherd on the hill with fifteen.”
“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you live with your family on five
shillings a week?”
“No, sir. I frequently do little commissions by which I earn something.
Then, sir, I have friends, very good friends. A good lady of our
congregation sent me this morning half-a-pound of butter. The people of
our congregation are very kind to each other, sir.”
“That is more,” thought I to myself, “than the people of my congregation
are; they are always cutting each other’s throats.” I next asked if he
had been much about Wales.
“Not much, sir. However, I have been to Pen Caer Gybi, which you call
Holy Head, and to Bethgelert, sir.”
“What took you to those places?”
“I was sent to those places on business, sir; as I told you before, sir,
I sometimes execute commissions. At Bethgelert I stayed some time. It
was there I married, sir; my wife comes from a place called Dol Gellyn
near Bethgelert.”
“What was her name?”
“Her name was Jones, sir.”
“What, before she married?”
“Yes, sir, before she married. You need not be surprised, sir; there are
plenty of the name of Jones in Wales. The name of my brother’s wife,
before she married, was also Jones.”
“Your brother is a clever man,” said I.
“Yes, sir, for a Cumro he is clebber enough.”
“For a Cumro?”
“Yes, sir, he is not a Saxon, you know.”
“Are Saxons then so very clever?”
“O yes, sir; who so clebber? The clebberest people in Llangollen are
Saxons; that is, at carnal things—for at spiritual things I do not think
them at all clebber. Look at Mr. A., sir.”
“Who is he?”
“Do you not know him, sir? I thought everybody knew Mr. A. He is a
Saxon, sir, and keeps the inn on the road a little way below where you
live. He is the clebberest man in Llangollen, sir. He can do
everything. He is a great cook, and can wash clothes better than any
woman. O, sir, for carnal things, who so clebber as your Countrymen!”
After walking about four miles by the side of the canal we left it, and
bearing to the right presently came to the aqueduct, which strode over a
deep and narrow valley, at the bottom of which ran the Dee. “This is the
Pont y Cysswllt, sir,” said my guide; “it’s the finest bridge in the
world, and no wonder, if what the common people say be true, namely that
every stone cost a golden sovereign.” We went along it; the height was
awful. My guide, though he had been a mountain shepherd, confessed that
he was somewhat afraid. “It gives me the pendro, sir,” said he, “to look
down.” I too felt somewhat dizzy, as I looked over the parapet into the
glen. The canal which this mighty bridge carries across the gulf is
about nine feet wide, and occupies about two-thirds of the width of the
bridge and the entire western side. The footway is towards the east.
From about the middle of the bridge there is a fine view of the forges on
the Cefn Bach and also of a huge hill near it called the Cefn Mawr. We
reached the termination, and presently crossing the canal by a little
wooden bridge we came to a village. My guide then said, “If you please,
sir, we will return by the old bridge, which leads across the Dee in the
bottom of the vale.” He then led me by a romantic road to a bridge on
the west of the aqueduct, and far below. It seemed very ancient. “This
is the old bridge, sir,” said my guide; “it was built a hundred years
before the Pont y Cysswllt was dreamt of.” We now walked to the west, in
the direction of Llangollen, along the bank of the river. Presently we
arrived where the river, after making a bend, formed a pool. It was
shaded by lofty trees, and to all appearance was exceedingly deep. I
stopped to look at it, for I was struck with its gloomy horror. “That
pool, sir,” said John Jones, “is called Llyn y Meddwyn, the drunkard’s
pool. It is called so, sir, because a drunken man once fell into it, and
was drowned. There is no deeper pool in the Dee, sir, save one, a little
below Llangollen, which is called the pool of Catherine Lingo. A girl of
that name fell into it, whilst gathering sticks on the high bank above
it. She was drowned, and the pool was named after her. I never look at
either without shuddering, thinking how certainly I should be drowned if
I fell in, for I cannot swim, sir.”
“You should have learnt to swim when you were young,” said I, “and to
dive too. I know one who has brought up stones from the bottom, I dare
say, of deeper pools than either, but he was a Saxon, and at carnal
things, you know, none so clebber as the Saxons.”
I found my guide a first-rate walker, and a good botanist, knowing the
names of all the plants and trees in Welsh. By the time we returned to
Llangollen I had formed a very high opinion of him, in which I was
subsequently confirmed by what I saw of him during the period of our
acquaintance, which was of some duration. He was very honest,
disinterested, and exceedingly good-humoured. It is true, he had his
little skits occasionally at the Church, and showed some marks of
hostility to the church cat, more especially when he saw it mounted on my
shoulders; for the creature soon began to take liberties, and in less
than a week after my arrival at the cottage, generally mounted on my
back, when it saw me reading or writing, for the sake of the warmth. But
setting aside those same skits at the Church and that dislike of the
church cat, venial trifles after all, and easily to be accounted for, on
the score of his religious education, I found nothing to blame and much
to admire in John Jones the Calvinistic Methodist of Llangollen.