Cerrig y Drudion—The Landlady—Doctor Jones—“Coll Gwynfa”—The Italian—Men
of Como—Disappointment—Weather-Glasses—Filicaia.
The inn at Cerrig y Drudion was called the Lion—whether the white, black,
red or green Lion I do not know, though I am certain that it was a lion
of some colour or other. It seemed as decent and respectable a hostelry
as any traveller could wish to refresh and repose himself in, after a
walk of twenty miles. I entered a well-lighted passage and from thence a
well-lighted bar room, on the right hand, in which sat a stout, comely,
elderly lady dressed in silks and satins, with a cambric coif on her
head, in company with a thin, elderly man with a hat on his head, dressed
in a rather prim and precise manner. “Madam!” said I, bowing to the
lady, “as I suppose you are the mistress of this establishment, I beg
leave to inform you that I am an Englishman walking through these regions
in order fully to enjoy their beauties and wonders. I have this day come
from Llangollen, and being somewhat hungry and fatigued hope I can be
accommodated, here with a dinner and a bed.”
“Sir!” said the lady, getting up and making me a profound curtsey, “I am
as you suppose the mistress of this establishment, and am happy to say
that I shall be able to accommodate you—pray sit down, sir;” she,
continued handing me a chair, “you must indeed be tired, for Llangollen
is a great way from here.”
I took the seat with thanks, and she resumed her own.
“Rather hot weather for walking, sir!” said the precise-looking
gentleman.
“It is,” said I; “but as I can’t observe the country well without walking
through it I put up with the heat.”
“You exhibit a philosophic mind, sir,” said the precise-looking
gentleman—“and a philosophic mind I hold in reverence.”
“Pray, sir,” said I, “have I the honour of addressing a member of the
medical profession?”
“Sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman, getting up and making me a
bow, “your question does honour to your powers of discrimination—a member
of the medical profession I am, though an unworthy one.”
“Nay, nay, doctor,” said the landlady briskly; “say not so—every one
knows that you are a credit to your profession—well would it be if there
were many in it like you—unworthy? marry come up! I won’t hear such an
expression.”
“I see,” said I, “that I have not only the honour of addressing a medical
gentleman, but a doctor of medicine—however, I might have known as much
by your language and deportment.”
With a yet lower bow than, before he replied, with something of a sigh,
“No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in the habit of
placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to it—I am not Doctor
Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your service,” and thereupon with
another bow he sat down.
“Do you reside here?” said I.
“Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth—I have not always
resided here—and I did not always expect to spend my latter days in a
place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes—misfortunes . . .”
“Ah,” said I, “misfortunes! they pursue every one, more especially those
whose virtues should exempt them from them. Well, sir, the consciousness
of not having deserved them should be your consolation.”
“Sir,” said the doctor, taking off his hat, “you are infinitely kind.”
“You call this an obscure place,” said I—“can that be an obscure place
that has produced a poet? I have long had a respect for Cerrig y Drudion
because it gave birth to, and was the residence of a poet of considerable
merit.”
“I was not aware of that fact,” said the doctor, “pray what was his
name?”
“Peter Lewis,” said I; “he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion about the
middle of the last century, and amongst other things wrote a beautiful
song called ‘Cathl y Gair Mwys,’ or the melody of the ambiguous word.”
“Surely you do not understand Welsh?” said the doctor.
“I understand a little of it,” I replied.
“Will you allow me to speak to you in Welsh?” said the doctor.
“Certainly,” said I.
He spoke to me in Welsh and I replied.
“Ha, ha,” said the landlady in English; “only think, doctor, of the
gentleman understanding Welsh—we must mind what we say before him.”
“And are you an Englishman?” said the doctor.
“I am,” I replied.
“And how came you to learn it?”
“I am fond of languages,” said I, “and studied Welsh at an early period.”
“And you read Welsh poetry?”
“O yes.”
“How were you enabled to master its difficulties?”
“Chiefly by going through Owen Pugh’s version of ‘Paradise Lost’ twice,
with the original by my side. He has introduced into that translation so
many of the poetic terms of the old bards that after twice going through
it; there was little in Welsh poetry that I could not make out with a
little pondering.”
“You pursued a very excellent plan,” said the doctor, “a very excellent
plan indeed. Owen Pugh!”
“Owen Pugh! The last of your very great men,” said I.
“You say right, sir,” said the doctor. “He was indeed our last great
man—Ultimus Romanorum. I have myself read his work, which he called
‘Coll Gwynfa,’ the ‘Loss of the Place of Bliss’—an admirable translation,
sir; highly poetical, and at the same time correct.”
“Did you know him?” said I.
“I had not the honour of his acquaintance,” said the doctor—“but, sir, I
am happy to say that I have made yours.”
The landlady now began to talk to me about dinner, and presently went out
to make preparations for that very important meal. I had a great, deal
of conversation with the doctor, whom I found a person of great and
varied information, and one who had seen a vast deal of the world. He
was giving me an account of an island in the West Indies, which he had
visited, when a boy coming in whispered into his ear; whereupon, getting
up he said: “Sir, I am called away. I am a country surgeon, and of
course an accoucheur. There is a lady who lives at some distance,
requiring my assistance. It is with grief I leave you so abruptly, but I
hope that some time or other we shall meet again.” Then making me an
exceedingly profound bow, he left the room, followed by the boy.
I dined upstairs in a very handsome drawing-room communicating with a
sleeping apartment. During dinner I was waited upon by the daughter of
the landlady, a good-looking merry girl of twenty. After dinner I sat
for some time thinking over the adventures of the day, then feeling
rather lonely and not inclined to retire to rest, I went down to the bar,
where I found the landlady seated with her daughter. I sat down with
them and we were soon in conversation. We spoke of Doctor Jones—the
landlady said that he had his little eccentricities, but was an excellent
and learned man. Speaking of herself, she said that she had three
daughters, that the youngest was with her and that the two eldest kept
the principal inn at Ruthyn. We occasionally spoke a little Welsh. At
length the landlady said, “There is an Italian in the kitchen who can
speak Welsh too. It’s odd the only two people not Welshmen I have ever
known who could speak Welsh, for such you and he are, should be in my
house at the same time.”
“Dear me,” said I, “I should like to see him.”
“That you can easily do,” said the girl; “I dare say he will be glad
enough to come in if you invite him.”
“Pray take my compliments to him,” said I, “and tell him that I shall be
glad of his company.”
The girl went out and presently returned with the Italian. He was a
short, thick, strongly-built fellow of about thirty-seven, with a swarthy
face, raven-black hair, high forehead, and dark deep eyes, full of
intelligence and great determination. He was dressed in a velveteen
coat, with broad lappets, red waistcoat, velveteen breeches, buttoning a
little way below the knee; white stockings, apparently of lamb’s-wool,
and highlows.
“Buona sera?” said I.
“Buona sera, signore!” said the Italian.
“Will you have a glass of brandy and water?” said I in English.
“I never refuse a good offer,” said the Italian.
He sat down, and I ordered a glass of brandy and water for him and
another for myself.
“Pray speak a little Italian to him,” said the good landlady to me. “I
have heard a great deal about the beauty of that language, and should
like to hear it spoken.”
“From the Lago di Como?” said I, trying to speak Italian.
“Si, signore! but how came you to think that I was from the Lake of
Como?”
“Because,” said I, “when I was a ragazzo I knew many from the Lake of
Como, who dressed much like yourself. They wandered about the country
with boxes on their backs and weather-glasses in their hands, but had
their head-quarters at N. where I lived.”
“Do you remember any of their names?” said the Italian.
“Giovanni Gestra and Luigi Pozzi,” I replied.
“I have seen Giovanni Gestra myself,” said the Italian, “and I have heard
of Luigi Pozzi. Giovanni Gestra returned to the Lago—but no one knows
what is become of Luigi Pozzi.”
“The last time I saw him,” said I, “was about eighteen years ago at
Coruña, in Spain; he was then in a sad drooping condition, and said he
bitterly repented ever quitting N.”
“E con ragione,” said the Italian, “for there is no place like N. for
doing business in the whole world. I myself have sold seventy pounds’
worth of weather-glasses at N. in one day. One of our people is living
there now, who has done bene, molto bene.”
“That’s Rossi,” said I, “how is it that I did not mention him first? He
is my excellent friend, and a finer cleverer fellow never lived, nor a
more honourable man. You may well say he has done well, for he is now
the first jeweller in the place. The last time I was there I bought a
diamond of him for my daughter Henrietta. Let us drink his health!”
“Willingly!” said the Italian. “He is the prince of the Milanese of
England—the most successful of all, but I acknowledge the most deserving.
Che viva.”
“I wish he would write his life,” said I; “a singular life it would be—he
has been something besides a travelling merchant, and a jeweller. He was
one of Buonaparte’s soldiers and served in Spain, under Soult, along with
John Gestra. He once told me that Soult was an old rascal, and stole all
the fine pictures from the convents, at Salamanca. I believe he spoke
with some degree of envy, for he is himself fond of pictures, and has
dealt in them, and made hundreds by them. I question whether if in
Soult’s place he would not have done the same. Well, however that may
be, che viva.”
Here the landlady interposed, observing that she wished we would now
speak English, for that she had quite enough of Italian, which she did
not find near so pretty a language as she had expected.
“You must not judge of the sound of Italian from what proceeds from my
mouth,” said I. “It is not my native language. I have had little
practice in it, and only speak it very imperfectly.”
“Nor must you judge of Italian from what you have heard me speak,” said
the man of Como; “I am not good at Italian, for the Milanese speak
amongst themselves a kind of jargon composed of many languages, and can
only express themselves with difficulty in Italian. I have been doing my
best to speak Italian but should be glad now to speak English, which
comes to me much more glibly.”
“Are there any books in your dialect, or jergo, as I believe you call
it?” said I.
“I believe there are a few,” said the Italian.
“Do you know the word slandra?” said I.
“Who taught you that word?” said the Italian.
“Giovanni Gestra,” said I—“he was always using it.”
“Giovanni Gestra was a vulgar illiterate man,” said the Italian; “had he
not been so he would not have used it. It is a vulgar word; Rossi would
not have used it.”
“What is the meaning of it?” said the landlady eagerly.
“To roam about in a dissipated manner,” said I.
“Something more,” said the Italian. “It is considered a vulgar word even
in jergo.”
“You speak English remarkably well,” said I; “have you been long in
Britain?”
“I came over about four years ago,” said the Italian.
“On your own account?” said I.
“Not exactly, signore; my brother, who was in business in Liverpool,
wrote to me to come over and assist him. I did so, but soon left him,
and took a shop for myself at Denbigh, where, however, I did not stay
long. At present I travel for an Italian house in London, spending the
summer in Wales and the winter in England.”
“And what do you sell?” said I.
“Weather-glasses, signore—pictures and little trinkets, such as the
country people like.”
“Do you sell many weather-glasses in Wales?” said I.
“I do not, signore. The Welsh care not for weather-glasses; my principal
customers for weather-glasses are the farmers of England.”
“I am told that you can speak Welsh,” said I; “is that true?”
“I have picked up a little of it, signore.”
“He can speak it very well,” said the landlady; “and glad should I be,
sir, to hear you and him speak Welsh together.”
“So should I,” said the daughter, who was seated nigh us; “nothing would
give me greater pleasure than to hear two who are not Welshmen speaking
Welsh together.”
“I would rather speak English,” said the Italian; “I speak a little
Welsh, when my business leads me amongst people who speak no other
language; but I see no necessity for speaking Welsh here.”
“It is a pity,” said I, “that so beautiful a country as Italy should not
be better governed.”
“It is, signore,” said the Italian; “but let us hope that a time will
speedily come when she will be so.”
“I don’t see any chance of it,” said I. “How will you proceed in order
to bring about so desirable a result as the good government of Italy?”
“Why, signore, in the first place we must get rid of the Austrians.”
“You will not find it an easy matter,” said I, “to get rid of the
Austrians: you tried to do so a little time ago, but miserably failed.”
“True, signore; but the next time we try perhaps the French will help
us.”
“If the French help you to drive the Austrians from Italy,” said I, “you
must become their servants. It is true you had better be the servants of
the polished and chivalrous French, than of the brutal and barbarous
Germans, but it is not pleasant to be a servant to anybody. However, I
do not believe that you will ever get rid of the Austrians, even if the
French assist you. The Pope for certain reasons of his own favours the
Austrians, and will exert all the powers of priestcraft to keep them in
Italy. Alas, alas, there is no hope for Italy! Italy, the most
beautiful country in the world, the birthplace of the cleverest people,
whose very pedlars can learn to speak Welsh, is not only enslaved, but
destined always to remain enslaved.”
“Do not say so, signore,” said the Italian, with a kind of groan.
“But I do say so,” said I, “and what is more, one whose shoe-strings,
were he alive, I should not be worthy to untie, one of your mighty ones,
has said so. Did you ever hear of Vincenzio Filicaia?”
“I believe I have, signore; did he not write a sonnet on Italy?”
“He did,” said I; “would you like to hear it?”
“Very much, signore.”
I repeated Filicaia’s glorious sonnet on Italy, and then asked him if he
understood it.
“Only in part, signore; for it is composed in old Tuscan, in which I am
not much versed. I believe I should comprehend it better if you were to
say it in English.”
“Do say it in English,” said the landlady and her daughter; “we should so
like to hear it in English.”
“I will repeat a translation,” said I, “which I made when a boy, which
though far from good, has, I believe, in it something of the spirit of
the original:—
“‘O Italy! on whom dark Destiny
The dangerous gift of beauty did bestow,
From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo,
Which on thy front thou bear’st so visibly.
Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high,
That more of fear, and less of love might show,
He who now blasts him in thy beauty’s glow,
Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die;
Then down from Alp no more would torrents rage
Of armed men, nor Gallic coursers hot
In Po’s ensanguin’d tide their thirst assuage;
Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot,
Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage,
Victress or vanquish’d slavery still thy lot.’”