Tom Jenkins—Ale of Bala—Sober Moments—Local Prejudices—The
States—Unprejudiced Man—Welsh Pensilvanian Settlers—Drapery Line—Evening
Saunter.
Scarcely had I entered the door of the inn when a man presented himself
to me with a low bow. He was about fifty years of age, somewhat above
the middle size, and had grizzly hair, and a dark, freckled countenance,
in which methought I saw a considerable dash of humour. He wore brown
clothes, had no hat on his head, and held a napkin in his hand. “Are you
the master of this hotel?” said I.
“No, your honour,” he replied, “I am only the waiter, but I officiate for
my master in all things; my master has great confidence in me, sir.”
“And I have no doubt,” said I, “that he could not place his confidence in
any one more worthy.”
With a bow yet lower than the preceding one the waiter replied with a
smirk and a grimace, “Thank, your honour, for your good opinion. I
assure your honour that I am deeply obliged.”
His air, manner, and even accent, were so like those of a Frenchman, that
I could not forbear asking him whether he was one.
He shook his head and replied, “No, your honour, no, I am not a
Frenchman, but a native of this poor country, Tom Jenkins by name.”
“Well,” said I, “you really look and speak like a Frenchman, but no
wonder; the Welsh and French are much of the same blood. Please now to
show me into the parlour.”
He opened the door of a large apartment, placed a chair by a table which
stood in the middle, and then with another bow requested to know my
farther pleasure. After ordering dinner I said that, as I was thirsty, I
should like to have some ale forthwith.
“Ale you shall have, your honour,” said Tom, “and some of the best ale
that can be drunk. This house is famous for ale.”
“I suppose you get your ale from Llangollen,” said I, “which is
celebrated for its ale over Wales.”
“Get our ale from Llangollen?” said Tom, with a sneer of contempt, “no,
nor anything else. As for the ale, it was brewed in this house by your
honour’s humble servant.”
“Oh,” said I, “if you brewed it, it must of course be good. Pray bring
me some immediately, for I am anxious to drink ale of your brewing.”
“Your honour shall be obeyed,” said Tom, and disappearing, returned in a
twinkling with a tray, on which stood a jug filled with liquor, and a
glass. He forthwith filled the glass, and pointing to its contents,
said—
“There, your honour, did you ever see such ale? Observe its colour!
Does it not look for all the world as pale and delicate as cowslip wine?”
“I wish it may not taste like cowslip wine,” said I; “to tell you the
truth, I am no particular admirer of ale that looks pale and delicate;
for I always think there is no strength in it.”
“Taste it, your honour,” said Tom, “and tell me if you ever tasted such
ale.”
I tasted it, and then took a copious draught. The ale was indeed
admirable, equal to the best that I had ever before drunk—rich and
mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so pale and
delicate to the eye, nearly as strong as brandy. I commended it highly
to the worthy Jenkins, who exultingly exclaimed—
“That Llangollen ale indeed! no, no! ale like that, your honour, was
never brewed in that trumpery hole Llangollen.”
“You seem to have a very low opinion of Llangollen?” said I.
“How can I have anything but a low opinion of it, your honour? A
trumpery hole it is, and ever will remain so.”
“Many people of the first quality go to visit it,” said I.
“That is because it lies so handy for England, your honour. If it did
not, nobody would go to see it. What is there to see in Llangollen?”
“There is not much to see in the town, I admit,” said I, “but the scenery
about it is beautiful; what mountains!”
“Mountains, your honour, mountains! well, we have mountains too, and as
beautiful as those of Llangollen. Then we have our lake, our Llyn Tegid,
the lake of beauty. Show me anything like that near Llangollen!”
“Then,” said I, “there is your mound, your Tomen Bala. The Llangollen
people can show nothing like that.”
Tom Jenkins looked at me for a moment with some surprise, and then said:
“I see you have been here before, sir.”
“No,” said I, “never, but I have read about the Tomen Bala in books, both
Welsh and English.”
“You have, sir?” said Tom. “Well, I am rejoiced to see so book-learned a
gentleman in our house. The Tomen Bala has puzzled many a head. What do
the books which mention it say about it, your honour?”
“Very little,” said I, “beyond mentioning it; what do the people here say
of it?”
“All kinds of strange things, your honour.”
“Do they say who built it?”
“Some say the Tylwyth Teg built it, others that it was cast up over a
dead king by his people. The truth is, nobody here knows who built it,
or anything about it, save that it is a wonder. Ah, those people of
Llangollen can show nothing like it.”
“Come,” said I, “you must not be so hard upon the people of Llangollen.
They appear to me, upon the whole, to be an eminently respectable body.”
The Celtic waiter gave a genuine French shrug. “Excuse me, your honour,
for being of a different opinion. They are all drunkards.”
“I have occasionally seen drunken people at Llangollen,” said I, “but I
have likewise seen a great many sober.”
“That is, your honour, you have seen them in their sober moments; but if
you had watched, your honour, if you had kept your eye on them, you would
have seen them reeling too.”
“That I can hardly believe,” said I.
“Your honour can’t! but I can who know them. They are all drunkards, and
nobody can live among them without being a drunkard. There was my
nephew—”
“What of him?” said I.
“Why, he went to Llangollen, your honour, and died of a drunken fever in
less than a month.”
“Well, but might he not have died of the same, if he had remained at
home?”
“No, your honour, no! he lived here many a year, and never died of a
drunken fever; he was rather fond of liquor, it is true, but he never
died at Bala of a drunken fever; but when he went to Llangollen he did.
Now, your honour, if there is not something more drunken about Llangollen
than about Bala, why did my nephew die at Llangollen of a drunken fever?”
“Really,” said I, “you are such a close reasoner, that I do not like to
dispute with you. One observation, however, I wish to make: I have lived
at Llangollen without, I hope, becoming a drunkard.”
“Oh, your honour is out of the question,” said the Celtic waiter, with a
strange grimace. “Your honour is an Englishman, an English gentleman,
and of course could live all the days of your life at Llangollen without
being a drunkard, he he! Who ever heard of an Englishman, especially an
English gentleman, being a drunkard, he he he! And now, your honour,
pray excuse me, for I must go and see that your honour’s dinner is being
got ready in a suitable manner.”
Thereupon he left me, with a bow yet lower than any I had previously seen
him make. If his manners put me in mind of those of a Frenchman, his
local prejudices brought powerfully to my recollection those of a
Spaniard. Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and abuses Llangollen, and calls
its people drunkards, just as a Spaniard exalts his own village, and
vituperates the next and its inhabitants, whom, though he will not call
them drunkards, unless, indeed, he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not
hesitate to term “una caterva de pillos y embusteros.”
The dinner when it appeared was excellent, and consisted of many more
articles than I had ordered. After dinner, as I sat “trifling” with my
cold brandy-and-water, an individual entered—a short, thick, dumpy man
about thirty, with brown clothes and a broad hat, and holding in his hand
a large leather bag. He gave me a familiar nod, and passing by the
table, at which I sat, to one near the window, he flung the bag upon it,
and seating himself in the chair with his profile towards me, he untied
the bag, from which he poured a large quantity of sovereigns upon the
table, and fell to counting them. After counting them three times, he
placed them again in the bag, which he tied up; then taking a small book,
seemingly an account-book, out of his pocket, he wrote something in it
with a pencil; then putting it in his pocket, he took the bag, and
unlocking a beaufet which stood at some distance behind him against the
wall, he put the bag into a drawer; then again locking the beaufet, he
sat down in the chair, then tilting the chair back upon its hind legs, he
kept swaying himself backwards and forwards upon it, his toes sometimes
upon the ground, sometimes mounting until they tapped against the nether
side of the table, surveying me all the time with a queer kind of a side
glance, and occasionally ejecting saliva upon the carpet in the direction
of the place where I sat.
“Fine weather, sir,” said I at last, rather tired of being skewed and
spit at in this manner.
“Why yaas,” said the figure; “the day is tolerably fine, but I have seen
a finer.”
“Well, I don’t remember to have seen one,” said I; “it is as fine a day
as I have seen during the present season, and finer weather than I have
seen during this season I do not think I ever saw before.”
“The weather is fine enough for Britain,” said the figure, “but there are
other countries besides Britain.”
“Why,” said I, “there’s the States, ’tis true.”
“Ever been in the States, Mr.?” said the figure quickly.
“Have I ever been in the States,” said I, “have I ever been in the
States?”
“Perhaps you are of the States, Mr.; I thought so from the first.”
“The States are fine countries,” said I.
“I guess they are, Mr.”
“It would be no easy matter to whip the States.”
“So I should guess, Mr.”
“That is single-handed,” said I.
“Single-handed, no, nor double-handed either. Let England and France and
the State which they are now trying to whip without being able to do it,
that’s Russia, all unite in a union to whip the Union, and if instead of
whipping the States they don’t get a whipping themselves, call me a
braying jackass—”
“I see, Mr.,” said I, “that you are a sensible man, because you speak
very much my own opinion. However, as I am an unprejudiced person, like
yourself, I wish to do justice to other countries—the States are fine
countries—but there are other fine countries in the world. I say nothing
of England; catch me saying anything good of England; but I call Wales a
fine country: gainsay it who may, I call Wales a fine country.”
“So it is, Mr.”
“I’ll go farther,” said I; “I wish to do justice to everything: I call
the Welsh a fine language.”
“So it is, Mr. Ah, I see you are an unprejudiced man. You don’t
understand Welsh, I guess.”
“I don’t understand Welsh,” said I; “I don’t understand Welsh. That’s
what I call a good one.”
“Medrwch siarad Cumraeg?” said the short figure, spitting upon the
carpet.
“Medraf,” said I.
“You can, Mr.! Well, if that don’t whip the Union. But I see: you were
born in the States of Welsh parents.”
“No harm in being born in the States of Welsh parents,” said I.
“None at all, Mr.; I was myself, and the first language I learnt to speak
was Welsh. Did your people come from Bala, Mr.?”
“Why no! Did yourn?”
“Why yaas—at least from the neighbourhood. What State do you come from?
Virginny?”
“Why no!”
“Perhaps Pensilvany country?”
“Pensilvany is a fine state,” said I.
“So it is, Mr. O, that is your state, is it? I come from Varmont.”
“You do, do you? Well, Varmont is not a bad state, but not equal to
Pensilvany, and I’ll tell you two reasons why; first, it has not been so
long settled, and second, there is not so much Welsh blood in it as there
is in Pensilvany.”
“Is there much Welsh blood in Pensilvany, then?”
“Plenty, Mr., plenty. Welsh flocked over to Pensilvany even as far back
as the time of William Penn, who, as you know, Mr., was the first founder
of the Pensilvany State. And that puts me in mind that there is a
curious account extant of the adventures of one of the old Welsh settlers
in Pensilvania. It is to be found in a letter in an old Welsh book. The
letter is dated 1705, and is from one Huw Jones, born of Welsh parents in
Pensilvany country to a cousin of his of the same name, residing in the
neighbourhood of this very town of Bala in Merionethshire where you and
I, Mr., now are. It is in answer to certain inquiries made by the
cousin, and is written in pure old Welsh language. It gives an account
of how the writer’s father left this neighbourhood to go to Pensilvania;
how he embarked on board the ship _William Pen_; how he was thirty weeks
on the voyage from the Thames to the Delaware. Only think, Mr., of a
ship now-a-days being thirty weeks on the passage from the Thames to the
Delaware river; how he learnt the English language on the voyage; how he
and his companions nearly perished with hunger in the wild wood after
they landed; how Pensilvania city was built; how he became a farmer and
married a Welsh woman, the widow of a Welshman from shire Denbigh, by
whom he had the writer and several other children; how the father used to
talk to his children about his native region, and the places round about
Bala, and fill their breasts with longing for the land of their fathers;
and finally how the old man died, leaving his children and their mother
in prosperous circumstances. It is a wonderful letter, Mr., all written
in the pure old Welsh language.”
“I say, Mr., you are a cute one, and know a thing or two. I suppose
Welsh was the first language you learnt, like myself?”
“No, it wasn’t—I like to speak the truth—never took to either speaking or
reading the Welsh language till I was past sixteen.”
“’Stonishing! but see the force of blood at last. In any line of
business?”
“No, Mr., can’t say I am.”
“Have money in your pocket, and travel for pleasure. Come to see
father’s land.”
“Come to see old Wales. And what brings you here, Hiraeth?”
“That’s longing. No, not exactly. Came over to England to see what I
could do. Got in with house at Liverpool in the drapery business.
Travel for it hereabouts, having connections and speaking the language.
Do branch business here for a banking-house besides. Manage to get on
smartly.”
“You look a smart un. But don’t you find it sometimes hard to compete
with English travellers in the drapery line?”
“I guess not. English travellers! set of nat’rals. Don’t know the
language and nothing else. Could whip a dozen any day. Regularly
flummox them.”
“You do, Mr.? Ah, I see you’re a cute un. Glad to have met you.”
“I say, Mr., you have not told me from what county your forefathers
were.”
“From Norfolk and Cornwall counties.”
“Didn’t know there were such counties in Wales.”
“But there are in England.”
“Why, you told me you were of Welsh parents.”
“No, I didn’t. You told yourself so.”
“But how did you come to know Welsh?”
“Why, that’s my bit of a secret.”
“But you are of the United States?”
“Never knew that before.”
“Mr., you flummox me.”
“Just as you do the English drapery travellers. Ah, you’re a cute un—but
do you think it altogether a cute trick to stow all those sovereigns in
that drawer?”
“Who should take them out, Mr.?”
“Who should take them out? Why, any of the swell mob, that should chance
to be in the house, might unlock the drawer with their flash keys as soon
as your back is turned, and take out all the coin.”
“But there are none of the swell mob here.”
“How do you know that?” said I; “the swell mob travel wide about—how do
you know that I am not one of them?”
“The swell mob don’t speak Welsh, I guess.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said I—“the swell coves spare no expense for
their education—so that they may be able to play parts according to
circumstances. I strongly advise you, Mr., to put that bag somewhere
else, lest something should happen to it.”
“Well, Mr., I’ll take your advice. These are my quarters, and I was
merely going to keep the money here for convenience’ sake. The money
belongs to the bank, so it is but right to stow it away in the bank safe.
I certainly should be loth to leave it here with you in the room, after
what you have said.” He then got up, unlocked the drawer, took out the
bag, and with a “good night, Mr.,” left the room.
I “trifled” over my brandy-and-water till I finished it, and then walked
forth to look at the town. I turned up a street, which led to the east,
and soon found myself beside the lake at the north-west extremity of
which Bala stands. It appeared a very noble sheet of water, stretching
from north to south for several miles. As, however, night was fast
coming on, I did not see it to its full advantage. After gazing upon it
for a few minutes, I sauntered back to the square, or market-place, and
leaning my back against a wall, listened to the conversation of two or
three groups of people who were standing near, my motive for doing so
being a desire to know what kind of Welsh they spoke. Their language, as
far as I heard it, differed in scarcely any respect from that of
Llangollen. I, however, heard very little of it, for I had scarcely kept
my station a minute when the good folks became uneasy, cast side-glances
at me, first dropped their conversation to whispers, next held their
tongues altogether, and finally moved off, some going to their homes,
others moving to a distance, and then grouping together—even certain
ragged boys who were playing and chattering near me became uneasy, first
stood still, then stared at me, and then took themselves off and played
and chattered at a distance. Now what was the cause of all this? Why,
suspicion of the Saxon. The Welsh are afraid lest an Englishman should
understand their language, and, by hearing their conversation, become
acquainted with their private affairs; or, by listening to it, pick up
their language, which they have no mind that he should know—and their
very children sympathise with them. All conquered people are suspicious
of their conquerors. The English have forgot that they ever conquered
the Welsh, but some ages will elapse before the Welsh forget that the
English have conquered them.