A Visitor—Apprenticeship to the Law—Croch Daranau Lope de Vega—No life
like the Traveller’s.
One morning as I sat alone a gentleman was announced. On his entrance I
recognised in him the magistrate’s clerk, owing to whose good word, as it
appeared to me, I had been permitted to remain during the examination
into the affair of the wounded butcher. He was a stout, strong-made man,
somewhat under the middle height, with a ruddy face, and very clear, grey
eyes. I handed him a chair, which he took, and said that his name was
R—, and that he had taken the liberty of calling, as he had a great
desire to be acquainted with me. On my asking him his reason for that
desire, he told me that it proceeded from his having read a book of mine
about Spain, which had much interested him.
“Good,” said I, “you can’t give an author a better reason for coming to
see him than being pleased with his book. I assure you that you are most
welcome.”
After a little general discourse, I said that I presumed he was in the
law.
“Yes,” said he, “I am a member of that much-abused profession.”
“And unjustly abused,” said I; “it is a profession which abounds with
honourable men, and in which I believe there are fewer scamps than in any
other. The most honourable men I have ever known have been lawyers; they
were men whose word was their bond, and who would have preferred ruin to
breaking it. There was my old master, in particular, who would have died
sooner than broken his word. God bless him! I think I see him now, with
his bald, shining pate, and his finger on an open page of _Preston’s
Conveyancing_.”
“Sure you are not a limb of the law?” said Mr. R—.
“No,” said I, “but I might be, for I served an apprenticeship to it.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. R—, shaking me by the hand. “Take my
advice, come and settle at Llangollen, and be my partner.”
“If I did,” said I, “I am afraid that our partnership would be of short
duration; you would find me too eccentric and flighty for the law. Have
you a good practice?” I demanded after a pause.
“I have no reason to complain of it,” said he, with a contented air.
“I suppose you are married?” said I.
“O yes,” said he, “I have both a wife and family.”
“A native of Llangollen?” said I.
“No,” said he; “I was born at Llan Silin, a place some way off across the
Berwyn.”
“Llan Silin?” said I; “I have a great desire to visit it some day or
other.”
“Why so?” said he; “it offers nothing interesting.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I; “unless I am much mistaken, the tomb of the
great poet Huw Morris is in Llan Silin churchyard.”
“Is it possible that you have ever heard of Huw Morris?”
“O yes,” said I; “and I have not only heard of him, but am acquainted
with his writings; I read them when a boy.”
“How very extraordinary,” said he; “well, you are quite right about his
tomb; when a boy I have played dozens of times on the flat stone with my
school-fellows.”
We talked of Welsh poetry; he said he had not dipped much into it, owing
to its difficulty; that he was master of the colloquial language of
Wales, but understood very little of the language of Welsh poetry, which
was a widely different thing. I asked him whether he had seen Owen
Pugh’s translation of _Paradise Lost_. He said he had, but could only
partially understand it, adding, however, that those parts which he could
make out appeared to him to be admirably executed, that amongst these
there was one which had particularly struck him, namely:
“Ar eu col o rygnu croch
Daranau.”
The rendering of Milton’s
“And on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder,”
which, grand as it was, was certainly equalled by the Welsh version, and
perhaps surpassed, for that he was disposed to think that there was
something more terrible in “croch daranau” than in “harsh thunder.”
“I am disposed to think so too,” said I. “Now can you tell me where Owen
Pugh is buried?”
“I cannot,” said he; “but I suppose you can tell me; you, who know the
burying-place of Huw Morris, are probably acquainted with the
burying-place of Owen Pugh.”
“No,” said I, “I am not. Unlike Huw Morris, Owen Pugh has never had his
history written, though perhaps quite as interesting a history might be
made out of the life of the quiet student as out of that of the popular
poet. As soon as ever I learn where his grave is, I shall assuredly make
a pilgrimage to it.” Mr. R— then asked me a good many questions about
Spain, and a certain singular race of people about whom I have written a
good deal. Before going away he told me that a friend of his, of the
name of J—, would call upon me, provided he thought I should not consider
his doing so an intrusion. “Let him come by all means,” said I; “I shall
never look upon a visit from a friend of yours in the light of an
intrusion.”
In a few days came his friend, a fine, tall, athletic man of about forty.
“You are no Welshman,” said I, as I looked at him.
“No,” said he, “I am a native of Lincolnshire, but I have resided in
Llangollen for thirteen years.”
“In what capacity?” said I.
“In the wine-trade,” said he.
“Instead of coming to Llangollen,” said I, “and entering into the
wine-trade, you should have gone to London, and enlisted into the
life-guards.”
“Well,” said he, with a smile, “I had once or twice thought of doing so.
However, fate brought me to Llangollen, and I am not sorry that she did,
for I have done very well here.”
I soon found out that he was a well-read and indeed highly accomplished
man. Like his friend R—, Mr. J— asked me a great many questions about
Spain. By degrees we got on the subject of Spanish literature. I said
that the literature of Spain was a first-rate literature, but that it was
not very extensive. He asked me whether I did not think that Lope de
Vega was much overrated.
“Not a bit,” said I; “Lope de Vega was one of the greatest geniuses that
ever lived. He was not only a great dramatist and lyric poet, but a
prose writer of marvellous ability, as he proved by several admirable
tales, amongst which is the best ghost story in the world.”
Another remarkable person whom I got acquainted with about this time, was
A—, the innkeeper, who lived a little way down the road, of whom John
Jones had spoken. So highly, saying, amongst other things, that he was
the clebberest man in Llangollen. One day as I was looking in at his
gate, he came forth, took off his hat, and asked me to do him the honour
to come in and look at his grounds. I complied, and as he showed me
about he told me his history, in nearly the following words:—
“I am a Devonian by birth. For many years I served a travelling
gentleman, whom I accompanied in all his wanderings. I have been five
times across the Alps, and in every capital of Europe. My master at
length dying, left me in his will something handsome, whereupon I
determined to be a servant no longer, but married, and came to
Llangollen, which I had visited long before with my master, and had been
much pleased with. After a little time, these premises becoming vacant,
I took them, and set up in the public line, more to have something to do,
than for the sake of gain, about which, indeed, I need not trouble myself
much; my poor dear master, as I said before, having done very handsomely
by me at his death. Here I have lived for several years, receiving
strangers, and improving my houses and grounds. I am tolerably
comfortable, but confess I sometimes look back to my former roving life
rather wistfully, for there is no life so merry as the traveller’s.”
He was about the middle age, and somewhat under the middle size. I had a
good deal of conversation with him, and was much struck with his frank,
straightforward manner. He enjoyed a high character at Llangollen for
probity, and likewise for cleverness, being reckoned an excellent
gardener, and an almost unequalled cook. His master, the travelling
gentleman, might well leave him a handsome remembrance in his will, for
he had not only been an excellent and trusty servant to him, but had once
saved his life at the hazard of his own, amongst the frightful precipices
of the Alps. Such retired gentlemen’s servants, or such publicans
either, as honest A—, are not every day to be found. His grounds,
principally laid out by his own hands, exhibited an infinity of taste,
and his house, into which I looked, was a perfect picture of neatness.
Any tourist visiting Llangollen for a short period could do no better
than take up his abode at the hostelry of honest A—.