Rhiwabon Road—The Public-house Keeper—No Welsh—The Wrong Road—The Good
Wife.
I paid my reckoning and started. The night was now rapidly closing in.
I passed the toll-gate, and hurried along the Rhiwabon road, overtaking
companies of Welsh going home, amongst whom were many individuals, whom,
from their thick and confused speech, as well as from their staggering
gait, I judged to be intoxicated. As I passed a red public-house on my
right hand, at the door of which stood several carts, a scream of Welsh
issued from it.
“Let any Saxon,” said I, “who is fond of fighting, and wishes for a
bloody nose, go in there.”
Coming to the small village about a mile from Rhiwabon, I felt thirsty,
and seeing a public-house, in which all seemed to be quiet, I went in. A
thick-set man, with a pipe in his mouth, sat in the tap-room, and also a
woman.
“Where is the landlord?” said I.
“I am the landlord,” said the man huskily. “What do you want?”
“A pint of ale,” said I.
The man got up, and, with his pipe in his mouth, went staggering out of
the room. In about a minute he returned, holding a mug in his hand,
which he put down on a table before me, spilling no slight quantity of
the liquor as he did so. I put down three-pence on the table. He took
the money up slowly, piece by piece, looked at it, and appeared to
consider; then taking the pipe out of his mouth, he dashed it to seven
pieces against the table, then staggered out of the room into the
passage, and from thence apparently out of the house. I tasted the ale,
which was very good; then turning to the woman, who seemed about
three-and-twenty, and was rather good-looking, I spoke to her in Welsh.
“I have no Welsh, sir,” said she.
“How is that?” said I; “this village is, I think, in the Welshery.”
“It is,” said she; “but I am from Shropshire.”
“Are you the mistress of the house?” said I.
“No,” said she, “I am married to a collier;” then getting up, she said,
“I must go and see after my husband.”
“Won’t you take a glass of ale first?” said I, offering to fill a glass
which stood on the table.
“No,” said she; “I am the worst in the world for a glass of ale;” and
without saying anything more she departed.
“I wonder whether your husband is anything like you with respect to a
glass of ale?” said I to myself; then finishing my ale, I got up and left
the house, which, when I departed, appeared to be entirely deserted.
It was now quite night, and it would have been pitchy-dark but for the
glare of the forges. There was an immense glare to the south-west, which
I conceived proceeded from those of Cefn Mawr. It lighted up the
south-western sky; then there were two other glares nearer to me,
seemingly divided by a lump of something, perhaps a grove of trees.
Walking very fast, I soon overtook a man. I knew him at once by his
staggering gait.
“Ah, landlord!” said I; “whither bound?”
“To Rhiwabon,” said he, huskily, “for a pint.”
“Is the ale so good at Rhiwabon,” said I, “that you leave home for it?”
“No,” said he, rather shortly, “there’s not a glass of good ale in
Rhiwabon.”
“Then why do you go thither?” said I.
“Because a pint of bad liquor abroad is better than a quart of good at
home,” said the landlord, reeling against the hedge.
“There are many in a higher station than you who act upon that
principle,” thought I to myself as I passed on.
I soon reached Rhiwabon. There was a prodigious noise in the
public-houses as I passed through it. “Colliers carousing,” said I.
“Well, I shall not go amongst them to preach temperance, though perhaps
in strict duty I ought.” At the end of the town, instead of taking the
road on the left side of the church, I took that on the right. It was
not till I had proceeded nearly a mile that I began to be apprehensive
that I had mistaken the way. Hearing some people coming towards me on
the road, I waited till they came up; they proved to be a man and a
woman. On my inquiring whether I was right for Llangollen, the former
told me that I was not, and in order to get there it was necessary that I
should return to Rhiwabon. I instantly turned round. About half-way
back I met a man who asked me in English where I was hurrying to. I said
to Rhiwabon, in order to get to Llangollen. “Well, then,” said he, “you
need not return to Rhiwabon—yonder is a short cut across the fields,” and
he pointed to a gate. I thanked him, and said I would go by it; before
leaving him, I asked to what place the road led which I had been
following.
“To Pentre Castren,” he replied. I struck across the fields, and should
probably have tumbled half-a-dozen times over pales and the like, but for
the light of the Cefn furnaces before me, which cast their red glow upon
my path. I debouched upon the Llangollen road near to the tramway
leading to the collieries. Two enormous sheets of flame shot up high
into the air from ovens, illumining two spectral chimneys as high as
steeples, also smoky buildings, and grimy figures moving about. There
was a clanging of engines, a noise of shovels and a falling of coals
truly horrible. The glare was so great that I could distinctly see the
minutest lines upon my hand. Advancing along the tramway, I obtained a
nearer view of the hellish buildings, the chimneys and the demoniac
figures. It was just such a scene as one of those described by Ellis
Wynn in his Vision of Hell. Feeling my eyes scorching, I turned away,
and proceeded towards Llangollen, sometimes on the muddy road, sometimes
on the dangerous causeway. For three miles at least I met nobody. Near
Llangollen, as I was walking on the causeway, three men came swiftly
towards me. I kept the hedge, which was my right; the two first brushed
roughly past me, the third came full upon me, and was tumbled into the
road. There was a laugh from the two first, and a loud curse from the
last as he sprawled in the mire. I merely said “Nos Da’ki,” and passed
on, and in about a quarter of an hour reached home, where I found my wife
awaiting me alone, Henrietta having gone to bed, being slightly
indisposed. My wife received me with a cheerful smile. I looked at her,
and the good wife of the Triad came to my mind.
“She is modest, void of deceit, and obedient.
“Pure of conscience, gracious of tongue, and true to her husband.
“Her heart not proud, her manners affable, and her bosom full of
compassion for the poor.
“Labouring to be tidy, skilful of hand, and fond of praying to God.
“Her conversation amiable, her dress decent, and her house orderly.
“Quick of hand, quick of eye, and quick of understanding.
“Her person shapely, her manners agreeable, and her heart innocent.
“Her face benignant, her head intelligent, and provident.
“Neighbourly, gentle, and of a liberal way of thinking.
“Able in directing, providing what is wanting, and a good mother to her
children.
“Loving her husband, loving peace, and loving God.
“Happy the man,” adds the Triad, “who possesses such a wife.” Very true,
O Triad, always provided he is in some degree worthy of her; but many a
man leaves an innocent wife at home for an impure Jezebel abroad, even as
many a one prefers a pint of hog’s wash abroad to a tankard of generous
liquor at home.