Preparations for Departure—Cat provided for—A Pleasant Party—Last Night
at Llangollen.
I was awakened early on the Sunday morning by the howling of wind. There
was a considerable storm throughout the day, but unaccompanied by rain.
I went to church both in the morning and the evening. The next day there
was a great deal of rain. It was now the latter end of October; winter
was coming on, and my wife and daughter were anxious to return home.
After some consultation, it was agreed that they should depart for
London, and that I should join them there after making a pedestrian tour
in South Wales.
I should have been loth to quit Wales without visiting the Deheubarth, or
Southern Region, a land differing widely, as I had heard, both in
language and customs from Gwynedd, or the Northern—a land which had given
birth to the illustrious Ab Gwilym, and where the great Ryce family had
flourished, which very much distinguished itself in the Wars of the
Roses—a member of which, Ryce ap Thomas, placed Henry the Seventh on the
throne of Britain—a family of royal extraction, and which, after the
death of Roderic the Great, for a long time enjoyed the sovereignty of
the south.
We set about making the necessary preparations for our respective
journeys. Those for mine were soon made. I bought a small leather
satchel with a lock and key, in which I placed a white linen shirt, a
pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Along with it I
bought a leather strap with which to sling it over my shoulder; I got my
boots new soled, my umbrella, which was rather dilapidated, mended; put
twenty sovereigns into my purse, and then said I am all right for the
Deheubarth.
As my wife and daughter required much more time in making preparations
for their journey than I for mine, and as I should only be in their way
whilst they were employed, it was determined that I should depart on my
expedition on Thursday, and that they should remain at Llangollen till
the Saturday.
We were at first in some perplexity with respect to the disposal of the
ecclesiastical cat; it would, of course, not do to leave it in the
garden, to the tender mercies of the Calvinistic Methodists of the
neighbourhood, more especially those of the flannel manufactory, and my
wife and daughter could hardly carry it with them. At length we thought
of applying to a young woman of sound Church principles, who was lately
married, and lived over the water on the way to the railroad station,
with whom we were slightly acquainted, to take charge of the animal; and
she, on the first intimation of our wish, willingly acceded to it. So
with her poor puss was left, along with a trifle for its milk-money, and
with her, as we subsequently learned, it continued in peace and comfort,
till one morning it sprang suddenly from the hearth into the air, gave a
mew and died. So much for the ecclesiastical cat!
The morning of Tuesday was rather fine, and Mr. Ebenezer E—, who had
heard of our intended departure, came to invite us to spend the evening
at the vicarage. His father had left Llangollen the day before for
Chester, where he expected to be detained some days. I told him we
should be most happy to come. He then asked me to take a walk. I agreed
with pleasure, and we set out, intending to go to Llansilio, at the
western end of the valley, and look at the church. The church was an
ancient building. It had no spire, but had the little erection on its
roof, so usual to Welsh churches, for holding a bell.
In the churchyard is a tomb, in which an old squire of the name of Jones
was buried about the middle of the last century. There is a tradition
about this squire and tomb, to the following effect. After the squire’s
death there was a lawsuit about his property, in consequence of no will
having been found. It was said that his will had been buried with him in
the tomb, which after some time was opened, but with what success the
tradition sayeth not.
In the evening we went to the vicarage. Besides the family and
ourselves, there was Mr. R—, and one or two more. We had a very pleasant
party; and as most of those present wished to hear something connected
with Spain, I talked much about that country, sang songs of Germania, and
related in an abridged form Lope de Vega’s ghost story, which is
decidedly the best ghost story in the world.
In the afternoon of Wednesday I went and took leave of certain friends in
the town; amongst others of old Mr. Jones. On my telling him that I was
about to leave Llangollen, he expressed considerable regret, but said
that it was natural for me to wish to return to my native country. I
told him that before returning to England I intended to make a pedestrian
tour in South Wales. He said that he should die without seeing the
south; that he had had several opportunities of visiting it when he was
young, which he had neglected, and that he was now too old to wander far
from home. He then asked me which road I intended to take. I told him
that I intended to strike across the Berwyn to Llan Rhyadr, then visit
Sycharth, once the seat of Owen Glendower, lying to the east of Llan
Rhyadr, then return to that place, and after seeing the celebrated
cataract, cross the mountains to Bala—whence I should proceed due south.
I then asked him whether he had ever seen Sycharth and the Rhyadr; he
told me that he had never visited Sycharth, but had seen the Rhyadr more
than once. He then smiled, and said that there was a ludicrous anecdote
connected with the Rhyadr, which he would relate to me. “A traveller
once went to see the Rhyadr, and whilst gazing at it a calf, which had
fallen into the stream above whilst grazing upon the rocks, came tumbling
down the cataract. ‘Wonderful!’ said the traveller, and going away,
reported that it was not only a fall of water, but of calves, and was
very much disappointed, on visiting the waterfall on another occasion, to
see no calf come tumbling down.” I took leave of the kind old gentleman
with regret, never expecting to see him again, as he was in his
eighty-fourth year—he was a truly excellent character, and might be
ranked amongst the venerable ornaments of his native place.
About half-past eight o’clock at night John Jones came to bid me
farewell. I bade him sit down, and sent for a pint of ale to regale him
with. Notwithstanding the ale, he was very melancholy at the thought
that I was about to leave Llangollen, probably never to return. To
enliven him I gave him an account of my late expedition to Wrexham, which
made him smile more than once. When I had concluded, he asked me whether
I knew the meaning of the word Wrexham; I told him I believed I did, and
gave him the derivation which the reader will find in an early chapter of
this work. He told me that with all due submission he thought he could
give me a better, which he had heard from a very clever man, gwr deallus
iawn, who lived about two miles from Llangollen, on the Corwen road. In
the old time a man of the name of Sam kept a gwestfa, or inn, at the
place where Wrexham now stands; when he died he left it to his wife, who
kept it after him, on which account the house was first called Tŷ wraig
Sam, the house of Sam’s wife, and then for shortness Wraig Sam, and a
town arising about it by degrees, the town, too, was called Wraig Sam,
which the Saxons corrupted into Wrexham.
I was much diverted with this Welsh derivation of Wrexham, which I did
not attempt to controvert. After we had had some further discourse, John
Jones got up, shook me by the hand, gave a sigh, wished me a “taith
hyfryd,” and departed. Thus terminated my last day at Llangollen.