Morning—A Cheerless Scene—The Carter—Ode to Glamorgan—Startling
Halloo—One-sided Liberty—Clerical Profession—De Courcy—Love of the
Drop—Independent Spirit—Another People.
I slept soundly through the night. At about eight o’clock on the
following morning I got up and looked out of the window of my room, which
fronted the north. A strange scene presented itself: a roaring brook was
foaming along towards the west, just under the window. Immediately
beyond it was a bank, not of green turf, grey rock, or brown mould, but
of coal rubbish, coke and cinders; on the top of this bank was a fellow
performing some dirty office or other, with a spade and barrow; beyond
him, on the side of a hill, was a tramway, up which a horse was
straining, drawing a load of something towards the north-west. Beyond
the tramway was a grove of yellow-looking firs; beyond the grove a range
of white houses with blue roofs, occupied, I supposed, by miners and
their families; and beyond these I caught a sight of the mountain on the
top of which I had been the night before, only a partial one, however, as
large masses of mist were still hanging about it. The morning was moist
and dripping, and nothing could look more cheerless and uncomfortable
than the entire scene.
I put on my things, which were still not half dry, and went down into the
little parlour, where I found an excellent fire awaiting me, and a table
spread for breakfast. The breakfast was delicious, consisting of
excellent tea, buttered toast and Glamorgan sausages, which I really
think are not a whit inferior to those of Epping. After breakfast I went
into the kitchen, which was now only occupied by two or three people.
Seeing a large brush on a dresser, I took it up, and was about to brush
my nether habiliments, which were terribly bespattered with half-dried
mire. Before, however, I could begin, up started one of the men, a wild
shock-headed fellow dressed like a carter, in rough blue frieze coat,
yellow broad corduroy trowsers, grey woollen stockings and highlows, and
snatching the brush out of my hand, fell to brushing me most vigorously,
purring and blowing all the time in a most tremendous manner. I did not
refuse his services, but let him go on, and to reward him, as I thought,
spoke kindly to him, asking him various questions. “Are you a carter?”
said I. No answer. “One of Twm O’r Nant’s people?” No answer. “Famous
fellow that Twm O’r Nant, wasn’t he? Did you ever hear how he got the
great tree in at Carmarthen Gate? What is wood per foot at present?
Whom do you cart for? Or are you your own master? If so, how many
horses do you keep?”
To not one of these questions, nor to a dozen others which I put, both in
English and Welsh, did my friend with the brush return any verbal answer,
though I could occasionally hear a kind of stifled giggle proceeding from
him. Having at length thoroughly brushed not only my clothes, but my
boots and my hat, which last article he took from my head, and placed on
again very dexterously, after brushing it, he put the brush down on the
dresser, and then advancing to me made me a bow, and waving his
forefinger backwards and forwards before my face, he said, with a broad
grin: “Nice gentleman—will do anything for him but answer questions, and
let him hear my discourse. Love to listen to his pleasant stories of
foreign lands, ghosts and tylwith teg; but before him deem it wise to be
mum, quite mum. Know what he comes about. Wants to hear discourse of
poor man, that he may learn from it poor man’s little ways and
invirmities, and mark them down in one small, little book to serve for
fun to Lord Palmerston and the other great gentlefolks in London. Nice
man, civil man, I don’t deny; and clebber man too, for he knows Welsh,
and has been everywhere—but fox—old fox—lives at Plas y Cadno.” {570}
Having been informed that there was a considerable iron foundry close by,
I thought it would be worth my while to go and see it. I entered the
premises, and was standing and looking round, when a man with the
appearance of a respectable mechanic came up and offered to show me over
the place. I gladly accepted his offer, and he showed me all about the
iron-foundry. I saw a large steam-engine at full play, terrible
furnaces, and immense heaps of burning, crackling cinders, and a fiery
stream of molten metal rolling along. After seeing what there was to be
seen, I offered a piece of silver to my kind conductor, which he at once
refused. On my asking him, however, to go to the inn and have a friendly
glass, he smiled, and said he had no objection. So we went to the inn,
and had two friendly glasses of whiskey-and-water together, and also some
discourse. I asked him if there were any English employed on the
premises. “None,” said he, “nor Irish either; we are all Welsh.” Though
he was a Welshman, his name was a very common English one.
After paying the reckoning, which only amounted to three and sixpence, I
departed for Swansea, distant about thirteen miles. Gutter Vawr consists
of one street, extending for some little way along the Swansea road, the
foundry, and a number of huts and houses scattered here and there. The
population is composed almost entirely of miners, the workers at the
foundry, and their families. For the first two or three miles the
country through which I passed did not at all prepossess me in favour of
Glamorganshire: it consisted of low, sullen, peaty hills. Subsequently,
however, it improved rapidly, becoming bold, wild, and pleasantly wooded.
The aspect of the day improved, also, with the appearance of the country.
When I first started the morning was wretched and drizzly, but in less
than an hour it cleared up wonderfully, and the sun began to flash out.
As I looked on the bright luminary I thought of Ab Gwilym’s ode to the
sun and Glamorgan, and with breast heaving and with eyes full of tears, I
began to repeat parts of it, or rather of a translation made in my happy
boyish years:
“Each morn, benign of countenance,
Upon Glamorgan’s pennon glance!
Each afternoon in beauty clear
Above my own dear bounds appear!
Bright outline of a blessed clime,
Again, though sunk, arise sublime—
Upon my errand, swift repair,
And unto green Glamorgan bear
Good days and terms of courtesy
From my dear country and from me!
Move round—but need I thee command?—
Its chalk-white halls, which cheerful stand—
Pleasant thy own pavilions too—
Its fields and orchards fair to view.
“O, pleasant is thy task and high
In radiant warmth to roam the sky,
To keep from ill that kindly ground,
Its meads and farms, where mead is found,
A land whose commons live content,
Where each man’s lot is excellent.
Where hosts to hail thee shall upstand,
Where lads are bold and lasses bland,
A land I oft from hill that’s high
Have gazed upon with raptur’d eye;
Where maids are trained in virtue’s school,
Where duteous wives spin dainty wool;
A country with each gift supplied,
Confronting Cornwall’s cliffs of pride.”
Came to Llanguick, a hamlet situated near a tremendous gorge, the sides
of which were covered with wood. Thence to the village of Tawy Bridge,
at the bottom of a beautiful valley, through which runs the Tawy, which,
after the Taf, is the most considerable river in Glamorganshire.
Continuing my course, I passed by an enormous edifice which stood on my
right hand. It had huge chimneys, which were casting forth smoke, and
from within I heard the noise of a steam-engine and the roar of furnaces.
“What place is this?” said I to a boy.
“Gwaith haiarn, sir; ym perthyn i Mr. Pearson. Mr. Pearson’s iron works,
sir.”
I proceeded, and in about half-an-hour saw a man walking before me in the
same direction in which I was. He was going very briskly, but I soon
came up to him. He was a small, well-made fellow, with reddish hair and
ruddy, determined countenance, somewhat tanned. He wore a straw hat,
checkered shirt, open at the neck, canvas trowsers, and blue jacket. On
his feet were shoes remarkably thin, but no stockings, and in his hand he
held a stout stick, with which, just before I overtook him, he struck a
round stone which lay on the ground, sending it flying at least fifty
yards before him on the road, and following it in its flight with a wild
and somewhat startling halloo.
“Good day, my friend,” said I; “you seem to be able to use a stick.”
“And sure I ought to be, your honour, seeing as how my father taught me,
who was the best fighting man with a stick that the Shanavests ever had.
Many is the head of a Caravaut that he has broken with some such an
Alpeen wattle as the one I am carrying with me here.”
“A good thing,” said I, “that there are no Old Waistcoats and Cravats at
present, at least bloody factions bearing those names.”
“Your honour thinks so! Faith! I am clane of a contrary opinion. I
wish the ould Shanavests and Caravauts were fighting still; and I among
them. Faith! there was some life in Ireland in their days.”
“And plenty of death too,” said I. “How fortunate it is that the Irish
have the English among them, to prevent their cutting each other’s
throats.”
“The English prevent the Irish from cutting each other’s throats! Well!
if they do, it is only that they may have the pleasure of cutting them
themselves. The bloody tyrants! too long has their foot been upon the
neck of poor old Ireland.”
“How do the English tyrannise over Ireland?”
“How do they tyrannise over her? Don’t they prevent her from having the
free exercise of her Catholic religion, and make her help to support
their own Protestant one?”
“Well, and don’t the Roman Catholics prevent the Protestants from having
the free exercise of their religion, whenever they happen to be the most
numerous, and don’t they make them help to support the Roman Catholic
religion?”
“Of course they do, and quite right. Had I my will there shouldn’t be a
place of Protestant worship left standing, or a Protestant churl allowed
to go about with a head unbroken.”
“Then why do you blame the Protestants for keeping the Romans a little
under?”
“Why do I blame them? A purty question! Why, an’t they wrong, and an’t
we right?”
“But they say that they are right and you wrong.”
“They say! who minds what they say? Havn’t we the word of the blessed
Pope that we are right?”
“And they say that they have the word of the blessed Gospel that you are
wrong.”
“The Gospel! who cares for the Gospel? Surely you are not going to
compare the Gospel with the Pope?”
“Well, they certainly are not to be named in the same day.”
“They are not? Then good luck to you! We are both of the same opinion.
Ah, I thought your honour was a rale Catholic. Now, tell me from what
kingdom of Ireland does your honour hail?”
“Why, I was partly educated in Munster.”
“In Munster! Hoorah! Here’s the hand of a countryman to your honour.
Ah, it was asy to be seen from the learning which your honour shows, that
your honour is from Munster. There’s no spot in Ireland like Munster for
learning. What says the old song?
“‘Ulster for a soldier
Connaught for a thief,
Munster for learning,
And Leinster for beef.’”
“Hoorah for learned Munster! and down with beggarly, thievish Connaught!
I would that a Connaught man would come athwart me now, that I might
break his thief’s head with my Alpeen.”
“You don’t seem to like the Connaught men,” said I.
“Like them! who can like them? a parcel of beggarly thievish blackguards.
So your honour was edicated in Munster, I mane partly edicated. I
suppose by your saying that you were partly edicated, that your honour
was intended for the clerical profession, but being over fond of the drop
was forced to lave college before your edication was quite completed, and
so for want of a better profession took up with that of merchandise. Ah,
the love of the drop at college has prevented many a clever young fellow
from taking holy orders. Well, it’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. I
am fond of a drop myself, and when we get to — shall be happy to offer
your honour a glass of whiskey. I hope your honour and I shall splice
the mainbrace together before we part.”
“I suppose,” said I, “by your talking of splicing the mainbrace that you
are a sailor.”
“I am, your honour, and hail from the Cove of Cork in the kingdom of
Munster.”
“I know it well,” said I. “It is the best sea-basin in the world. Well,
how came you into these parts?”
“I’ll tell your honour; my ship is at Swansea, and having a relation
working at the foundry behind us, I came to see him.”
“Are you in the royal service?”
“I am not, your honour; I was once in the royal service, but having a
dispute with the boatswain at Spithead, I gave him a wipe, jumped
overboard and swam ashore. After that I sailed for Cuba, got into the
merchants’ service there and made several voyages to the Black Coast. At
present I am in the service of the merchants of Cork.”
“I wonder that you are not now in the royal service,” said I, “since you
are so fond of fighting. There is hot work going on at present up the
Black Sea, and brave men, especially Irishmen, are in great request.”
“Yes, brave Irishmen are always in great request with England when she
has a battle to fight. At other times they are left to lie in the mud
with the chain round their necks. It has been so ever since the time of
De Courcy, and I suppose always will be so, unless Irishmen all become of
my mind, which is not likely. Were the Irish all of my mind, the English
would find no Irish champion to fight their battles when the French or
the Russians come to beard them.”
“By De Courcy,” said I, “you mean the man whom the King of England
confined in the Tower of London after taking him from his barony in the
county of Cork.”
“Of course, your honour, and whom he kept in the Tower till the King of
France sent over a champion to insult and beard him, when the king was
glad to take De Courcy out of the dungeon to fight the French champion,
for divil a one of his own English fighting men dared take the Frenchman
in hand.”
“A fine fellow that De Courcy,” said I.
“Rather too fond of the drop though, like your honour and myself, for
after he had caused the French champion to flee back into France he lost
the greater part of the reward which the King of England promised him
solely by making too free with the strong drink. Does your honour
remember that part of the story?”
“I think I do,” said I, “but I should be very glad to hear you relate
it.”
“Then your honour shall. Right glad was the King of England when the
French champion fled back to France, for no sooner did the dirty spalpeen
hear that they were going to bring De Courcy against him, the fame of
whose strength and courage filled the whole world, than he betook himself
back to his own country and was never heard of more. Right glad, I say,
was the King of England, and gave leave to De Courcy to return to
Ireland, ‘And you shall have,’ said he, ‘of the barony which I took from
you all that you can ride round on the first day of your return.’ So De
Courcy betook himself to Ireland and to his barony, but he was anything
but a lucky man, this De Courcy, for his friends and relations and
tenantry, hearing of his coming, prepared a grand festival for him with
all kinds of illigant viands and powerful liquors, and when he arrived
there it was waiting for him, and down to it he sat, and ate and drank,
and for joy of seeing himself once more amongst his friends and tenantry
in the hall of his forefathers and for love of the drop, which he always
had, he drank of the powerful liquors more than he ought, and the upshot
was that he became drunk, agus do bhi an duine maith sin misgeadh do
ceathar o glog; the good gentleman was drunk till four o’clock, and when
he awoke he found that he had but two hours of day remaining to win back
his brave barony. However, he did not lose heart, but mounted his horse
and set off riding as fast as a man just partly recovered from
intoxication could be expected to do, and he contrived to ride round four
parishes, and only four, and these four parishes were all that he
recovered of his brave barony, and all that he had to live upon till his
dying day, and all that he had to leave to his descendants, so that De
Courcy could scarcely be called a very lucky man, after all.”
Shortly after my friend the sailor had concluded his account of De Courcy
we arrived in the vicinity of a small town or rather considerable
village. It stood on the right-hand side of the road, fronting the east,
having a high romantic hill behind it on the sides of which were woods,
groves, and pleasant-looking white houses.
“What place is this?” said I to my companion.
“This is —, your honour; and here, if your honour will accept a glass of
whiskey we will splice the mainbrace together.”
“Thank you,” said I; “but I am in haste to get to Swansea. Moreover, if
I am over fond of the drop, as you say I am, the sooner I begin to
practise abstinence the better.”
“Very true, your honour! Well, at any rate, when your honour gets to
Swansea you will not be able to say that Pat Flannagan walked for miles
with your honour along the road without offering your honour a glass of
whiskey.”
“Nor shall Pat Flannagan be able to say the same thing of my honour. I
have a shilling in my pocket at Pat Flannagan’s service, if he chooses to
splice with it the mainbrace for himself and for me.”
“Thank your honour; but I have a shilling in my own pocket, and a dollar
too, and a five-pound note besides; so I needn’t be beholden for drink
money to anybody under the sun.”
“Well then, farewell! Here’s my hand!—Slan leat a Phatraic ui
Flannagan!”
“Slan leat a dhuine-uasail!” said Patrick, giving me his hand; “and
health, hope and happiness to ye.”
Thereupon he turned aside to —, and I continued my way to Swansea.
Arrived at a place called Glandwr, about two miles from Swansea, I found
that I was splashed from top to toe, for the roads were frightfully miry,
and was sorry to perceive that my boots had given way at the soles, large
pieces of which were sticking out. I must, however, do the poor things
the justice to say that it was no wonder that they were in this
dilapidated condition, for in those boots I had walked at least two
hundred miles, over all kinds of paths, since I had got them soled at
Llangollen. “Well,” said I to myself, “it won’t do to show myself at
Swansea in this condition, more especially as I shall go to the best
hotel; I must try and get myself made a little decent here.” Seeing a
little inn on my right I entered it, and addressing myself to a neat,
comfortable landlady, who was standing within the bar, I said—
“Please to let me have a glass of ale!—and hearkee; as I have been
walking along the road, I should be glad of the services of the ‘boots.’”
“Very good, sir,” said the landlady with a curtsey.
Then showing me into a nice little sanded parlour, she brought me the
glass of ale, and presently sent in a lad with a boot-jack to minister to
me. O, what can’t a little money effect? For sixpence in that small
nice inn I had a glass of ale, my boots cleaned and the excrescences cut
off, my clothes wiped with a dwile, and then passed over with a brush,
and was myself thanked over and over again. Starting again with all the
spirited confidence of one who has just cast off his slough, I soon found
myself in the suburbs of Swansea. As I passed under what appeared to be
a railroad bridge I inquired in Welsh of an ancient-looking man, in coaly
habiliments, if it was one. He answered in the same language that it
was, then instantly added in English—
“You have taken your last farewell of Wales, sir; it’s no use speaking
Welsh farther on.”
I passed some immense edifices, probably manufactories, and was soon
convinced that, whether I was in Wales or not, I was no longer amongst
Welsh. The people whom I met did not look like Welsh. They were taller
and bulkier than the Cambrians, and were speaking a dissonant English
jargon. The women had much the appearance of Dutch fisherwomen; some of
them were carrying huge loads on their heads. I spoke in Welsh to two or
three whom I overtook.
“No Welsh, sir!”
“Why don’t you speak Welsh?” said I.
“Because we never learnt it. We are not Welsh.”
“Who are you then?”
“English; some call us Flamings.”
“Ah, ah!” said I to myself, “I had forgot.”
Presently I entered the town, a large, bustling, dirty, gloomy place, and
inquiring for the first hotel was directed to the “Mackworth Arms,” in
Wine Street.
As soon as I was shown into the parlour I summoned the “boots,” and on
his making his appearance I said in a stern voice: “My boots want soling;
let them be done by to-morrow morning.”
“Can’t be, sir; it’s now Saturday afternoon, and the shoemaker couldn’t
begin them to-night!”
“But you must make him!” said I; “and look here, I shall give him a
shilling extra, and you an extra shilling for seeing after him.”
“Yes, sir; I’ll see after him—they shall be done, sir. Bring you your
slippers instantly. Glad to see you again in Swansea, sir, looking so
well.”