A WELSH MARKET-TOWN
We have come to the end of Glendower’s story, but before we leave his
part of the country altogether let us pay a visit to Corwen, the old
market-town that lies so near his own valley.
Someone has said that Corwen is “relentlessly tucked away under
the dark shoulder” of the heather-clad Berwyns, for above it lies
the height of Pen-y-Pigyn, which certainly keeps the sun off very
effectually. In the porch of the old church, indeed, we shall find
a great stone, called by a Welsh name that means “the pointed stone
in the icy nook.” A legend, found in many other parts of Wales, says
that the builders vainly tried to erect the church, which was built
before the town, on a sunnier position farther down the valley, but
every night the walls were destroyed and the materials carried down
to the sunless spot under the hill. Just above the vestry door of that
same church is a curious mark, said to have been made by the dagger
of Glendower, flung by him in a fit of rage one day from the top of
Pen-y-Pigyn.
So far away is Corwen from mines or flannel mills or tourist centres,
that it forms in many ways a good example of a Welsh country-town, as
it might have existed not long after the days of Glendower himself.
The great interest lies in the monthly fair-day, when the streets
and market-place are full of shaggy Welsh ponies, black-faced
mountain-sheep, and cattle with immense horns. At every corner stand
groups of farmers, talking eagerly with hands and shoulders as much as
with lips, and with that curious rise and fall of the voice which, they
tell us, is the secret of Welsh oratory. Of that conversation the Saxon
from over the border understands not a word; but no sooner does he make
a remark than with the utmost ease the Welshmen respond in excellent
English. The power of expressing themselves equally well in both
languages is a striking feature of even the most uneducated classes
in Wales. Only here and there in some farm hidden far away among the
hills could one meet with the experience of one who, weary and thirsty
after a long tramp over the high moors, approached a tiny farm-house
and asked the old woman who opened the door for a cup of milk. A shake
of the head was the only reply. “But you must have milk or water in
the house!” persisted the visitor. Another shake and a stream of words
in an unknown tongue followed. Not to be baffled, the Saxon raised his
hand to his mouth and made as if to drink.
With a cry of delight the old dame rushed away, and returned with a
large bowlful of liquid, of which the traveller eagerly partook. It was
fine thick butter-milk, but, alas! it was quite sour!
Perhaps, however, the chief regret in the visitor’s mind was the
impossibility of explaining why the bowl was returned full to the
brim, for the old dame’s puzzled look said plainly enough: “What more
_could_ the stranger want than good Welsh butter-milk?”
Meantime the market-women have spread out their goods--poultry, butter,
eggs, and flowers--on the market-stalls in a picturesque fashion
enough. Many of the women themselves are worth the attention of an
artist, with their strong brown faces, black crisp hair, and very dark
blue eyes, “put in with a smutty finger,” as someone has well described
them.
Fifty years ago you would have seen them dressed in short red skirts,
buckled shoes, crossed bodices, and tall steeple-crowned hats worn
over caps; but these, unfortunately, have vanished.
The men--farmers or cattle-drovers for the most part--differ in face
more than they do in name. To English ears everyone seems to be called
either David Mor-r-gan (with a beautiful roll to the “r”) or Owen
Jones. But to the careful eye the difference between the two original
races is clear. The one is still short, smaller in build, and very
dark-haired; the other is tall, ruddy, with long loose limbs and fiery
red hair.
Borrow, whose amusing description of his walks in “Wild Wales” you will
like some day to read, thus describes a fair at Llangollen some fifty
years ago, and from what one knows of these country-towns, one would
not expect to find things very different to-day.
“The fair,” he says, “was held in and near a little square in the
south-east quarter of the town. It was a little bustling fair, attended
by plenty of people from the country. A dense row of carts extended
from the police-station half across the space. These carts were filled
with pigs, and had stout cord nettings drawn over them, to prevent the
animals escaping.
“By the sides of these carts the principal business of the fair
appeared to be going on--there stood the owners, male and female,
higgling with Llangollen men and women who came to buy. The pigs
were all small, and the price given seemed to vary from eighteen to
twenty-five shillings. Those who bought pigs generally carried them
away in their arms, and then there was no little diversion. Dire was
the screaming of the porkers, yet the purchaser always knew how to
manage his bargain, keeping the left arm round the body of the swine,
and with the right hand fast gripping the ear. Some few were led away
by strings.
“There were some Welsh cattle, small, of course, and the purchasers
of these seemed to be Englishmen--tall, burly fellows in general, far
exceeding the Welsh in height and size....
“Now and then a big fellow made an offer, and held out his hand for
a little Celtic grazier to give it a slap--a cattle bargain being
concluded by a slap of the hand--but the Welshman generally turned away
with a half-resentful exclamation.
“There were a few horses and ponies in a street leading into the
fair--I saw none sold, however....
“Now, if I add there was much gabbling of Welsh round about, and here
and there some slight sawing of English--that in the street leading
from the north there were some stalls of gingerbread, and a table at
which a queer-looking being, with a red Greek cap on his head, sold
rhubarb, herbs, and phials containing I know not what--I think I
have said all that is necessary about Llangollen Fair.”
[Illustration: VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY. _Page 15._]
Perhaps, however, we should visit Corwen or any other Welsh market-town
on a Sunday to see the most striking characteristics of the people.
The streets are nearly deserted, and a strange stillness broods over
the place. At the open door of some of the cottages an aged woman sits
with a Welsh Bible on her knees, and keeps an eye upon the toddling
baby at her feet. Everyone else has vanished, and not until a burst of
melody sounds from the plainly-built chapels which occur so frequently
on the highways and within the township, is their whereabouts revealed.
Such singing it is, too! It has been said that the Welsh people sing
naturally in parts, and certainly it seems as though nothing but years
of training would produce such a result with English choirs, not to
speak of a whole congregation, as is the case in Wales. In perfect time
and tune the beautiful old Welsh melodies ring forth, and we begin to
realize what a large part this hymn-singing and fiery enthusiastic
preaching plays in the daily life of this emotional and deeply
religious people.