WILD WALES
ITS PEOPLE, LANGUAGE
AND SCENERY
BY GEORGE BORROW
“Their Lord they shall praise,
Their language they shall keep,
Their land they shall lose,
Except Wild Wales.”
TALIESIN: _Destiny of the Britons_
* * * * *
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1907
FIRST EDITION 1862
SECOND EDITION 1865
THIRD EDITION 1888
FOURTH EDITION 1896
FIFTH (DEFINITIVE) EDITION 6/- _March_, 1901
_Reprinted_ Thin Paper _July_, 1905
_Reprinted_ 6/- _Sept._, 1907
_Reprinted_ 2/6 net. _Sept._, 1907
NOTE
This edition of _Wild Wales_ has been carefully collated with the first
edition, in order to ensure that the spelling of proper names shall be
precisely as Borrow left it, and the running headings on the right-hand
pages as nearly as possible those which Borrow himself wrote.
_January_ 1901.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_All the Plates in this volumes are from drawings by_ Mr. A. S. HARTRICK
{0}
Above Capel Curig on the road to Bangor _Frontispiece_
(_Photogravure_)
Llangollen and Dinas Bran _to face page_ 32
The Wilds of Snowdown 200
In Anglessey. Redwharf Bay (Treath Coch), and 212
the Country of Gronwy Owen
The Wondrous Valley of Gelert 312
Cascade on the Moor between Festiniog and Balla 328
Balla Lake in the Fifties, showing the Aran 346
Mountain and Cader Idris. (_Drawn from an old
print_)
Chirk (Castell y Waen) 366
Twilight after a Storm. Dinas Mawddwy 494
Eastern Street, Machynlleth, showing part of 512
Owen Glendower’s Parliament House
The Devil’s Bridge 558
The Remains of Strata Florida Abbey from the 596
Churchyard
“Pump Saint” 632
Map of Wales showing Borrow’s Route _to face page_ 1
INTRODUCTORY
Wales is a country interesting in many respects, and deserving of more
attention than it has hitherto met with. Though not very extensive, it
is one of the most picturesque countries in the world, a country in which
Nature displays herself in her wildest, boldest, and occasionally
loveliest forms. The inhabitants, who speak an ancient and peculiar
language, do not call this region Wales, nor themselves Welsh. They call
themselves Cymry or Cumry, and their country Cymru, or the land of the
Cumry. Wales or Wallia, however, is the true, proper, and without doubt
original name, as it relates not to any particular race, which at present
inhabits it, or may have sojourned in it at any long bygone period, but
to the country itself. Wales signifies a land of mountains, of vales, of
dingles, chasms, and springs. It is connected with the Cumbric bal, a
protuberance, a springing forth; with the Celtic beul or beal, a mouth;
with the old English welle, a fountain; with the original name of Italy,
still called by the Germans Welschland; with Balkan and Vulcan, both of
which signify a casting out, an eruption; with Welint or Wayland, the
name of the Anglo-Saxon god of the forge; with the Chaldee val, a forest,
and the German wald; with the English bluff, and the Sanscrit
palava—startling assertions, no doubt, at least to some; which are,
however, quite true, and which at some future time will be universally
acknowledged so to be.
But it is not for its scenery alone that Wales is deserving of being
visited; scenery soon palls unless it is associated with remarkable
events, and the names of remarkable men. Perhaps there is no country in
the whole world which has been the scene of events more stirring and
remarkable than those recorded in the history of Wales. What other
country has been the scene of a struggle so deadly, so embittered, and
protracted as that between the Cumro and the Saxon?—A struggle which did
not terminate at Caernarvon, when Edward Longshanks foisted his young son
upon the Welsh chieftains as Prince of Wales; but was kept up till the
battle of Bosworth Field, when a prince of Cumric blood won the crown of
fair Britain, verifying the olden word which had cheered the hearts of
the Ancient Britons for at least a thousand years, even in times of the
darkest distress and gloom:—
“But after long pain
Repose we shall obtain,
When sway barbaric has purg’d us clean;
And Britons shall regain
Their crown and their domain,
And the foreign oppressor be no more seen.”
Of remarkable men Wales has assuredly produced its full share. First, to
speak of men of action:—there was Madoc, the son of Owain Gwynedd, who
discovered America, centuries before Columbus was born; then there was
“the irregular and wild Glendower,” who turned rebel at the age of sixty,
was crowned King of Wales at Machynlleth, and for fourteen years
contrived to hold his own against the whole power of England; then there
was Ryce Ap Thomas, the best soldier of his time, whose hands placed the
British crown on the brow of Henry the Seventh, and whom bluff Henry the
Eighth delighted to call Father Preece; then there was—who?—why Harry
Morgan, who led those tremendous fellows the Buccaneers across the
Isthmus of Darien to the sack and burning of Panamá.
What, a buccaneer in the list? Ay! and why not? Morgan was a scourge,
it is true, but he was a scourge of God on the cruel Spaniards of the New
World, the merciless task-masters and butchers of the Indian race: on
which account God favoured and prospered him, permitting him to attain
the noble age of ninety, and to die peacefully and tranquilly at Jamaica,
whilst smoking his pipe in his shady arbour, with his smiling plantation
of sugar-canes full in view. How unlike the fate of Harry Morgan to that
of Lolonois, a being as daring and enterprising as the Welshman, but a
monster without ruth or discrimination, terrible to friend and foe, who
perished by the hands, not of the Spaniards, but of the Indians, who tore
him limb from limb, burning his members, yet quivering, in the fire—which
very Indians Morgan contrived to make his own firm friends, and whose
difficult language he spoke with the same facility as English, Spanish,
and his own South Welsh.
For men of genius Wales during a long period was particularly
celebrated.—Who has not heard of the Welsh Bards? though it is true that,
beyond the borders of Wales, only a very few are acquainted with their
songs, owing to the language, by no means an easy one, in which they were
composed. Honour to them all! everlasting glory to the three
greatest—Taliesin, Ab Gwilym and Gronwy Owen: the first a professed
Christian, but in reality a Druid, whose poems fling great light on the
doctrines of the primitive priesthood of Europe, which correspond
remarkably with the philosophy of the Hindus, before the time of Brahma:
the second the grand poet of Nature, the contemporary of Chaucer, but
worth half a dozen of the accomplished word-master, the ingenious
versifier of Norman and Italian tales: the third a learned and
irreproachable minister of the Church of England, and one of the greatest
poets of the last century, who after several narrow escapes from
starvation both in England and Wales, died master of a paltry school at
New Brunswick, in North America, sometime about the year 1780.
But Wales has something besides its wonderful scenery, its eventful
history, and its illustrious men of yore to interest the visitor. Wales
has a population, and a remarkable one. There are countries, besides
Wales, abounding with noble scenery, rich in eventful histories, and
which are not sparingly dotted with the birthplaces of heroes and poets,
in which at the present day there is either no population at all, or one
of a character which is anything but attractive. Of a country in the
first predicament, the Scottish Highlands afford an example: What a
country is that Highland region! What scenery! and what associations!
If Wales has its Snowdon and Cader Idris, the Highlands have their Hill
of the Water Dogs, and that of the Swarthy Swine: If Wales has a history,
so have the Highlands—not indeed so remarkable as that of Wales, but
eventful enough: If Wales has had its heroes, its Glendower and Father
Pryce, the Highlands have had their Evan Cameron and Ranald of Moydart;
If Wales has had its romantic characters, its Griffith Ap Nicholas and
Harry Morgan, the Highlands have had Rob Roy and that strange fellow
Donald Macleod, the man of the broadsword, the leader of the Freacadan
Dhu, who at Fontenoy caused, the Lord only knows, how many Frenchmen’s
heads to fly off their shoulders, who lived to the age of one hundred and
seven, and at seventy-one performed gallant service on the Heights of
Abraham: wrapped in whose plaid the dying Wolfe was carried from the hill
of victory.—If Wales has been a land of song, have not the Highlands
also?—If Wales can boast of Ab Gwilym and Gronwy, the Highlands can boast
of Ossian and MacIntyre. In many respects the two regions are equals or
nearly so;—In one respect, however, a matter of the present day, and a
very important matter too, they are anything but equals: Wales has a
population—but where is that of the Highlands?—Plenty of noble scene;
Plenty of delightful associations, historical, poetical, and
romantic—but, but, where is the population?
The population of Wales has not departed across the Atlantic, like that
of the Highlands; it remains at home, and a remarkable population it
is—very different from the present inhabitants of several beautiful lands
of olden fame, who have strangely degenerated from their forefathers.
Wales has not only a population, but a highly interesting one—hardy and
frugal, yet kind and hospitable—a bit crazed, it is true, on the subject
of religion, but still retaining plenty of old Celtic peculiarities, and
still speaking Diolch i Duw!—the language of Glendower and the Bards.
The present is a book about Wales and Welsh matters. He who does me the
honour of perusing it will be conducted to many a spot not only
remarkable for picturesqueness, but for having been the scene of some
extraordinary event, or the birth-place or residence of a hero or a man
of genius; he will likewise be not unfrequently introduced to the genuine
Welsh, and made acquainted with what they have to say about Cumro and
Saxon, buying and selling, fattening hogs and poultry, Methodism and
baptism, and the poor, persecuted Church of England.
An account of the language of Wales will be found in the last chapter.
It has many features and words in common with the Sanscrit, and many
which seem peculiar to itself, or rather to the family of languages,
generally called the Celtic, to which it belongs. Though not an original
tongue, for indeed no original tongue, or anything approximating to one,
at present exists, it is certainly of immense antiquity, indeed almost
entitled in that respect to dispute the palm with the grand tongue of
India, on which in some respects it flings nearly as much elucidation as
it itself receives in others. Amongst the words quoted in the chapter
alluded to I wish particularly to direct the reader’s attention to gwr, a
man, and gwres, heat; to which may be added gwreichionen, a spark. Does
not the striking similarity between these words warrant the supposition
that the ancient Cumry entertained the idea that man and fire were one
and the same, even like the ancient Hindus, who believed that man sprang
from fire, and whose word vira, {1} which signifies a strong man, a hero,
signifies also fire?
There are of course faults and inaccuracies in the work; but I have
reason to believe that they are neither numerous nor important: I may
have occasionally given a wrong name to a hill or a brook; or may have
overstated or understated, by a furlong, the distance between one hamlet
and another; or even committed the blunder of saying that Mr Jones Ap
Jenkins lived in this or that homestead, whereas in reality Mr Jenkins Ap
Jones honoured it with his residence: I may be chargeable with such
inaccuracies; in which case I beg to express due sorrow for them, and at
the same time a hope that I have afforded information about matters
relating to Wales which more than atones for them. It would be as well
if those who exhibit eagerness to expose the faults of a book would
occasionally have the candour to say a word or two about its merits; such
a wish, however, is not likely to be gratified, unless indeed they wisely
take a hint from the following lines, translated from a cywydd of the
last of the great poets of Wales:
“All can perceive a fault, where there is one—
A dirty scamp will find one, where there’s none.” {2}
[Picture: Map of Wales showing Borrow’s route]
CHAPTER I
Proposed Excursion—Knowledge of Welsh—Singular Groom—Harmonious
Distich—Welsh Pronunciation—Dafydd Ab Gwilym.
In the summer of the year 1854 myself, wife, and daughter determined upon
going into Wales, to pass a few months there. We are country people of a
corner of East Anglia, and, at the time of which I am speaking, had been
residing so long on our own little estate, that we had become tired of
the objects around us, and conceived that we should be all the better for
changing the scene for a short period. We were undetermined for some
time with respect to where we should go. I proposed Wales from the
first, but my wife and daughter, who have always had rather a hankering
after what is fashionable, said they thought it would be more advisable
to go to Harrowgate, or Leamington. On my observing that those were
terrible places for expense, they replied that, though the price of corn
had of late been shamefully low, we had a spare hundred pounds or two in
our pockets, and could afford to pay for a little insight into
fashionable life. I told them that there was nothing I so much hated as
fashionable life, but that, as I was anything but a selfish person, I
would endeavour to stifle my abhorrence of it for a time, and attend them
either to Leamington or Harrowgate. By this speech I obtained my wish,
even as I knew I should, for my wife and daughter instantly observed,
that, after all, they thought we had better go into Wales, which, though
not so fashionable as either Leamington or Harrowgate, was a very nice
picturesque country, where, they had no doubt, they should get on very
well, more especially as I was acquainted with the Welsh language.
It was my knowledge of Welsh, such as it was, that made me desirous that
we should go to Wales, where there was a chance that I might turn it to
some little account. In my boyhood I had been something of a
philologist; had picked up some Latin and Greek at school; some Irish in
Ireland, where I had been with my father, who was in the army; and
subsequently whilst an articled clerk to the first solicitor in East
Anglia—indeed I may say the prince of all English solicitors—for he was a
gentleman, had learnt some Welsh, partly from books and partly from a
Welsh groom, whose acquaintance I made. A queer groom he was, and well
deserving of having his portrait drawn. He might be about forty-seven
years of age, and about five feet eight inches in height; his body was
spare and wiry; his chest rather broad, and his arms remarkably long; his
legs were of the kind generally known as spindle-shanks, but vigorous
withal, for they carried his body with great agility; neck he had none,
at least that I ever observed; and his head was anything but high, not
measuring, I should think, more than four inches from the bottom of the
chin to the top of the forehead; his cheek-bones were high, his eyes grey
and deeply sunken in his face, with an expression in them, partly sullen,
and partly irascible; his complexion was indescribable; the little hair
which he had, which was almost entirely on the sides and the back part of
his head, was of an iron-grey hue. He wore a leather hat on ordinary
days, low at the crown, and with the side eaves turned up. A dirty
pepper and salt coat, a waistcoat which had once been red, but which had
lost its pristine colour, and looked brown; dirty yellow leather
breeches, grey worsted stockings, and high-lows. Surely I was right when
I said he was a very different groom to those of the present day, whether
Welsh or English? What say you, Sir Watkin? What say you, my Lord of
Exeter? He looked after the horses, and occasionally assisted in the
house of a person who lived at the end of an alley, in which the office
of the gentleman to whom I was articled was situated, and having to pass
by the door of the office half-a-dozen times in the day, he did not fail
to attract the notice of the clerks, who, sometimes individually,
sometimes by twos, sometimes by threes, or even more, not unfrequently
stood at the door, bareheaded—mis-spending the time which was not legally
their own. Sundry observations, none of them very flattering, did the
clerks and, amongst them, myself, make upon the groom, as he passed and
repassed, some of them direct, others somewhat oblique. To these he made
no reply save by looks, which had in them something dangerous and
menacing, and clenching without raising his fists, which looked
singularly hard and horny. At length a whisper ran about the alley that
the groom was a Welshman; this whisper much increased the malice of my
brother clerks against him, who were now whenever he passed the door, and
they happened to be there by twos or threes, in the habit of saying
something, as if by accident, against Wales and Welshmen, and,
individually or together, were in the habit of shouting out “Taffy,” when
he was at some distance from them, and his back was turned, or regaling
his ears with the harmonious and well-known distich of “Taffy was a
Welshman, Taffy was a thief: Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of
beef.” It had, however, a very different effect upon me. I was trying
to learn Welsh, and the idea occurring to me that the groom might be able
to assist me in my pursuit, I instantly lost all desire to torment him,
and determined to do my best to scrape acquaintance with him, and
persuade him to give me what assistance he could in Welsh. I succeeded;
how I will not trouble the reader with describing: he and I became great
friends, and he taught me what Welsh he could. In return for his
instructions I persuaded my brother clerks to leave off holloing after
him, and to do nothing further to hurt his feelings, which had been very
deeply wounded, so much so, that after the first two or three lessons he
told me in confidence that on the morning of the very day I first began
to conciliate him he had come to the resolution of doing one of two
things, namely, either to hang himself from the balk of the hayloft, or
to give his master warning, both of which things he told me he should
have been very unwilling to do, more particularly as he had a wife and
family. He gave me lessons on Sunday afternoons, at my father’s house,
where he made his appearance very respectably dressed, in a beaver hat,
blue surtout, whitish waistcoat, black trowsers and Wellingtons, all with
a somewhat ancient look—the Wellingtons I remember were slightly pieced
at the sides—but all upon the whole very respectable. I wished at first
to persuade him to give me lessons in the office, but could not succeed:
“No, no, lad;” said he, “catch me going in there: I would just as soon
venture into a nest of porcupines.” To translate from books I had
already, to a certain degree, taught myself, and at his first visit I
discovered, and he himself acknowledged, that at book Welsh I was
stronger than himself, but I learnt Welsh pronunciation from him, and to
discourse a little in the Welsh tongue. “Had you much difficulty in
acquiring the sound of the ll?” I think I hear the reader inquire. None
whatever: the double l of the Welsh is by no means the terrible guttural
which English people generally suppose it to be, being in reality a
pretty liquid, exactly resembling in sound the Spanish ll, the sound of
which I had mastered before commencing Welsh, and which is equivalent to
the English lh; so being able to pronounce llano I had of course no
difficulty in pronouncing Lluyd, which by-the-bye was the name of the
groom.
I remember that I found the pronunciation of the Welsh far less difficult
than I had found the grammar, the most remarkable feature of which is the
mutation, under certain circumstances, of particular consonants, when
forming the initials of words. This feature I had observed in the Irish,
which I had then only learnt by ear.
But to return to the groom. He was really a remarkable character, and
taught me two or three things besides Welsh pronunciation; and to
discourse a little in Cumraeg. He had been a soldier in his youth, and
had served under Moore and Wellington in the Peninsular campaigns, and
from him I learnt the details of many a bloody field and bloodier storm,
of the sufferings of poor British soldiers, and the tyranny of haughty
British officers; more especially of the two commanders just mentioned,
the first of whom he swore was shot by his own soldiers, and the second
more frequently shot at by British than French. But it is not deemed a
matter of good taste to write about such low people as grooms, I shall
therefore dismiss him with no observation further than that after he had
visited me on Sunday afternoons for about a year he departed for his own
country with his wife, who was an Englishwoman, and his children, in
consequence of having been left a small freehold there by a distant
relation, and that I neither saw nor heard of him again.
But though I had lost my oral instructor I had still my silent ones,
namely, the Welsh books, and of these I made such use that before the
expiration of my clerkship I was able to read not only Welsh prose, but,
what was infinitely more difficult, Welsh poetry in any of the
four-and-twenty measures, and was well versed in the compositions of
various of the old Welsh bards, especially those of Dafydd ab Gwilym,
whom, since the time when I first became acquainted with his works, I
have always considered as the greatest poetical genius that has appeared
in Europe since the revival of literature.
After this exordium I think I may proceed to narrate the journey of
myself and family into Wales. As perhaps, however, it will be thought
that, though I have said quite enough about myself and a certain groom, I
have not said quite enough about my wife and daughter, I will add a
little more about them. Of my wife I will merely say that she is a
perfect paragon of wives—can make puddings and sweets and treacle posset,
and is the best woman of business in Eastern Anglia—of my
step-daughter—for such she is, though I generally call her daughter, and
with good reason, seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to
me—that she has all kinds of good qualities, and several accomplishments,
knowing something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the
Dutch style, and playing remarkably well on the guitar—not the trumpery
German thing so-called—but the real Spanish guitar.