The Mowers—Deep Welsh—Extensive View—Old Celtic Hatred—Fish
Preserving—Smollet’s Morgan.
Next morning I set out to ascend Dinas Bran, a number of children, almost
entirely girls, followed me. I asked them why they came after me. “In
the hope that you will give us something,” said one in very good English.
I told them that I should give them nothing, but they still followed me.
A little way up the hill I saw some men cutting hay. I made an
observation to one of them respecting the fineness of the weather; he
answered civilly, and rested on his scythe, whilst the others pursued
their work. I asked him whether he was a farming man; he told me that he
was not; that he generally worked at the flannel manufactory, but that
for some days past he had not been employed there, work being slack, and
had on that account joined the mowers in order to earn a few shillings.
I asked him how it was he knew how to handle a scythe, not being bred up
a farming man; he smiled, and said that, somehow or other, he had learnt
to do so.
“You speak very good English,” said I, “have you much Welsh?”
“Plenty,” said he; “I am a real Welshman.”
“Can you read Welsh?” said I.
“Oh, yes!” he replied.
“What books have you read?” said I.
“I have read the Bible, sir, and one or two other books.”
“Did you ever read the Bardd Cwsg?” said I.
He looked at me with some surprise. “No,” said he, after a moment or
two, “I have never read it. I have seen it, but it was far too deep
Welsh for me.”
“I have read it,” said I.
“Are you a Welshman?” said he.
“No,” said I; “I am an Englishman.”
“And how is it,” said he, “that you can read Welsh without being a
Welshman?”
“I learned to do so,” said I, “even as you learned to mow, without being
bred up to farming work.”
“Ah!” said he, “but it is easier to learn to mow than to read the Bardd
Cwsg.”
“I don’t think that,” said I; “I have taken up a scythe a hundred times
but I cannot mow.”
“Will your honour take mine now, and try again?” said he.
“No,” said I, “for if I take your scythe in hand I must give you a
shilling, you know, by mowers’ law.”
He gave a broad grin, and I proceeded up the hill. When he rejoined his
companions he said something to them in Welsh, at which they all laughed.
I reached the top of the hill, the children still attending me.
The view over the vale is very beautiful; but on no side, except in the
direction of the west, is it very extensive; Dinas Bran being on all
other sides overtopped by other hills: in that direction, indeed, the
view is extensive enough, reaching on a fine day even to the Wyddfa or
peak of Snowdon, a distance of sixty miles, at least as some say, who
perhaps ought to add to very good eyes, which mine are not. The day that
I made my first ascent of Dinas Bran was very clear, but I do not think I
saw the Wyddfa then from the top of Dinas Bran. It is true I might see
it without knowing it, being utterly unacquainted with it, except by
name; but I repeat I do not think I saw it, and I am quite sure that I
did not see it from the top of Dinas Bran on a subsequent ascent, on a
day equally clear, when if I had seen the Wyddfa I must have recognised
it, having been at its top. As I stood gazing around, the children
danced about upon the grass, and sang a song. The song was English. I
descended the hill; they followed me to its foot, and then left me. The
children of the lower class of Llangollen are great pests to visitors.
The best way to get rid of them is to give them nothing: I followed that
plan, and was not long troubled with them.
Arrived at the foot of the hill, I walked along the bank of the canal to
the west. Presently I came to a barge lying by the bank; the boatman was
in it. I entered into conversation with him. He told me that the canal
and its branches extended over a great part of England. That the boats
carried slates—that he had frequently gone as far as Paddington by the
canal—that he was generally three weeks on the journey—that the boatmen
and their families lived in the little cabins aft—that the boatmen were
all Welsh—that they could read English, but little or no Welsh—that
English was a much more easy language to read than Welsh—that they passed
by many towns, among others Northampton, and that he liked no place so
much as Llangollen. I proceeded till I came to a place where some people
were putting huge slates into a canal boat. It was near a bridge which
crossed the Dee, which was on the left. I stopped and entered into
conversation with one, who appeared to be the principal man. He told me
amongst other things that he was a blacksmith from the neighbourhood of
Rhiwabon, and that the flags were intended for the flooring of his
premises. In the boat was an old bareheaded, bare-armed fellow, who
presently joined in the conversation in very broken English. He told me
that his name was Joseph Hughes, and that he was a real Welshman and was
proud of being so; he expressed a great dislike for the English, who he
said were in the habit of making fun of him and ridiculing his language;
he said that all the fools that he had known were Englishmen. I told him
that all Englishmen were not fools; “but the greater part are,” said he.
“Look how they work,” said I. “Yes,” said he, “some of them are good at
breaking stones for the road, but not more than one in a hundred.”
“There seems to be something of the old Celtic hatred to the Saxon in
this old fellow,” said I to myself, as I walked away.
I proceeded till I came to the head of the canal, where the navigation
first commences. It is close to a weir over which the Dee falls. Here
there is a little floodgate, through which water rushes from an oblong
pond or reservoir, fed by water from a corner of the upper part of the
weir. On the left, or south-west side, is a mound of earth fenced with
stones which is the commencement of the bank of the canal. The pond or
reservoir above the floodgate is separated from the weir by a stone wall
on the left, or south-west side. This pond has two floodgates, the one
already mentioned, which opens into the canal, and another, on the other
side of the stone mound, opening to the lower part of the weir.
Whenever, as a man told me who was standing near, it is necessary to lay
the bed of the canal dry, in the immediate neighbourhood for the purpose
of making repairs, the floodgate to the canal is closed, and the one to
the lower part of the weir is opened, and then the water from the pond
flows into the Dee, whilst a sluice, near the first lock, lets out the
water of the canal into the river. The head of the canal is situated in
a very beautiful spot. To the left or south is a lofty hill covered with
wood. To the right is a beautiful slope or lawn on the top of which is a
pretty villa, to which you can get by a little wooden bridge over the
floodgate of the canal, and indeed forming part of it. Few things are so
beautiful in their origin as this canal, which, be it known, with its
locks and its aqueducts, the grandest of which last is the stupendous
erection near Stockport, which by-the-bye filled my mind when a boy with
wonder, constitutes the grand work of England, and yields to nothing in
the world of the kind, with the exception of the great canal of China.
Retracing my steps some way I got upon the river’s bank and then again
proceeded in the direction of the west. I soon came to a cottage nearly
opposite a bridge, which led over the river, not the bridge which I have
already mentioned, but one much smaller, and considerably higher up the
valley. The cottage had several dusky outbuildings attached to it, and a
paling before it. Leaning over the paling in his shirt-sleeves was a
dark-faced, short, thickset man, who saluted me in English. I returned
his salutation, stopped, and was soon in conversation with him. I
praised the beauty of the river and its banks: he said that both were
beautiful and delightful in summer, but not at all in winter, for then
the trees and bushes on the banks were stripped of their leaves, and the
river was a frightful torrent. He asked me if I had been to see the
place called the Robber’s Leap, as strangers generally went to see it. I
inquired where it was.
“Yonder,” said he, pointing to some distance down the river.
“Why is it called the Robber’s Leap?” said I.
“It is called the Robber’s Leap, or Llam y Lleidyr,” said he, “because a
thief pursued by justice once leaped across the river there and escaped.
It was an awful leap, and he well deserved to escape after taking it.” I
told him that I should go and look at it on some future opportunity, and
then asked if there were many fish in the river. He said there were
plenty of salmon and trout, and that owing to the river being tolerably
high, a good many had been caught during the last few days. I asked him
who enjoyed the right of fishing in the river. He said that in these
parts the fishing belonged to two or three proprietors, who either
preserved the fishing for themselves, as they best could by means of
keepers, or let it out to other people; and that many individuals came
not only from England, but from France and Germany and even Russia for
the purpose of fishing, and that the keepers of the proprietors from whom
they purchased permission to fish, went with them, to show them the best
places, and to teach them how to fish. He added that there was a report
that the river would shortly be rhydd or free and open to any one. I
said that it would be a bad thing to fling the river open, as in that
event the fish would be killed at all times and seasons, and eventually
all destroyed. He replied that he questioned whether more fish would be
taken then than now, and that I must not imagine that the fish were much
protected by what was called preserving; that the people to whom the
lands in the neighbourhood belonged, and those who paid for fishing did
not catch a hundredth part of the fish which were caught in the river:
that the proprietors went with their keepers, and perhaps caught two or
three stone of fish, or that strangers went with the keepers, whom they
paid for teaching them how to fish, and perhaps caught half-a-dozen fish,
and that shortly after the keepers would return and catch on their own
account sixty stone of fish from the very spot where the proprietors or
strangers had great difficulty in catching two or three stone or the
half-dozen fish, or the poachers would go and catch a yet greater
quantity. He added that gentry did not understand how to catch fish, and
that to attempt to preserve was nonsense. I told him that if the river
was flung open everybody would fish; he said that I was much mistaken,
that hundreds who were now poachers, would then keep at home, mind their
proper trades, and never use line or spear; that folks always longed to
do what they were forbidden, and that Shimei would never have crossed the
brook provided he had not been told he should be hanged if he did. That
he himself had permission to fish in the river whenever he pleased, but
never availed himself of it, though in his young time, when he had no
leave, he had been an arrant poacher.
The manners and way of speaking of this old personage put me very much in
mind of those of Morgan, described by Smollett in his immortal novel of
“Roderick Random.” I had more discourse with him: I asked him in what
line of business he was, he told me that he sold coals. From his
complexion, and the hue of his shirt, I had already concluded that he was
in some grimy trade. I then inquired of what religion he was, and
received for answer that he was a Baptist. I thought that both himself
and part of his apparel would look all the better for a good immersion.
We talked of the war then raging—he said it was between the false prophet
and the Dragon. I asked him who the Dragon was—he said the Turk. I told
him that the Pope was far worse than either the Turk or the Russian, that
his religion was the vilest idolatry, and that he would let no one alone.
That it was the Pope who drove his fellow religionists the Anabaptists
out of the Netherlands. He asked me how long ago that was. Between two
and three hundred years I replied. He asked me the meaning of the word
Anabaptist; I told him; whereupon he expressed great admiration for my
understanding, and said that he hoped he should see me again.
I inquired of him to what place the bridge led; he told me that if I
passed over it, and ascended a high bank beyond, I should find myself on
the road from Llangollen to Corwen and that if I wanted to go to
Llangollen I must turn to the left. I thanked him, and passing over the
bridge, and ascending the bank, found myself upon a broad road. I turned
to the left, and walking briskly in about half an hour reached our
cottage in the northern suburb, where I found my family and dinner
awaiting me.