Venerable Old Gentleman—Surnames in Wales—Russia and Britain—Church of
England—Yriarte—The Eagle and his Young—Poets of the Gael—The
Oxonian—Master Salisburie.
My wife had told me that she had had some conversation upon the Welsh
language and literature with a venerable old man, who kept a shop in the
town, that she had informed him that I was very fond of both, and that he
had expressed a great desire to see me. One afternoon I said: “Let us go
and pay a visit to your old friend of the shop. I think from two or
three things which you have told me about him, that he must be worth
knowing.” We set out. She conducted me across the bridge a little way;
then presently turning to the left into the principal street, she entered
the door of a shop on the left-hand side, over the top of which was
written: “Jones; Provision Dealer and General Merchant.” The shop was
small, with two little counters, one on each side. Behind one was a
young woman, and behind the other a venerable-looking old man.
“I have brought my husband to visit you,” said my wife, addressing
herself to him.
“I am most happy to see him,” said the old gentleman, making me a polite
bow.
He then begged that we would do him the honour to walk into his parlour,
and led us into a little back room, the window of which looked out upon
the Dee a few yards below the bridge. On the left side of the room was a
large case, well stored with books. He offered us chairs, and we all sat
down. I was much struck with the old man. He was rather tall, and
somewhat inclined to corpulency. His hair was grey; his forehead high;
his nose aquiline; his eyes full of intelligence; whilst his manners were
those of a perfect gentleman.
I entered into conversation by saying that I supposed his name was Jones,
as I had observed that name over the door.
“Jones is the name I bear at your service, sir,” he replied.
I said that it was a very common name in Wales, as I knew several people
who bore it, and observed that most of the surnames in Wales appeared to
be modifications of Christian names; for example Jones, Roberts, Edwards,
Humphreys, and likewise Pugh, Powel, and Probert, which were nothing more
than the son of Hugh, the son of Howel, and the son of Robert. He said I
was right, that there were very few real surnames in Wales; that the
three great families, however, had real surnames; for that Wynn, Morgan
and Bulkley were all real surnames. I asked him whether the Bulkleys of
Anglesea were not originally an English family. He said they were, and
that they settled down in Anglesea in the time of Elizabeth.
After some minutes my wife got up and left us. The old gentleman and I
had then some discourse in Welsh; we soon, however, resumed speaking
English. We got on the subject of Welsh bards, and after a good deal of
discourse the old gentleman said:
“You seem to know something about Welsh poetry; can you tell me who wrote
the following line?
“‘There will be great doings in Britain, and
I shall have no concern in them.’”
“I will not be positive,” said I, “but I think from its tone and tenor
that it was composed by Merddyn, whom my countrymen call Merlin.”
“I believe you are right,” said the old gentleman, “I see you know
something of Welsh poetry. I met the line, a long time ago, in a Welsh
grammar. It then made a great impression upon me, and of late it has
always been ringing in my ears. I love Britain. Britain has just
engaged in a war with a mighty country, and I am apprehensive of the
consequences. I am old, upwards of four-score, and shall probably not
live to see the evil, if evil happens, as I fear it will—‘There will be
strange doings in Britain, but they will not concern me.’ I cannot get
the line out of my head.”
I told him that the line probably related to the progress of the Saxons
in Britain, but that I did not wonder that it made an impression upon him
at the present moment. I said, however, that we ran no risk from Russia;
that the only power at all dangerous to Britain was France, which though
at present leagued with her against Russia, would eventually go to war
with and strive to subdue her, and then of course Britain could expect no
help from Russia, her old friend and ally, who, if Britain had not
outraged her, would have assisted her, in any quarrel or danger, with
four or five hundred thousand men. I said that I hoped neither he nor I
should see a French invasion, but I had no doubt one would eventually
take place, and that then Britain must fight stoutly, as she had no one
to expect help from but herself; that I wished she might be able to hold
her own, but—
“Strange things will happen in Britain, though they will concern me
nothing,” said the old gentleman with a sigh.
On my expressing a desire to know something of his history, he told me
that he was the son of a small farmer, who resided at some distance from
Llangollen; that he lost his father at an early age, and was obliged to
work hard, even when a child, in order to assist his mother who had some
difficulty, after the death of his father, in keeping things together;
that though he was obliged to work hard he had been fond of study, and
used to pore over Welsh and English books by the glimmering light of the
turf fire at night, for that his mother could not afford to allow him
anything in the shape of a candle to read by; that at his mother’s death
he left rural labour, and coming to Llangollen, commenced business in the
little shop in which he was at present; that he had been married, and had
children, but that his wife and family were dead; that the young woman
whom I had seen in the shop, and who took care of his house, was a
relation of his wife; that though he had always been attentive to
business, he had never abandoned study; that he had mastered his own
language, of which he was passionately fond, and had acquired a good
knowledge of English and of some other languages. That his fondness for
literature had shortly after his arrival at Llangollen attracted the
notice of some of the people, who encouraged him in his studies, and
assisted him by giving him books; that the two celebrated ladies of
Llangollen had particularly noticed him; that he held the situation of
church clerk for upwards of forty years, and that it was chiefly owing to
the recommendation of the “great ladies” that he had obtained it. He
then added with a sigh, that about ten years ago he was obliged to give
it up, owing to something the matter with his eyesight, which prevented
him from reading, and, that his being obliged to give it up was a source
of bitter grief to him, as he had always considered it a high honour to
be permitted to assist in the service of the Church of England, in the
principles of which he had been bred, and in whose doctrines he firmly
believed.
Here shaking him by the hand, I said that I too had been bred up in the
principles of the Church of England; that I too firmly believed in its
doctrines, and would maintain with my blood, if necessary, that there was
not such another church in the world.
“So would I,” said the old gentleman; “where is there a church in whose
liturgy there is so much Scripture as in that of the Church of England?”
“Pity,” said I, “that so many traitors have lately sprung up in its
ministry.”
“If it be so,” said the old church clerk, “they have not yet shown
themselves in the pulpit at Llangollen. All the clergymen who have held
the living in my time have been excellent. The present incumbent is a
model of a Church-of-England clergyman. Oh, how I regret that the state
of my eyes prevents me from officiating as clerk beneath him.”
I told him that I should never from the appearance of his eyes have
imagined that they were not excellent ones.
“I can see to walk about with them, and to distinguish objects,” said the
old gentleman; “but see to read with them I cannot. Even with the help
of the most powerful glasses I cannot distinguish a letter. I believe I
strained my eyes at a very early age, when striving to read at night by
the glimmer of the turf fire in my poor mother’s chimney corner. Oh what
an affliction is this state of my eyes! I can’t turn my books to any
account, nor read the newspapers; but I repeat that I chiefly lament it
because it prevents me from officiating as under-preacher.”
He showed me his books. Seeing amongst them “The Fables of Yriarte” in
Spanish, I asked how they came into his possession.
“They were presented to me,” said he, “by one of the ladies of
Llangollen, Lady Eleanor Butler.”
“Have you ever read them?” said I.
“No,” he replied; “I do not understand a word of Spanish; but I suppose
her ladyship, knowing I was fond of languages, thought that I might one
day set about learning Spanish, and that then they might be useful to
me.”
He then asked me if I knew Spanish, and on my telling him that I had some
knowledge of that language, he asked me to translate some of the fables.
I translated two of them, which pleased him much.
I then asked if he had ever heard of a collection of Welsh fables
compiled about the year thirteen hundred. He said that he had not, and
inquired whether they had ever been printed. I told him that some had
appeared in the old Welsh magazine called “The Greal.”
“I wish you would repeat one of them,” said the old clerk.
“Here is one,” said I, “which particularly struck me:—
“It is the custom of the eagle, when his young are sufficiently old, to
raise them up above his nest in the direction of the sun; and the bird
which has strength enough of eye to look right in the direction of the
sun, he keeps and nourishes, but the one which has not, he casts down
into the gulf to its destruction. So does the Lord deal with His
children in the Catholic Church Militant: those whom He sees worthy to
serve Him in godliness and spiritual goodness He keeps with Him and
nourishes, but those who are not worthy from being addicted to earthly
things, He casts out into utter darkness, where there is weeping and
gnashing of teeth.”
The old gentleman, after a moment’s reflection, said it was a clever
fable, but an unpleasant one. It was hard for poor birds to be flung
into a gulf, for not having power of eye sufficient to look full in the
face of the sun, and likewise hard that poor human creatures should be
lost for ever, for not doing that which they had no power to do.
“Perhaps,” said I, “the eagle does not deal with his chicks, or the Lord
with His creatures as the fable represents.”
“Let us hope at any rate,” said the old gentleman, “that the Lord does
not.”
“Have you ever seen this book?” said he, and put Smith’s “Sean Dana” into
my hand.
“Oh, yes,” said I, “and have gone through it. It contains poems in the
Gaelic language by Oisin and others, collected in the Highlands. I went
through it a long time ago with great attention. Some of the poems are
wonderfully beautiful.”
“They are so,” said the old clerk. “I too have gone through the book; it
was presented to me a great many years ago by a lady to whom I gave some
lessons in the Welsh language. I went through it with the assistance of
a Gaelic grammar and dictionary, which she also presented to me, and I
was struck with the high tone of the poetry.”
“This collection is valuable indeed,” said I; “it contains poems, which
not only possess the highest merit, but serve to confirm the authenticity
of the poems of Ossian, published by Macpherson, so often called in
question. All the pieces here attributed to Ossian are written in the
same metre, tone, and spirit, as those attributed to him in the other
collection, so if Macpherson’s Ossianic poems, which he said were
collected by him in the Highlands, are forgeries, Smith’s Ossianic poems,
which, according to his account, were also collected in the Highlands,
must be also forged, and have been imitated from those published by the
other. Now as it is well known that Smith did not possess sufficient
poetic power to produce any imitation of Macpherson’s Ossian, with a
tenth part the merit which the “Sean Dana” possess, and that even if he
had possessed it, his principles would not have allowed him to attempt to
deceive the world by imposing forgeries upon it, as the authentic poems
of another, he being a highly respectable clergyman, the necessary
conclusion is that the Ossianic poems which both published are genuine,
and collected in the manner in which both stated they were.”
After a little more discourse about Ossian, the old gentleman asked me if
there was any good modern Gaelic poetry. “None very modern,” said I:
“the last great poets of the Gael were Macintyre and Buchanan, who
flourished about the middle of the last century. The first sang of love
and of Highland scenery; the latter was a religious poet. The best piece
of Macintyre is an ode to Ben Dourain, or the Hill of the Water-dogs—a
mountain in the Highlands. The master-piece of Buchanan is his La
Breitheanas or Day of Judgment, which is equal in merit, or nearly so, to
the Cywydd y Farn, or Judgment Day of your own immortal Gronwy Owen.
Singular that the two best pieces on the Day of Judgment should have been
written in two Celtic dialects, and much about the same time; but such is
the fact.”
“Really,” said the old church clerk, “you seem to know something of
Celtic literature.”
“A little,” said I; “I am a bit of a philologist; and when studying
languages dip a little into the literature which they contain.”
As I had heard him say that he had occasionally given lessons in the
Welsh language, I inquired whether any of his pupils had made much
progress in it. “The generality,” said he, “soon became tired of its
difficulties, and gave it up without making any progress at all. Two or
three got on tolerably well. One, however, acquired it in a time so
short that it might be deemed marvellous. He was an Oxonian, and came
down with another in the vacation in order to study hard against the
yearly collegiate examination. He and his friend took lodgings at
Pengwern Hall, then a farm-house, and studied and walked about for some
time, as other young men from college, who come down here, are in the
habit of doing. One day he and his friend came to me, who was then
clerk, and desired to see the interior of the church. So I took the key
and went with them into the church. When he came to the altar he took up
the large Welsh Common Prayer-Book, which was lying there, and looked
into it. ‘A curious language this Welsh,’ said he; ‘I should like to
learn it.’ ‘Many have wished to learn it, without being able,’ said I;
‘it is no easy language.’ ‘I should like to try,’ he replied; ‘I wish I
could find some one who would give me a few lessons.’ ‘I have
occasionally given instructions in Welsh,’ said I, ‘and shall be happy to
oblige you.’ Well, it was agreed that he should take lessons of me; and
to my house he came every evening, and I gave him what instructions I
could. I was astonished at his progress. He acquired the pronunciation
in a lesson, and within a week was able to construe and converse. By the
time he left Llangollen, and he was not here in all more than two months,
he understood the Welsh Bible as well as I did, and could speak Welsh so
well that the Welsh, who did not know him, took him to be one of
themselves, for he spoke the language with the very tone and manner of a
native. Oh, he was the cleverest man for language that I ever knew; not
a word that he heard did he ever forget.”
“Just like Mezzofanti,” said I, “the great cardinal philologist. But
whilst learning Welsh, did he not neglect his collegiate studies?”
“Well, I was rather apprehensive on that point,” said the old gentleman,
“but mark the event. At the examination he came off most brilliantly in
Latin, Greek, mathematics, and other things too; in fact, a double
first-class man, as I think they call it.”
“I have never heard of so extraordinary an individual,” said I. “I could
no more have done what you say he did, than I could have taken wings and
flown. Pray, what was his name?”
“His name,” said the old gentleman, “was Earl.”
I was much delighted with my new acquaintance, and paid him frequent
visits; the more I saw him the more he interested me. He was kind and
benevolent, a good old Church of England Christian, was well versed in
several dialects of the Celtic, and possessed an astonishing deal of
Welsh heraldic and antiquarian lore. Often whilst discoursing with him I
almost fancied that I was with Master Salisburie, Vaughan of Hengwrt, or
some other worthy of old, deeply skilled in everything remarkable
connected with wild “Camber’s Lande.”