'Don't refuse, gentleman!' said both, 'surely you are not too proud to
sit down with us?'
'I am afraid I shall only cause you trouble,' said I.
'Dim blinder, no trouble,' exclaimed both at once; 'pray do walk in!'
I entered the house, and the kitchen, parlour, or whatever it was, a nice
little room with a slate floor. They made me sit down at a table by the
window, which was already laid for a meal. There was a clean cloth upon
it, a tea-pot, cups and saucers, a large plate of bread-and-butter, and a
plate, on which were a few very thin slices of brown, watery cheese.
My good friends took their seats, the wife poured out tea for the
stranger and her husband, helped us both to bread-and-butter and the
watery cheese, then took care of herself. Before, however, I could taste
the tea, the wife, seeming to recollect herself, started up, and hurrying
to a cupboard, produced a basin full of snow-white lump sugar, and taking
the spoon out of my hand, placed two of the largest lumps in my cup,
though she helped neither her husband nor herself; the sugar-basin being
probably only kept for grand occasions.
My eyes filled with tears; for in the whole course of my life I had never
experienced so much genuine hospitality. Honour to the miller of Mona
and his wife; and honour to the kind hospitable Celts in general! How
different is the reception of this despised race of the wandering
stranger from that of ---. However, I am a Saxon myself, and the Saxons
have no doubt their virtues; a pity that they should be all uncouth and
ungracious ones!
* * * * *
Now real Republicanism is certainly a very fine thing, a much finer thing
than Toryism, a system of common robbery, which is nevertheless far
better than Whiggism--a compound of petty larceny, popular instruction,
and receiving of stolen goods. Yes, real Republicanism is certainly a
very fine thing, and your real Radicals and Republicans are certainly
very fine fellows, or rather were fine fellows, for the Lord only knows
where to find them at the present day--the writer does not. If he did,
he would at any time go five miles to invite one of them to dinner, even
supposing that he had to go to a workhouse in order to find the person he
wished to invite. Amongst the real Radicals of England, those who
flourished from the year '16 to '20, there were certainly extraordinary
characters, men partially insane, perhaps, but honest and brave--they did
not make a market of the principles which they professed, and never
intended to do so; they believed in them, and were willing to risk their
lives in endeavouring to carry them out. The writer wishes to speak in
particular of two of these men, both of whom perished on the
scaffold--their names were Thistlewood and Ings. Thistlewood, the best
known of them, was a brave soldier and had served with distinction as an
officer in the French service; he was one of the excellent swordsmen of
Europe; had fought several duels in France, where it is no child's play
to fight a duel; but had never unsheathed his sword for single combat,
but in defence of the feeble and insulted--he was kind and open-hearted
but of too great simplicity; he had once ten thousand pounds left him,
all of which he lent to a friend, who disappeared and never returned him
a penny. Ings was an uneducated man, of very low stature, but amazing
strength and resolution; he was a kind husband and father, and though a
humble butcher, the name he bore was one of the royal names of the
heathen Anglo-Saxons. These two men, along with five others, were
executed, and their heads hacked off, for levying war against George the
Fourth; the whole seven dying in a manner which extorted cheers from the
populace, the most of them uttering philosophical or patriotic sayings.
Thistlewood, who was, perhaps, the most calm and collected of all, just
before he was turned off, said, 'We are now going to discover the great
secret.' Ings, the moment before he was choked, was singing 'Scots wha
hae wi' Wallace bled.' Now there was no humbug about those men, nor
about many more of the same time and of the same principles. They might
be deluded about Republicanism, as Algernon Sidney was, and as Brutus
was, but they were as honest and brave as either Brutus or Sidney, and as
willing to die for their principles. But the Radicals who succeeded them
were beings of a very different description; they jobbed and traded in
Republicanism, and either parted with it, or at the present day are eager
to part with it, for a consideration.
* * * * *
'Does your honour remember anything about Durham city?'
'Oh yes! I remember a good deal about it.'
'Then, your honour, pray tell us what you remember about it--pray do!
perhaps it will do me good.'
'Well then, I remember that it was a fine old city standing on a hill
with a river running under it, and that it had a fine old church, one of
the finest in the whole of Britain; likewise a fine old castle; and last,
not least, a capital old inn, where I got a capital dinner off roast
Durham beef, and a capital glass of ale, which I believe was the cause of
my being ever after fond of ale.'
* * * * *
I was the last of the file, but I now rushed past John Jones, who was
before me, and next to the old lady, and sure enough there was the chair,
in the wall, of him who was called in his day, and still is called by the
mountaineers of Wales, though his body has been below the earth in the
quiet churchyard one hundred and forty years, Eos Ceiriog, the
Nightingale of Ceiriog, the sweet caroller Huw Morus, the enthusiastic
partizan of Charles and the Church of England, and the never-tiring
lampooner of Oliver and the Independents. There it was, a kind of hollow
in the stone wall, in the hen ffordd, fronting to the west, just above
the gorge at the bottom of which murmurs the brook Ceiriog, there it was,
something like a half barrel chair in a garden, a mouldering stone slab
forming the seat, and a large slate stone, the back, on which were cut
these letters--