The squire favors Welsh customs and female costumes. Offended with his
lady. Protects the system of bed courtship. An eulogy on the ale of
Newcastle Emlyn. Toping rats.
AT this time a warm altercation one day took place between the squire and
his lady, that terminated in consequences little expected by either.
Notwithstanding the prejudice which Squire Graspacre’s harsh conduct had
given birth to, on his first settlement in Cardiganshire, he had about
him certain saving points, that not only reconciled them to his rule, but
really gained their esteem. He was a plain, bold, sensible man, and
although entertaining a most exalted opinion of English superiority,
generally, in particular instances he had the liberality to confess that
he found many things in this nation of mountaineers, highly worthy of
imitation among his more civilized countrymen. Unlike any of the
half-bred English gentlemen who literally infest Wales, and become
nuisances and living grievances to the people—building their pretensions
to superiority and fashion, on a sneering self-sufficiency, and scorn of
customs and peculiarities merely because they are Welsh—he gave them all
credit for what was really estimable.
He had formerly expressed his disapprobation of a custom prevalent among
Welsh farmers of leaving their corn long on the ground after being cut,
instead of housing it as soon as possible; but experience taught him that
they were right and himself in error; as, among the corn was a large
quantity of weeds which required to be dried before it could with safety
be brought to the barn or rick, otherwise the grain was sweated and
literally poisoned with the rank juice. He found the Cardiganshire mode
of chopping the young mountain furze, and giving it as food for horses
and cattle, worthy his attention, and after various trials, decided on
its efficacy so far as to adopt it for the future; and actually set
Carmarthen Jack to gather the seed of that mountain plant, which he
forwarded to England to be set on his Devonshire farms. The planting of
flowers on the graves of deceased friends, he eulogized as a beautiful
and endearing custom, forming an agreeable contrast to the clumsy English
tombstones with barbarous lines, often setting truth, rhyme, and reason
at defiance. The Welsh harp he declared the prince of all musical
instruments, and Welsh weddings the best contrived and conducted in the
world, and proved his sincerity by giving something always at the
_Biddings_ of the peasantry, and patronizing all those who entered that
happy state. Above all things he admired the female costume in Wales,
and protested, with much truth, that the poor people in England were not
half so well, or so neatly, clothed. His lofty lady, although a
Welshwoman bred and born, entertained a very different set of ideas on
these subjects. Whenever her husband related the anecdote of Polydore
Virgil’s extacy on his first landing in Britain, when he beheld the
yellow-blossomed furze, which gave a golden glow to the swelling bosom of
the hills—how he knelt on the ground beside a bush of it, fervently
worshipping the God of Nature, that beautified the world with the
production of such a plant; she would instantly reply, “The man was a
fool! for _my part_ I see nothing in the nasty prickly things to admire,
but wish the fire would take them all from one end of the mountains to
the other.” “And yet, my dear,” would he answer, “Polydore Virgil was a
native of no rude soil, but came from the land of the laurel, the
cypress, and the vine, the orange, the lemon, and the citron, and many
other splendid plants, the very names of which you perhaps never heard
of; yet he had the liberality to admire what he justly deemed beautiful,
even in a northern clime, and a comparatively harsh mountainous
district.” As to the harp, whenever he praised its melody, she declared
it odious and unbearable, and gave preference to the fiddle, the
bagpipes, or even the hurdy-gurdy; and the Welsh female costume she
protested still more loudly against, and asked him with a sneer if he did
not conceive it capable of improvement. “Oh, certainly, my dear,” would
he reply, “for instance, I would have the Glamorganshire girls wear
shoes, and soles to their stockings; and convert their awkward wrappers
into neat gowns; the Cardiganshire fair ones should doff their clogs, and
wear leathern shoes; and the Breconshire lass, with all others who
followed the same abominable habit, should be hindered from wearing a
handkerchief around the head; but I know of no improvement that can be
suggested for the Pembrokeshire damsel, except _one_—which, indeed, would
be equally applicable to all Welsh girls—namely, to throw off their
flannel shifts, and wear linen ones.”
Now this good gentlewoman, whose leading weakness it was to suspect her
husband’s fidelity when away from home, kindled with rage at this remark.
“Shifts, Mr. Graspacre,” exclaimed the angered lady, “what business have
you to concern yourself about such things? You ought, at least, to know
nothing about such matters, but I dare say know too much.” Anxious as a
seaman to turn his bark from the direction of a dangerous rock, he mildly
replied, “Surely, my dear, I may exercise my eyes, when the washed
clothes are hanging on a line;” and then adding in the same breath,
“indeed, if I were you, my dear, I would make some improvements, _such as
your good taste will suggest_, among our own maids; taking care, however,
not to destroy the stamp of nationality on their garbs at any rate.”
This was a well-judged hit on his part, and had the effect of averting
the impending storm.
It should have been mentioned before, that the squire, soon after his
marriage, had made a tour of South Wales, and, as his lady expressed it,
taken a whim in his head of engaging a maid servant in every county
through which he passed; so that in Graspacre Hall there were to be found
maiden representatives in their native costumes, of all the different
shires of South Wales, except Radnor, in which, the squire said the
barbarous jargon of Herefordshire, and the paltry English cottons, had
supplanted the native tongue and dress of Wales. There might you see the
neat maiden of Pembrokeshire, in her dark cloth dress of one hue, either
a dark brown approximating to black, or a claret colour, made by the
skill of a tailor, and very closely resembling the ladies’ modern riding
habits,—a perfect picture of comfort and neatness, in alliance with good
taste. There would you see her extreme contrast, the Glamorganshire
lass, in stockings cut off at the ankle, and without shoes; and, although
a handsome brunette with fine black eyes, dressed in a slammakin check
wrapper of cotton and wool, utterly shapeless, and tied about the middle
like a wheat-sheaf, or a faggot of wood: possessing, however, the
peculiar conveniences that it could be put on in an instant, without the
loss of time in dressing tastefully, and that it would fit every body
alike, as it is neither a gown nor a bedgown, but between both, and
without a waist.—There would you see the young woman of Breconshire, with
her pretty blushing face half hidden in a handkerchief which envelopes
her head, that at first you would fancy the figure before you to be a
grandmother at least.—Her long linsey gown is pinned up behind, each
extreme corner being joined together in the centre, and confined a few
inches below her waste; she has her wooden-soled shoes for every day, and
leathern ones for sunday, or for a dance, which, with her stockings, she
very economically takes off should a shower of rain overtake her on a
journey; and when it ceases, washes her feet in the first brook she
meets, and puts them on again. This fair one takes especial care that
her drapery shall be short enough to discover a pretty ankle, and her
apron sufficiently scanty to disclose her gay red petticoat with black or
white stripes, beneath, and at the sides. Then comes the stout
Carmarthenshire lass with her thick bedgown and petticoat of a flaring
brick-dust red, knitting stockings as she walks, and singing a loud song
as she cards or spins. Lastly, though not the least in importance,
behold the clogged and cloaked short-statured woman of Cardiganshire.
She scorns the sluttish garb and bare feet of the Glamorganshire maiden,
and hates the abominable pride of the Pembrokeshire lass who is vain
enough to wear leathern shoes instead of honest clogs; proving at the
same time that her own vanity is of a more pardonable stamp, while she
boasts with truth, that her own dress cost twice as much as either of the
others. The Cardiganshire women’s dresses, in fact—generally blue, with
red stripes, and bound at the bottom with red or blue tape—are entirely
of wool, solidly woven and heavy, consequently more expensive than those
made of linsey or minco, or of the common intermixture of wool and
cotton, and presenting an appearance of weighty warmth more desirable
than either a comely cut or tasty neatness.
It was one of the squire’s fancies never to call these girls by their own
proper names, but by that of their shires, as thus, “Come here little
Pembroke, and buckle my shoe; and you Carmarthen, bring me a bason of
broth: Cardigan, call Glamorgan and Brecon, and tell them they must drive
a harrow apiece through the ploughed part of Rockfield.” On his return
to dinner, a few days after the suggestion about the dresses of the
maids, he was astonished to find that Mrs. Graspacre had used this
privilege with a vengeance; having, with decided bad taste, put them all,
_at their own expence_, to be deducted from their wages, into glaring
cotton prints. The girls were unhappy enough at this change, as well as
at the expence to which they were put, and they never could enter the
town without experiencing the ridicule of their friends and neighbours;
the Cardiganshire maid, who considered such a change in the light of
disowning her country and like a renegade putting on the livery of the
Saxon, in something of a termagant spirit, tendered her resignation to
her master rather than comply with such an innovation. This ungenerous
invasion of his harmless rules, roused his indignation; and after venting
a few “damns” _a la John Bull_, against draggle-tail cotton rags, without
a word of expostulation with his rib, he desired the girls to bring all
their trumpery to him, which they gladly did, and he made them instantly
into a bonfire in the farm yard. He then in a firm under tone of subdued
resentment, gave strict injunctions that no further liberties should be
taken with their national costume; to which his lady made the polite and
submissive reply, that the girls might all walk abroad without any dress
at all if he chose, and go to the devil his own way.
At this juncture little Pembroke came in with rosy smiles, and told her
master that Carmarthen Jack wanted to speak to him very particularly, on
which the squire laughed, and asked her on what _important_ matter. “Why
sir,” said the rustic beauty, while arch smiles and blushes contended in
her sweet oval face, “Parson Evans has found out that he has been
courting in bed, with Catti the schoolmistress, and he has run here
before the Parson to say it is all a falsehood.” “There’s an impious
rascal for you!” cries the lady of the house, “to charge the clergyman
with falsehood; but I am sure ’tis true, for I long suspected it.” “The
less you interfere in these matters, the more it will be to your credit
Mrs. Graspacre,” said the squire in a quiet tone, but accompanied with an
emphatic look. “I insist,” cried the imperious dame, “that he be put in
the stocks, and she ducked in the river.” “Neither shall be done,” said
he, firmly, “and from henceforward, no person shall be annoyed and
persecuted on that score, but every one shall court as he or she
pleases.” “What!” cried the indignant lady, “would you fill the country
with bastards?” “No madam,” was the reply, “but with as happy a set of
people as possible.”
Encouraged by the turn which affairs had taken, the Cardiganshire maid
now asked her master for her discharge; as her mistress she said, had
thrown a slur on her brewing abilities, which had almost broken her
heart: “for” said she, with a ludicrous whimper, “she says my brewing is
unfit for the drinking of christian people, and hardly worthy of the
hogs!—but”—cried the sturdy little wench, raising her voice to an
accusatory pitch, and at the same time a tone of triumph, “I come from
Newcastle Emlyn, the country of good beer, the very home where the _Cwrw
da_ of _Hên Gymru_ is bred and born! and I would rather die than be told
that I can’t brew.”
“Indeed Cardy,” said the squire, with a smile, “though your mistress may
have been too severe in her censure, I must say your two last brewings
were unequal to the first.” “A good reason why sir; who can brew without
malt and hops? though I am told some of the town brewers are mighty
independent of those articles—but their brewings won’t do for us at
Newcastle Emlyn! and your wheat sir, which has grown by being out in the
wet harvest, so as to be unfit for bread, is but a poor make-shift for
malt—it may do for the wish-wash paltry ale of Haverfordwest and
Fishguard, but our plough boys would turn up their noses at such stuff at
Newcastle Emlyn!” “Damn Newcastle Emlyn!” cried the squire, provoked by
her continual reference to her native place. “Master! master!” cried the
girl, as if rebuking him for the greatest impiety conceivable, “don’t
damn Newcastle Emlyn, I had rather you should knock me down than damn
Newcastle Emlyn! it is the country of decent people and good ale! the
country where”—
“You brewed good ale from the grown wheat the first time,” said the
squire, not deeming it necessary to notice her observations.
“Good! was it?” retorts the girl struggling between respect for her
master and contempt for his taste, in the matter of malt drink; “good was
it! I tell you what master, you are a good master, and I have nothing to
say against mistress, for it would not be decent, but you never tasted
beer like ours at Newcastle Emlyn! the real hearty _cwrw da_! which I
could make you to-morrow, if you would give me good malt and hops, and
let it stand long enough untapped.”
“But let me ask you my good woman,” said the squire, “what is the reason
that your two last brewings were so far inferior to the first, when you
had the same materials to work on?”
“’Twas better sir! ten times better! the first would have turned the
devil’s stomach, had he known what was in it.” “Explain yourself,” said
the squire, surprized. “I will sir, if I was to be hanged for it,” cried
the girl in a tone of confidence; “it seems the rats love beer as well as
any christian folks, and can get drunk and die in drink, as a warning to
all sober-minded rats; but that is neither here nor there, and I hate to
tell a rigmarole story; the long and short of it is, that when I came to
wash out the barrels after the first brewing, I found three rats in one,
and two in the other.”
“You found what?” asked the squire and his lady at the same time.
“I found three rats sir, that had burst themselves with drinking beer,
and afterwards fell in and were drowned—they were then putrid, and it was
that, it seems, that made the ale so palatable; there were no dead
animals in the last brewing, but if I knew your taste before, I would
have killed a couple of cats, to please you.”
This explanation excited a titter among the girls, and a loud laugh from
the squire, while the lady evinced the shock which her delicacy had
sustained, by making wry faces, and snuffing violently at her smelling
bottle, to avoid fainting.
The squire then good humoredly addressed the girl, “now Cardy, you are
perfectly right in the praise you bestow on your own country ale, and I
promise you shall have the best of malt and hops for your next attempt,
when I expect it to be equal to the best _cwrw da_ of Newcastle
Emlyn—and, do you hear? we shall dispense with either rats or cats in it
for the future.”
This amicable settlement of differences set every one in good humour,
except the haughty mistress, who embittered with her double defeat,
retired in gloom, while her husband went to give audience to Jack o Sîr
Gâr. Cardy stayed behind a full quarter of an hour longer, to edify the
servants while treating, in her cackling style, of the extraordinary
merits of the fat ale of Newcastle Emlyn.