 | A sketch of old England |  |
LETTER IX.
From Chester I again penetrated into Wales, passing along
the borders of Flintshire, a small county, apparently pretty
much divided among marshes and mountains. The old capital
lies buried in a marsh along the river Dee, and Holywell is
now the principal mart of this part of the country. The neighbourhood
contains a great many manufactories, and is, of
course, distressed and disaffected. Holywell, like all the manufacturing
towns I have seen, is tinged with black smoke, and
presents a disagreeable aspect. Below the town is a glen,
where the manufactories are placed, on a fine stream flowing
from St. Winifred's well, which, I believe, has lost all its medicinal
virtues, ever since the waters were prostituted to these
mechanical purposes. The mills and manufactories are principally
for brass and copper; and it is hardly possible for me to
describe the wretched, cadaverous, and unwholesome looks
of the workmen in these metals. One might almost be tempted
to conclude that the conveniences of life were too dearly purchased
at the expense of such unhealthy employments. I felt
grateful to Providence, that our countrymen were, as yet, permitted
to exchange the fruits of labours that result in health,
manliness, and virtuous independence, for the products of
occupations so fatal to all these.
The famous well of St. Winifred, from whence is derived the
name of Holywell, is the finest gush of water from one single
source that I have ever seen. It springs at one bound from
the foot of a fine rock, and in a single volume, that, at a short
distance below, without any accession that I observed, turned
with a little venerable Gothic building, said to be an offering
of gratitude from Margaret, mother of Henry the Seventh,
for her recovery through the virtues of this well. The inside
of the little canopy is exquisitely carved. Many votive offerings
of crutches, &c. are left here by invalids of former times,
in memory of their recovery to the use of their limbs, some of
whose stories are perfectly miraculous. But the miracle of all
miracles is the history of the saint herself. Winifred was a devout
and beautiful damsel, daughter of one Thearth, as we say
of obscure persons, and niece to St. Benno, another rather obscure
person. Having obtained leave to found a church upon
the possessions of her father, the saint took her under his tuition,
and instructed her in religion. Crodorus, son to a very
obscure king, one also who reigned in this neighbourhood,
being smitten with her beauty, according to the customs of the
age, attempted to violate her person. She ran towards the
church for sanctuary, but was overtaken at the brow of the
hill by this gallant British prince, who, enraged at his disappointment,
cut off her head, which rolled down the hill to the
place where the congregation were kneeling at their devotions.
From the spot where it stopped, immediately gushed forth a
clear and beautiful fountain; and thereupon St. Benno, taking
up the head, and joining it to the body, to the surprise of all,
the virgin became re-animated, nothing remaining to mark the
separation but a white ring round the neck. Crodorus dropped
down upon the spot where he committed the outrage; but,
whether he was swallowed up by the earth, or carried away
by the devil, the legend rather doubts. It is affirmed that the
sides of the orifice, whence the waters issued, became all at
once fringed with a green and sweet-scented moss, and the
stones at the bottom tinctured with the blood of the virgin.
She outlived the cutting off her head about fifteen years, and,
having taken the veil, died abbess of Gwytherin, in this
county.
The well became famous for its sweet-scented moss, the
bloody tint of the rocks, and the miraculous virtues of its waters.
The sick and the pious resorted to it from all parts of the
neighbourhood; and the votive crutches and barrows announce
the recovery of some at least, whether by faith, or the workings
of the waters, cannot be known. Of late years, however,
it has not been much frequented. Industry and employment,
most potent enemies to superstitious fancies, have called
the attention of the people from legends and saints, while the
clink of hammers, the turning of wheels, and the roaring of
bellows, have all combined to banish the silent musings of
or the human constitution, has altered, for no cures are now
worked by the miraculous well of St. Winifred. The moss
and the blood-tinged stones, it is true, remain, but they have
ceased to excite wonder, ever since the prying curiosity of botanists
discovered that the former was nothing more than the
mere vulgar jungermanius asplenoides, and the latter the
byssus jolitferus, a little red fibrous plant, which is common
at the bottom of our pure mountain brooks. Nevertheless, it
is a fine curiosity, inasmuch as it gushes forth upwards of
eighty hogsheads of water a minute, which never freezes, nor
ever varies in quantity, under any change of seasons. After
all, my dear brother, what business have we to laugh at the
credulity of our ancestors, or pride ourselves upon our disenchantment
from the wonders of St. Winifred's well, while half
the world is buying quack medicines, and trusting to quack doctors?
I am somewhat apprehensive, that the boasted improvement,
in the present age, consists pretty much in banishing
old to make way for new absurdities. While the good
folks of England continue their faith in the magical operation
of the sinking fund, the blessings of a national debt, or Mr.
Owen's plan of placing the people out at board at the expense
of the nation; and while our worthy countrymen follow in
the footsteps of this faith, what business, I say again, have we
to laugh at the magical wonders of St. Winifred's well? If
Dr. Solomon could build a palace upon the credulity of mankind,
in the nineteenth century, why should we laugh at the
credulity which built only a little dome to the virtues of St.
Winifred's well?
I shall say nothing about the ruins of Basingworth Abbey,
which I passed in my way to the famous vale of Clwydd,
which you may pronounce if you can. This vale extends
almost all the way to Llangollan, which, on the whole, I think
it excels in beauty. It is generally about three to four miles
wide, and nearly thirty in length. Throughout almost the
whole length of the vale, the two little rivers Clwydd and
Elwy meander in curving parallels, sometimes appearing as if
they would unite their waters, then capriciously separating
wide apart, as if they had brawled themselves into a quarrel.
Thus they coquette with each other through the vale, exhibiting
a thousand little meandering curves, and adding every
beauty that can be added, to rich cultivated fields, pleasant
villages, beautiful country-seats, and ruins associated with
history, tradition, and fiction. The contrast of sterile hills
and bald mountains on either side, with this scene of rural
wealth, rural health, and rural innocence, is peculiarly striking.
of Ruthyn, once the seat of Grey of Ruthyn, the wily neighbour
and antagonist of the “d—d magician Glendower,” as
Shakspeare calls him. It yet gives the title of Lord Grey of
Ruthyn. The present representative, a lady, claims the right
of bearing the king's spurs at the coronation! On another
high mount I saw the castle, or rather the remains of the castle
of Denbigh, a most striking object, whose ruined gateway
seemed trembling on the verge of the steep. Shall I tell you,
my dear brother, that most of these old castles, which form
such prominent features in the picturesque tours, are, in reality,
most insignificant objects. Now and then indeed I met with
one, as Conway Castle, for instance, which was really a noble
ruin, but by far the greater portion of them are, in every respect,
insignificant.
Leaving the vale of Clwydd, of whose sweet rural beauties
I shall ever retain a pleasing recollection, I passed over a hilly
rough ridge around the base of Penmanmoss, in doing which,
I suddenly came upon a fine view of Conway Castle and
town, finely backed by a range of mountains in the distance.
The position of this castle, and what remains of it, is really
fine, and in some measure justifies the eulogies passed upon its
picturesque beauties: it is as old as the thirteenth century, and
was the work of Edward the First, who put rings in the
Welshmen's noses by building strong castles. One of the Earls
of Conway transported the timber, lead, and iron, to Ireland,
in the way of speculation, I believe; since then it has gone to
decay. It is usually rented at six shillings and eightpence paid
to the king, and a dish of fish to the Marquis of Hertford.
The town itself is a miserable place, abounding in beggars.
Indeed, all the pleasure to be derived from a tour in these fine
scenes, is in a great measure saddened by the wretched state of
the people, and the fast increasing habit of begging. The pride
of the Englishman, as well as of the Welshman, is gradually
stooping to this degradation; nor is it any longer a disgrace to
beg. In every direction I was repelled from these recesses,
which ought to be, and once were, the strong holds of virtuous
independence, by the sight of human beings, whose spirits
were bound down by poverty, and who, instead of hiding their
wants, made them a pretence for asking charity of a stranger.
At Conway is the worst ferry in the United Kingdom. I
waited for the ferryman till I was quite tired, and finally altering
my original intention, instead of crossing the river, continued
on the side where I was for several miles. It turned
out well, for I thus, by mere chance, fell into the track of some
of the finest views I had yet seen.
The road wound along the terrace on the bank of the river,
which gradually grew narrower, merely leaving room for strips
of verdant meadows between its banks and the hills, which
were fringed with wood at their base. On the other side appeared
a ridge of high mountains, broken with masses of rocks,
and sometimes half hid by the clouds flitting along its sides;
here and there brooks, rushing down the sides, or precipitating
in fine little cascades, gave life and animation to this solitary
scene. At the extremity of this vale is the town of Llanrwst,
which must be pronounced with a twist of the mouth: here I
halted with a design of getting rest and refreshment. Llanrwst
is hardly worth mentioning as a town; but its situation is truly
delightful, although here also the curse of inequality has
showered its miseries. The principal proprietor of this part
of Wales is Lord Gwydir, who is to figure in the coronation
as chamberlain, in right of his wife, and will come in for a
few towels, if not a wash-hand basin. He has the character
of an easy landlord, and rolls in wealth, while his tenants are,
a great many of them, wallowing in poverty. You may think
how they live in these stagnant times, when some of them pay
as high as four guineas an acre, yearly rent, for meadow land.
No wonder that even in this sequestered nook they think and
talk of our New World, and like the Israelites in the desert,
look with longing eyes to the land of freedom, the land of individual
independence, the land flowing with milk and honey.
I cannot express the proud and secret transports of my heart,
at hearing, as I have done in every part of England, in the
crowded city, the cultivated fields, and sequestered mountains,
poor people talking about our country, as a home to which
they looked with longing eyes; as a refuge, which if they
could only once gain, they would no longer fear the ills of
poverty, or the curse of dependance. In vain is it, that hired
or disappointed travellers have indulged in every species of
wanton and exaggerated misrepresentation; in vain have they
pictured our country, its character and its institutions, in the
most uninviting colours; in vain have our newspapers conjured
up yellow fevers every summer; in vain has the government
tried to allure them to Canada, to the Cape of Good
Hope, to Botany Bay. All that has been said of these;
all that has been said of the distresses under which our
country is labouring; all that truth, falsehood, and declamation
have uttered, has not diminished the poor man's confidence
in the advantages held out to the English emigrant.
They know, that for the price of one year's rent of an acre
of English land, they could purchase to themselves the right
and property for ever, in half-a-dozen acres, quite as good;
and taxation, except a mere trifle of the last; and above all,
they know, that the very miseries of which our mean, unmanly,
and unprincipled speculators so loudly complain, would be
happiness to them; vast numbers would emigrate to America
had the lower and labouring classes only the means of getting
there: as it is, they talk of it as an event familiar to their wishes
and imaginations, and feel that sort of anxiety to get thither,
which those, who are born and brought up in a happy country,
feel to return to it, after a long absence, like mine.
I must not forget to mention, that mine host at Llanrwst was
one of the most pompously indifferent, inattentive fellows in
the world. He never knew any thing about his house, or what
was in it, not he; but he was somewhat excusable, being descended
in a direct line from Llewellyn ap something, Prince
of Wales; in imitation of whom, he kept open house to all
comers, and made them pay double.
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