 | A sketch of old England |  |
LETTER VIII.
By the advice of mine host of the Talbot, who prided himself
on “serving the noble Earl of Shrewsbury,” I left my
horses here, and hired a couple of Welsh ponies, which, he
assured me, would carry me much more safely over the mountains
and through the defiles of Wales. He likewise hinted,
that a Welsh pony had a sort of instinctive feeling of the picturesque,
and never failed to stop where there was a fine view,
so that there would be no occasion to carry a guide-book with
me. I took his advice, and accordingly bestrided a pony that
turned out to be broken-winded. This, however, proved in the
end to be a great advantage, for whenever I dismounted to
scramble up a precipice, or view a cascade in some glen, unapproachable
on horseback, I was always sure of finding him
exactly in the same place on my return, he being never guilty
of any voluntary locomotion whatever.
Some of the picturesque hunters make their tours on foot,
but I had two invincible objections to this mode. I hate walking,
and should have been as long getting through Wales, as a
Welsh pedigree. In the next place, I was aware, from experience,
that a man on foot never gets a civil answer or civil
treatment at a decent British inn. The first salute will be from
the chambermaid, who, on being questioned about a bed, will
about Shrewsbury, where the women, having a little of the
hot Welsh blood in them, are apt to be somewhat shrewish,
whence, possibly, may be derived the name of this ancient
city. On one occasion, in Herefordshire, I was very much
amused with a respectable, though plain looking man, who
came up on foot to an inn, where I had stopt to dine, and
ordered dinner. Nobody invited him into the house, and he
was permitted to sit on the piazza, until I was wrought upon
to ask him into the room I occupied. Contrary to my expectation,
for I concluded this piece of civility would make him
suspect me of a design to pick his pocket, it is so uncommon
in this country, he accepted the invitation very frankly, and I
found him exceedingly intelligent and well-bred. To tell you
the truth, I began to suspect him, it being so unnatural for an
Englishman to be entertaining without the hope of advantage.
However, no dinner came, or was likely to come, when, after
a delay of an hour or two, an elegant equipage drove up
to the door, preceded by an outrider, who enquired if a gentleman,
whom he described, had stopped there. An explanation
ensued, and I found that the carriage having received
some little damage, the owner, the plain gentleman I spoke of,
had taken it into his head to walk on to this hospitable inn.
Never were there such civilities, such bows, such congees,
and such enquiries, about what the gentleman would choose
for dinner, and such apologies for the delay, which was all
put upon the cook. The gentleman, who seemed somewhat
of a sly humourist, upon this insisted upon the cook's head
being well singed, and made into a stew for his dinner. This
brought up the cook, who, in spite of the landlord's menacing
looks, told, what was no doubt the truth, that no dinner
had been ordered. The incognito then, pulling out his watch,
observed that it was now too late to cook a dinner, and he
would go on to the next inn to sup and sleep. The landlord
was in despair, and the chambermaid almost bit off the end
of her thumb, on the occasion. Previously to his departure,
we exchanged addresses, and the stranger took my promise
to visit him, should I ever pass his mansion, which was in a
distant part of the country.
Having furnished myself with a map and portfolio, I set
forth from Shrewsbury one bright morning, for the land of
promise, which I had come so far to visit. Previously to this,
I had brightened up my rusty genealogy, and traced my
descent pretty clearly from Adam, which is considered a
tolerable pedigree in Wales, though nothing to make a boast
of. Blood, brother, blood is every thing here. In the words
every new one,—“You shall ever find amongst a hundred
Frenchmen forty hot shots; amongst a hundred Spaniards
threescore braggarts; amongst a hundred Dutchmen fourscore
drunkards:—amongst a hundred Englishmen fourscore and
ten madmen; and amongst a hundred Welshmen fourscore and
nineteen gentlemen!” Some of the family trees there took
root long before the flood. I must not omit to apprise you,
that I was still accompanied by the Professor of languages,
whose services as an interpreter I found necessary in crossing
through some of the shires, where they speak a tongue not to
be found in the German professor's book, that enumerates six
or seven thousand. To one, who in America has been accustomed
to hear the commonest people speak with the fluency
and almost the correctness of a gentleman, it is intolerable to
listen to the haw hawing and yaw yawing of these terribly
thick-headed fellows, who, with all their really good qualities,
and these are many, are most stupidly deficient in ideas, and
possess no language to express the few they have. I long to
get among the sprightly, saucy Americans, whose tongues
run like mill-tails, and whose brains are the inexhaustible reservoirs
that keep the mill-clappers going.
Passing Oswestry, a neat town, I came to a small brook,
called the river Carriac, rolling through a deep glen, and
there first entered Denbighshire, the frontier county in this part
of North Wales. The first object that attracted my attention,
was — castle, belonging to one of the —,
who here, as in our country, are people of figure. From the
ascent leading to this castle, there is one of the first fine views,
comprehending seventeen counties, and bounded by the Wrekin,
Clay Hills, and various other picturesque mountains. A servant
came out to us in the park, but rather with a view to
watch our motions, I believe, than to show the grounds, for
he stuck right close to our heels, without pointing out any
thing to notice. Being thirsty, I asked for a drink of water,
but, according to the information of our spy, there was not a
drop in or about this grand place.
From the castle we gained the road, which divides towards
Chester on the one hand, and Llangollan on the other. The
name of the latter being familiar to me, as abounding in rural
beauties, I turned in that direction, and after riding about
seven miles, came to the village of Llangollan, which is worth
going seven miles to avoid. It is, however, useful to the lovers
of the picturesque, as forming a perfect contrast with the
scenery in the vicinity, which is embellished by the river Dee,
and various other beautiful objects. And here, my dear brother,
you are not to expect me to mention the name of every place
I attempt to sketch for your amusement. The Welsh names,
when spoken, are musical enough; but woe to the man, unless
he be a descendant of Caractacus, who attempts to pronounce
them as they are written! The easiest of them are
such as Craig, Eglwyseg, Llechweddgarth, and St. Collen ap
Gwynnawg ap Clydawg ap Cowdra ap Caradoy Freichfas ap
Lleyr Merim ap Einion Yrth ap Cunedda Wledig! the name
of one single Welsh saint, the patron of a church in this
neighbourhood.
On arriving at Llangollan, I trusted to instinct for the
choice of an inn, and, as ill fate would have it, came to the
sign of the Open Hand, which looked like an indication of
liberality. My experience, however, demonstrated to me afterwards,
that this Hand was open to receive, not to bestow;
and that it was a very grasping hand. The first object that
attracts the eye of a stranger at Llangollan, is Dinas Bran,
consisting of a few remains of what appears once to have been
an extensive castle. Having rested myself a little, I sallied
forth, book in hand, to pay it a visit. Tradition records, that
as long ago as the middle of the thirteenth century, which,
however, is but as yesterday in Wales, this castle afforded a
refuge to Gryffdd ap Madoc, Mr. Southey's hero, who discovered
America, and settled a Welsh colony somewhere.
Here, too, more than a century after, lived a beautiful maid
of the House of Tudor, who was beloved by an illustrious
bard, whose name occurs in Gray's fine ode, as “High born
Hoel.” Myfanway Vechan, for that was her name, it seems
was content to receive the homage of the bard, and often
listened to his harp and song, which was heard at all times of
the night in this charming valley. Sometimes he tuned his
harp to the warlike exploits of the Tudors and the Hoels, in
old times compeers in battle, and, in his prophetic inspiration,
predicted that the former would one day give kings to the isle.
At others he sung the joys and the pains of love: he painted
the hopes of the lover as he won the smile of his mistress, his
despair at her frown or indifference; the elysium of success,
and the agony of disappointment. The lady listened, but she
did not love; at least, she only loved his music and his poetry:
her hand was destined for princes. She married a Tudor,
and her descendants fulfilled the prophecy of the bard. Hoel
wandered away with his harp, through the wildest and most
unfrequented parts of the country, sometimes frenzied and
sometimes forlorn; in his lucid hours singing the falsehood of
his mistress, and his own unalterable love. One of these
one of the paroxysms of his frenzy, he foretold the subjugation
of his country; and having finished, he broke his harp in
the sight of some astonished peasants, and precipitated himself
from a high rock into a torrent that carried him no one knew
whither.
It is probable this story, which I heard, not at Llangollan,
but in one of the most sequestered parts of the country I
afterwards visited, suggested to Gray the fine picture of his
bard plunging into “Conway's foaming flood.” There are
plenty of these little historical romances connected with the
old ruins in different parts of Wales, and it is from such that
the latter derive a great portion of their interest. The hill, on
which these ruins lie, is estimated at 1800 feet high, and commands
a prospect finer than that from the higher mountains,
though, of course, not so extensive. In fact, every one that
has had experience in these matters knows that views, bounded
only by the powers of human vision, are neither so beautiful
nor so gratifying as those which are circumscribed by picturesque
outlines. I have often had finer views from the base of
a mountain than its extreme summit, where every thing was
confused and indistinct.
The whole of this vale and adjacent country is full of fine
rural beauties, and abounds with interesting local associations.
I wandered from the centre of the village, almost every day, for
four or five days, in different directions, and every where found
objects, and combinations of objects, that attracted my attention.
Among others, I one day stumbled by chance upon the site of
Owen Glendower's palace, which is marked by a clump of old
trees growing on an eminence Glendower, like almost every
man of great abilities in those days, at least among the Welsh,
was reputed by the English a magician: if Glendower escaped
their snares, or gave them a defeat, they saved their credit by
ascribing both one and the other to the aid of necromancy.
The ignorant, in an age of ignorance, are prone to believe
this, for they have in their own minds and resources nothing
that can enable them to comprehend the powers of a great
genius. Glendower, after baffling the arts of the English, and
fighting with his neighbour, Grey of Ruthyn, about boundaries
and what not, for many years, finding himself overmatched,
retired into private life, and died quietly in his bed,
I believe. He left three daughters, one of whom married an
ancestor of that Scudamore, whose descendant I mentioned as
the friend of Pope. His posterity is numerous still, and connected,
in various ways, with many of the first families in
Great Britain. But he is best known, and will for ever remain
Douglas, in the imperishable works of Shakespeare. It is
from that circumstance alone, that I have been induced to
sketch this little biography. The name of Owen Glendower
would never have been familiar to every body in our country,
had it not been mentioned by the bard, who has given many
passports to immortality.
Having spent several days at Llangollan, roaming and
rambling about with infinite satisfaction, I returned by the
way of Chirck Castle, on the road to which, I should have
mentioned the famous Offa's Dyke, said to be the ancient
boundary between England and Wales. It might be the boundary
between two wheat fields, or vineyards, for it is sufficiently
insignificant. From hence I proceeded towards the
river Dee; crossed it by a bridge in a deep vale or ravine,
and reconnoitred Wynnestay, which is the noble seat of Sir
Watkyns Williams Wynn, and, as the talk goes, is soon to be
consecrated by the presence of no less a visitor than King
George. This will be matter for the Wynns to talk about as
long as there is half a one left. I then turned towards Wrexham,
which has nothing but a tower steeple to recommend it.
From thence to Gressford; and after stopping to view a fine
prospect, through Shropshire and Cheshire, crossed the Dee to
the ancient and certainly very curious city of Chester, which
I visited previously to continuing my picturesque tour, for the
purpose of —.
Chester is one of the most respectable old cities I have ever
seen: there is an air of originality about it too, that makes it
quite an object of interest. It does not appear to have much
business; yet, from being the residence of many opulent families,
not only natives, but from Ireland and the neighbouring
Wales, it has not that intolerable air of decay and total stagnation,
which I have generally observed in those ancient dozing
places. The people seemed actually inclined to politeness,
which was quite new to me; and there were various genteel
amusements for evenings, that are always a great relief to a
stranger. Nobody ever carries an umbrella here, as the covered
galleries that extend all along the streets on either side,
like piazzas, jutting out from the second story, afford a safe
walk for foot passengers. Nevertheless, I was assured that a
cunning fellow, a real John Bull, observing there was no umbrella-maker
in all the city, thought to make a fortune by
commencing the business. He succeeded wonderfully; for,
though he failed in business, he became entitled to the privileges
of pauperism, which are now beginning to be considered
by the common people equivalent to a freehold. The walk on
In short, brother, there is more novelty in old Chester,
than in many of the new towns in England. There is a
cathedral, but old, and rather uninteresting. A castle too,
but it is gone to decay. Let it go—they are only memorials of
feudal wars and feudal slavery; and wherever they abound,
one may be sure there is oppression on the one hand, and suffering
on the other. They were among the strongest links in
the chain of feudal slavery, and stood as monuments of the
abject situation of the people, whose labour was employed at
the will of the liege-lord, in erecting these strong holds, by the
possession of which, he was the better enabled to keep them
in subjection.
| A sketch of old England | |