“May she long be a comfort to you!”
“Thank you—are you the mistress of the house?”
“I am the grandmother.”
“Are the people in the house?”
“They are not—they are at the chapel.”
“And they left you alone?”
“They left me with my God.”
“Is the chapel far from here?”
“About a mile.”
“On the road to Cerrig y Drudion?”
“On the road to Cerrig y Drudion.”
I bade her farewell and pushed on—the road was good, with high rocky banks on each side. After walking about the distance indicated by the old lady, I reached a building, which stood on the right-hand side of the road, and which I had no doubt was the chapel from a half-groaning, half-singing noise, which proceeded from it. The door being open I entered, and stood just within it, bare-headed. A rather singular scene presented itself. Within a large dimly-lightedroom a number of people were assembled, partly seated in rude pews, and partly on benches. Beneath a kind of altar, a few yards from the door, stood three men—the middlemost was praying in Welsh in a singular kind of chant, with his arms stretched out. I could distinguish the words, “Jesus descend among us! sweet Jesus descend among us—quickly.” He spoke very slowly, and towards the end of every sentence dropped his voice, so that what he said was anything but distinct. As I stood within the door a man dressed in coarse garments came up to me from the interior of the building, and courteously and in excellent Welsh asked me to come with him and take a seat. With equal courtesy but far inferior Welsh, I assured him that I meant no harm, but wished to be permitted to remain near the door, whereupon with a low bow he left me. When the man had concluded his prayer the whole of the congregation began singing a hymn; many of the voices were gruff and discordant, two or three, however, were of great power, and some of the female ones of surprising sweetness—at the conclusion of the hymn another of the three men by the altar began to pray, just in the same manner as his comrade had done, and seemingly using much the same words. When he had done there was another hymn, after which seeing that the congregation was about to break up I bowed my head towards the interior of the building, and departed.
Emerging from the hollow way I found myself on a moor over which the road lay in the direction of the north. Towards the west at an immense distance rose a range of stupendous hills, which I subsequently learned were those of Snowdon—about ten minutes’ walking brought me to Cerrig y Drudion, a small village near a rocky elevation, from which, no doubt, the place takes its name, which interpreted, is the Rock of Heroes.
Cerrig y Drudion—The Landlady—Doctor Jones—“Coll Gwynfa”—The Italian—Men of Como—Disappointment—Weather-Glasses—Filicaia.
The inn at Cerrig y Drudion was called the Lion—whether the white, black, red or green Lion I do not know, though I am certain that it was a lion of some colour or other. It seemed as decent and respectable a hostelry as any traveller could wish to refresh and repose himself in, after a walk of twenty miles. I entered a well-lighted passage and from thence a well-lighted bar room, on the right hand, in which sat a stout, comely, elderly lady dressed in silks and satins, with a cambric coif on her head, in company with a thin, elderly man with a hat on his head, dressed in a rather prim and precise manner. “Madam!” said I, bowing to the lady, “as I suppose you are the mistress of this establishment, I beg leave to inform you that I am an Englishman walking through these regions in order fully to enjoy their beauties and wonders. I have this day come from Llangollen, and being somewhat hungry and fatigued hope I can be accommodated, here with a dinner and a bed.”
“Sir!” said the lady, getting up and making me a profound curtsey, “I am as you suppose the mistress of this establishment, and am happy to say that I shall be able to accommodate you—pray sit down, sir;” she, continued handing me a chair, “you must indeed be tired, for Llangollen is a great way from here.”
I took the seat with thanks, and she resumed her own.
“Rather hot weather for walking, sir!” said the precise-looking gentleman.
“It is,” said I; “but as I can’t observe the country well without walking through it I put up with the heat.”
“You exhibit a philosophic mind, sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman—“and a philosophic mind I hold in reverence.”
“Pray, sir,” said I, “have I the honour of addressing a member of the medical profession?”
“Sir,” said the precise-looking gentleman, getting up and making me a bow, “your question does honour to your powers of discrimination—a member of the medical profession I am, though an unworthy one.”
“Nay, nay, doctor,” said the landlady briskly; “say not so—every one knows that you are a credit to your profession—well would it be if there were many in it like you—unworthy? marry come up! I won’t hear such an expression.”
“I see,” said I, “that I have not only the honour of addressing a medical gentleman, but a doctor of medicine—however, I might have known as much by your language and deportment.”
With a yet lower bow than, before he replied, with something of a sigh, “No, sir, no, our kind landlady and the neighbourhood are in the habit of placing doctor before my name, but I have no title to it—I am not Doctor Jones, sir, but plain Geffery Jones at your service,” and thereupon with another bow he sat down.
“Do you reside here?” said I.
“Yes, sir, I reside here in the place of my birth—I have not always resided here—and I did not always expect to spend my latter days in a place of such obscurity, but, sir, misfortunes—misfortunes . . .”
“Ah,” said I, “misfortunes! they pursue every one, more especially those whose virtues should exempt them from them. Well, sir, the consciousness of not having deserved them should be your consolation.”
“Sir,” said the doctor, taking off his hat, “you are infinitely kind.”
“You call this an obscure place,” said I—“can that be an obscure place that has produced a poet? I have long had a respect for Cerrig y Drudion because it gave birth to, and was the residence of a poet of considerable merit.”
“I was not aware of that fact,” said the doctor, “pray what was his name?”
“Peter Lewis,” said I; “he was a clergyman of Cerrig y Drudion about the middle of the last century, and amongst other things wrote a beautiful song called‘Cathl y Gair Mwys,’ or the melody of the ambiguous word.”
“Surely you do not understand Welsh?” said the doctor.
“I understand a little of it,” I replied.
“Will you allow me to speak to you in Welsh?” said the doctor.
“Certainly,” said I.
He spoke to me in Welsh and I replied.
“Ha, ha,” said the landlady in English; “only think, doctor, of the gentleman understanding Welsh—we must mind what we say before him.”
“And are you an Englishman?” said the doctor.
“I am,” I replied.
“And how came you to learn it?”
“I am fond of languages,” said I, “and studied Welsh at an early period.”
“And you read Welsh poetry?”
“O yes.”
“How were you enabled to master its difficulties?”
“Chiefly by going through Owen Pugh’s version of ‘Paradise Lost’ twice, with the original by my side. He has introduced into that translation so many of the poetic terms of the old bards that after twice going through it; there was little in Welsh poetry that I could not make out with a little pondering.”
“You pursued a very excellent plan,” said the doctor, “a very excellent plan indeed. Owen Pugh!”
“Owen Pugh! The last of your very great men,” said I.
“You say right, sir,” said the doctor. “He was indeed our last great man—Ultimus Romanorum. I have myself read his work, which he called ‘Coll Gwynfa,’ the ‘Loss of the Place of Bliss’—an admirable translation, sir; highly poetical, and at the same time correct.”
“Did you know him?” said I.
“I had not the honour of his acquaintance,” said the doctor—“but, sir, I am happy to say that I have made yours.”
The landlady now began to talk to me about dinner, and presently went out to make preparations for that very important meal. I had a great, deal of conversationwith the doctor, whom I found a person of great and varied information, and one who had seen a vast deal of the world. He was giving me an account of an island in the West Indies, which he had visited, when a boy coming in whispered into his ear; whereupon, getting up he said: “Sir, I am called away. I am a country surgeon, and of course an accoucheur. There is a lady who lives at some distance, requiring my assistance. It is with grief I leave you so abruptly, but I hope that some time or other we shall meet again.” Then making me an exceedingly profound bow, he left the room, followed by the boy.
I dined upstairs in a very handsome drawing-room communicating with a sleeping apartment. During dinner I was waited upon by the daughter of the landlady, a good-looking merry girl of twenty. After dinner I sat for some time thinking over the adventures of the day, then feeling rather lonely and not inclined to retire to rest, I went down to the bar, where I found the landlady seated with her daughter. I sat down with them and we were soon in conversation. We spoke of Doctor Jones—the landlady said that he had his little eccentricities, but was an excellent and learned man. Speaking of herself, she said that she had three daughters, that the youngest was with her and that the two eldest kept the principal inn at Ruthyn. We occasionally spoke a little Welsh. At length the landlady said, “There is an Italian in the kitchen who can speak Welsh too. It’s odd the only two people not Welshmen I have ever known who could speak Welsh, for such you and he are, should be in my house at the same time.”
“Dear me,” said I, “I should like to see him.”
“That you can easily do,” said the girl; “I dare say he will be glad enough to come in if you invite him.”
“Pray take my compliments to him,” said I, “and tell him that I shall be glad of his company.”
The girl went out and presently returned with the Italian. He was a short, thick, strongly-built fellow of about thirty-seven, with a swarthy face, raven-black hair, high forehead, and dark deep eyes, full of intelligence and great determination. He was dressed in avelveteen coat, with broad lappets, red waistcoat, velveteen breeches, buttoning a little way below the knee; white stockings, apparently of lamb’s-wool, and highlows.
“Buona sera?” said I.
“Buona sera, signore!” said the Italian.
“Will you have a glass of brandy and water?” said I in English.
“I never refuse a good offer,” said the Italian.
He sat down, and I ordered a glass of brandy and water for him and another for myself.
“Pray speak a little Italian to him,” said the good landlady to me. “I have heard a great deal about the beauty of that language, and should like to hear it spoken.”
“From the Lago di Como?” said I, trying to speak Italian.
“Si, signore! but how came you to think that I was from the Lake of Como?”
“Because,” said I, “when I was a ragazzo I knew many from the Lake of Como, who dressed much like yourself. They wandered about the country with boxes on their backs and weather-glasses in their hands, but had their head-quarters at N. where I lived.”
“Do you remember any of their names?” said the Italian.
“Giovanni Gestra and Luigi Pozzi,” I replied.
“I have seen Giovanni Gestra myself,” said the Italian, “and I have heard of Luigi Pozzi. Giovanni Gestra returned to the Lago—but no one knows what is become of Luigi Pozzi.”
“The last time I saw him,” said I, “was about eighteen years ago at Coruña, in Spain; he was then in a sad drooping condition, and said he bitterly repented ever quitting N.”
“E con ragione,” said the Italian, “for there is no place like N. for doing business in the whole world. I myself have sold seventy pounds’ worth of weather-glasses at N. in one day. One of our people is living there now, who has done bene, molto bene.”
“That’s Rossi,” said I, “how is it that I did not mention him first? He is my excellent friend, and a finer cleverer fellow never lived, nor a more honourableman. You may well say he has done well, for he is now the first jeweller in the place. The last time I was there I bought a diamond of him for my daughter Henrietta. Let us drink his health!”
“Willingly!” said the Italian. “He is the prince of the Milanese of England—the most successful of all, but I acknowledge the most deserving. Che viva.”
“I wish he would write his life,” said I; “a singular life it would be—he has been something besides a travelling merchant, and a jeweller. He was one of Buonaparte’s soldiers and served in Spain, under Soult, along with John Gestra. He once told me that Soult was an old rascal, and stole all the fine pictures from the convents, at Salamanca. I believe he spoke with some degree of envy, for he is himself fond of pictures, and has dealt in them, and made hundreds by them. I question whether if in Soult’s place he would not have done the same. Well, however that may be, che viva.”
Here the landlady interposed, observing that she wished we would now speak English, for that she had quite enough of Italian, which she did not find near so pretty a language as she had expected.
“You must not judge of the sound of Italian from what proceeds from my mouth,” said I. “It is not my native language. I have had little practice in it, and only speak it very imperfectly.”
“Nor must you judge of Italian from what you have heard me speak,” said the man of Como; “I am not good at Italian, for the Milanese speak amongst themselves a kind of jargon composed of many languages, and can only express themselves with difficulty in Italian. I have been doing my best to speak Italian but should be glad now to speak English, which comes to me much more glibly.”
“Are there any books in your dialect, or jergo, as I believe you call it?” said I.
“I believe there are a few,” said the Italian.
“Do you know the word slandra?” said I.
“Who taught you that word?” said the Italian.
“Giovanni Gestra,” said I—“he was always using it.”
“Giovanni Gestra was a vulgar illiterate man,” said the Italian; “had he not been so he would not have used it. It is a vulgar word; Rossi would not have used it.”
“What is the meaning of it?” said the landlady eagerly.
“To roam about in a dissipated manner,” said I.
“Something more,” said the Italian. “It is considered a vulgar word even in jergo.”
“You speak English remarkably well,” said I; “have you been long in Britain?”
“I came over about four years ago,” said the Italian.
“On your own account?” said I.
“Not exactly, signore; my brother, who was in business in Liverpool, wrote to me to come over and assist him. I did so, but soon left him, and took a shop for myself at Denbigh, where, however, I did not stay long. At present I travel for an Italian house in London, spending the summer in Wales and the winter in England.”
“And what do you sell?” said I.
“Weather-glasses, signore—pictures and little trinkets, such as the country people like.”
“Do you sell many weather-glasses in Wales?” said I.
“I do not, signore. The Welsh care not for weather-glasses; my principal customers for weather-glasses are the farmers of England.”
“I am told that you can speak Welsh,” said I; “is that true?”
“I have picked up a little of it, signore.”
“He can speak it very well,” said the landlady; “and glad should I be, sir, to hear you and him speak Welsh together.”
“So should I,” said the daughter, who was seated nigh us; “nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear two who are not Welshmen speaking Welsh together.”
“I would rather speak English,” said the Italian; “I speak a little Welsh, when my business leads me amongst people who speak no other language; but I see no necessity for speaking Welsh here.”
“It is a pity,” said I, “that so beautiful a country as Italy should not be better governed.”
“It is, signore,” said the Italian; “but let us hope that a time will speedily come when she will be so.”
“I don’t see any chance of it,” said I. “How will you proceed in order to bring about so desirable a result as the good government of Italy?”
“Why, signore, in the first place we must get rid of the Austrians.”
“You will not find it an easy matter,” said I, “to get rid of the Austrians: you tried to do so a little time ago, but miserably failed.”
“True, signore; but the next time we try perhaps the French will help us.”
“If the French help you to drive the Austrians from Italy,” said I, “you must become their servants. It is true you had better be the servants of the polished and chivalrous French, than of the brutal and barbarous Germans, but it is not pleasant to be a servant to anybody. However, I do not believe that you will ever get rid of the Austrians, even if the French assist you. The Pope for certain reasons of his own favours the Austrians, and will exert all the powers of priestcraft to keep them in Italy. Alas, alas, there is no hope for Italy! Italy, the most beautiful country in the world, the birthplace of the cleverest people, whose very pedlars can learn to speak Welsh, is not only enslaved, but destined always to remain enslaved.”
“Do not say so, signore,” said the Italian, with a kind of groan.
“But I do say so,” said I, “and what is more, one whose shoe-strings, were he alive, I should not be worthy to untie, one of your mighty ones, has said so. Did you ever hear of Vincenzio Filicaia?”
“I believe I have, signore; did he not write a sonnet on Italy?”
“He did,” said I; “would you like to hear it?”
“Very much, signore.”
I repeated Filicaia’s glorious sonnet on Italy, and then asked him if he understood it.
“Only in part, signore; for it is composed in old Tuscan, in which I am not much versed. I believe Ishould comprehend it better if you were to say it in English.”
“Do say it in English,” said the landlady and her daughter; “we should so like to hear it in English.”
“I will repeat a translation,” said I, “which I made when a boy, which though far from good, has, I believe, in it something of the spirit of the original:—
“‘O Italy! on whom dark DestinyThe dangerous gift of beauty did bestow,From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo,Which on thy front thou bear’st so visibly.Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high,That more of fear, and less of love might show,He who now blasts him in thy beauty’s glow,Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die;Then down from Alp no more would torrents rageOf armed men, nor Gallic coursers hotIn Po’s ensanguin’d tide their thirst assuage;Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot,Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage,Victress or vanquish’d slavery still thy lot.’”
“‘O Italy! on whom dark DestinyThe dangerous gift of beauty did bestow,From whence thou hast that ample dower of wo,Which on thy front thou bear’st so visibly.Would thou hadst beauty less or strength more high,That more of fear, and less of love might show,He who now blasts him in thy beauty’s glow,Or woos thee with a zeal that makes thee die;Then down from Alp no more would torrents rageOf armed men, nor Gallic coursers hotIn Po’s ensanguin’d tide their thirst assuage;Nor girt with iron, not thine own, I wot,Wouldst thou the fight by hands of strangers wage,Victress or vanquish’d slavery still thy lot.’”
Lacing up Highlows—The Native Village—Game Leg—“Croppies Lie Down”—Keeping Faith—Processions—“Croppies Get Up”—Daniel O’Connell.
I slept in the chamber communicating with the room in which I had dined. The chamber was spacious and airy, the bed first-rate, and myself rather tired, so that no one will be surprised when I say that I had excellent rest. I got up, and after dressing myself went down. The morning was exceedingly brilliant. Going out I saw the Italian lacing up his highlows against a step. I saluted him, and asked him if he was about to depart.
“Yes, signore; I shall presently start for Denbigh.”
“After breakfast I shall start for Bangor,” said I.
“Do you propose to reach Bangor to-night, signore?”
“Yes,” said I.
“Walking, signore?”
“Yes,” said I; “I always walk in Wales.”
“Then you will have rather a long walk, signore, for Bangor is thirty-four miles from here.”
I asked him if he was married.
“No, signore; but my brother in Liverpool is.”
“To an Italian?”
“No, signore; to a Welsh girl.”
“And I suppose,” said I, “you will follow his example by marrying one; perhaps that good-looking girl the landlady’s daughter we were seated with last night?”
“No, signore; I shall not follow my brother’s example. If ever I take a wife she shall be of my own village, in Como, whither I hope to return, as soon as I have picked up a few more pounds.”
“Whether the Austrians are driven away or not?” said I.
“Whether the Austrians are driven away or not—for to my mind there is no country like Como, signore.”
I ordered breakfast; whilst taking it in the room above I saw through the open window the Italian trudging forth on his journey, a huge box on his back, and a weather-glass in his hand—looking the exact image of one of those men his country people, whom forty years before I had known at N. I thought of the course of time, sighed and felt a tear gather in my eye.
My breakfast concluded, I paid my bill, and after inquiring the way to Bangor, and bidding adieu to the kind landlady and her daughter, set out from Cerrig y Drudion. My course lay west, across a flat country, bounded in the far distance by the mighty hills I had seen on the preceding evening. After walking about a mile I overtook a man with a game leg, that is a leg, which either by nature or accident not being so long as its brother leg, had a patten attached to it, about five inches high, to enable it to do duty with the other—he was a fellow with red shock hair and very red features, and was dressed in ragged coat and breeches, and a hat which had lost part of its crown, and all its rim, so that even without a game leg he would have looked rather a queer figure. In his hand he carried a fiddle.
“Good morning to you,” said I.
“A good marning to your hanner, a merry afternoonand a roaring joyous evening—that is the worst luck I wish to ye.”
“Are you a native of these parts?” said I.
“Not exactly, your hanner—I am a native of the city of Dublin, or, what’s all the same thing, of the village of Donnybrook which is close by it.”
“A celebrated place,” said I.
“Your hanner may say that; all the world has heard of Donnybrook, owing to the humours of its fair. Many is the merry tune I have played to the boys at that fair.”
“You are a professor of music, I suppose?”
“And not a very bad one as your hanner will say if you will allow me to play you a tune.”
“Can you play ‘Croppies Lie Down’?”
“I cannot, your hanner; my fingers never learnt to play such a blackguard tune; but if ye wish to hear ‘Croppies Get Up’ I can oblige ye.”
“You are a Roman Catholic, I suppose?”
“I am nat, your hanner—I am a Catholic to the backbone, just like my father before me. Come, your hanner, shall I play ye ‘Croppies Get Up’?”
“No,” said I; “It’s a tune that doesn’t please my ears. If, however, you choose to play ‘Croppies Lie Down,’ I’ll give you a shilling.”
“Your hanner will give me a shilling?”
“Yes,” said I, “if you play ‘Croppies Lie Down’: but you know you cannot play it, your fingers never learned the tune.”
“They never did, your hanner; but they have heard it played of ould by the blackguard Orange fiddlers of Dublin on the first of July, when the Protestant boys used to walk round Willie’s statue on College Green—so if your hanner gives me the shilling they may perhaps bring out something like it.”
“Very good,” said I; “begin!”
“But, your hanner, what shall we do for the words? Though my fingers may remember the tune, my tongue does not remember the words—that is unless . . .”
“I give another shilling,” said I; “but never mind you the words; I know the words, and will repeat them.”
“And your hanner will give me a shilling?”
“If you play the tune,” said I.
“Hanner bright, your hanner?”
“Honour bright,” said I.
Thereupon the fiddler, taking his bow and shouldering his fiddle, struck up in first-rate style the glorious tune, which I had so often heard with rapture in the days of my boyhood in the barrack yard of Clonmel; whilst I, walking by his side as he stumped along, caused the welkin to resound with the words, which were the delight of the young gentlemen of the Protestant academy of that beautiful old town.
“I never heard those words before,” said the fiddler, after I had finished the first stanza.
“Get on with you,” said I.
“Regular Orange words!” said the fiddler, on my finishing the second stanza.
“Do you choose to get on?” said I.
“More blackguard Orange words I never heard!” cried the fiddler, on my coming to the conclusion of the third stanza. “Divil a bit farther will I play; at any rate till I get the shilling.”
“Here it is for you,” said I; “the song is ended and of course the tune.”
“Thank your hanner,” said the fiddler, taking the money; “your hanner has kept your word with me, which is more than I thought your hanner would. And now, your hanner, let me ask you why did your hanner wish for that tune, which is not only a blackguard one, but quite out of date; and where did your hanner get the words?”
“I used to hear the tune in my boyish days,” said I, “and wished to hear it again, for though you call it a blackguard tune, it is the sweetest and most noble air that Ireland, the land of music, has ever produced. As for the words, never mind where I got them; they are violent enough, but not half so violent as the words of some of the songs made against the Irish Protestants by the priests.”
“Your hanner is an Orange man, I see. Well, your hanner, the Orange is now in the kennel, and the Croppies have it all their own way.”
“And perhaps,” said I, “before I die, the Orangewill be out of the kennel and the Croppies in, even as they were in my young days.”
“Who knows, your hanner? and who knows that I may not play the ould tune round Willie’s image in College Green, even as I used some twenty-seven years ago?”
“O then you have been an Orange fiddler?”
“I have, your hanner. And now as your hanner has behaved like a gentleman to me I will tell ye all my history. I was born in the city of Dublin, that is in the village of Donnybrook, as I tould your hanner before. It was to the trade of bricklaying I was bred, and bricklaying I followed till at last, getting my leg smashed, not by falling off the ladder, but by a row in the fair, I was obliged to give it up, for how could I run up the ladder with a patten on my foot, which they put on to make my broken leg as long as the other. Well, your hanner; being obliged to give up my bricklaying, I took to fiddling, to which I had always a natural inclination, and played about the streets, and at fairs, and wakes, and weddings. At length some Orange men getting acquainted with me, and liking my style of playing, invited me to their lodge, where they gave me to drink, and tould me that if I would change my religion and join them, and play their tunes, they would make it answer my purpose. Well, your hanner, without much stickling I gave up my Popery, joined the Orange lodge, learned the Orange tunes, and became a regular Protestant boy, and truly the Orange men kept their word, and made it answer my purpose. O the meat and drink I got, and the money I made by playing at the Orange lodges and before the processions when the Orange men paraded the streets with their Orange colours. And O, what a day for me was the glorious first of July when with my whole body covered with Orange ribbons I fiddled ‘Croppies Lie Down’—‘Boyne Water,’ and the ‘Protestant Boys’ before the procession which walked round Willie’s figure on horseback in College Green, the man and horse all ablaze with Orange colours. But nothing lasts under the sun, as your hanner knows; Orangeism began to go down; the Government scowled at it, and at last passed a law preventing the Protestantboys dressing up the figure on the first of July, and walking round it. That was the death-blow of the Orange party, your hanner; they never recovered it, but began to despond and dwindle, and I with them, for there was scarcely any demand for Orange tunes. Then Dan O’Connell arose with his emancipation and repale cries, and then instead of Orange processions and walkings, there were Papist processions and mobs, which made me afraid to stir out, lest knowing me for an Orange fiddler, they should break my head, as the boys broke my leg at Donnybrook fair. At length some of the repalers and emancipators knowing that I was a first-rate hand at fiddling came to me, and tould me, that if I would give over playing ‘Croppies Lie Down’ and other Orange tunes, and would play ‘Croppies Get Up,’ and what not, and become a Catholic and a repaler, and an emancipator, they would make a man of me—so as my Orange trade was gone, and I was half-starved, I consinted, not however till they had introduced me to Daniel O’Connell, who called me a credit to my country, and the Irish Horpheus, and promised me a sovereign if I would consint to join the cause, as he called it. Well, your hanner, I joined with the cause and became a Papist, I mane a Catholic once more, and went at the head of processions, covered all over with green ribbons, playing ‘Croppies Get Up,’ ‘Granny Whale,’ and the like. But, your hanner; though I went the whole hog with the repalers and emancipators, they did not make their words good by making a man of me. Scant and sparing were they in the mate and drink, and yet more sparing in the money, and Daniel O’Connell never gave me the sovereign which he promised me. No, your hanner, though I played ‘Croppies Get Up,’ till my fingers ached, as I stumped before him and his mobs and processions, he never gave me the sovereign: unlike your hanner who gave me the shilling ye promised me for playing ‘Croppies Lie Down,’ Daniel O’Connell never gave me the sovereign he promised me for playing ‘Croppies Get Up.’ Och, your hanner, I often wished the ould Orange days were back again. However as I could do no better I continued going the whole hog with the emancipators and repalers and Dan O’Connell; I wentthe whole animal with them till they had got emancipation; and I went the whole animal with them till they nearly got repale—when all of a sudden they let the whole thing drop—Dan and his party having frighted the Government out of its seven senses, and gotten all they thought they could get, in money and places, which was all they wanted, let the whole hullabaloo drop, and of course myself, who formed part of it. I went to those who had persuaded me to give up my Orange tunes, and to play Papist ones, begging them to give me work; but they tould me very civilly that they had no farther occasion for my services. I went to Daniel O’Connell reminding him of the sovereign he had promised me, and offering if he gave it me to play ‘Croppies Get Up’ under the nose of the lord-lieutenant himself; but he tould me that he had not time to attend to me, and when I persisted, bade me go to the Divil and shake myself. Well, your hanner, seeing no prospect for myself in my own country, and having incurred some little debts, for which I feared to be arrested, I came over to England and Wales, where with little content and satisfaction I have passed seven years.”
“Well,” said I, “thank you for your history—farewell.”
“Stap, your hanner; does your hanner think that the Orange will ever be out of the kennel, and that the Orange boys will ever walk round the brass man and horse in College Green as they did of ould?”
“Who knows?” said I. “But suppose all that were to happen, what would it signify to you?”
“Why then Divil be in my patten if I would not go back to Donnybrook and Dublin, hoist the Orange cockade, and become as good an Orange boy as ever.”
“What,” said I, “and give up Popery for the second time?”
“I would, your hanner; and why not? for in spite of what I have heard Father Toban say, I am by no means certain that all Protestants will be damned.”
“Farewell,” said I.
“Farewell, your hanner, and long life and prosperity to you! God bless your hanner and your Orange face. Ah, the Orange boys are the boys for keepingfaith. They never served me as Dan O’Connell and his dirty gang of repalers and emancipators did. Farewell, your hanner, once more; and here’s another scratch of the illigant tune your hanner is so fond of, to cheer up your hanner’s ears upon your way.”
And long after I had left him I could hear him playing on his fiddle in first-rate style the beautiful tune of “Down, down, Croppies Lie Down.”
Ceiniog Mawr—Pentre Voelas—The Old Conway—Stupendous Pass—The Gwedir Family—Capel Curig—The Two Children—Bread—Wonderful Echo—Tremendous Walker.
I walked on briskly over a flat uninteresting country, and in about an hour’s time came in front of a large stone house. It stood near the road, on the left-hand side, with a pond and pleasant trees before it, and a number of corn-stacks behind. It had something the appearance of an inn, but displayed no sign. As I was standing looking at it, a man with the look of a labourer, and with a dog by his side, came out of the house and advanced towards me.
“What is the name of this place?” said I to him in English as he drew nigh.
“Sir,” said the man, “the name of the house is Ceiniog Mawr.”
“Is it an inn?” said I.
“Not now, sir; but some years ago it was an inn, and a very large one at which coaches used to stop; at present, it is occupied by an amaethwr—that is a farmer, sir.”
“Ceiniog Mawr means a great penny,” said I, “why is it called by that name?”
“I have heard, sir, that before it was an inn it was a very considerable place, namely, a royal mint at which pennies were made, and on that account it was called Ceiniog Mawr.”
I was subsequently told that the name of this place was Cernioge Mawr. If such be the real name thelegend about the mint falls to the ground, Cernioge having nothing to do with pence. Cern in Welsh means a jaw. Perhaps the true name of the house is Corniawg, which interpreted is a place with plenty of turrets or chimneys. A mile or two further the ground began to rise, and I came to a small village at the entrance of which was a water-wheel—near the village was a gentleman’s seat almost surrounded by groves. After I had passed through the village, seeing a woman seated by the roadside knitting, I asked her in English its name. Finding she had no Saesneg I repeated the question in Welsh, whereupon she told me that it was called Pentre Voelas.
“And whom does the ‘Plas’ belong to yonder amongst the groves?” said I.
“It belongs to Mr. Wynn, sir, and so does the village and a great deal of the land about here. A very good gentleman is Mr. Wynn, sir; he is very kind to his tenants and a very good lady is Mrs. Wynn, sir; in the winter she gives much soup to the poor.”
After leaving the village of Pentre Voelas I soon found myself in a wild hilly region. I crossed a bridge over a river which brawling and tumbling amidst rocks shaped its course to the north-east. As I proceeded the country became more and more wild; there were dingles and hollows in abundance, and fantastic-looking hills some of which were bare and others clad with trees of various kinds. Came to a little well in a cavity dug in a high bank on the left-hand side of the road, and fenced by rude stone work on either side; the well was about ten inches in diameter, and as many deep. Water oozing from the bank upon a slanting tile fastened into the earth fell into it. After damming up the end of the tile with my hand and drinking some delicious water I passed on and presently arrived at a cottage just inside the door of which sat a good-looking middle-aged woman engaged in knitting, the general occupation of Welsh females.
“Good-day,” said I to her in Welsh. “Fine weather.”
“In truth, sir, it is fine weather for the harvest.”
“Are you alone in the house?”
“I am, sir, my husband has gone to his labour.”
“Have you any children?”
“Two, sir; but they are out at service.”
“What is the name of this place?”
“Pant Paddock, sir.”
“Do you get your water from the little well yonder?”
“We do, sir, and good water it is.”
“I have drunk of it.”
“Much good may what you have drunk do you, sir!”
“What is the name of the river near here?”
“It is called the Conway, sir.”
“Dear me; is that river the Conway?”
“You have heard of it, sir?”
“Heard of it! it is one of the famous rivers of the world. The poets are very fond of it—one of the great poets of my country calls it the old Conway.”
“Is one river older than another, sir?”
“That’s a shrewd question. Can you read?”
“I can, sir.”
“Have you any books?”
“I have the Bible, sir.”
“Will you show it me?”
“Willingly, sir.”
Then getting up she took a book from a shelf and handed it to me at the same time begging me to enter the house and sit down. I declined and she again took her seat and resumed her occupation. On opening the book the first words which met my eye were “Gad i mi fyned trwy dy dir!” Let me go through your country. Numbersxx.22.
“I may say these words,” said I, pointing to the passage, “Let me go through your country.”
“No one will hinder you, sir, for you seem a civil gentleman.”
“No one has hindered me hitherto. Wherever I have been in Wales I have experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, and when I return to my own country I will say so.”
“What country is yours, sir?”
“England. Did you not know that by my tongue?”
“I did not, sir. I knew by your tongue that you were not from our parts—but I did not know that youwere an Englishman. I took you for a Cumro of the south country.”
Returning the kind woman her book, and bidding her farewell I departed, and proceeded some miles through a truly magnificent country of wood, rock, and mountain. At length I came down to a steep mountain gorge down which the road ran nearly due north, the Conway to the left running with great noise parallel with the road, amongst broken rocks, which chafed it into foam. I was now amidst stupendous hills, whose paps, peaks, and pinnacles seemed to rise to the very heaven. An immense mountain on the right side of the road particularly struck my attention, and on inquiring of a man breaking stones by the roadside I learned that it was called Dinas Mawr or the large citadel, perhaps from a fort having been built upon it to defend the pass in the old British times. Coming to the bottom of the pass I crossed over by an ancient bridge and passing through a small town found myself in a beautiful valley with majestic hills, on either side. This was the Dyffryn Conway, the celebrated Vale of Conway, to which in the summer time fashionable gentry from all parts of Britain resort for shade and relaxation. When about midway down the valley I turned to the west up one of the grandest passes in the world, having two immense door-posts of rock at the entrance, the northern one probably rising to the altitude of nine hundred feet. On the southern side of this pass near the entrance were neat dwellings for the accommodation of visitors with cool apartments on the ground-floor with large windows, looking towards the precipitous side of the mighty northern hill; within them I observed tables, and books, and young men, probably English collegians, seated at study.
After I had proceeded some way up the pass down which a small river ran, a woman who was standing on the right-hand side of the way, seemingly on the look-out, begged me in broken English to step aside and look at the fall.
“You mean a waterfall, I suppose?” said I.
“Yes, sir.”
“And how do you call it?” said I.
“The Fall of the Swallow, sir.”
“And in Welsh?” said I.
“Rhaiadr y Wennol, sir.”
“And what is the name of the river?” said I.
“We call the river the Lygwy, sir.”
I told the woman I would go, whereupon she conducted me through a gate on the right-hand side and down a path, overhung with trees to a rock projecting into the river. The Fall of the Swallow is not a majestic single fall, but a succession of small ones. First there are a number of little foaming torrents, bursting through rocks about twenty yards above the promontory, on which I stood. Then come two beautiful rows of white water, dashing into a pool a little way above the promontory; then there is a swirl of water round its corner into a pool below on its right, black as death and seemingly of great depth; then a rush through a very narrow outlet into another pool, from which the water clamours away down the glen. Such is the Rhaiadr y Wennol, or Swallow Fall; called so from the rapidity with which the waters rush and skip along.
On asking the woman on whose property the fall was, she informed me that it was on the property of the Gwedir family. The name of Gwedir brought to my mind theHistory of the Gwedir Family, a rare and curious book which I had read in my boyhood and which was written by the representative of that family, a certain Sir John Wynne, about the beginning of the seventeenth century. It gives an account of the fortunes of the family from its earliest rise: but more particularly after it had emigrated, in order to avoid bad neighbours, from a fair and fertile district into rugged Snowdonia, where it found anything but the repose it came in quest of. The book which is written in bold graphic English flings considerable light on the state of society in Wales, in the time of the Tudors, a truly deplorable state, as the book is full of accounts of feuds, petty but desperate skirmishes, and revengeful murders. To many of the domestic sagas, or histories of ancient Icelandic families, from the character of the events which it describes and also from the manner in which it describes them, theHistory of the Gwedir Family, by Sir John Wynne, bears a striking resemblance.
After giving the woman sixpence I left the fall, and proceeded on my way. I presently crossed a bridge under which ran the river of the fall, and was soon in a wide valley on each side of which were lofty hills dotted with wood, and at the top of which stood a mighty mountain, bare and precipitous with two paps like those of Pindus opposite Janina, but somewhat sharper. It was a region of fairy beauty and of wild grandeur. Meeting an old bleared-eyed farmer I inquired the name of the mountain and learned that it was called Moel Siabod or Shabod. Shortly after leaving him, I turned from the road to inspect a monticle which appeared to me to have something of the appearance of a burial heap. It stood in a green meadow by the river which ran down the valley on the left. Whether it was a grave hill or a natural monticle, I will not say; but standing in the fair meadow, the rivulet murmuring beside it, and the old mountain looking down upon it, I thought it looked a very meet resting-place for an old Celtic king.
Turning round the northern side of the mighty Siabod I soon reached the village of Capel Curig, standing in a valley between two hills, the easternmost of which is the aforesaid Moel Siabod. Having walked now twenty miles in a broiling day I thought it high time to take some refreshment, and inquired the way to the inn. The inn, or rather the hotel, for it was a very magnificent edifice, stood at the entrance of a pass leading to Snowdon, on the southern side of the valley in a totally different direction from the road leading to Bangor, to which place I was bound. There I dined in a grand saloon amidst a great deal of fashionable company, who, probably conceiving from my heated and dusty appearance that I was some poor fellow travelling on foot from motives of economy, surveyed me with looks of the most supercilious disdain, which, however, neither deprived me of my appetite nor operated uncomfortably on my feelings.
My dinner finished, I paid my bill and having sauntered a little about the hotel garden, which is situated on the border of a small lake and from which through the vista of the pass Snowdon may be seen towering in majesty at the distance of about six miles,I started for Bangor, which is fourteen miles from Capel Curig.
The road to Bangor from Capel Curig is almost due west. An hour’s walking brought me to a bleak moor, extending for a long way amidst wild sterile hills.
The first of a chain on the left was a huge lumpy hill with a precipice towards the road probably three hundred feet high. When I had come nearly parallel with the commencement of this precipice, I saw on the left-hand side of the road two children looking over a low wall behind which at a little distance stood a wretched hovel. On coming up I stopped and looked at them: they were a boy and a girl; the first about twelve, the latter a year or two younger; both wretchedly dressed and looking very sickly.
“Have you any English?” said I, addressing the boy in Welsh.
“Dim gair,” said the boy; “not a word; there is no Saesneg near here.”
“What is the name of this place?”
“The name of our house is Helyg.”
“And what is the name of that hill?” said I, pointing to the hill of the precipice.
“Allt y Gôg—the high place of the cuckoo.”
“Have you a father and mother?”
“We have.”
“Are they in the house?”
“They have gone to Capel Curig.”
“And they left you alone?”
“They did. With the cat and the trin-wire.”
“Do your father and mother make wire-work?”
“They do. They live by making it.”
“What is the wire-work for?”
“It is for hedges to fence the fields with.”
“Do you help your father and mother?”
“We do; as far as we can.”
“You both look unwell.”
“We have lately had the cryd” (ague).
“Is there much cryd about here?”
“Plenty.”
“Do you live well?”
“When we have bread we live well.”
“If I give you a penny will you bring me some water?”
“We will; whether you give us the penny or not. Come, sister, let us go and fetch the gentleman water.”
They ran into the house and presently returned, the girl bearing a pan of water. After I had drunk I gave each of the children a penny, and received in return from each a diolch or thanks.
“Can either of you read?”
“Neither one nor the other.”
“Can your father and mother read?”
“My father cannot, my mother can a little.”
“Are there any books in the house?”
“There are not.”
“No Bible?”
“There is no book at all.”
“Do you go to church?”
“We do not.”
“To chapel?”
“In fine weather.”
“Are you happy?”
“When there is bread in the house and no cryd we are all happy.”
“Farewell to you, children.”
“Farewell to you, gentleman!” exclaimed both.
“I have learnt something,” said I, “of Welsh cottage life and feeling from that poor sickly child.”
I had passed the first and second of the hills which stood on the left, and a huge long mountain on the right which confronted both when a young man came down from a gulley on my left hand, and proceeded in the same direction as myself. He was dressed in a blue coat and corduroy trowsers and appeared to be of a condition a little above that of a labourer. He shook his head and scowled when I spoke to him in English, but smiled on my speaking Welsh and said: “Ah, you speak Cumraeg: I thought no Sais could speak Cumraeg.” I asked him if he was going far.
“About four miles,” he replied.
“On the Bangor road?”
“Yes,” said he; “down the Bangor road.”
I learned that he was a carpenter, and that he hadbeen up the gully to see an acquaintance—perhaps a sweetheart. We passed a lake on our right which he told me was called Llyn Ogwen, and that it abounded with fish. He was very amusing and expressed great delight at having found an Englishman who could speak Welsh. “It will be a thing to talk of,” said he, “for the rest of my life.” He entered two or three cottages by the side of the road, and each time he came out I heard him say: “I am with a Sais, who can speak Cumraeg.” At length we came to a gloomy-looking valley trending due north; down this valley the road ran having an enormous wall of rocks on its right and a precipitous hollow on the left, beyond which was a wall equally high as the other one. When we had proceeded some way down the road my guide said: “You shall now hear a wonderful echo,” and shouting, “taw, taw,” the rocks replied in a manner something like the baying of hounds. “Hark to the dogs!” exclaimed my companion. “This pass is called Nant yr ieuanc gwn, the pass of the young dogs, because when one shouts it answers with a noise resembling the crying of hounds.”
The sun was setting when we came to a small village at the bottom of the pass. I asked my companion its name. “Ty yn y maes,” he replied, adding as he stopped before a small cottage that he was going no farther, as he dwelt there.
“Is there a public-house here?” said I.
“There is,” he replied, “you will find one a little farther up on the right hand.”
“Come, and take some ale,” said I.
“No,” said he.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“I am a teetotaller,” he replied.
“Indeed,” said I, and having shaken him by the hand, thanked him for his company, and bidding him farewell, went on. He was the first person I had ever met of the fraternity to which he belonged, who did not endeavour to make a parade of his abstinence and self-denial.
After drinking some tolerably good ale in the public-house I again started. As I left the village a clock struck eight. The evening was delightfully cool; but itsoon became nearly dark. I passed under high rocks, by houses and by groves, in which nightingales were singing, to listen to whose entrancing melody I more than once stopped. On coming to a town, lighted up and thronged with people, I asked one of a group of young fellows its name.
“Bethesda,” he replied.
“A scriptural name,” said I.
“Is it?” said he; “well, if its name is scriptural the manners of its people are by no means so.”
A little way beyond the town a man came out of a cottage and walked beside me. He had a basket in his hand. I quickened my pace; but he was a tremendous walker, and kept up with me. On we went side by side for more than a mile without speaking a word. At length, putting out my legs in genuine Barclay fashion, I got before him about ten yards, then turning round laughed and spoke to him in English. He too laughed and spoke, but in Welsh. We now went on like brothers, conversing, but always walking at great speed. I learned from him that he was a market gardener living at Bangor, and that Bangor, was three miles off. On the stars shining out we began to talk about them.
Pointing to Charles’s wain I said, “A good star for travellers.”
Whereupon pointing to the North star, he said:
“I forwyr da iawn—a good star for mariners.”
We passed a large house on our left.
“Who lives there?” said I.
“Mr. Smith,” he replied. “It is called Plas Newydd; milltir genom etto—we have yet another mile.”
In ten minutes we were at Bangor. I asked him where the Albion Hotel was.
“I will show it you,” said he, and so he did.
As we came under it I heard the voice of my wife, for she, standing on a balcony and distinguishing me by the lamplight, called out. I shook hands with the kind six-mile-an-hour market gardener, and going into the inn found my wife and daughter, who rejoiced to see me. We presently had tea.
Bangor—Edmund Price—The Bridges—Bookselling—Future Pope—Wild Irish—Southey.
Bangor is seated on the spurs of certain high hills near the Menai, a strait separating Mona or Anglesey from Caernarvonshire. It was once a place of Druidical worship, of which fact, even without the testimony of history and tradition, the name which signifies “upper circle” would be sufficient evidence. On the decay of Druidism a town sprang up on the site and in the neighbourhood of the “upper circle,” in which in the sixth century a convent or university was founded by Deiniol, who eventually became Bishop of Bangor. This Deiniol was the son of Deiniol Vawr, a zealous Christian prince who founded the convent of Bangor Is Coed, or Bangor beneath the wood, in Flintshire, which was destroyed and its inmates almost to a man put to the sword by Ethelbert a Saxon king, and his barbarian followers at the instigation of the monk Austin, who hated the brethren because they refused to acknowledge the authority of the Pope, whose delegate he was in Britain. There were in all three Bangors; the one at Is Coed, another in Powis, and this Caernarvonshire Bangor, which was generally termed Bangor Vawr or Bangor the great. The two first Bangors have fallen into utter decay, but Bangor Vawr is still a bishop’s see, boasts of a small but venerable cathedral, and contains a population of above eight thousand souls.
Two very remarkable men have at different periods conferred a kind of lustre upon Bangor by residing in it, Taliesin in the old, and Edmund Price in comparatively modern time. Both of them were poets. Taliesin flourished about the end of the fifth century, and for the sublimity of his verses was for many centuries called by his countrymen the Bardic King. Amongst his pieces is one generally termed “The Prophecy of Taliesin,” which announced long before it happened the entire subjugation of Britain by the Saxons, and which isperhaps one of the most stirring pieces of poetry ever produced. Edmund Price flourished during the time of Elizabeth. He was archdeacon of Merionethshire, but occasionally resided at Bangor for the benefit of his health. Besides being one of the best Welsh poets of his age he was a man of extraordinary learning, possessing a thorough knowledge of no less than eight languages.
The greater part of his compositions, however clever and elegant, are, it must be confessed, such as do little credit to the pen of an ecclesiastic, being bitter poignant satires, which were the cause of much pain and misery to individuals; one of his works, however, is not only of a kind quite consistent with his sacred calling, but has been a source of considerable blessing. To him the Cambrian Church is indebted for the version of the Psalms, which for the last two centuries it has been in the habit of using. Previous to the version of the Archdeacon a translation of the Psalms had been made into Welsh by William Middleton, an officer in the naval service of Queen Elizabeth, in the four-and-twenty alliterative measures of the ancient bards. It was elegant and even faithful, but far beyond the comprehension of people in general, and consequently by no means fitted for the use of churches, though intended for that purpose by the author, a sincere Christian, though a warrior. Avoiding the error into which his predecessor had fallen, the Archdeacon made use of a measure intelligible to people of every degree, in which alliteration is not observed, and which is called by the Welsh y mesur cyffredin, or the common measure. His opinion of the four-and-twenty measures the Archdeacon has given to the world in four cowydd lines to the following effect:
“I’ve read the master-pieces greatOf languages no less than eight,But ne’er have found a woof of songSo strict as that of Cambria’s tongue.”
“I’ve read the master-pieces greatOf languages no less than eight,But ne’er have found a woof of songSo strict as that of Cambria’s tongue.”
After breakfast on the morning subsequent to my arrival, Henrietta and I roamed about the town, and then proceeded to view the bridges which lead over the strait to Anglesey. One, for common traffic, is a most beautiful suspension bridge completed in 1820, theresult of the mental and manual labours of the ingenious Telford; the other is a tubular railroad bridge, a wonderful structure, no doubt, but anything but graceful. We remained for some time on the first bridge, admiring the scenery, and were not a little delighted, as we stood leaning over the principal arch, to see a proud vessel pass beneath us at full sail.
Satiated with gazing we passed into Anglesey, and making our way to the tubular bridge, which is to the west of the suspension one, entered one of its passages and returned to the mainland.
The air was exceedingly hot and sultry, and on coming to a stone bench, beneath a shady wall, we both sat down, panting, on one end of it; as we were resting ourselves, a shabby-looking man with a bundle of books came and seated himself at the other end, placing his bundle beside him; then taking out from his pocket a dirty red handkerchief, he wiped his face, which was bathed in perspiration, and ejaculated: “By Jasus, it is blazing hot!”
“Very hot, my friend,” said I; “have you travelled far to-day?”
“I have not, your hanner; I have been just walking about the dirty town trying to sell my books.”
“Have you been successful?”
“I have not, your hanner; only three pence have I taken this blessed day.”
“What do your books treat of?”
“Why that is more than I can tell your hanner; my trade is to sell the books not to read them. Would your hanner like to look at them?”
“O dear no,” said I; “I have long been tired of books; I have had enough of them.”
“I dare say, your hanner; from the state of your hanner’s eyes I should say as much; they look so weak—picking up learning has ruined your hanner’s sight.”
“May I ask,” said I, “from what country you are?”
“Sure your hanner may; and it is a civil answer you will get from Michael Sullivan. It is from ould Ireland I am, from Castlebar in the county Mayo.”
“And how came you into Wales?”
“From the hope of bettering my condition, your hanner, and a foolish hope it was.”
“You have not bettered your condition, then?”
“I have not, your hanner; for I suffer quite as much hunger and thirst as ever I did in ould Ireland.”
“Did you sell books in Ireland?”
“I did nat, your hanner; I made buttons and clothes—that is I pieced them. I was several trades in ould Ireland, your hanner; but none of them answering, I came over here.”
“Where you commenced bookselling?” said I.
“I did nat; your hanner. I first sold laces, and then I sold loocifers, and then something else; I have followed several trades in Wales, your hanner; at last I got into the bookselling trade, in which I now am.”
“And it answers, I suppose, as badly as the others?”
“Just as badly, your hanner; divil a bit better.”
“I suppose you never beg?”
“Your hanner may say that; I was always too proud to beg. It is begging I laves to the wife I have.”
“Then you have a wife?”
“I have, your hanner; and a daughter, too; and a good wife and daughter they are. What would become of me without them I do not know.”
“Have you been long in Wales?”
“Not very long, your hanner; only about twenty years.”
“Do you travel much about?”
“All over North Wales, your hanner; to say nothing of the southern country.”
“I suppose you speak Welsh?”
“Not a word, your hanner. The Welsh speak their language so fast, that divil a word could I ever contrive to pick up.”
“Do you speak Irish?”
“I do, your hanner; that is when people spake to me in it.”
I spoke to him in Irish; after a little discourse he said in English:
“I see your hanner is a Munster man. Ah! all the learned men comes from Munster. Father Toban comes from Munster.”
“I have heard of him once or twice before,” said I.
“I dare say your hanner has. Everyone has heard of Father Toban; the greatest scholar in the world,who they say stands a better chance of being made Pope, some day or other, than any saggart in Ireland.”
“Will you take sixpence?”
“I will, your hanner; if your hanner offers it; but I never beg; I leave that kind of work to my wife and daughter, as I said before.”
After giving him the sixpence, which he received with a lazy “thank your hanner,” I got up, and followed by my daughter returned to the town.
Henrietta went to the inn, and I again strolled about the town. As I was standing in the middle of one of the busiest streets I suddenly heard a loud and dissonant gabbling, and glancing around beheld a number of wild-looking people, male and female. Wild looked the men, yet wilder the women. The men were very lightly clad, and were all barefooted and bareheaded; they carried stout sticks in their hands. The women were barefooted too, but had for the most part headdresses; their garments consisted of blue cloaks and striped gingham gowns. All the females had common tin articles in their hands which they offered for sale with violent gestures to the people in the streets, as they walked along, occasionally darting into the shops, from which, however, they were almost invariably speedily ejected by the startled proprietors, with looks of disgust and almost horror. Two ragged, red-haired lads led a gaunt pony, drawing a creaking cart, stored with the same kind of articles of tin, which the women bore. Poorly clad, dusty and soiled as they were, they all walked with a free, independent, and almost graceful carriage.
“Are those people from Ireland?” said I to a decent-looking man, seemingly a mechanic, who stood near me, and was also looking at them, but with anything but admiration.
“I am sorry to say they are, sir,” said the man, who from his accent was evidently an Irishman, “for they are a disgrace to their country.”