CHAPTER XXIV.

_A Trip into Wales._

From the walls of Chester, one has a very tempting prospect before him in the mountains of Wales. To Wales I now took my way, and first of all alighted at Holywell station, to visit the wondrous shrine and fountain of St. Winifred. A Welsh lady had advised me, by all means, to pay this homage to her native place, and had sportively prepared me to see something very strange, indeed, in the legendary well of its tutelar. The story which she told me was this, in short: that the well had sprung from the earth, in the olden time, just where the head of the Holy Winifred, fair and lovely as it was, touched the earth, when her barbarous lover, Caradoc, smote it off, to revenge his disappointed passion. Be this as it may, I found, in Holywell, a very remarkable pool and fountain, by which lay a great number of impotent folk, as formerly they did at Bethesda, in Jewry, waiting for the moving of the waters. But no—these waters always move. The fountain gushes up with violence, and runs with a full tide. Whether it cures or not, I cannot say. It is supposed to do so; and is used for healing purposes by hundreds. The crutches of many of those who have been healed, are reverently hung up over the well; and several inscriptions have been cut, deep in the stone walls and pillars of the Church which rises above it, expressive of gratitude for cure. Here James the Second came to worship, in his dotage, in 1686. The Irish Romanists, and modern converts, consider it a sort of duty to uphold the miraculous reputation of the well, and are very zealous in such tributes to the legend and the saint. One may certainly believe that it is a healing spring, without swallowing the whole story about St. Winifred; and for one, I am far from unwilling to see such springs resorted to, and used, in a religious spirit, as the gift of God. Nay, if we might but have the truth, and not a “superstitious vanity,” I should rejoice to see them connected with the memory of God’s saints; and, as I washed in the crystal waters, I allowed myself to believe that the spot had indeed been famous for some holy martyrdom, which perverse ingenuity has distorted into the fable aforesaid—of which I have only given the least ridiculous part. A fine and fragrant moss, which grows about the well, and some red spots in the stone, have furnished additional material to the fabulists, which tradition has not failed to preserve; but the light and graceful temple which rises over it, with a figure of the saint, and which is ascribed to Margaret, the mother of Henry the Seventh, is its most substantial monument. It is now a chapel of the adjoining parish church, and I found it filled with plain benches, and used for a Sunday-school room, and for service in the English tongue.

But I was _en route_ for the vale of Clwyd, (pronounced _Clooyd_,) and so landing at Rhyl, I took a Welsh jaunting-car to St. Asaph. At the very entrance of the vale stands an old historic castle, in utter ruins, but overhung with ivy, and nobly bastioned, and presenting a very venerable appearance. It was built before the Norman invasion, and stands near the scene of that ancient battle, still commemorated in the national air—_Morva Rhuddlan_—which is full of traditional melancholy and plaintive sweetness. Near Rhuddlan Castle a bridge spans the Clwyd, adding a very picturesque feature to the scene; and just as you descend to the bridge, you observe, on the projecting wall of a mean cottage, the following inscription: “_This fragment is the remains of the building in which King Edward the First held his Parliament, A. D. 1283_.” Oh! what a romantic land is Wales. England is fine prose; but Wales is all poetry. Even here I fell in love with it; for Rhuddlan is a truly historic pile. Almost its meanest memory is that of the progress of the second Richard, who tarried here on his way to Flint, to be deposed by Bolingbroke. Its latest memory, however, is that of the national Bardic Festival, called an _Eisteddfod_, which was celebrated here in 1850, with sad if not fatal results. A staging gave way, during the performance, and several of the fair and noble received severe contusions.

I enjoyed a pleasant ride to St. Asaph, which finally disclosed to my view a cathedral of very unpretending dimensions, on a pretty hill, with a few houses grouped under its shadow, and a sightly bridge of stone. This the _City_ of St. Asaph! Even so—for it is an ancient Episcopal See, and therefore it is a city, while Liverpool is but a town. Therefore do I love St. Asaph, because, of all cities I ever saw, it looks most like a village. Indeed, as a village it would be much to my liking, as still and quiet above most villages, and sweetly embosomed among trees, over which the solid tower of the ancient church presides with a motherly air, and ticks a sleepy time from its solemn clock. It was Saturday night when I reached the Mostyn Arms, and ordered my supper, and my bed-room. ‘Here then,’ said I, ‘I will spend a Sunday in supremest loneliness; here I know nobody and am known of none; I will be a mystery to mine host of the inn, who seems to have no other guest, dropping nothing of mine errand in these parts, but going my way on Monday morning, with an air of dignified secrecy, and leaving him to imagine, as he may, what could have brought me to St. Asaph.’

A quiet breakfast at the inn was served with such noiseless neatness and despatch, at the appointed hour, that I grew sad with my bachelor comfort, feeling first, that I ought not to enjoy so much, except at home, and then longing to be there. It was not my hostess’s unimpeachable fare; bread all crisp without, and all snowy sponge within; butter golden and fragrant; prawns, gathered freshly from the clean sands of Rhyl; eggs, that were never cold, and that now were hot to the very second of culinary time; and divers varieties and fruits that feasted the imagination even more than they gratified the taste; it was not this substantial and meritorious breakfast that made the Mostyn Arms a delightful resting-place; but it was that entire order and decency that invested all, and that forbade the idea of a _hotel_, and seemed to remind me that it was Sunday; it was this that first charmed me, and then made me lonely, and then positively sad. There is often a domestic character about such an inn, in England and Wales, that is positively religious. I remember one, in which the innkeeper always invited his guests to family prayers.

The cathedral is the very plainest of its kind, but the choir is not without effective dignity and beauty. I attended the morning service, which was that of Pentecost, with exceeding pleasure; and yet I observed with pain, that except the children of the Sunday-school, there were few present, who were not, unmistakeably, of the higher classes, or at least of those which are considered very respectable. Where were the poor? The liveried servants of the neighbouring gentry, in their powder and plush, were perhaps of the humblest class represented; but, of course, they are not the people. I was pleased, however, to see several of them kneeling with their masters’ families at the Holy Communion.

After service, I was lingering among the tombs, in the churchyard, and had particularly observed that of the excellent Bishop Barrow, when one of the clergy approached me, and said, “You are a clergyman, I’m sure; I beg you’ll come home with me to dinner!” Never was I so much surprised, in my life, by such a salutation. Welsh hospitality was proving more than a Highland welcome! I expressed my scruples to accept an invitation which was probably based on the idea that I was an Englishman, and a clergyman of the National Church; but only so much the more did my new acquaintance press me to dine with him, offering to take me, after dinner, to a little Welsh parish, in the mountains, where he promised that I should hear the service in Welsh, and also a Welsh sermon, from himself. So very attractive a bill it was impossible to resist, and presenting my card, I promised to be at the appointed place, at the proper hour. But I little knew how great a pleasure was in store for me.

I easily found my way to the house, which stood back from the road; a modest mansion, encircled with trees and shrubs. My friend himself opened the door, uttering a Welsh salutation, which he interpreted to me by a warm grasp of the hand, while he pointed me to a Welsh inscription on the wall—that text of the beloved disciple, which enjoins him who loves God to love his brother also. I was yet in the first flush of grateful excitement, when I was ushered into a small drawing-room, where a lady advanced and gave me a cordial greeting. The clergyman introduced me to his wife, and to another lady who was with her, and pointing to a portrait on the wall, which I immediately recognized, said, “you will perhaps be glad to know that you are in a poet’s house, that this is the poet’s likeness, and that my wife is the poet’s sister.” I started and said—“Can it be that this is Rhyllon?” I saw, in an instant, that I was so happy as to have found my way, in this manner, to the residence of the late Mrs. Hemans, and to an acquaintance with that sister, of twin genius, whose music is as widely known as some of the most popular of Mrs. Hemans’ delightful lyrics.

I was made to feel at home, without further preface, and the dinner-hour passed delightfully, in conversation suited to the day and the services of the morning, with many recognitions of the power of our holy religion to obliterate differences of nationality and of education, and to bind entire strangers in practical brotherhood. The hour came to repair to the mountain sanctuary, which proved to be several miles distant, and the whole party of us went together, in a Welsh vehicle of peculiar shape, but well suited to the road. As we began to ascend into the hills, a fine view of the vale of Clwyd presented itself. From the great mountain ranges, on the north and west, to the crowned crag on which rises the Castle of Denbigh, the eye took a majestic sweep, over one of the loveliest valleys in Great Britain, and one full of romance and poetry. At last we came to the Church, a most primitive little structure, of ancient date, with a mere bell-gable, instead of a tower and spire, but of a most ecclesiastical pattern in every respect. The villagers of Tremeirchion were crowding the doorway, and on entering, I found a large assembly of the Welsh peasantry, neatly attired, and exceedingly intelligent in their appearance. A Welsh Prayer-book was put into my hand, which, being a strict translation of the English, I was enabled to use very profitably, in following the service. The whole was novel and attractive. I observed some old tombs and monuments, and was particularly pleased to find the altar, the candlesticks, and other parts of the Church, garnished with Pentecostal flowers—alike fragrant and suggestive of festive emotions, in harmony with the blessed day of the Holy Comforter. But the sweet and simple worship of the villagers absolutely enraptured me. Their responses were given in earnest, and their chants were particularly touching. I was especially pleased with the _Gloria Patri_, which, as perpetually recurring, I soon caught up, and was able to sing with them, in a language of which, in the morning, I had not known a word. Even now it lingers in my ear, with all the charms of that plaintive intonation which seemed to me characteristic of the Welsh tongue, and which singularly comports with its _prestige_, as the language of an ancient and romantic people, whose nationality has been never subdued, notwithstanding the ages of its absorption into that of a stronger race.

The sermon was delivered with emotion, apparently extemporaneously, and was heard with fixed attention throughout. From the text, which I picked out in a Welsh Testament, I was able to gather some of its drift, and frequently to detect a scriptural quotation. It was evidently a Whitsuntide sermon, and the Holy Ghost, his gifts and consolations, were the blessed theme. A sweet hymn concluded the service; and then, in the churchyard, this excellent pastor presented me to several of his worthy parishioners. How was I surprised when one of them asked me, in English, if I had ever been at Nashotah! A friend and relative of his had emigrated to Wisconsin, and had there been taken up by the brethren of that Mission, concerning which he had sent home many interesting accounts. I can scarcely do justice, with my pen, to the thrill of feeling inspired by finding that the blessed influences of Nashotah were felt, by brethren of a diverse tongue, far away over sea and land, in that lonely nook of the Welsh mountains.

Deep in the wall of Tremeirchion Church is set the ancient tomb of an old priest of Llanerch, who was once its pastor. He was the wonder of his age for wisdom, and especially for the lore with which, like Solomon, he spake of trees and of plants. It was he who first translated the _Te Deum_ into Welsh, and such was his sanctity that Satan could gain no advantage over him, except through his love of science. So then, as the story goes, Satan promised to reveal to him some mighty secret of nature, on condition that, after death, he might claim him; and that, whether buried in the Church, or without, there should be no release from the bond. The wily clerk accepted the bargain, and became so wise that all the land confessed his astonishing attainments, as beyond comparison, in their day; but Satan, for once, was outwitted. The sage took good care that his body should be buried neither without nor within the Church; and accordingly it is shown to this day, as part of the wall itself, and jurists are agreed that Satan must be nonsuited whenever he ventures to set up a claim against the holy clerk of Llanerch.

When I ventured to contrast, in conversation with my friend, the delightful fervour of this service, with the coldness of that which I had attended in the morning, at the cathedral, he answered, with feeling:—“We Welshmen love our own language; we talk English in traffic and in business, but Welsh is the language of our hearts. The Church has too generally neglected or even outraged this principle. Our Bishops have been seldom able to address us in the speech of our affections; the dissenters have earned many captive, merely by employing the tongue of the people, in their exciting harangues. Where the Welsh are served in their own tongue by their hereditary Church, they seldom forsake her, and my little parish is but a small example of what might be universal, if the Welsh were but considered worthy of being conciliated, by a tribute to their hereditary feelings, and their unconquerable nationality.” These appeared to me the counsels of truth and soberness. The Welsh are truly a people, in spite of their ancient subjugation, and deserve to be treated as such, all the more for their loyalty to the British Crown, and for the remarkable partiality which they seem to entertain towards the Prince of Wales, whose dignity I discovered to be something more, after all, than a mere fiction of heraldry.

Our drive home was full of beautiful views, and after descending into the valley, we pursued our way through Llanerch park, a fine estate, with which I was much pleased, although the agreeable company into which I had fallen might have made me satisfied with a scene far less lovely in itself. I spent a long evening at Rhyllon, restrained from departing by their kind importunities, and not unwilling to prolong a personal interview which must necessarily be the last, as well as the first, of what I could not but recognize as an enduring friendship. Conversation very naturally turned upon the departed glories of Rhyllon, as the nest of that tuneful nightingale, who filled up a most brilliant era of British poesy, by the graceful addition of a genuine female genius. I had always admired Mrs. Hemans, chiefly because of her truly feminine muse; because, in other words, her poetry is such as man can never produce. Unlike others of her sisterhood, she seems to have been unambitious of masculine effort, content to be her own fair self, and to give utterance to the delicious sentiments, the gushing affections, and the rapt enthusiasm which belong to the heart of woman. Delightful songstress! it was happiness, indeed, to linger for a moment in her charming abode, and to gather from the conversation of those who had known and loved her, such hints of her life and character as a delicate fondness for her memory was not unwilling to drop in conversation, for the benefit of a sincere admirer. It was all the more valuable, too, as mingling with many personal recollections of Bishop Heber, whose connections with St. Asaph made him very frequently a guest at Rhyllon. It may be imagined that I was loth to say farewell; but at last I tore myself away with those pains of parting, which are the penalty of a traveller’s friendships. The clock of the old cathedral tolled eleven as I passed under its aged tower on my return to the inn.

In the morning I rose early, and took a walk down the vale, some two or three miles, to a secluded spot, where ancient piety had erected a chapel over a fountain, and where it now stands in one of the most picturesque piles of ruin I ever beheld. This was a favorite haunt of Mrs. Hemans, and one to which she has devoted some sweet verses. It goes, among the English, by the title of “St. Mary’s Well,” but the Welsh call it _Pfynonver Capél_, a very musical and pleasing name, as they pronounce it. There it stands in a green mead, under the shade of a tufted hill, enwound with ivy and covered with venerable moss; you enter the door, and in the sacred floor you behold a pool of lucid water, encompassed with an ancient kerb of stone, which preserves all the grace of outline of the base of a massive column in a Gothic cathedral. The old architect has shown, in this peculiarity of his pool, a truly inventive genius. I am sure the legends of the sacred spot must have been many and most romantic.

A hurried walk back to St. Asaph, concluded my sojourn in the vale of Clwyd. Verily, “it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps;” my plans in visiting this retired spot had all been frustrated; but so happy a disappointment has seldom fallen to my lot. The very slender enjoyment of puzzling mine host, with surmises as to my mysterious errand, had been lost in one of the richest pleasures of my life, and I went my way from a place which I had sought a few hours before as containing nobody to whom I could make myself known, feeling that it would be dear to me till death, as the home of beloved friends.

I continued my journey by railway towards the Menai Straits, catching pleasant views by sea and land, especially those of Abergele and Gwyrch Castle. At Conway I stopped for an hour to survey the interesting ruins of its castle, into which the railroad has made its way, piercing the ancient walls, after spanning the river with a tubular bridge, and thus adding the utilitarian wonders of modern architecture to the decaying splendours of the mediæval builder. The castle is a mass of ruin within, but retains all its external form and comeliness of tower and battlement. It was built by Edward I., and was the scene of many of the gayest revelries of his court, during the period in which he forged the chains of the Principality. I found the descriptions of my guide-book so literally correct, with respect to its present condition, that I need only transcribe them. “The walls on all sides are covered with a green drapery of luxuriant ivy, and a meadow of grass lies in the open area of its courts. The warden’s duty is supplied by a whole tribe of crows, whose solemn parley is heard the instant that a stranger’s foot approaches, and the towers are all alive with blackbirds, and birds of all colours, whose notes resound the livelong day, throughout the deserted domain.” From the summit of one of the towers I had a fine view of the Conway, and of its widening entrance to the sea. A fisherman’s boat, left on the sands by the receding tide, added to the spirit of the scene, which in every respect was worthy of an artist’s study.