LITMIR.BIZ

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mother heap, which I had seen from Chester. Ruthyn is a dull town, but it possessed plenty of interest for me, for as I strolled with my guide about the streets I remembered that I was treading the ground which the wild bands of Glendower had trod, and where the great struggle commenced, which for fourteen years convulsed Wales, and for some time shook England to its centre. After I had satisfied myself with wandering about the town we proceeded to the castle.

      The original castle suffered terribly in the civil wars; it was held for wretched Charles, and was nearly demolished by the cannon of Cromwell, which were planted on a hill about half-a-mile distant. The present castle is partly modern and partly ancient. It belongs to a family of the name of W – , who reside in the modern part, and who have the character of being kind, hospitable, and intellectual people. We only visited the ancient part, over which we were shown by a woman, who hearing us speaking Welsh, spoke Welsh herself during the whole time she was showing us about. She showed us dark passages, a gloomy apartment in which Welsh kings and great people had been occasionally confined, that strange memorial of the good old times, a drowning pit, and a large prison room, in the middle of which stood a singular looking column, scrawled with odd characters, which had of yore been used for a whipping-post, another memorial of the good old baronial times, so dear to romance readers and minds of sensibility. Amongst other things which our conductor showed us, was an immense onen or ash; it stood in one of the courts, and measured, as she said, pedwar y haner o ladd yn ei gwmpas, or four yards and a half in girth. As I gazed on the mighty tree I thought of the Ash Yggdrasill mentioned in the Voluspa, or prophecy of Vola, that venerable poem which contains so much relating to the mythology of the ancient Norse.

      We returned to the inn and dined. The duck was capital, and I asked John Jones if he had ever tasted a better. “Never, sir,” said he, “for to tell you the truth, I never tasted a duck before.” “Rather singular,” said I. “What that I should not have tasted duck? O, sir, the singularity is, that I should now be tasting duck. Duck in Wales, sir, is not fare for poor weavers. This is the first duck I ever tasted, and though I never taste another, as I probably never shall, I may consider myself a fortunate weaver, for I can now say I have tasted duck once in my life. Few weavers in Wales are ever able to say as much.”

      CHAPTER XVI

      Baptist Tomb-Stone – The Toll-Bar – Rebecca – The Guitar.

      The sun was fast declining as we left Ruthyn. We retraced our steps across the fields. When we came to the Baptist chapel I got over the wall of the little yard to look at the gravestones. There were only three. The inscriptions upon them were all in Welsh. The following stanza was on the stone of Jane, the daughter of Elizabeth Williams, who died on the second of May, 1843: —

      “Er myn’d i’r oerllyd annedd

      Dros dymher hir i orwedd,

      Cwyd i’r lan o’r gwely bridd

      Ac hyfryd fydd ei hagwedd,”

      which is

      “Though thou art gone to dwelling cold,

         To lie in mould for many a year,

      Thou shalt, at length, from earthy bed,

         Uplift thy head to blissful sphere.”

      As we went along I stopped to gaze at a singular-looking hill forming part of the mountain range on the east. I asked John Jones what its name was, but he did not know. As we were standing talking about it, a lady came up from the direction in which our course lay. John Jones, touching his hat to her, said:

      “Madam, this gwr boneddig wishes to know the name of that moel; perhaps you can tell him.”

      “Its name is Moel Agrik,” said the lady, addressing me in English.

      “Does that mean Agricola’s hill?” said I.

      “It does,” said she; “and there is a tradition that the Roman general Agricola, when he invaded these parts, pitched his camp on that moel. The hill is spoken of by Pennant.”

      “Thank you, madam,” said I; “perhaps you can tell me the name of the delightful grounds in which we stand, supposing they have a name.”

      “They are called Oaklands,” said the lady.

      “A very proper name,” said I, “for there are plenty of oaks growing about. But why are they called by a Saxon name, for Oaklands is Saxon.”

      “Because,” said the lady, “when the grounds were first planted with trees they belonged to an English family.”

      “Thank you,” said I, and, taking off my hat, I departed with my guide. I asked him her name, but he could not tell me. Before she was out of sight, however, we met a labourer, of whom John Jones inquired her name.

      “Her name is W – s,” said the man, “and a good lady she is.”

      “Is she Welsh?” said I.

      “Pure Welsh, master,” said the man. “Purer Welsh flesh and blood need not be.”

      Nothing farther worth relating occurred till we reached the toll-bar at the head of the hen ffordd, by which time the sun was almost gone down. We found the master of the gate, his wife, and son seated on a bench before the door. The woman had a large book on her lap, in which she was reading by the last light of the departing orb. I gave the group the seal of the evening in English, which they all returned, the woman looking up from her book.

      “Is that volume the Bible?” said I.

      “It is, sir,” said the woman.

      “May I look at it?” said I.

      “Certainly,” said the woman, and placed the book in my hand. It was a magnificent Welsh Bible, but without the title-page.

      “That book must be a great comfort to you,” said I to her.

      “Very great,” said she. “I know not what we should do without it in the long winter evenings.”

      “Of what faith are you?” said I.

      “We are Methodists,” she replied.

      “Then you are of the same faith as my friend here,” said I.

      “Yes, yes,” said she, “we are aware of that. We all know honest John Jones.”

      After we had left the gate I asked John Jones whether he had ever heard of Rebecca of the toll-gates.

      “O, yes,” said he; “I have heard of that chieftainess.”

      “And who was she?” said I.

      “I cannot say, sir: I never saw her, nor any one who had seen her. Some say that there were a hundred Rebeccas, and all of them men dressed in women’s clothes, who went about at night, at the head of bands to break the gates. Ah, sir, something of the kind was almost necessary at that time. I am a friend of peace, sir; no head-breaker, house-breaker, nor gate-breaker, but I can hardly blame what was done at that time, under the name of Rebecca. You have no idea how the poor Welsh were oppressed by those gates, aye, and the rich too. The little people and farmers could not carry their produce to market owing to the exactions at the gates, which devoured all the profit and sometimes more. So that the markets were not half supplied, and people with money could frequently not get what they wanted. Complaints were made to government, which not being attended to, Rebecca and her byddinion made their appearance at night, and broke the gates to pieces with sledge-hammers, and everybody said it was gallant work, everybody save the keepers of the gates and the proprietors. Not only the poor, but the rich said so. Aye, and I have heard that many a fine young gentleman had a hand in the work, and went about at night at the head of a band dressed as Rebecca. Well, sir, those breakings were acts of violence, I don’t deny, but they did good, for the system is altered; such impositions are no longer practised at gates as were before the time of Rebecca.”

      “Were any people ever taken up and punished for those nocturnal breakings?” said I.

      “No, sir; and I have heard say that nobody’s being taken up was a proof that the rich approved of the work and had a hand in it.”

      Night

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