Strange things are said of what
Llangollen ale made people do of yore; and I remember that when I
was young and could drink ale, two or three glasses of the
Llangollen juice of the barleycorn would make me - however, those
times are gone by."
"Has Llangollen ale," said I, after tasting the second glass, "ever
been sung in Welsh? is there no englyn upon it?"
"No," said the old church clerk, "at any rate, that I am aware."
"Well," said I, "I can't sing its praises in a Welsh englyn, but I
think I can contrive to do so in an English quatrain, with the help
of what you have told me. What do you think of this? -
"Llangollen's brown ale is with malt and hop rife;
'Tis good; but don't quaff it from evening till dawn;
For too much of that ale will incline you to strife;
Too much of that ale has caused knives to be drawn."
"That's not so bad," said the old church clerk, "but I think some
of our bards could have produced something better - that is, in
Welsh; for example old - What's the name of the old bard who wrote
so many englynion on ale?"
"Sion Tudor," said I; "O yes; but he was a great poet. Ah, he has
written some wonderful englynion on ale; but you will please to
bear in mind that all his englynion are upon bad ale, and it is
easier to turn to ridicule what is bad, than to do anything like
justice to what is good."
O, great was the rejoicing for a few days at Llangollen for the
reported triumph; and the share of the Welsh in that triumph
reconciled for a time the descendants of the Ancient Britons to the
seed of the coiling serpent. "Welsh and Saxons together will
conquer the world!" shouted brats, as they stood barefooted in the
kennel. In a little time, however, news not quite so cheering
arrived. There had been a battle fought, it is true, in which the
Russians had been beaten, and the little Welsh had very much
distinguished themselves, but no Sebastopol had been taken. The
Russians had retreated to their town, which, till then almost
defenceless on the land side, they had, following their old maxim
of "never despair," rendered almost impregnable in a few days,
whilst the allies, chiefly owing to the supineness of the British
commander, were loitering on the field of battle. In a word, all
had happened which the writer, from his knowledge of the Russians
and his own countrymen, had conceived likely to happen from the
beginning. Then came the news of the commencement of a seemingly
interminable siege, and of disasters and disgraces on the part of
the British; there was no more shouting at Llangollen in connection
with the Crimean expedition. But the subject is a disagreeable
one, and the writer will dismiss it after a few brief words.
It was quite right and consistent with the justice of God that the
British arms should be subjected to disaster and ignominy about
that period. A deed of infamous injustice and cruelty had been
perpetrated, and the perpetrators, instead of being punished, had
received applause and promotion; so if the British expedition to
Sebastopol was a disastrous and ignominious one, who can wonder?
Was it likely that the groans of poor Parry would be unheard from
the corner to which he had retired to hide his head by "the Ancient
of days," who sits above the cloud, and from thence sends
judgments?
CHAPTER LVII
The Newspaper - A New Walk - Pentre y Dwr - Oatmeal and Barley-Meal
- The Man on Horseback - Heavy News.
"DEAR me," said I to my wife, as I sat by the fire one Saturday
morning, looking at a newspaper which had been sent to us from our
own district, "what is this? Why, the death of our old friend Dr -
. He died last Tuesday week after a short illness, for he preached
in his church at - the previous Sunday."
"Poor man!" said my wife. "How sorry I am to hear of his death!
However, he died in the fulness of years, after a long and
exemplary life. He was an excellent man and good Christian
shepherd. I knew him well; you I think only saw him once."
"But I shall never forget him," said I, "nor how animated his
features became when I talked to him about Wales, for he, you know,
was a Welshman. I forgot to ask what part of Wales he came from.
I suppose I shall never know now."
Feeling indisposed either for writing or reading, I determined to
take a walk to Pentre y Dwr, a village in the north-west part of
the valley which I had not yet visited. I purposed going by a path
under the Eglwysig crags which I had heard led thither, and to
return by the monastery. I set out. The day was dull and gloomy.
Crossing the canal I pursued my course by romantic lanes till I
found myself under the crags. The rocky ridge here turns away to
the north, having previously run from the east to the west.
After proceeding nearly a mile amidst very beautiful scenery, I
came to a farm-yard where I saw several men engaged in repairing a
building. This farm-yard was in a very sequestered situation; a
hill overhung it on the west, half-way up whose side stood a farm-
house to which it probably pertained. On the north-west was a most
romantic hill covered with wood to the very top. A wild valley
led, I knew not whither, to the north between crags and the wood-
covered hill. Going up to a man of respectable appearance, who
seemed to be superintending the others, I asked him in English the
way to Pentre y Dwr.
