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On The Taff By Wirt Sikes

The line which separates England from Wales is but a shadowy one. The traveller passing from one part of the queendom to another would observe nothing in the aspect of people or country to indicate where England ceases and Wales begins. The same fair fields of greenest green, the same dark, luxuriant hedge-rows, the same smooth, narrow roads, the same bowery lanes and vine-grown cottages, with here and there a handsome villa or a lordly mansion, and here and there a ruined castle or crumbling abbey - these are the characteristics of the landscape. The geographical fact is that the line between England and Wales runs from a point on the Bristol Channel a mile or two north of Cardiff, to a point on St. George's Channel just below Liverpool; but the custom of the country is to include Monmouthshire and Herefordshire in the term South Wales. The United States consulate at Cardiff, which is for all Wales, includes also that part of England which is traversed by the river Usk. This part of England was originally in Wales, and was peopled by the fierce race of Britons, who fought long and hard, but in vain finally, against their first conquerors, the Romans, and subsequently against the Saxons. The Welsh people now are quite loyal to the British crown as are the English, and the English language is commonly spoken in all parts of Wales. It is true that the Welsh tongue is also spoken by a majority of people, and is lovingly retained in the religious practices of every community; bards still sing their lays in Welsh, and preachers preach and newspapers are printed in the same ancient tongue; but it is only in the wildest regions that natives are occasionally to be found who do not understand any English. It is far more common to find Germans in New York and Chicago who speak only their native language than it is to find Welshmen in the cities of Wales who speak only Welsh.

The river Taff has its rise in the Brecon Mountains, and winds thence through the richest county of Wales, namely Glamorganshire, to Cardiff, where it empties its small flood into the wide bosom of the Bristol Channel. The region which it thus traverses is one which affords a full variety of Welsh scenery. The northern portion of Glamorganshire is somewhat wild of aspect, with its rugged mountains, but it is not a wildness like that which travellers in America are familiar. After the stupendous and awful cañons of California and Colorado, the wildness of Wales seems like a sort of show kept for tourists, for at the base of its most rugged hills lie the peaceful gardens and quaint rural villages of an old and well-tamed civilization. There is a strong charm in this proximity, however; and I confess I am not one whose appreciation of gorge and precipice is diminished by the fact that there is a snug little hotel in the vale hard by, and in that hotel the best mutton in the world. Americans who have traveled know that England beats the world in the matter of mutton; and Wales beats England.

In the southern portion of Glamorganshire the Taff crawls dreamily along a fertile plain where Nature is in her most generous mood, so that the country hereabouts is known by the peculiarly fit, if not very original, title of the garden of Wales. To Cardiff is this garden tributary, and, indeed, of it is Cardiff a part. The climate of the county is mild and pleasant; it has a southerly outlook upon the Atlantic Ocean; and it is altogether a beautiful and agreeable region. The Romans in their day called it Siluria. In the early part of the sixth century it was governed by that doughty warrior hight Arthur the Brave, to whom succeeded his son Morgan, and after them other great fighters of men, who through more than a thousand years swung their battle-axes with great industry; and there stand to-day in this one small county thirty ivy-grown and crumbling military and baronial edifices in a condition of more or less picturesque decay. Each has its thrilling history of olden times, its memories of illustrious heroes, its legends, its superstitions, and its old wive's tales. In addition to these, there are in the county, and all of great antiquity, two abbeys, a priory, a cathedral, and other relics of monastic days.
 

Cardiff, the handsome sea-port town which sits at the mouth of the Taff, does not owe its importance to the ancient ruins which besprinkle Glamorganshire, but to the fact that the county is the greatest coal centre of the British Empire. To iron and coal Great Britain chiefly ascribes its grandeur among nations, and from Glamorganshire it draws vast quantities of these; the deposits are deemed well-nigh inexhaustible. Cardiff is but an outlet for this wealth, and is not, as some suppose, a smoky and sooty sort of Pittsburg. It is clean, handsome, with broad streets and fine edifices, and a clear blue sky overhead. From the collieries and iron-works of the mountain cities on the Taff by railway and canal the mineral treasures of Glamorganshire are brought down to Cardiff and shipped upon salt-water. As regards its relations with American shipping, Cardiff is the second sea-port town in Great Britain, the first being Liverpool. But it is only within the last forty years that Cardiff has assumed this importance, and it is barely a hundred years - a bagatelle in the history of Cardiff, though a somewhat important period from an American point of view - since it was a small town, with no better means of communication with the mining regions than by donkey-power. It was customary for women and boys to drive into port mules laden with coal in bags, and iron came down the hills in scanty wagon-loads. It is related that "Mr. Bacon's contract guns in the American war" were thus transported to Cardiff. In 1798 a canal was opened from Cardiff to Merthyr Tydvil, over the mountains, which was considered one of the seven wonders of the world, rising to a height, within twenty-four miles, of five hundred feet, by means of thirty locks. This canal is still used, though there are three lines of railway to rival it.


 The grand impetus to the business of Cardiff was given by the construction of the enormous stone docks, begun in 1834 by the late Marquis of Bute at his own private cost - a matter of some five million dollars. Precisely what is signified by a work of this character no untravelled American can easily comprehend. There is nothing of the sort on our side of the Atlantic. Imagine a stone-shored lake cut in the land, as it might be a vast deep cellar dug out of the ground and walled about with huge blocks of dressed stone. Give imagination scope until you realize cellars so large as to afford a mile or more of stone wharves, at which, in the waters inclosed by which, innumerable ships may ride at ease in a walled room. About one hundred acres of water surface are thus inclosed, remote from the open Channel, and in the midst of the town. No storm that ever raged could ruffle to anger the placid bosom of this stone-shored lake or combination of lakes. Wide
 
fields of sandy plain stretch between and around these lakes, levelled and gravelled, having long lines of iron gas lamps and graceful iron fences, and huge stone warehouses, and railway tracks on which the laden trucks from the mountain mines roll down alongside the sleeping ships. Huge iron steamers lie and doze as in a placid pond. Looking about you in this novel marine world, you observe that there are various levels of water; here the ships ride on the smooth liquid floor not twelve inches below the sole of your foot as you stand; you walk across a bit of the sandy stretch, and there the ships are lying in a gulf below you, so that you could rest your foot on their yardarms. Huge locks connect these different levels - locks so capacious that sometimes two vessels at once may pass in and be lifted together from the lower to the higher plane.
Somewhat unique among European seaports is Cardiff town in the fact that it stands upon level ground. There are no hills among its streets, and no cliffs looking upon the sea. In some of the more ancient parts of the town its ways are narrow and devious, but many of the streets are wide, and all are well paved and well lighted with gas. The High Street is lined with some handsome public buildings, and ornamented by an unpretentious statue of the late Marquis of Bute, his face turned to the castle within whose walls he died, and where his son, the present marquis resides. The High Street changes its name after a few roads, and becomes St. Mary Street, in the fashion of European towns - a fashion which often bothers Americans a good deal. It is as if Broadway should be Broadway from the Battery up to
 
 
Trinity Church, and there suddenly change its name to State Street, and begin renumbering the houses, changing again at Stewart's and becoming Washington Street. This thoroughfare, and another long one which rejoices in the singular name of Crockherbtown (minus any common noun whatever, as in the case of Piccadilly), are the chief shopping quarters of the residents. The city takes on its character of a sea-port when you enter the long street called the Bute Road, which stretches through the modern quarter that has grown up with the great docks. But though modern in comparison with the Cardiff which stood in the Dark Ages, the Bute Road quarter seems more like London than does the older part; at least more like the London Dickens pictured, and which Americans relish best. It is almost alive with a motley population, conspicuous among whom are ever sailors ashore, with their sweethearts strolling by their side in holiday mood. These sturdy charmers are characterized by the peculiarity of wearing their arms bared to the elbow as they stroll, and their heads are usually also bare; their manners are somewhat free, and it is to be feared their morals are not always the best. Nor is their beauty great; but Jack ashore is not hard to please. On all hands are the evidences that Jack is the favorite customer in the Bute Road. Sol-Gills-like shops for nautical instruments abound; Captain-Cuttlefish charts of far-off seas are seen in frequent windows; dealers in slop clothing and pawnbrokers with motley wares are on every hand. Taxidermists display in their dull glass fronts rows of perky birds, among which, or so it seems to me, white sea-gulls predominate. The stock in trade of music dealers runs heavily to such instruments as Jack is fond of solacing his idle hours withal - brass Jew's harps of enormous size, the tuneful accordion, the easy whistle, the banjo and the fiddle.


 A surprising feature of the provisions shops, which abound, is the presence of great quantities of canned eatables from America. Canned succotash from Boston, salmon from Oregon, beef from Texas, peaches from Delaware, are here in such profusion that I commented on the fact to a brawny John Bull behind his piled-up wares. "Oh yes, 'r" he answered heartily, "we couldn't get on 'ithout the 'Mericans;" adding, after a moment, "no, ner they 'ithout hus" a sentiment which I cordially indorsed. The canned fruits and vegetables are sold here at a price in many cases lower than the like can be bought fresh in the market, and in many cases, too, are better than the fresh fruits and vegetables. Our peaches, for example, have no peer among English fruits, except those which are reared with sedulous care that makes them very costly. The canned peaches, and, indeed, all the canned edibles from America, are sold here at a price actually lower than in New York.
 

The up-town and down-town quarters of Cardiff favor each other amiably in matters of trade. Each quarter has its half-holiday per week; but while the up-town haberdashers, mercers, et cetera, close their shops for a half-holiday on the Wednesday, the down-towners select for the same purpose the Saturday, so that all parties are satisfied. Cardiff is in advance of most European towns to the extent of having its line of horse-cars running from end to end of the town; and a very popular institution it is, reducing the profits of the cabbies greatly. The line is called a tram-way, the car a tram, the conductor a tram-man, and, in lieu of a bell-punch, this worthy carries a book of paper tickets, from which he tears one for each passenger as a fare is paid - twopence. There are seats on top, after the fashion of Cincinnati, and standing up in the car is not permitted.

The moral tone of Cardiff is indicated by the fact that there are thirty-seven churches and chapels - so called, though these chapels are really churches as Americans understand the word in its relation to an edifice for public worship, being usually large stone buildings with tall spires and architectural splendors; and these are all attended by full congregations. On the other hand, there is one theatre in Cardiff - a poor little box, to which almost nobody goes, though there always seem to be some company down from London performing of an evening. Most of the churches are of the "Dissenting" sects, i.e., Presbyterians, Baptists, Methodists, etc., though there are nine or ten churches of the established religion. There are, besides, a Quaker meeting-house, a church of the Latter-day Saints, a seaman's Bethel, and one or two Roman Catholic churches. And in none of these places of worship could a thin congregation ever be found on a Sunday, I think, unless there was a plague in the town. In twelve of the so-called chapels the Welsh tongue is employed.
The old parish church is St. John's - an ancient edifice, with a grand stone tower of great height, which is worth a long journey to see. In a country less rich in antiquities than this, St. John's Church would be an enormous lion. Its tower is black with age, massive, rugged, but terminating with a pile of pierced battlements and airy carved and ornamented pinnacles of extreme beauty. The mullioned windows of the tower, too, are exquisite in their grace, being solid stone, without sashes or glass, but carved inside and out with delicate tracery, perforated, with an effect like lace-work, over the whole window, so that the light sifts through dimly. The entrance door is a strange low arch, barely six feet high, and the old church-yard adjoining is thick with the graves of six centuries of the dead.

The residence quarters of Cardiff are solidly built, and in many
 
 
instances present abodes of great beauty and elegance, surrounded by grounds of exceeding loveliness. In accordance with an ancient custom, which doubtless had its origin in the old-time absence of street numbers, almost every house bears a name of its own, which is generally carved in the stone by the door-side. Villas abound - villas in name, that is, for in the majority of cases they are not provided with so much as a single tree to warrant the appellation - and such pretty cognomens as Rose Villa, Devon Villa, Oakworth Villa, Exmouth Villa, and the like line the streets. Other houses are modestly termed cottages, as Moss-side Cottage, Ivy-side Cottage, etc. An American gentleman, for many years a resident here (and the only American dwelling in Cardiff, except the United States consul), has a row of cottages named after the Presidents from Washington to Fillimore. His ambition is to build four more, so that he may be able to name the last one Grant Cottage. The cottages of Cardiff are built of stone; a wooden residence of any sort is unknown in this part of the world either on town or country.

The most interesting edifice in Cardiff is the Castle. Right in the heart of the town, its tall towers looking down on the huddling roofs of inns and shops, stands this noble fortress, the scene of many a stirring passage in history. Passing out into Cowbridge Road, a continuation of Angel Street, we may look up at New Tower, as it is called - a modern addition to the castle, glittering with gilding on spire and roof, and coats of arms and statues, where they stand high up in sheltered niches. Here also we see the stone gallery stretching to the Curthose Tower, sometimes called the Black Tower, and again Robert's Tower. The legend of the tower is historical. Robert, Duke of Normandy, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having been captured in battle by his brother Henry, whose crown he coveted (and with good cause, since it was Robert's by right), was brought to Cardiff and confined in this tower early in the twelfth century. For twenty-six years he continued imprisoned here, and here he died. So much is undisputed fact. Embroidered on this fact are many tales more or less fanciful, but all having some threads of probability: as that he was kept constantly confined in the dark dungeon underneath the tower throughout all those years; that he was blinded by his cruel brother, his eyes being plucked out as soon as he arrived at Cardiff; and that he died at last of chagrin at being given one of his brother's cast-off garments to wear.* On the other hand, it is asserted that Robert had the range of the whole castle, with ample space for exercise and air within its far-stretching walls; that he had buffoons to amuse him, and was fed on the fat of the land; that his eyes were not ever put out; and that he died comfortably in his bed.
Thus runs the ancient legend: "During his imprisonment it happened that Henry, his brother, and then kinge, had brought him, upon a feast daye, in the morninge, a scarlet garment to putt on, with a cape for the head, as the manor then was, which, as he essayed, he found it too straighte in the cape, insomuche that he brake a stitche or twoe in the seame, and, casting it aside, he had his gentleman give it to his brother Robert, for his head (quoth he) is less than myne. The garment was brought him, and when he sawe it a little torne, he demanded how it happened that it was not sewed; the gentleman told the trouthe, which, as he understode, he fell into a great melancholy, sayinge, 'And dothe my brother make me his bedeman, in that he sendethe me his cat clothes? Then have I lyved too longe!" and refusing all sustenance, he died."

We take the path to the right, while a great peacock spreads his gaudy tail in our honor, and sings to us after the fashion of his kind. The smooth graveled walk leads through a green and rustling land of leaves, up the now grassy ramparts to the battlements of the outward wall, on which feudal knights hung out their banners for many a fight.
 
 
The parapet, though much overgrown with moss and ivy, and gnawed deep in many places by the tooth of time, is still sturdy and unbroken. Leaning on the ample space of an embrasure, we can look down from the parapet on the tiled roofs of a cluster of little old stone houses, crowding and pushing each other under the wall, now the homes of some of the humbler folk of Cardiff. Our path runs along on a line with the top of the parapet and some six feet below the battlements, and is shadowed deep with the green leaves of spreading oaks. Here meeting Hodge, the laborer, walking toward the gate, I ask him if we are in the right path to the castle keep, to which he answers, "Yezzir," after the time-honored fashion of Hodge in old plays, grinning broadly and taking off his broken hat, which, evoking from his questioner a responsive grin, so pleased Hodge that he immediately bestows on me a peacock feather as long as my two arms.

Here from an opening between the trees we get a square front view of the residence portion of the castle - a handsome building with early English turrets, partly overgrown with ivy in picturesque fashion. This is the home of the present Marquis of Bute, a young man of twenty-six, who here passes the larger portion of his time each year, although he has other seats in various parts of the queendom. His wife, the marchioness, is a very comely young lady, who presents a pleasing picture standing in the terraced walk upon the rampart, and leaning her elbow on the vine-embroidered battlements - indeed, so comely that were she not known to be the marchioness, she might easily be mistaken for one of our graceful New York or Baltimore girls, and I know not how warmly to compliment her ladyship's beauty. Lady Bute is popular in Cardiff, and the people will not tire of telling you how fair and gentle she looked on the day when she presided over the opening of the latest completed basin in the Bute Docks, and smilingly saluted the American flag as it came sailing up the road, a Yankee skipper having been the first to enter the new basin.


 The cellars of this part of the castle are Norman, but the castle itself is less ancient. It occupies the ground on which stood the residence of the old lord of Glamorgan and his successor, Robert Fitzhamon, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Within are several portraits of the lords and ladies who have dwelt here in later times - i.e., within the past two or three centuries - including one of Lady Windsor by Pope's Twickenham friend, Sir George Kneller. A Bute became the owner of the castle by marrying an heiress of the Windsors, who inherited in the same manner from William Herbert, second Earl of Pembroke, who received the castle from the hands of Henry the Seventh after the battle of Bosworth Field. These are the more recent details. Were we to follow the history of Cardiff Castle back into the stormy times of Welsh supremacy, we would have to deal with such men as Owain Glyndwr, whose name in its English shape, is immortalized in the phrase, "The irregular and wild Glendower;" and with Ivor, son of Cadevor, and other Welsh chieftains of great renown. Owen Glendower took the castle and destroyed the town of Cardiff in his day. As for Ivor, called Bach (the little), from the smallness of his stature, there hangs in Cardiff town-hall a painting commemorating one of his many daring deeds. He was a wild Welshman, dwelling in the hills back of here with a band of devoted followers, and used to boast that he had twelve hundred men who would beat the best twelve thousand in the world. In the present case he broke into Cardiff Castle by force of arms when it was tenanted by one Robert, a natural son of Henry I., and compelled that newly married lord to eat humble pie. It seems this
 
It seems this Robert, having become lord of Glamorgan by marrying the daughter of Fitzhamon, sought to force the English laws upon the Welsh people. The Cymry struggled vainly with this oppression until Ivor Bach came suddenly down from the mountains and made the wedded pair prisoners, only releasing them on the due restoration of the ancient laws and liberties of the people. The painting in the town-hall is a dramatic piece of workmanship, where fierce, bare-armed men glare upon the meek-looking earl surrounded by his affrighted women, and supported on his left by an old Welsh harper with flowing gray locks.

Resuming our walk we pass a pretty lakelet, where white swans are floating and peacocks sunning themselves on the parapet, and come upon curious holes in the ground, which I suspect are remains of a subterranean passage. At least it is claimed by men who have written, and whose writings have found print, that such a passage did exist in olden times, leading from Cardiff Castle to some place unknown on the other side of the river Taff - some say even to Castell Coch, which is five miles from Cardiff. In support of this opinion is related the well-known incident of the civil wars, when Cardiff Castle was betrayed to Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell had encamped in a field (still shown) near Cardiff in person to besiege the royalists then in possession of this stronghold; but it was defended with such spirit that Cromwell might have failed in his purpose, but for the fact that a wretch deserted from the royalist camp and conducted the Puritan soldiers within the castle - after which Cromwell promptly hanged him as a reward for his services. Thus far the story is a matter of history, and perfectly authentic. Less readily accepted is the opinion of many that the republican forces were conducted "through one of the secret passages which lay immediately under the river Taff."

Near this point begins a winding walk, which leads, with graveled grace and flowery ease, from the level ground of the park, around and around a large mound, up to its top; and on its top is the most interesting feature of Cardiff Castle - a ruin hoary with age and picturesque with ivy and decay. This is the ancient keep, which stands upon an artificial mound seventy-five feet high - a hill originally built with men's hands, but now thickly overgrown with old trees. Walking around this house set upon a hill, and looking up at its still sturdy walls, it is easy to imagine that when the besieged residents of the castle betook themselves to this place of last resort, they were in a stronghold which might long defy their enemies. The picture at the head of this paper shows the ruin as one sees it from the park below, and does not clearly exhibit its shape, the tower in the foreground appearing to be the most important part of the structure, whereas it is but an adjunct. Behind the tower lies the great polygonal keep - a polygon without, but circular within - to which the tower compares in size as one's nose to one's head. Climbing the stone staircase which winds up inside this tower, and whose granite steps are worn away by the tread of twenty generations of men, the toilsome ascent recalls the familiar story of Sir
 
 
Foulk Fitzwarren, of which this castle was the reputed scene. Sir Foulk boasted to his knights that he had jumped from the ground to the top of yonder tower, "which ye know to be the tallest tower in these parts." This being doubted, wagers were laid, and Sir Foulk agreed to do the feat again. So when the knights were gathered at the appointed time, Sir Foulk jumped to the top of the first step of the staircase, then to the next, and so on, one at a time, till he jumped on the topmost step. "Oho," said the knights, "we could do that ourselves." "Yes," said Sir Foulk, "now that I have taught you how."

There is a magnificent view of the country about Cardiff from the top of this tower, and it is a country the peaceful beauty of which can hardly be surpassed in all Europe. Moss and wild flowers grow here atop, for sun and rain have free entrance, although the careful hand of the marquis has placed solid oaken supports wherever they are needed to preserve the ruin from further decay, and huge beams cross from side to side overhead, supporting a flag-staff crowned with a gilded coronet. The flag is raised to denote the presence of the marquis; when he goes away it is furled.

Old as this castle is, it is not so old as the town. When Aulus Didus came here, at the time the Romans invaded Britain, that doughty general found on this spot a town known by the name of Rhatoslabius. He stationed a garrison here to curb the fierce Silures, and called the town Caerdidi, from which comes Cardiff, signifying the fortress on the Taff. In Cardiff was born Meurick, a king of Glamorgan, and the reputed father of the renowned King Arthur, whose Round Table is still pointed out to the credulous in an adjoining county; and it was the residence of many distinguished men of the times before the Norman conquest. It was many times destroyed in the fierce wars of old, and as often rebuilt. At the time the castle was erected by Fitzhamon, that chief surrounded Cardiff with high walls having five gates, and these were still standing in the reign of Henry the Eighth. No traces of them are now visible.

 No Welsh is heard in the streets of Cardiff. It is preached in some pulpits and spoken in some homes, and the most cultivated burgesses take pride in their knowledge, be the same more or less, of the Welsh language and literature; but for the common uses of life the English language is as much the language of Cardiff as it is of New York. If the people of Cardiff differ in any marked respect from those of London or Liverpool, it may be, perhaps, in a certain bright alacrity of manner not altogether characteristic of the typical Englishman. As for the Welsh language, even the slight knowledge of a beginner in the study of this noble tongue is sufficient to show the descendants of the Cymry are amply warranted in their affection pride concerning it. It is a terrible tongue to look at, but it is musical to hear, having seven vowels, and being full of soft liquid sounds. It is a most copious language too, containing no fewer than eighty thousand words; and from this fact, with others which the student early recognizes, it is easy to believe that it has greater scope for the utterance of poetical sentiments than the English language has. The pronunciation is easy and flowing, so that with its many and incessantly recurring vowels, it is an easy language to sing, much more so than English, and only second in this respect to Italian. A stranger encountering the name of
 
Ebbw Vale (one of the fair valleys near the flowing Usk) might easily suppose it to be a jaw-breaker of a word to pronounce, but the pronunciation is ebboo. So with cwrw (beer), pronounced kooroo. Wherever w occurs in Welsh, it has the sound of double o as in pool.

In a suburb of Cardiff, a few minutes' drive from the center of the town, through streets whose line of residences is almost unbroken, is the city of Llandaff. The name signifies merely the church upon the Taff; and though the place has been a city since remote antiquity, it is now a pitiful little cluster of houses, holding perhaps six hundred inhabitants. Some say the first Christian fane in Great Britain was here, and it was certainly the seat of the earliest Christian bishopric. Its founders were Saints Dubricius and Teilo, but there are no remains of their edifice now standing. Bishop Urban built the cathedral during his reign over the see, and part of his work still stands in all its original beauty. In the century after Urban - i.e., the thirteenth - still more of the existing edifice was built, and Jasper Tudor erected the northwest tower. After the Reformation the cathedral fell upon evil days. The see was utterly impoverished (after having long been one of the wealthiest churches in Christendom), and the bishop caused himself to be announced at court as "the Bishop of Aff," quaintly remarking that the "land" had been taken away. The building soon fell into ruin, and sad was its state for many a long year afterward. During the early part of the last century it was at its worst - a roofless ruin, with grass growing in its long-drawn aisles, and bats and owls flitting through the hollow sockets of its sightless windows, all overgrown with ivy. All are now dead who saw this sorry sight, but their descendants relate the tale.

"Strange things, the neighbors say, have happened here;
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tomb;
Dead men have come again and walked about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd."
 
 
The first object to attract your attention when you drive into Llandaff city is an ancient cross which has been standing from time immemorial. Near it is the ruins of the castellated gateway to an episcopal palace which was destroyed - all but these few stones - by Owen Glendower. Judging from what remains, this palace must have been a tremendous structure, more fitted to have been the stronghold of some fierce Norman robber, any thing but church-going in his habits, than the home of a peaceful prelate. The ruined gate-house looks from the outside an exceedingly shaky and dangerous pile, but is, in fact, so solid, with its huge walls six feet thick - upon whose ragged tops the earth of accumulated ages lies deep, the rank grass and wild overgrowth of centuries springing from it - that it might be an eternal hill instead of a man-made pile. Within the wall seen on the right of the gate, there is a spacious room, the floor now grass-grown, from which a stone staircase winds up the tower, climbing which, we see below the garden of the present bishop, and, embowered in trees, his comfortable home.

 The cathedral stands in a sheltered valley on the west bank of the Taff, in a position which the founders undoubtedly chose for its beauty. While the cathedrals of the rest of the world are chiefly planted in the heart of large towns, the founders of the Welsh cathedrals appear to have fled from the presence of man, and to have fixed their dwellings in sites suited rather for Cistercian abbeys than for cathedral churches. When Llandaff was founded, probably the nearest dwelling-place of man was two miles away through deep unbroken forests. Cardiff Castle was not yet built, and the men who were to build it were unborn. Yet the natural beauty of the spot must have been great then as now. The Taff is here broad and pebbly-bottomed, and ripples gently under overhanging alders. With the smooth river on one side and the sheltering hill on the other, one feels again how ell these old churchmen knew how to select the choicest spots of earth for their mortal abiding-places. No words of mine can convey the dream-like, by-gone, old-world, impression which is made by the slouching hill, with its different levels of terraces, winding walks lined with old stone walls half hid in ivy, which overlooks the west front of the cathedral. Our view of the façade is from the dean's garden on this hill. Only from here can both the towers be seen to
 
advantage; and even here the thick green of the trees growing below shuts off all the lower part of the edifice. This façade much resembles that of St. Remy, in France, and is, no doubt, one of the most beautiful existing specimens of the transition between the later Norman and early pointed styles. There are three stories (only two of which are visible in the engraving), the lowest having a grand doorway, Norman as to its arch, but pointed in its other characteristics, among which is the carving of birds, apes, and human figures in the stone. Over this door is a sadly dilapidated statue of the good St. Teilo. The second story presents three lofty lancet windows, and the third a central window flanked by three descending arches on each side, while the pedimental angle overhead has a niche in which stonily stands St. Dubricius, the first bishop. The Jasper Tudor Tower on the left greatly resembles that of St. John's Church, with its airy stone pinnacles and beautiful open-work parapet. The other tower is of modern construction, having been "created" within the last quarter of a century by an architect whose work is the best evidence of the erudition and good taste he brought to the task. The tower which formerly stood here was blown down in a storm previous to 1730, about which time the old cathedral was rescued from the lamentable state of decay into which it had fallen.

St. Teilo was the hero, as the old chronicles tell us, of a feat known as the miraculous triplication of his moral parts. This feat did Teilo perform after he was dead, and in this wise: In South Wales were three churches, many miles removed from each other, which laid claim to the saint's bones - one at Tenby, one at Llandeilo, and the other here - and they agreed to settle their dispute by praying to Teilo himself. With a most accommodating spirit, the saint, instead of making trouble by showing partiality, decided to supply each with an undoubted original. So when the kneeling clericals around St. Teilo's corpse arose to their feet again, lo! there were three corpses there, and each so exactly a counterpart of t'other that there was nothing to choose between them; so each church bore off its precious burden in triumph. Llandaff, however, with an obstinacy as unfair as absurd, claimed for its own corpse especial holiness, greatly to the disgust of its rivals.
 
 
From Cardiff to Merthyr Tydvil, through a country rich in interest, runs the Taff Vale Railway along the river-side. On the brow of a steep rocky eminence, five miles from Cardiff, stands the crumbling ruin of that Castell Coch (the Red Castle) which is said to have been connected with Cardiff Castle by a subterranean passage. It was built by the ancient Britons as a stronghold for guarding the pass of the Taff Vale, and the wild band of Ivor Bach long made it their home. After his day the Normans occupied it with their mailed warriors. On the side from which it overlooks the vale no enemy could approach without being visible at a great distance from its towers; and it was so guarded on every side that it is believed to have been the strongest of all the castles in South Wales. Though extremely picturesque, it is not extensive, and as we shall presently see Caerphilly, the noblest old pile in all Wales, we are willing to pass the Red Castle with but a glance.

A mile and a half from Castell Coch, on the opposite bank of the river, is Taff's Well, which has for centuries borne a great renown as a healer of rheumatism. It stands so close to the river that it is sometimes submerged. Afflicted pilgrims have
 come here to bathe and be made well since the days of Owen Glendower himself. But if it had no other virtue, Taff's Well might almost woo pilgrims to its side merely to look on the beautiful scenery which surrounds it, for it is in the heart of Taff Vale, one of the loveliest valleys in the world. An atmosphere of peace and restfulness pervades the scene; cows stand cooling their feet in the placid river; luxuriant woods embower the land with green; and the smooth lawns of mountains cultivated and hedge-rowed to the summit inclose the picture dreamily.

But ho! for Caerphilly, the grandest ruin of them all, the wonder of the southern land! Tennyson, who resided some time in this neighborhood, has drawn a picture of it in his Idyll of the King:

"All was ruinous.
Here stood a shattered archway, plumed with fern;
And here had fallen a great part of a tower,
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff,
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers."
 

And it has been immortalized by the Welsh bards, from Ab Gwilym, in Chaucer's time, down to the rhymers of the present hour who send their songs to Dewi Wyn o Esyllt. "Gigantic Caerphilly, a fortress great in ruins" - there is not in the British Islands one to equal this in its rugged sublimity of aspect, in its vastness of extent, in the majesty of its solemn towers, and the various confusion of its assembled shapes of decay. It stands on the debatable ground between Wales and England known in the troublous old times as the Marches. Earlier than the day of the Lords Marches the ground where Caerphilly stands was occupied by a monastery, which the Saxons burned in 831. The present castle was founded by John de Braose, one of the most powerful of the Norman rulers, early in the thirteenth century, and here he dwelt with his retainers and his lovely wife, the daughter of that fiercest of all Welsh princes, Llywelyn ap Iorwerth, King John's son-in-law. After him came Ralph Mortimer, and after him the Spencers, who with their prodigious wealth strengthened and enlarged it, and held it long against all comers. They were a rapacious crew, those warlike Spencers, and they did not make themselves greatly beloved among their vassals and the other inhabitants of the regions round about, whom they were constantly plundering, like the lordly robbers they were. To this day there is a proverb among the Welsh by which a thing hopelessly lost is spoken of as "gone to Caerphilly," and this saying was born during the time of the Spencers. They stood a terrific siege from the party whom they called "Isabel, the she-wolf of France, and her minion Mortimer," while King Edward II. was hiding within its walls. He escaped, however, it is said, in a peasant's disguise, and some twenty miles from the castle the residents on a certain farm still boast that it was there the unfortunate monarch hired himself out as a cowherd - from which position he was dismissed in disgrace by the farmer for being an ignorant, awkward fellow. The last of the Spencers was at the coronation of Edward III., and gave up Caerphilly to that king in return for the poor privilege of life and limb and a remnant of his castle. The Marquis of Bute is the present owner, and there is every probability that Caerphilly will remain untenanted for evermore.

We arrive at the castle through a miserable little village, where poverty suns itself in dirt and squalor on the door-steps. Why any human being should elect to live here passes comprehension; but probably the most of those who inhabit the place do so because they had the bad luck to be born in it. Untidy children, with miserable pinched faces, that look as if they never had been washed, roll in the paths or sprawl in the open doors of shops and beer-houses. At one of the corners we come upon a middle-aged man stretched on the ground asleep on his back, with his mouth open, in front of his little shop, exhausted apparently with the labor of waiting for customers who never come. With the ruined towers looming duskily over all the roofs for a guide to our footsteps, we wander down the winding street, and presently, passing through a gateless gap in the stone wall of a vacant yard, go down the hill behind some houses till we come to a little brook. Following its pebbly bed, the water being barely inch-deep, and affording an abundance of dusty stepping-stones, we
 
 
pass dry-shod to where it slinks out of sight between two old stone houses, and clamber up a crumbling bridge. We are still some distance form the grand pile, but even here there are ruined walls which once were part of the castle. A cottager has utilized one such wall, grown over with ivy, but many feet in thickness, by building his thatched hut against it, above which the old wall towers protectingly.

Under the bridge rolls a lazy little stream a few feet wide, which we are told is the river Nant y Gledyr, and in olden times a considerable stream. Children are in its middle now, playing with bare legs in the shallow water. A walk skirts a high wall for a few rods, and presently comes to a wooden gate, on which we read the modern legend: "Admission 3d. Closed on Sundays." A fat fellow lolling on a mossy rock within the inclosure gets slowly up at sight of us, and lazily advances to receive our largess. This Cerberus is in his shirt sleeves and half asleep; he represents the full extent of the taxes levied on strangers at Caerphilly Castle. There is, indeed, an old white-haired man, bent double and leaning on a gnarled staff, who moves snail-like towards us and touches his hat with a trembling hand, and he, no doubt, is willing to serve us in the capacity of guide; but the idea of taking this decrepit object with us in our climbing is not an entertainable one, so we bestow on him a few coppers, and ascend the low hill on our right to take a comprehensive view of the main ruin before entering. The engraving shows us the massive keep, the great hall, the chief gate-house with its inner court or bailey, and surrounding walls, which make up the principal ruin.

 Now climbing the steep grassy sides of the earth-work through a broken wall, we enter and pass around to the opposite side of the bastion tower, which stands like a drunken giant, leaning far out of the perpendicular, yet solid as a mountain crag.

"And like a crag is gay with wilding flowers."

Seen from this side, the tower looks as if it surely must topple to its fall, but in truth we may climb it with safety, and without dislodging so much as a pebble. It is eighty feet high, and the summit projects nine feet over the base, but its walls are ten feet thick, and the very parapet remains perfect. The stones of which it is chiefly composed are not heavy; the part which lies fallen, within the tower, turns up its reft side to view, showing that the stones are mere slate-like slabs; but it is so solidly cemented that it looks like a huge bowlder from a precipice's brow.

In the upright wall hard by the leaning tower we find a winding stone staircase, and ascend in the semi-darkness. How cool these old ruins are on a hot day! At the head of the stairs we come upon a large dark gallery with an arched roof, dimly lighted at intervals by broken windows. It is inside the wall (beneath the huge windows shown in the engraving, through which shines the blue of the summer sky), and is three feet wide, seven feet high, and two hundred feet long. The windows on the left look down upon the grassy plain through which the little river creeps; those on the
 
right look into various rooms - one a grand hall, where a wooden floor is laid, evidently as a dancing floor for picnic parties.

This hall is as large as the ball-room of the largest hotel at Long Beach. Behind are other rooms, large and small, their floors thickly overgrown with grass and flowers. The gallery ends at a flight of stairs, ascending which we find they lead to nowhere, but come to a crumbling and untimely end halfway up the tower, so that we can get no higher. Down again, and wandering blindly about, now within the wall, now on it, now in darkness where we feel the way with groping fingers, now out in the bright sunshine clear against the sky, we come to a third stairway, which leads up to a large window with a wide view toward the west, from which our delighted vision ranges over broad plateaus of gently sloping hills, whose green fields are divided by innumerable lines of darker green, the thick hedges thus blocking out the smooth hill-side till it seems like a map spread out there carpet-wise. Another little village nestles yonder, a little way up the slope, one knows not why; it helps to make the picture perfect. And now, too, we see the castle on whose wall we stand, in all its straggling wonder, the ruined walls appearing and re-appearing far and near, till it seems like the ruin of a town we are looking upon, rather than the ruin merely of a castle. Broad fields of grass lie inclosed within the walls, and cows pasture all day long where once were paved floors. "Huge Caerphilly" indeed! stretching over thirty acres of ground even now in its day of abasement and decay, what must it have been when in its strength and glory, with flags flying from its ramparts, and thousands of busy feet hurrying to and fro in its long-drawn corridors, courts and halls!

Along the top of that lower pile in the foreground of the ruin (as shown in the engraving), which looks like little else but a mass of soft green leafage, we walk by a wide and well-worn path, for within that green leafage is hidden what remains of the westward wall, and it is six feet wide, and as firm underfoot as a mountain. Reaching the great gate, we descend again by winding stairways set in the midst of the wall, and emerge through a low arched door into the grass-grown bailey. The turrets still stand on either side the gateway, with their narrow loop-holes for guarding the approach, which was still further protected by portcullis and stockades, moat and draw-bridge. Under-ground are the remains of a furnace which those knights of old made useful in coining money when need was, and which was also of service, one old chronicler tells us, with a delightful simplicity, in heating pitch and lead "for the annoyance of besiegers." Annoying, indeed, it must have been to have flesh roasted off one's back by a stream of molten metal poured from a turret-top!

Caerphilly is haunted, of course. Ghosts wander through its gloomy halls by night, and wail over their troubles. Miscellaneous creatures of unearthly sort are accredited to the rugged ruin; witches as well as goblins make it a place of rendezvous. The favorite of these creatures is clearly "the green lady of Caerphilly," who appears to be a cross between a banshee and an elf, being represented as a sizable woman, but light and airy in her style of getting over the ground, and good-natured in her disposition. She haunts the ruins o'nights, wearing a robe of green, and it is said that, on approaching her, she has the power of turning herself into ivy, and mingling with the growing ivy on the wall. A more ingenious way of getting rid of a spectre I never heard of.
A few miles further up the Taff is a little old town called Newbridge, at and near which are two objects exceptional among the lions of South Wales, inasmuch as they have achieved a world-wide celebrity. These are the Logan Stone and the wonderful bridge called Pont y Pridd. Hackneyed themes though they be, it would be disrespectful to pass them without a glance. John George Wood, called the historian of the Welsh rivers, said of Pont y Pridd, "It has the appearance of having been wafted across the turbulent torrent by supernatural agency," rather than of being mortal man's work. It was built in 1756 by the self-taught Welsh architect William Edwards, and is apparently as sound after the lapse of a hundred and twenty years as when first completed. It consists of a single span of 140 feet, with three round holes in the haunches on either side - a contrivance common enough to-day, but a novelty when it first entered Edwards's brain, which it did not until after he had built one such bridge without holes, thus
 
 
making the arch so heavy that it sprung in the center, and the bridge tumbled into the stream. The present bridge was an object of remarkable elegance in the landscape when first completed, as it stood surrounded by wood and field in the olden time; but now it is in the thick of the town, and just above it has been built another bridge, which is flat and wide. The old bridge is seldom used now, because it is a pretty steep climb to go over it, and because it is so narrow that there is barely room for a single carriage to cross.

The Logan Stone, on a hill near by, derives its fame from having been so poised by nature that the touch of a child might set the heavy mass rocking. The summit of this hill was the burial-place of the ancient Welsh princes.

The village called Quaker's Yard, a few miles further up the Taff, has not a Quaker in it; but there is a Quaker burial-place there, and persons of that set are said to crave rest for their bones after death in this quiet yard.


 Merthyr Tydvil is the largest town in Wales, and the greatest iron and coal mining town in all Britain. It is the raison d'étre of Cardiff. Were it not for Merthyr Tydvil, dusty and begrimed as it is, small use would there have been for building Cardiff docks. The chronicles relate that "until lately" - which I suppose to mean until within forty or fifty years past - this town was a "shapeless, unsightly cluster of wretched, dingy dwellings." To an American mind this suggests shanties. But the wretchedness of Merthyr (to which word Merthyr Tydvil is abbreviated in common usage) was of a very solid sort, after all. Its dwellings, however small and however poor, were all built of stone, with walls which still endure, and will when we are dust. Tydvil, or Tydfil, was a Christian princess of the fifth century, one of the numerous daughters of Brychan, Prince of Brecon, a contemporary of Hengist, and a famous preacher of the Gospel in his time. One day when he was at prayer, surrounded by his sons and daughters, all comely men and women and ardent Christians, a band of heathen Saxons and Irish Picts broke in upon them and slew the fair Tydvil, with three of her brothers. Since then the place has ever been known as Merthyr Tydvil, Merthyr in the Welsh tongue meaning martyr.
 

The railway sets us down in Merthyr Tydvil at precisely the quaintest center of the old town. The houses stand in the roadway in a fashion of the most reckless and rollicking eccentricity, some with their gables to the street, some with their sides, some with their corners, and some as if nothing would suit them but to plump themselves down in the middle of the highway. In fact, it is clear that in the day when the houses were built there were no streets at all in Merthyr, but the houses were planted on a common plain, with no reference to fronts or backs, or any guide but the builder's independent notion. There is an ancient atmosphere pervading the town, which leads us to expect a nearer approach to primitive manners and customs in the inhabitants than we have hitherto seen in Wales; nor are we wrong in this expectation. The Welsh population of Merthyr is gathered in large part from the mountains and wildish valleys hereabout, and includes some specimens of the race who (as the phrase goes) have no English, with a very large number of specimens who have but little and utter it brokenly. Those of the lower class who can read - and almost all Welshmen, however poor and primitive, can read - generally read Welsh only; and in that respect, as indeed in most respects, are far in advance of Englishmen of the same state in life, who often can read nothing. To hear a poor and grimy Welshman, who looks as if he might not have a thought above bread and beer, talk about the poets and poetry of his native land, ancient and modern, is an experience which, when first encountered, gives the stranger quite a shock of agreeable surprise.

It is high noon when we arrive in Merthry, and we wander up the High Street looking for something in the shape of an eating-house, for we do not care to go to a hotel. Presently we come to the market; vegetables enough here, and though it is not customary for gentle-folk to eat in a market, as it is in New York (witness Dorlon's oyster-house in Fulton Market), we may do so as a matter of curiosity. We recall with satisfaction the fact that this is market-day, being Saturday; on any other day of the week (except Wednesday) we should find the market deserted. The market-house is a large hall covering some two acres of ground, with a lofty roof supported by iron beams, and several enormous doors which, being thrown open wide, flood the place with light. Light also enters through windows in the roof. The market is divided into passages like streets, but without partition walls, so that there is a free circulation of air, though the effect of partitions is produced by tall iron frames or racks which are thickly hung with shirts, or toys, or bonnets, or such wares, to the height of ten or twelve feet. The stalls are prsided over in most cases by women, and contain almost every thing used in households, from toilet articles to tin-ware, as well as things eatable and drinkable. Spiritous drinks are purveyed in a beer-house built in one corner of the hall, and so inclosed as not to seem a part of the market.

Strolling through the market, we observe that each stall is confined to a specific line of goods. One stall is devoted to butter and cheese; the next to toys and fancy articles; its neighbor to vegetables and berries; others to boots and shoes, to crockery-ware, to meat and fowls, etc. - a circumstance mentioned here only to indicate the changes of time in the customs of Welsh markets. A sketch made by an artisit who visited the scene some twenty years ago shows that formerly these distinctions were not made. Women came into town from the country round about, and gathered themselves promiscuously at the tables, so that at the same stand (there were no stalls) you would see one woman with a huge cheese, which comprised her entire stock in trade, while next to her would stand a woman with half a dozen dressed fowls before her, and at her elbow an old woman would display a basket containing eggs and butter. Now, only the butter-man sells butter, and he also sells cheese. Only the butcher sells fowls, along with his legs of mutton and rounds of beef. The crockery stall is a large space, with
 
 
its wares piled up on rows of shelves and on a long counter, while behind it prances up and down a mercurial Welshman, who utters himslef in the two languages of the realm alternately, now speaking in Welsh wild words, among which I catch the "Diolch I Dduw!" (thank God!) now crying in English that he can undersell any tradesman in the principality; then seizing three plates from his store, and holding one in each hand, he clatters the third between them with a dexterity that would provoke a juggler to jealousy. But women reign at most stalls. Here is a brisk Welshwoman selling lace caps to a crowd of elderly Welsh dames, who gravely remove their bonnets, untie their old caps, and try on the new with religious care; and a lively trade drives the cap-seller, for here every woman wears a cap of muslin or lace under her bonnet or her hat. There is a noticeable change, too, in the costumes of the market-women. The peasantry of Wales, like that of most lands, cling less strenuously to their distinctive costume in these latter days than they were wwont to do. Formerly a farmer's wife or daughter who should make her appearance at market or church (or any like occasion which calls for the donning of one's best) without wearing a tall hat, would have been deemed careless of her personal appearance or peculiar in her tastes; so that twenty years ago these were seen in every direction in Merthyr market, as well as the distinctive long cloaks of bright colors, and the occasional scuttle-shaped bonnets.

 Nowadays the fashion is so greatly relaxed that we see but few of these in Merthyr market. The head-coverings of the women are chiefly mushroom hats of dark straw, or close-fitting bonnets of black crape, always with a lace or muslin cap underneath.

There are, however, some specimens still to be seen of the Welsh peasant costume as it has been for generations past; notably a comely young woman behind a vegeatble stall, who wears the full costume in all its glory. She is a pink of neatness, and her beaver is superb. I at once christen her the Pride of the Market, and if ever I go to live in Merthyr Tydvil, I shall buy my vegetable marrows of none but her.

In another part of the market we pause before a book-stall. The books are all old and thumbed, and nearly all of a religious character. Some are volumes of poetry, none are novels. Nearly all are in the Welsh tongue. The only fresh wares are a few weekly newspapers, printed in Welsh; and there is a pile of poems or ballads in the same language, two of which we purchase for a penny. The stall-keeper is an elderly amn of respectable appearance, who stands carefully at some distance from us while we look at his wares, and comes forward with a bow and a touch of his hat to take my proffered penny, having received which, he touches his hat again, and again retires to a respectful distance. One of the ballads we have bought is titled thus; "Deio Bach, neu hiraeth mam ar ol ei mab yn myned i America." This certainly looks as if it might give a man lock-jaw; but the stall-keeper being called to pronounce it, we find that it comes as trippingly from his tongue as if it were a lullaby; and indeed it is something of that nature, being the song of a mother to her son, an emigrant to the land of the Stripes and Stars.
 
The doors of almost all the cottages are wide open, and we can see that they are generally kept with extreme tidiness. Nine-tenths of the husbands of these poor wives will come home from their work as black as negroes from the coal in which they delve, but the struggle of the women for cleanliness never seems to weary. Most of the cots are decorated with cheap pictures and images in plaster or crockery. On one wall we see a portrait of Abraham Lincoln side by side with one of Richard Cobden. A favorit objet in these interiors is Britannia, seated, helmet on and shield at side, in blue or green glass. Othes are crockery knights on horseback, with curling black locks and gold-tinted waving plumes; groups of peasants going to wedding in white gowns and red kerchiefs; and a stalwart hero, who we hope is Owen Glendower, but who, on inquiry, proves to be Wallace.

Returning to the High Street and following its windings, we see a number of rather handsome stone churches, or chapels, as they are mostly called, among the best of which are the Wesley Chapel and the Shiloh Chapel, in an adjoining street. There are four or five Epicopalian churches in Merthyr, and about forty Dissenting chapels - a fact which sufficiently indicates the pronounced Cambrianism of the people.

In spite of the fact that the people of this region lean so strongly to those religious sects which are supposed to be least cultivate superstition, there are abundant old wives' tales in vogue of ghosts and banshees, white ladies, green ladies, mountain witches, warning cries, goblin funerals, dogs of the sky, corpse candles, and even the apparition of the Diawl himself. These tales are told and listened to with a solemnity of countenance which at least indicates that they are considered a matter not to be trifled with. There are persons who profess to be able to cast nativities, and who somehow make a living by it. A learned Cardiff gentleman, speaking on the subject of witchcraft before on of the scientific societies there in this enlightened year 1876, seemed rather to uphold the superstitions concerning it. Another gentleman of Cardiff confessed he could not pass by the little ruin of a certain hut on the North Road, Cardiff, without making with his fingers the sign of the Trinity, in order to guard himself against witchcraft. But the belief in fairies, so strong just north of here, on the other side of the Irish Channel, seems to have quite died out in Wales. The erudite in these deep matters say steam and railroads have banished the little good people. Others aver that the Methodist preachers have driven them away.

Anyhow they are gone.

"In old time of King Artour
All was this land fulfilled with faerie.
* * * * *
I speak of many hundred years ago;
But now can no man see no elves mo."
 

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