The squire favors Welsh customs and female costumes. Offended with his lady. Protects the system of bed courtship. An eulogy on the ale of Newcastle Emlyn. Toping rats.

At this time a warm altercation one day took place between the squire and his lady, that terminated in consequences little expected by either. Notwithstanding the prejudice which Squire Graspacre’s harsh conduct had given birth to, on his first settlement in Cardiganshire, he had about him certain saving points, that not only reconciled them to his rule, but really gained their esteem. He was a plain, bold, sensible man, and although entertaining a most exalted opinion of English superiority, generally, in particular instances he had the liberality to confess that he found many things in this nation of mountaineers, highly worthy of imitation among his more civilized countrymen. Unlike any of the half-bred English gentlemen who literally infest Wales, and become nuisances and living grievances to the people—building their pretensions to superiority and fashion, on a sneering self-sufficiency, and scorn of customs and peculiarities merely because they are Welsh—he gave them all credit for what was really estimable.

He had formerly expressed his disapprobation of a custom prevalent among Welsh farmers of leaving their corn long on the ground after being cut, instead of housing it as soon as possible; but experience taught him that they were right and himself in error; as, among the corn was a large quantity of weeds which required to be dried before it could with safety be brought to the barn or rick, otherwise the grain was sweated and literally poisoned with the rank juice. He found the Cardiganshire mode of chopping the young mountain furze, and giving it as food for horses and cattle, worthy his attention, and after various trials, decided on its efficacy so far as to adopt it for the future; and actually set Carmarthen Jack to gather the seed of that mountain plant, which he forwarded to England to be set on his Devonshire farms. The planting of flowers on the graves of deceased friends, he eulogized as a beautiful and endearing custom, forming an agreeable contrast to the clumsy English tombstones with barbarous lines, often setting truth, rhyme, and reason at defiance. The Welsh harp he declared the prince of all musical instruments, and Welsh weddings the best contrived and conducted in the world, and proved his sincerity by giving something always at the Biddings of the peasantry, and patronizing all those who entered that happy state. Above all things he admired the female costume in Wales, and protested, with much truth, that the poor people in England were not half so well, or so neatly, clothed. His lofty lady, although a Welshwoman bred and born, entertained a very different set of ideas on these subjects. Whenever her husband related the anecdote of Polydore Virgil’s extacy on his first landing in Britain, when he beheld the yellow-blossomed furze, which gave a golden glow to the swelling bosom of the hills—how he knelt on the ground beside a bush of it, fervently worshipping the God of Nature, that beautified the world with the production of such a plant; she would instantly reply, “The man was a fool! for my part I see nothing in the nasty prickly things to admire, but wish the fire would take them all from one end of the mountains to the other.” “And yet, my dear,” would he answer, “Polydore Virgil was a native of no rude soil, but came from the land of the laurel, the cypress, and the vine, the orange, the lemon, and the citron, and many other splendid plants, the very names of which you perhaps never heard of; yet he had the liberality to admire what he justly deemed beautiful, even in a northern clime, and a comparatively harsh mountainous district.” As to the harp, whenever he praised its melody, she declared it odious and unbearable, and gave preference to the fiddle, the bagpipes, or even the hurdy-gurdy; and the Welsh female costume she protested still more loudly against, and asked him with a sneer if he did not conceive it capable of improvement. “Oh, certainly, my dear,” would he reply, “for instance, I would have the Glamorganshire girls wear shoes, and soles to their stockings; and convert their awkward wrappers into neat gowns; the Cardiganshire fair ones should doff their clogs, and wear leathern shoes; and the Breconshire lass, with all others who followed the same abominable habit, should be hindered from wearing a handkerchief around the head; but I know of no improvement that can be suggested for the Pembrokeshire damsel, except one—which, indeed, would be equally applicable to all Welsh girls—namely, to throw off their flannel shifts, and wear linen ones.”

Now this good gentlewoman, whose leading weakness it was to suspect her husband’s fidelity when away from home, kindled with rage at this remark. “Shifts, Mr. Graspacre,” exclaimed the angered lady, “what business have you to concern yourself about such things? You ought, at least, to know nothing about such matters, but I dare say know too much.” Anxious as a seaman to turn his bark from the direction of a dangerous rock, he mildly replied, “Surely, my dear, I may exercise my eyes, when the washed clothes are hanging on a line;” and then adding in the same breath, “indeed, if I were you, my dear, I would make some improvements, such as your good taste will suggest, among our own maids; taking care, however, not to destroy the stamp of nationality on their garbs at any rate.” This was a well-judged hit on his part, and had the effect of averting the impending storm.

It should have been mentioned before, that the squire, soon after his marriage, had made a tour of South Wales, and, as his lady expressed it, taken a whim in his head of engaging a maid servant in every county through which he passed; so that in Graspacre Hall there were to be found maiden representatives in their native costumes, of all the different shires of South Wales, except Radnor, in which, the squire said the barbarous jargon of Herefordshire, and the paltry English cottons, had supplanted the native tongue and dress of Wales. There might you see the neat maiden of Pembrokeshire, in her dark cloth dress of one hue, either a dark brown approximating to black, or a claret colour, made by the skill of a tailor, and very closely resembling the ladies’ modern riding habits,—a perfect picture of comfort and neatness, in alliance with good taste. There would you see her extreme contrast, the Glamorganshire lass, in stockings cut off at the ankle, and without shoes; and, although a handsome brunette with fine black eyes, dressed in a slammakin check wrapper of cotton and wool, utterly shapeless, and tied about the middle like a wheat-sheaf, or a faggot of wood: possessing, however, the peculiar conveniences that it could be put on in an instant, without the loss of time in dressing tastefully, and that it would fit every body alike, as it is neither a gown nor a bedgown, but between both, and without a waist.—There would you see the young woman of Breconshire, with her pretty blushing face half hidden in a handkerchief which envelopes her head, that at first you would fancy the figure before you to be a grandmother at least.—Her long linsey gown is pinned up behind, each extreme corner being joined together in the centre, and confined a few inches below her waste; she has her wooden-soled shoes for every day, and leathern ones for sunday, or for a dance, which, with her stockings, she very economically takes off should a shower of rain overtake her on a journey; and when it ceases, washes her feet in the first brook she meets, and puts them on again. This fair one takes especial care that her drapery shall be short enough to discover a pretty ankle, and her apron sufficiently scanty to disclose her gay red petticoat with black or white stripes, beneath, and at the sides. Then comes the stout Carmarthenshire lass with her thick bedgown and petticoat of a flaring brick-dust red, knitting stockings as she walks, and singing a loud song as she cards or spins. Lastly, though not the least in importance, behold the clogged and cloaked short-statured woman of Cardiganshire. She scorns the sluttish garb and bare feet of the Glamorganshire maiden, and hates the abominable pride of the Pembrokeshire lass who is vain enough to wear leathern shoes instead of honest clogs; proving at the same time that her own vanity is of a more pardonable stamp, while she boasts with truth, that her own dress cost twice as much as either of the others. The Cardiganshire women’s dresses, in fact—generally blue, with red stripes, and bound at the bottom with red or blue tape—are entirely of wool, solidly woven and heavy, consequently more expensive than those made of linsey or minco, or of the common intermixture of wool and cotton, and presenting an appearance of weighty warmth more desirable than either a comely cut or tasty neatness.

It was one of the squire’s fancies never to call these girls by their own proper names, but by that of their shires, as thus, “Come here little Pembroke, and buckle my shoe; and you Carmarthen, bring me a bason of broth: Cardigan, call Glamorgan and Brecon, and tell them they must drive a harrow apiece through the ploughed part of Rockfield.” On his return to dinner, a few days after the suggestion about the dresses of the maids, he was astonished to find that Mrs. Graspacre had used this privilege with a vengeance; having, with decided bad taste, put them all, at their own expence, to be deducted from their wages, into glaring cotton prints. The girls were unhappy enough at this change, as well as at the expence to which they were put, and they never could enter the town without experiencing the ridicule of their friends and neighbours; the Cardiganshire maid, who considered such a change in the light of disowning her country and like a renegade putting on the livery of the Saxon, in something of a termagant spirit, tendered her resignation to her master rather than comply with such an innovation. This ungenerous invasion of his harmless rules, roused his indignation; and after venting a few “damns” a la John Bull, against draggle-tail cotton rags, without a word of expostulation with his rib, he desired the girls to bring all their trumpery to him, which they gladly did, and he made them instantly into a bonfire in the farm yard. He then in a firm under tone of subdued resentment, gave strict injunctions that no further liberties should be taken with their national costume; to which his lady made the polite and submissive reply, that the girls might all walk abroad without any dress at all if he chose, and go to the devil his own way.

At this juncture little Pembroke came in with rosy smiles, and told her master that Carmarthen Jack wanted to speak to him very particularly, on which the squire laughed, and asked her on what important matter. “Why sir,” said the rustic beauty, while arch smiles and blushes contended in her sweet oval face, “Parson Evans has found out that he has been courting in bed, with Catti the schoolmistress, and he has run here before the Parson to say it is all a falsehood.” “There’s an impious rascal for you!” cries the lady of the house, “to charge the clergyman with falsehood; but I am sure ’tis true, for I long suspected it.” “The less you interfere in these matters, the more it will be to your credit Mrs. Graspacre,” said the squire in a quiet tone, but accompanied with an emphatic look. “I insist,” cried the imperious dame, “that he be put in the stocks, and she ducked in the river.” “Neither shall be done,” said he, firmly, “and from henceforward, no person shall be annoyed and persecuted on that score, but every one shall court as he or she pleases.” “What!” cried the indignant lady, “would you fill the country with bastards?” “No madam,” was the reply, “but with as happy a set of people as possible.”

Encouraged by the turn which affairs had taken, the Cardiganshire maid now asked her master for her discharge; as her mistress she said, had thrown a slur on her brewing abilities, which had almost broken her heart: “for” said she, with a ludicrous whimper, “she says my brewing is unfit for the drinking of christian people, and hardly worthy of the hogs!—but”—cried the sturdy little wench, raising her voice to an accusatory pitch, and at the same time a tone of triumph, “I come from Newcastle Emlyn, the country of good beer, the very home where the Cwrw da of HÊn Gymru is bred and born! and I would rather die than be told that I can’t brew.”

“Indeed Cardy,” said the squire, with a smile, “though your mistress may have been too severe in her censure, I must say your two last brewings were unequal to the first.” “A good reason why sir; who can brew without malt and hops? though I am told some of the town brewers are mighty independent of those articles—but their brewings won’t do for us at Newcastle Emlyn! and your wheat sir, which has grown by being out in the wet harvest, so as to be unfit for bread, is but a poor make-shift for malt—it may do for the wish-wash paltry ale of Haverfordwest and Fishguard, but our plough boys would turn up their noses at such stuff at Newcastle Emlyn!” “Damn Newcastle Emlyn!” cried the squire, provoked by her continual reference to her native place. “Master! master!” cried the girl, as if rebuking him for the greatest impiety conceivable, “don’t damn Newcastle Emlyn, I had rather you should knock me down than damn Newcastle Emlyn! it is the country of decent people and good ale! the country where”—

“You brewed good ale from the grown wheat the first time,” said the squire, not deeming it necessary to notice her observations.

“Good! was it?” retorts the girl struggling between respect for her master and contempt for his taste, in the matter of malt drink; “good was it! I tell you what master, you are a good master, and I have nothing to say against mistress, for it would not be decent, but you never tasted beer like ours at Newcastle Emlyn! the real hearty cwrw da! which I could make you to-morrow, if you would give me good malt and hops, and let it stand long enough untapped.”

“But let me ask you my good woman,” said the squire, “what is the reason that your two last brewings were so far inferior to the first, when you had the same materials to work on?”

“’Twas better sir! ten times better! the first would have turned the devil’s stomach, had he known what was in it.” “Explain yourself,” said the squire, surprized. “I will sir, if I was to be hanged for it,” cried the girl in a tone of confidence; “it seems the rats love beer as well as any christian folks, and can get drunk and die in drink, as a warning to all sober-minded rats; but that is neither here nor there, and I hate to tell a rigmarole story; the long and short of it is, that when I came to wash out the barrels after the first brewing, I found three rats in one, and two in the other.”

“You found what?” asked the squire and his lady at the same time.

“I found three rats sir, that had burst themselves with drinking beer, and afterwards fell in and were drowned—they were then putrid, and it was that, it seems, that made the ale so palatable; there were no dead animals in the last brewing, but if I knew your taste before, I would have killed a couple of cats, to please you.”

This explanation excited a titter among the girls, and a loud laugh from the squire, while the lady evinced the shock which her delicacy had sustained, by making wry faces, and snuffing violently at her smelling bottle, to avoid fainting.

The squire then good humoredly addressed the girl, “now Cardy, you are perfectly right in the praise you bestow on your own country ale, and I promise you shall have the best of malt and hops for your next attempt, when I expect it to be equal to the best cwrw da of Newcastle Emlyn—and, do you hear? we shall dispense with either rats or cats in it for the future.”

This amicable settlement of differences set every one in good humour, except the haughty mistress, who embittered with her double defeat, retired in gloom, while her husband went to give audience to Jack o SÎr GÂr. Cardy stayed behind a full quarter of an hour longer, to edify the servants while treating, in her cackling style, of the extraordinary merits of the fat ale of Newcastle Emlyn.