Cardiff Castle from the West -  An 'ArtColour' postcard from the original watercolour by E. W. Trick. Published by Valentine & Sons Limited, Dundee and London. - Edward William Trick (1902-1991) was deaf and dumb and hailed from Exeter. The postcard is held within the Penarth Dock Collection. [001]

In 1882, Mr. William Clark Russell (a Londoner!) toured Cardiff and published the following extract of his account which was published within the London Daily Telegraph. [1314] :-

Cardiff, this side of shipping, cannot be called a very interesting place. . .

But there are no fine old churches unless you except St. John's; no classic spots in it, no ruins, and nothing in that way of moment but the castle, which is indeed is a very imposing structure, though not to be viewed by the antiquary without grave suspicion, since, I find a local handbook praising Mr. Bruges for "the clock-tower of that building, which will remain for countless ages a monument to his wonderful sense of the laws of proportion, whilst the execution and grouping of the other additions to and restorations of the building as well as the internal decorations, which breathe in every detail of the spirit of their designer, mark him as a man of indubitable genius." . . .

It is, however, magnificently decorated inside - a perfect blaze of gilt and hand painting, with doors of solid bronze, an exquisite oratory, a noble banqueting-room, and so forth. In my drive round and through the town one pre-eminent fact was impressed upon my mind - that Cardiff was Lord Bute. His lordship's, and his lordship's father sign-manual, is upon everything.

"What is that?" - "Roath Church, sir, built by Lord Bute."

"And that?" - "Houses for Sisters of Charity, built by Lord Bute, sir."

"And that?" - "Belongs to Lord Bute, sir."

And so on, and so on. . . .

I just adore Mr. Clarke's account of the behaviour of the peoples of Cardiff on a Saturday night during his visit of 1882. [1314] - Now't changed much since then has it!

Jack is everywhere, drunk, and bawling, full of laughter and lurches, sailing under all sorts of colours, and talking every language spoken from China to Peru. Now he is the negro in a tall hat, cigar and cucumber legs ; now a Norwegian in a red shirt, or a Fin in a fur cap, or a Dane in shiny cloth, or a Yankee in dungaree. He and the inhabitants, and the Welsh men and women who come pouring out of the district, make such a crowd on Saturday night as a man must attend the London Lord Mayor's Show to see the like of.

The police seem a numerous body, and I am not surprised that they should be so. They are very large men, and I should say they want all the muscle nature has furnished them with ; for, on the Saturday night I spent there were four rows going on at once within the space of a couple of lamp-posts, each row consisting of three or four men, a bare-headed woman, a policeman, and a wide circle of admiring spectators. These riots, I took notice, had the appearance of a shoving-match, accompanied by a great variety of language, and the part of the ladies, a vast deal of hair-pulling.

The combatants pushed one another from one part of the street to another, carrying the policemen along with them, so that in consequence of these spasmodic and noisy migrations the road seemed full of fights.

The police here wear very gay helmets, quite splendid with silver, and surely they deserve the distinction, for their life seems to be a constant warfare with the public of whom many carry sheath-knives on their hips and talk a language that conveys one in imagination many a long league out of British waters.

I would like to dedicate the foregoing account to a cornet player at the Excelsior Ropes Works Brass Band (where I played soprano cornet in the mid to late 1960's). The gentleman's name was Mr. Ken Mellor and he was an officer of the Cardiff constabulary and often his beat was the docklands and the city centre trouble spots. I feel sure that he encountered threats and violence every working day of his life. - R.I.P. Ken.